Chapter 11 - The Cursed Tongue (3)
"······."
"What is it?"
After finishing their grueling training, Robert—whose hands were so swollen yet insisted on joining for more shooting practice—returned to the dormitory with Ernest. Ernest pulled an envelope wedged in the doorframe and examined it closely. Robert, hands dangling limply in front of his chest from the soreness, asked him.
"...It's a letter from Ravid."
Ernest muttered the words as he studied the envelope intently.
The envelope was sealed with wax. Looking closer at the red wax, he saw a lion roaring to the left, along with the name Wilfried Ravid stamped into it. It seemed that, as the son of a duke, Wilfried used his personal seal even without holding an official position.
With a cautious gaze, Ernest inspected the door for any signs of tampering, scanning for hints of an intruder almost by reflex.
Since Robert's hands were too swollen, Ernest unlocked the door himself, peeking inside first. He checked that all the devices he had secretly set up were still in place before stepping in.
At first, Robert had found Ernest's obsessive caution intolerable—but by now, Robert himself was nearly as fixated on the signals that might warn of an intruder, so he didn't complain.
"I wonder what the young master of the Duke's House wants to say that he'd send such a letter—complete with his own seal—to a humble place like this?"
With an exaggeratedly curious tone, Robert nudged Ernest's arm. He couldn't imagine the likes of Wilfried Ravid, the fourth son of House Ravid, would show any interest in a cadet of his own commoner background.
Surely, only someone like Ernest Krieger—the son of a living soldier who'd received the Noble Heart Medal, who'd led a major incident right after enrollment and still been awarded three commendation points—would be worthy of a first letter from the young master of the Duke's House?
Ernest carefully opened the envelope with a paper knife. Tearing open an envelope carelessly and discarding it was considered extremely rude—not only in noble society but even in business dealings among commoners.
"Ugh..."
Robert couldn't help but grimace just looking at the letter—it was exceptionally smooth, flawless, and didn't permit the slightest hint of any other color.
"What?"
"This is top-quality paper, Ernest. This stuff is incredibly expensive. It starts at a minimum of 150 Deck. If it's being used by the young master of the Duke's House, who knows how much more expensive it might be?"
Robert replied with clear distaste to Ernest's question.
Paper of this quality was a luxury item. The finest quality paper was harder to make, more difficult to maintain, and more costly than even the best parchment. 150 Deck was more than a commoner's monthly living expenses.
"Seems like he's paying a lot of attention to you. Then again, maybe it's simply that, as the Duke's son, he's never even touched lower-quality paper or parchment before."
Robert spoke in a rather cautious tone. While listening, Ernest unfolded the letter and began to read.
"To Ernest Krieger and Robert Jimman."
"...Me?"
"Yeah, your name's right here."
"...It really is."
Because his hands were so swollen, Robert didn't try to hold the letter himself. Instead, he read it together with Ernest, peering over his shoulder.
"It's pretty hard to read."
Ernest frowned at the overly elaborate script. Wilfried's handwriting looked like a work of art in itself.
After struggling through the letter as if they were cracking some kind of code, both Ernest and Robert grimaced at the same moment. Most of what they had painstakingly deciphered was just unnecessary pleasantries.
And the most important part of the letter was casually slipped in right at the end—as if it barely mattered. That was honestly the most infuriating part.
"Ernest, do you know what nobles actually do at these social gatherings?"
"No."
"Wow, what a relief. I'm glad I'm not the only one who had no idea."
Robert nodded, genuinely relieved, a gentle smile appearing on his face.
"So, what do we do now?"
Robert asked Ernest. But there was nothing Ernest could offer here, either.
Wilfried, the fourth son of Duke Ravid, had invited Ernest and Robert. To be precise, he had invited them to a social gathering he was hosting himself.
Ernest and Robert had no idea how they were supposed to approach this.
Even though Robert was good with people, he had no clue what went on at a social gathering thrown by the son of a duke—the pinnacle of nobility. And while Ernest was skilled at reading situations, tracking prey, or setting traps, he'd never learned how to make friends with a duke's son.
"So, what are we supposed to do"
"..."
***
Wilfried quietly set down the fork and knife he had picked up for his meal. His elegant gestures, so practiced and refined, didn't match the way his blue eyes wandered, lost and unsure.
"Hey, hey. Are you out of your mind?"
