WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: HidingTurtle
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ How the Child of Prophecy Survives ◈
Chapter 10: Cursed Tongue
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Not many cadets volunteered for shooting practice during the short period of free time after dinner. Most spent it attending the small gatherings held around the academy, making connections and exchanging information as they prepared for life after graduation.
Cadets from hereditary noble families were the busiest at this hour. They had to visit countless gatherings to find and speak with cadets from families close to their own.
Those from military families spent their time more quietly. They usually formed groups based on the units their military relatives belonged to. After graduation, they would join those same units, and they wanted to build closer relationships with the people who would go with them.
Cadets of common birth also attended various gatherings, but they were relegated to acting as servants of sorts. Roles forced on them through bullying by upperclassmen at the start of their first year would remain with them until graduation.
In that sense, Ernst and Robert were certainly unusual cadets. Neither had attended a single social gathering.
And now those two had submitted an application to an instructor, asking to practice shooting during their free time.
“I thought those boys only knew how to cause trouble, but they’re quite enthusiastic.”
“They pay close attention during lectures, too, and they’re skilled. Well, Krieger is.”
“Robert’s hopeless, but you can see he’s trying, can’t you?”
“They’ve only just enrolled. We should give them time before judging.”
“Who knows? He might have an outstanding talent for military studies. We just don’t know because he hasn’t studied it yet.”
“He’s got a smooth way about him, so I think he’ll be good at handling people. He’s of common birth, but his family are fairly successful merchants, aren’t they?”
“Fairly successful? They’re incredibly rich. He’s a Zimmermann.”
“Hmm...”
Ernst was good at whatever he was told to do, so that was understandable. But the instructors’ opinion of Robert was quite high compared with the ability he had actually shown.
Part of it was the benefit of sticking close to Ernst and acting alongside him. But Robert himself was also cheerful and easygoing. At times, he showed an almost uncanny ability to read the mood and quietly withdraw or join in at just the right moment.
“Well, shooting skills aren’t any concern of ours after graduation, anyway.”
“They’re practicing shooting because they’re new cadets. Isn’t it refreshing?”
The instructors laughed as they talked. Only first-year youngsters let their shooting scores lift or crush their spirits. By their second year, cadets began focusing on military studies. By their third, their grades were practically settled, and they devoted themselves to expanding their connections through social gatherings.
So the instructors were startled when an unexpected cadet submitted a late application for shooting practice.
This cadet had absolutely no need for it.
* * *
“Zimmermann, stay calm. Understood? I said, stay calm.”
Lieutenant Norman Luther, the instructor, spoke in a low voice to Robert as he aimed his gun.
“Nothing is threatening you. Slowly, slowly. Steady your breathing.”
Norman’s voice was remarkably calm. Robert, however, was not.
Bang!
A sharp shot rang out far too soon across the darkened range, accompanied by a flash of blue light. A moment later, a bullet left the muzzle too fast for the human eye to follow and tore through the air.
Then it vanished somewhere into the darkness, never to be seen again.
“Zimmermann! Please! I’m begging you, please steady your breathing!”
“I-I’m having trouble with that...”
Despairing at Robert’s terrible shooting, which could not even hit the edge of the target, Norman clutched at their neatly combed hair and cried out.
Robert grew strangely tense whenever he fired. His breathing kept faltering and his hands trembled, leaving him unable to hit even a large target set not very far away.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Meanwhile, Ernst was steadily growing used to the shooting method he had seen for the first time that day. He could now fire three shots in a row at intervals of roughly three seconds. His hands were still small and inexperienced, so holding five bullets at once and firing them rapidly was too much for him.
“Hmm...”
Ernst sighed at the bullet holes in his target, which shone under the blue Valt light at the far end of the dark range.
His accuracy was quite good, considering how quickly he was firing. But Ernst wanted to leave just one neat hole in the exact center. Even a small, palm-sized grouping displeased him so much that the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Hires had taught Ernst the weight of a single bullet. If his shots spread that far during training, he might miss in real combat and put his life at risk. Whenever a bullet missed the exact center, Ernst felt that chilling fear.
“All right, Zimmermann. Let’s take it step by step again, starting with loading.”
Norman paid almost no attention to Ernst, who was far too skilled at shooting. By now, the instructor had come to believe that helping this hopeless merchant boy at least hit the target was the very reason they had become an instructor. It was their mission.
In stark contrast to Ernst’s rapid fire, Robert slowly loaded his gun from the beginning, following the standard method. Norman watched quietly without commenting on his slow movements.
