WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: HidingTurtle
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◈ How the Child of Prophecy Survives ◈
Chapter 3: True Warrior
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The first training Hires put Ernst through was running.
“Stamina is the most important thing. Without stamina, you can’t do anything.”
“Do they run at the academy too?”
“No.”
When his son, who did not understand why running was necessary, asked, Hires answered firmly.
“An officer commissioned after graduating from the Imperial Military Academy will rarely run on their own two feet. But stamina is part of the evaluation criteria.”
“Then how do the other cadets build their stamina?”
“They build it through riding and fencing practice. But those are no more than noble pastimes. Wrestling is the training of a real soldier. And high nobles are reluctant to engage in such vulgar behavior.”
Hires looked over his son’s body, so small and frail, and blinked slowly once.
“When you’ve put on some muscle, we’ll learn wrestling too.”
“Did you learn wrestling too, Father?”
Unlike before, when he quietly answered his father and nodded, Ernst kept asking one question after another. Perhaps finding that unfamiliar, Hires stared at his son for a moment before shaking his head.
“I learned how to survive.”
Ernst would learn what those words meant a little later. That was, after he had gained muscle and begun receiving proper martial training from Hires.
Ernst was a quiet child who usually enjoyed reading at home, so his stamina was not particularly good compared to children his age. Above all, Ernst had almost never run before. He spent most of his time at home, so much so that he had no friends.
“Pant! Pant! Ugh...”
“Ernst, what’s wrong?”
“My, my head hurts...”
So Ernst did not even know that getting a headache after becoming tired from running was strange. Hires, running through the park with Ernst, stopped his son with a stiff expression.
“...I heard your heart medicine can cause headaches. That must be why.”
“Why does medicine for my heart make my head hurt?”
“It’s only a side effect.”
“Can’t I just not take the medicine?”
“It’s better to take the medicine and endure a headache than to leave your heart condition untreated. That’s why.”
Hires, who had answered his son’s questions so well, suddenly scolded him in a cold, heavy voice.
“You must take that medicine until the day you die. Never say such nonsense again.”
Terrified, Ernst silently nodded.
“...I’ll look into the medicine in greater detail. Until then, only run enough that you don’t get a headache.”
Seeing his frightened son, Hires softened his voice and spoke with just a little gentleness.
In the end, Ernst’s headaches were never resolved. He would have to take the heart medicine until he died, and its side effects would stay with him until then as well.
Still, headaches were its only side effect, and it was not as though a headache could kill him. So Ernst decided to endure them and continue training.
Ernst was a patient child. He silently followed training so harsh that most children would have given up as soon as it began, all while enduring headaches that felt as though nails were being driven into his skull.
In truth, Ernst had wanted to give up Hires’s training several times. But he had never once said he could not do it in front of his father.
He did not want to disappoint him. And even when it was difficult and painful, the time he could spend with his father was precious.
Hires had originally gone out every day. He would rise at dawn, wash and eat, teach Ernst, then leave in the morning and return home shortly before sunset. Ernst did not know in the slightest what Hires did outside. Once home, Hires checked what Ernst had studied alone, ate, washed, and went to sleep.
That had been Hires’s daily routine ever since Ernst became old enough to be left alone without causing trouble.
After deciding to train Ernst, Hires almost never went out alone. Except when washing and sleeping, Ernst came to spend nearly all his time with his father. The boy was truly glad, truly happy. That made him work even harder at his training.
Training hard enough to make him feel like vomiting, headaches that felt as though his skull were splitting, none of that seemed so important compared to the time spent with his father.
“Ernst, come here.”
“Yes, Father!”
Of all this training, Ernst loved riding most of all. Riding was not meant to build stamina, so it did not push him hard enough to cause headaches. More than that, Hires would mount behind Ernst, take the reins with him, and guide the horse.
Ernst could not even remember the last time his father had held him. Yet every time he rode, Hires lifted him onto the saddle, then sat behind him and rode with him.
But that time did not last long. Ernst quickly grew accustomed to horses. From then on, Hires only lifted him when he mounted or dismounted.
Even that was enough to make Ernst happy, and he soon came to love riding itself. It improved his horsemanship with astonishing speed.
“Father, but do I really need to learn horsemanship?”
One day, Ernst asked his father to satisfy a question that had suddenly occurred to him.
“I heard officers ride in Valt cars. And high nobles are already using them too. They say civilian models will be commercially available before long.”
It had already been over ten years since military Valt cars were developed and deployed in battle. High nobles were now using Valt cars one after another, and rumors were widespread that affordable civilian versions would be sold as well. So why was horsemanship necessary?
“First, riding is an essential accomplishment, one form of social activity in noble society.”
Hires explained quite kindly to his curious son.