"Isn't it better to just ask than to offend someone by pretending to know what you're doing? There's nothing shameful about not knowing. What's shameful is pretending you do when you don't."
"Damn, you're right. You always have to say the reasonable thing. But don't forget, sometimes what sounds reasonable can end up getting you in trouble."
"Doesn't seem like now is one of those times. So, Ravid."
Ernest turned to Wilfried, the fourth son of Duke Ravid, once more.
"We'll be at dinner tonight, but could you tell us what we're actually supposed to do there? Oh, and do you mind if I sit next to you?"
Wilfried looked up at Ernest in disbelief, completely stunned by the situation.
He honestly couldn't have imagined that, in the middle of breakfast, Ernest would suddenly approach him and start up a conversation like this.
"…Fine, sit down."
After silently moving his lips for a while, Wilfried finally answered in a calm voice. Ernest immediately took the seat next to Wilfried, and after glancing around anxiously, Robert quickly sat down beside Ernest.
The cadets aligned with the noble faction led by Wilfried gave Ernest curious looks for taking that coveted spot next to Wilfried, but since Wilfried had allowed it, no one said anything.
"First, Krieger."
As befitted the son of a Duke, Wilfried quickly shrugged off his confusion and spoke in his usual gentle tone.
"Would you mind calling me Wilfried?"
At Wilfried's words, Ernest rolled his deep, dark eyes and met Wilfried's lake-blue gaze. In that instant,
Wilfried felt a surge of discomfort—difficult to describe, with no clear reason, yet intense all the same.
"All right, Wilfried. You can call me Ernest too."
"I'd like you to call me Robert. Honestly, I still can't get used to the name 'Jimman.' Oh, I mean—if you ever need to call me, just use my first name. You know what I mean, right?"
Right after Ernest spoke calmly, Robert, whose eyes had been darting around busily, suddenly chimed in with a cheerful voice.
At first, it seemed out of place and ill-timed, but Robert wasn't the type to make mistakes in these situations.
With his knack for reading a room, Robert hadn't missed the fleeting emotion that crossed Wilfried's face.
"All right. Ernest, Robert."
Wilfried responded politely not just to Ernest but to Robert as well, flashing them a smile.
"As for tonight's dinner gathering, I want you to know that there's no need to feel pressured about joining us."
Wilfried spoke rather ambiguously. Realizing himself that his words sounded overly formal and aristocratic, he quickly corrected himself.
"No, sorry. I just mean, come by if you feel like it. It's just a casual get-together for us to chat a bit. By 'us' I mean without any Senior Students—it doesn't mean anything else."
Wilfried was careful to explain that this small gathering was only for the New Cadets and had no special agenda, saying it with genuine kindness. He wasn't trying to exclude Ernest and Robert, but was simply making sure they understood.
"All right. Then I'll come by without any worries."
Ernest nodded and quietly began eating his meal.
Wilfried was a little taken aback by Ernest's reaction. He hadn't expected Ernest to ask that one simple question and then focus solely on his food. Didn't most people make some small talk over a meal in situations like this?
"It's already gotten pretty late. If we don't hurry, the strict Senior Students will probably give us demerits. Why don't we continue this conversation in the evening?"
"...Sure. If we're pressed for time, it'll just make things awkward for everyone."
Robert smoothly jumped in to lay the groundwork for wrapping things up, and Wilfried accepted it with a smile, bringing the conversation neatly to a close. With a subtle lift of his elegant eyebrows, Wilfried glanced past Ernest to Robert. He was a bit surprised to see that the Merchant's son was much more adept at conversation than he'd expected.
Ernest finished his meal in no time and got up first. Robert, who had nearly choked trying to keep up with Ernest's eating pace, also finished at the same time and stood up.
"Well then, see you during training later."
"Though we'll probably only get a chance to talk in the evening."
With that, Ernest and Robert gave their goodbyes and strode off. Before any of the Noble faction cadets could comment, Wilfried spoke in a gentle voice.
"Let's hurry up and finish eating, too. At this rate, we really will be late."
The cadets didn't say a word about Ernest and Robert. They just ate a bit more quickly than usual and chatted about the same sorts of topics as always.
***
"Military Science, huh. That feels like a world away from me."
"You've already learned the basics, though."
"Oh, teacher, I never imagined you'd have such faith in your pupil. I don't even have that much faith in myself."
Having at least gotten the basics of Military Science from Ernest, Robert let out a sigh as he grumbled.
Today was finally their first day learning Military Science.