“Zimmermann.”
At that moment, a low, rough voice rang out across the range, accompanied by firm footsteps. Ignoring everyone’s startled reactions, the speaker continued.
“Don’t aim. Just fire.”
“...What?”
Robert lowered his loaded gun as he had been taught, taking care not to point it anywhere he should not, and looked back.
“For now, fire a hundred rounds without aiming. Just shoot however you like. You can aim after that.”
As he spoke, Ferdinand Hartmann came to a firm stop in front of Norman and held out his Valt gun. Norman raised an eyebrow at him, then followed the rules, inserting a Valt battery into his gun and handing him bullets.
“Thank you.”
Ferdinand skillfully put the bullets into his ammunition pouch, then took back his gun.
“Just fire? You want me to just fire? Wait, were you even talking to me?”
“Yes. Just fire.”
Ferdinand answered Robert’s confused question firmly, studying him through narrowed eyes.
“First, you need to get over your fear of guns. How can you pull the trigger to kill an enemy when you’re trembling in fear of the gun in your own hands?”
“...What’s gotten into you? I thought you saw me as some weed growing by the roadside.”
Robert scratched his head and spoke with easy familiarity in response to the advice from Brigadier General Hartmann’s eldest grandson. Ferdinand gazed at him for a moment, then spoke with barely a movement of his lips.
“Even a weed, if it wishes to bloom, must surely be a flower.”
“...Whoa! You!”
Robert’s eyes widened at those poetic words. Before he could say anything more, Ferdinand turned away, strode over to Ernst, and began shooting beside him.
Ernst glanced over and saw that Ferdinand’s face had reddened slightly with embarrassment.
“Where did you hear that?”
“...In a book.”
Ferdinand answered Ernst’s question in a very quiet whisper.
The fourteen-year-old boy could not let a chance to use a fine line from a book pass him by.
Bang!
A moment later, Ferdinand’s bullet struck the exact center of the target. Rather than unleashing the rapid fire he had demonstrated during daytime training, Ferdinand reloaded, calmly aimed, and fired again.
Bang!
After firing five shots in this fashion, Ferdinand lowered his muzzle and glared at the target. The four shots after his first had struck slightly off-center. The grouping was very small, but he stared at it so fiercely that he seemed ready to smash it.
Meanwhile, with Norman’s permission, Robert was firing wildly as Ferdinand had advised. Norman’s deep sighs slipped into the gaps between the shots.
“Pull your little finger in farther and hook it around.”
As Ernst prepared to practice rapid fire, Ferdinand offered him advice. Ernst followed it, drawing his little finger in tightly to grip the breech cover. With his small hands, he felt as though his fingers might cramp.
“You’re not ready yet.”
Ferdinand said this after studying Ernst’s hands. They were still so small that Ernst had to take his index finger off the trigger to pull back the hammer with his right thumb.
“You’ll get used to it quickly once your hands grow a little more.”
With that, Ferdinand reloaded in an instant, using hands as large as his broad shoulders suggested, and unleashed a string of rapid shots. Then he went back to firing carefully, one shot at a time.
Even knowing that his small hands prevented him from doing it properly, Ernst practiced rapid fire again.
The two boys stood side by side, each practicing the other’s specialty. Ernst’s hands were too small for proper rapid fire. Ferdinand, meanwhile, had focused his practice on firing rapidly enough to push a Valt gun to its limits, so even when he shot carefully, he could not hit the exact center.
“A soldier...”
Ferdinand whispered in a low, quiet voice, hiding his words among the shots Robert was happily wasting.
“...has no need for pointless thoughts. A soldier’s job is to follow orders and fight the enemy.”
Bang!
Ferdinand’s gun spat blue Valt light.
“Especially the son of a soldier awarded the Noble Heart Medal.”
Ernst glanced at Ferdinand, then fired three shots in a slightly slower sequence.
“I know.”
Ernst’s answer was brief. Ferdinand calmly aimed and fired once more before speaking.
“Knowing and doing are different things, Krieger.”
Ernst turned toward Ferdinand, who continued firing like a machine.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“You know what they teach here isn’t the truth.”
Ferdinand fired to break the silence that stretched out while Robert reloaded. His thick eyebrows twisted when he saw that his hurried pull of the trigger had sent the shot far from the center. Under cover of the gunshot, Ernst continued.
“Do you still just accept the answer they give you?”
Only then did Ferdinand lower his gun. He turned his large, intense eyes toward Ernst. Ernst was tall for his age, but even he looked small in front of Ferdinand.
Yet there was no trace of fear in Ernst’s eyes as he looked up at the eldest grandson of Brigadier General Heinz Hartmann, Chief of Staff of the Second Corps. Ferdinand gazed down at him and found something familiar in those bottomless black eyes.
Ernst had no reason at all to fear Ferdinand. This small, young first-year cadet was among the academy’s handful of most experienced, tough, and ruthless hunters.
“Yes. Because that’s what it means to be a soldier.”
Satisfied that his judgment had been correct, Ferdinand gave a solemn nod. Despite having an excellent soldier for a father, a man who deserved respect, Ernst was entertaining thoughts a soldier was not permitted to have. Ferdinand spoke carefully.
“Even if an order is wrong, a soldier must carry it out. If the chain of command loses its strictness, the army will fall into chaos as everyone follows their own ideas, and none of its goals can be achieved. So, Krieger.”
Ferdinand spoke with his overheated gun hanging at his side.
“You would do well to become a good soldier who carries out his assigned duties without questioning or thinking. Like your father, who received the Noble Heart Medal.”
Ernst could clearly sense the words Ferdinand had left unspoken.
A soldier who did not obey orders was worse than no soldier at all. The Imperial Army fought for the rightful rule of His Majesty the great Emperor. Its strict chain of command allowed not even the smallest act of insubordination.
Even if an order demanded something that should never be done, defying a superior could result in summary execution. If you had a complaint, the proper thing was to carry out the order first and speak afterward. Of course, by then the deed was already done, so the complaint meant nothing. So shut up and do it.
“Is that what your grandfather taught you?”
Ernst answered Ferdinand’s grave warning with a light question. Ferdinand drew his eyebrows together, trying to read Ernst’s intentions. But he could find nothing in the boy’s face, which shone pale under the Valt light.
“Yes.”
Ferdinand nodded solemnly as he answered. Ernst immediately continued.
“Could you do that even if you knew you were going to die?”
“Of course. Because that’s what it means to be a soldier.”
“Then would your grandfather order you to die?”
“...”
Ferdinand, who had answered so firmly until now, froze at that question.
Ferdinand was Brigadier General Heinz Hartmann’s eldest grandson, a grandson Heinz loved even more than his own son. Could Heinz really order him to die?
“What do you think, Ferdinand?”
Ernst raised his gun and aimed at the target again. Then he calmly pulled the trigger, yet so quickly that another cadet or instructor would have thought he had barely aimed at all.
Bang!
Ferdinand flinched at the shot, though he had seen and heard so many by now that he was sick of them.
Only Ernst, who had pulled the trigger, would know where the bullet had struck the already ragged target.
And Ernst could feel, without looking, that the bullet had hit exactly where he intended.
“You’re going to the Second Corps, aren’t you?”
Ernst spoke in his usual gentle tone, then began practicing rapid fire again, completely ignoring Ferdinand as though he were not there.
“...”
Ferdinand stared at him in silence, then turned away, his large, rough hand gripping the gun so tightly that he seemed ready to crush its grip.
After returning his bullets and Valt battery to Norman, Ferdinand left as though fleeing, carrying a gun that had not yet cooled.
“Instructor, how many shots have I fired?”
“...Just, haah... Just try whatever you want. ...Nothing too dangerous.”
Forget his fear of guns. Robert had fired so much that he no longer even knew how many shots he had taken.
Still, Ferdinand’s advice had worked. Robert had shaken off his fear of guns and shooting and could now fire fairly calmly. He could even produce a rough grouping on the target.
“Zimmermann, astonishingly enough, I have never been more moved in all my time as an instructor than I am at this moment. So you were capable of it after all.”
“Hehe... Thank you.”
“Though seeing how quickly it’s gone to your head, I doubt it’ll last.”
“Instructor, don’t worry. When that happens, we’ll get to stand side by side under the night sky and spend time together again, just like tonight.”
“Good heavens. Please don’t do this to me.”
In this short time, Robert had grown quite close to Norman, who had helped him practice. For a new cadet who was a nonhereditary noble, had terrible skills, and had caused a huge incident as soon as he enrolled, becoming friendly with an instructor this quickly certainly meant Robert was no ordinary boy either.
Ernst stared into the darkness with his overheated gun lowered. He had been trained to make out the shapes of moving animals in the dark, so he could clearly see Ferdinand stop far away and look back.
“...”
The dark figure saw Ernst shining under the Valt light and the black eyes watching him, then hastily turned and hurried away.