For cadets who would become Officers after graduation, it was the most important class—and the one in which they could score the highest marks.
At the same time, it was also the toughest class, one that would cause them the most grief.
In Military Science, especially when it comes to Strategy and Tactics, there is no such thing as a correct answer.
A seemingly minor variable can turn the best tactic into the worst one.
One must take everything into account and grope their way toward victory.
Of course, it isn't easy.
Even the instructors who teach and grade these cadets often disagree with each other, sometimes launching into heated debates, and on occasion, it even escalates into shouting matches.
The cadets, both nervous and excited for their first Military Science lecture, had played out countless scenes in their minds where, like the great heroes of history, they would crush their enemies with brilliant strategies and tactics to seize victory.
Step. Step. Step.
"Silence."
The lecture hall, which had been filled with the hum of whispers, fell into utter silence at the sound of heavy footsteps and an even heavier voice. An instructor who strode to the front of the room with measured, mechanical steps came to a dead stop.
With brown hair streaked with gray, slicked back and pressed flat, the instructor swept his cold, dark brown eyes across the room, and the cadets, startled, quickly avoided his gaze.
His left cheek was marked with a torn scar and mottled burn marks—a man who, by any measure, looked like he'd seen battle firsthand and had killed with his own hands. His emotionless eyes seemed hollow, as if they'd been carved out by the souls of those he'd killed while following orders.
"I am Thomas Kohler."
Captain Thomas Kohler gave this brief introduction, then, with the left side of his upper lip curled by scar tissue, spoke in a detached voice.
"What is the greatest virtue in a soldier?"
Silence lingered in the lecture hall. His gaze moved slowly and deliberately, like a marble rolling down a slope. The cadets were so completely overpowered by Thomas that they could barely breathe.
"…It's carrying out one's assigned duty by following orders."
Amidst the tension, a cadet spoke up in a low voice. No one had to look to know who it was; everyone recognized the deep, cracking voice caused by puberty as belonging to Ferdinand Hartmann.
In the past, Ferdinand would have answered instantly the moment Thomas posed a question. But today, he took his time to reflect before responding, carefully choosing his words.
Thomas faced Ferdinand directly, his eyes unblinking as only his lips moved.
"Elaborate."
At Thomas's prompt, Ferdinand drew a slow breath. He clenched his large, rough hands—hands surprisingly fitting for a soldier, even at his age—and spoke in a resolute tone.
"The army's chain of command must be absolute. Soldiers see war through a soldier's eyes, and officers through an officer's eyes. If anyone begins to question orders and act on their own judgment, the intent behind any military operation will be compromised."
Thomas nodded very slowly at Ferdinand's firm answer. Only then did his cold eyes blink for the first time.
"Any other thoughts?"
Thomas's gaze swept sharply across the room. It landed on Wilfried Ravid, one of the two central figures among the new cadets.
Wilfried immediately grasped Thomas's intent and played his part, rising to meet the instructor's expectations.
"A soldier must uphold honor."
Wilfried spoke, his velvety, gentle voice in stark contrast to Ferdinand's. His bright blue eyes shone intently as he spoke—softly, yet with unmistakable conviction.
"A soldier is someone who stands against the enemy at the risk of his own life. The only reason a soldier can fight even to the death is because there are things more important than life itself. For the Empire, for His Majesty the Emperor, and for the subjects of the Empire whom soldiers are sworn to protect. If a soldier loses the honor of safeguarding all of that, then he can fight no longer."
Wilfried's resolute words drew admiring glances from the noble faction cadets. Once again, Thomas nodded slowly.
Then Thomas's gaze swept over the cadets once more. His eyes came to rest on yet another cadet.
"…"
Ernest blinked in surprise as Thomas fixed him with a quiet, expectant stare. Ernest knew Thomas was waiting for his answer. But he had no idea what answer Thomas was hoping to hear.
Even as Ernest remained silent, Thomas's gaze did not waver—and soon, every cadet's eyes followed suit, settling on him. At last, Ernest slowly began to speak.
"…A soldier must achieve victory."
Ernest's voice, accustomed to speaking quietly beside his father, was strikingly gentle—quite at odds with the resoluteness of his statement.
"That's all?"
"Yes, that's it."
Ernest replied, and Thomas observed him with eyes that seemed to burn with a strange intensity. Under that relentless stare, Ernest realized that Thomas had seen straight through to what he truly wanted to say.
What Ernest learned from Haires was neither about following orders, nor about preserving honor, nor about fighting for victory.
Haires taught Ernest how to find his own answers, how to cut down a careless enemy with a swift blade, how to sever an ankle and strike at the neck, how to shake off pursuers and make his escape.
Surviving.
That was the name that tied everything Haires had taught his son together, and it was the guiding principle that Ernest valued above all else.
And Thomas, a man who truly knew what war was like, could see that truth flickering in Ernest's restless eyes.
A faint and ambiguous smile crossed Thomas's steely face.
"A soldier who doesn't follow orders is useless."
Step.
Step.
Thomas spoke in a low, firm voice as he slowly walked along the podium.
Everyone's eyes shifted from Ernest to Thomas.
"A tool that doesn't work as intended is just a defective product."
Crack!
He gripped both ends of his sturdy pointer and snapped it effortlessly. Then, without a care, he tossed aside the broken pieces. The chilling sound of the snapped wooden pointer clattering across the floor echoed through the room.
"A soldier who knows nothing of honor is also useless."
Crack!
Thomas grabbed his captain's epaulet and ripped it off with brute force. The sturdy, well-stitched insignia was torn apart without mercy.
"That's because you can't overcome the fear of death and fight."
Likewise, Thomas threw his captain's epaulet onto the floor. After that, he looked at Ernest and spoke in a low voice.
"A soldier who can't win is also useless."
With empty hands clasped behind his back, Thomas said, his gaze chilling,
"And the reason why—you should already know, even if I don't say it."
Thomas's heavily shadowed eyes slowly scanned over the young men who had once been swollen with dreams of heroic battle.
"So then, which virtue holds the greatest value?"
No one could answer that question. Not just these new cadets—even soldiers fighting on real battlefields couldn't say for certain. And if anyone did claim to know, they probably didn't deserve the right to answer.
"Yes."
Thomas looked over the silent cadets with satisfaction and nodded.
"This is my first lesson to you."
Senior Instructor Thomas Kohler, Captain of the Imperial Military Academy, presented these children with the most valuable lesson, right from the start.
"There is no answer."
Having faced the enemy on the battlefield—firing and being fired upon, wrestling on the ground with bayonets and swords, killing his foes amid hot blood and spilled guts—Thomas shared this truth with the young cadets.
"No one can avoid getting lost in the fog of the battlefield. The moment you step into it, you won't be able to see straight ahead anymore. You will inevitably lose your way. In there, you'll fight, run, kill, die, and if you're lucky, maybe you'll survive."
Thomas pulled the corners of his mouth into a smile that looked more like a threat than anything pleasant.
"Until you graduate, I will do my best to cram as many ways to find your path as possible into your little heads, which are so full of useless nonsense. But unfortunately, not a single one of them will always be the right answer."
…It was probably meant to be a smile.
"Congratulations on having to study this damned discipline, military science—a field without any right answers. Today's lecture is over. Do whatever you want until lunch break—sleep, play, that's your business."
With that, Thomas really did just leave the cadets behind, striding out of the lecture hall.
The cadets quickly realized that military science would not be the interesting, entertaining class they had expected. It was perfectly obvious to everyone that Senior Instructor Thomas Kohler, Captain, had no intention of letting them play toy soldiers with smiles on their faces.
Ernest quietly stared at the door Thomas had just exited. He could read the intention behind Thomas's words, and what Thomas planned to teach.
Ernest understood now why Thomas had singled him out for a question.
"This is bad, isn't it?"
Robert whispered to Ernest. Ernest thought for a moment about what he meant and nodded.
"Probably. Well, for you, anyway."
"Oh, Ernest, don't get me wrong. You didn't actually think I was worried about you, did you? I can barely handle worrying about myself—there's no way I've got energy left over to worry about anyone else."
Robert kept rambling on in the now-quiet lecture hall, then slumped forward, covering his face with his hands and muttering gloomily,
"I really don't like that instructor."
Most of the new cadets sitting in the lecture hall shared that exact sentiment, so no one bothered to say anything to him.
"Don't worry. Instructor Kohler probably doesn't like you either."
"Damn. You're right."
Ernest's honest reply made Robert nod in reluctant agreement.
To put it more precisely, Thomas likely hated all the rookie cadets who thought everything would magically work out as soon as they became officers, the ones who wasted their time enjoying social gatherings instead of preparing for the real thing.