Ernst could sense the emotion Ferdinand had felt at his question as clearly as if he were tracing it with his fingertips. He owed that ability to the “games” with Hires, through which he had learned to analyze people in detail.
At that moment, Ferdinand had felt as ashamed as if he had been stripped naked. Once assigned to the Second Corps, where his grandfather served as chief of staff, he would earn distinctions quickly from a safe position and rise through the ranks in no time. He might never experience field command even once.
And Ferdinand himself had some vague awareness of this. That was why, despite having heard accounts of real battlefields, he thought he would have no reason to shoot after becoming an officer. He knew that when war actually came, officer or not, he would have to fight even barehanded to survive.
For someone like Ferdinand to say, “A soldier must follow orders even knowing he will die,” was surely arrogant. Whatever anyone else might think, Ferdinand, at least, felt that way.
He felt disgusted with himself and deeply disappointed. And he was ashamed that Ernst had seen right through him.
In truth, Ernst thought it was only natural. With a grandfather who was a serving brigadier general, it would be stranger if the man pushed his beloved eldest grandson onto a battlefield to fight and die.
“...Should I have kept my mouth shut?”
Ernst murmured as he pictured Ferdinand’s back, which had already disappeared.
He did not fully understand just how deeply his words had shocked Ferdinand. But he knew very clearly that something significant had happened inside him.
After a brief moment of thought, Ernst decided to stop caring. Whatever Ferdinand did was none of his business.
“Ernst! Look! I made a grouping on the target!”
“Yeah, that’s really good.”
“Zimmermann, you should have looked at Krieger’s and Hartmann’s groupings before saying that.”
“...”
At Norman’s weary words, Robert looked at Ernst’s and Ferdinand’s targets, fell silent, and stuck out his lower lip.
The bullets that had struck their targets again and again had punched small, fist-sized holes right through the centers. Apart from those, there was only one bullet hole, from Ferdinand’s hurried shot that had gone far off-center.
“There’s no point comparing me to people who were good to begin with. Isn’t teaching someone who improves step by step more rewarding than teaching someone who’s good without any help?”
“You... Haah... Yes, yes. Well done. Now go back inside.”
Norman began to say something to the cheerfully smiling Robert, then gave a quiet chuckle and sent him and Ernst back to the dormitory.
“Zimmermann, your hands will be swollen by tomorrow morning.”
“What? Then what should I do?”
“Ask Krieger to help.”
After giving Robert that very sensible advice with a smile, Norman also hurried off to end the day and get some rest.
“Cool them in cold water.”
“For how long?”
“As long as possible.”
“Oh, man...”
Ernst gave Robert suitable advice. That night, Robert grumbled as he soaked his hands in cold water, but soon gave up and went to sleep.
As a result, he had to attend shooting practice the next morning with hands so swollen that he could not even make a fist. At the sight, Norman once again dragged a hand down their face and let out a great sigh.
Ernst watched Ferdinand closely. He did not seem much different from usual.
During shooting practice, however, Ferdinand made the mistake of dropping a bullet while reloading not once, but twice. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he had not slept. He glared fiercely at the fallen bullet, then slowly turned his head and met Ernst’s watching eyes.
“...”
“...”
Their gazes met briefly, then slid away.
‘What was that?’
Watching the two boys exchange that meaningful look, Wilfried Rabid frowned as though he had seen something very strange.
A moment later, aware of the eyes around him, Wilfried composed his expression and calmly began shooting. Even his shooting stance was as graceful and smooth as a dance. Though his accuracy and speed were merely decent, he certainly stood out.
‘It looks like they had some sort of conversation...’
Remembering the news that Ferdinand had applied for shooting practice the night before, Wilfried wondered what he and Ernst might have said to each other.
Unfortunately, Ferdinand was the leader of the military faction, and Ernst did not associate with any cadet except Robert. Wilfried had no way at all to quietly discover what had passed between them.
‘Krieger. Krieger. Krieger... The son of a soldier who received the Noble Heart Medal while still alive...’
Wilfried considered Ernst’s value more carefully than before.
As he sank deeper into thought, Wilfried spent far too long aiming. But even that sight was as beautiful as a painting, so no one found it strange. Even the instructor was admiring the duke’s beautiful son.
Bang!
Wilfried pulled the trigger and reloaded without even looking to see where the bullet had struck.
There would be no harm in testing the waters. It was not as though he would lose anything by doing so.
Wilfried was in a position where he had to use anything that might be useful, without being picky. And the son of a soldier awarded the Noble Heart Medal would surely be a useful tool.
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