“Second, do not think you will always be able to ride in a Valt car during wartime. A battlefield is a place filled with every variable you can imagine, and variables you cannot even imagine. Lastly...”
After speaking of the dangers and ever-changing nature of battlefields, Hires was about to add something, then closed his mouth.
“...There is no certainty that Valt cars will become commercially available.”
After a moment, Hires said that in a small voice, almost as if making an excuse.
Ernst did not think much of it. He had only asked because he was curious. By then, he enjoyed riding as a hobby rather than as training.
For Ernst, Hires bought a small, gentle gelding. Ernst named the horse Dreck, meaning mud. His coat was light brown, but the hair around his hooves was a deep blackish brown, as though mud had stained it.
As Hires taught Ernst running and riding, he also began teaching him about noble society, the military’s structure, and basic military science.
Ernst was extremely confident in these studies and truly very clever, so Hires never thought Ernst would fail to keep up. Ernst felt the same way.
Yet, perplexingly, Ernst, who had already read more than a hundred books by the young age of ten, could not focus on studying at all. Not even on reading, which he loved so much.
The heart medicine that gave Ernst such terrible headaches was the problem. Since he began taking it, Ernst had gradually been losing his ability to concentrate.
Hires visited the doctor who had prescribed the medicine several times to speak with them. Each time, Ernst waited for his father, clutching his trembling chest with hope and anxiety. But Hires could not bring him medicine without side effects.
“We have no choice but to reduce the dosage a little.”
“...”
Ernst was so disappointed that he could not even answer his father. The dosage was reduced afterward, but Ernst still had headaches whenever vigorous exercise quickened his pulse, and he continued to suffer chronic difficulty concentrating.
Fortunately, Ernst was remarkably clever compared to ordinary children. As he gradually grew accustomed to those harsh conditions, he continued to improve quickly. He would study with focus for a short while, do something else briefly, then return to studying when he lost concentration in that. To someone watching, he seemed terribly distractible, but Ernst had no other way.
“Let us hide the fact that you take medicine. At least until you graduate from the academy.”
Hires said that to his son, who had overcome the medicine’s side effects in his own way. From then on, Ernst and Hires called the heart medicine a “tonic.” It would not seem so strange for a retired soldier to give his son tonics for training.
As time passed and Ernst turned eleven, Hires finally proposed training beyond running and riding to his young son.
He began to teach him how to fight. In other words, how to kill people.
The Imperial Army had been supplied with Valt guns, while other nations were developing and improving gunpowder guns and fielding riflemen. Military scholars and senior officers expected that, even if infantry and cavalry armed with cold weapons still saw action on the battlefield, they would all disappear within a few years.
Even so, Hires placed a wooden stick in his son’s hand and taught him how to kill an opponent while holding a weapon, whether a sword, a spear, or anything else. He also taught him unarmed fighting that could not clearly be called boxing or wrestling. He taught him, too, how lethal, precise, and cruel a dagger could be in the midst of such close combat.
The martial arts Hires taught could not simply be identified as any one discipline. In favorable terms, they were martial arts capable of responding to many different situations. Less favorably, they could be called a hodgepodge.
Hires went further, taking Ernst beyond Grimman, the imperial capital, and staying in forests or mountains for days at a time. He taught his young son how to start fires with his bare hands, find water, build shelter, set traps, erase tracks, and treat wounds.
To teach Ernst how to stitch wounds shut, Hires even tightly bound a rabbit caught in a trap, shaved off its fur, and cut it with a dagger. Even when Ernst was terrified or retched at the blood pouring from the gaping wound, Hires held the young boy in place and made him watch everything closely. Ernst quickly grew accustomed to such things.
In the truest sense, Hires taught Ernst “how to survive.”
Though more than ten years had passed since his retirement, neither Hires’s martial arts nor his survival skills seemed to have dulled in the slightest. Ernst was beaten many times while grappling with his father, rolled across the ground many times, and cried many times.
Hires seemed flustered by his son’s tears at first, but only at first. He continued to push Ernst harshly.
Ernst charged at his father until his stamina was depleted and headaches kept him from rising, only to be beaten down each time. Hires took care not to injure him, but it was still harsh for an eleven-year-old child.
Still, Ernst did not particularly fear or hate his father. Hires carefully carried him in his arms whenever he was exhausted. And although it was hard, Ernst enjoyed camping with his father as they traveled through forests and mountains.
When more time had passed and Ernst had become accustomed to this grueling training, he was allowed to hold a real weapon meant to kill people for the first time.
The first weapon he held was a Valt gun Hires had stored together with his dress uniform. Ernst had handled a dagger while camping, but that had been nothing more than a tool for miscellaneous tasks.
“Valt guns are strictly controlled by the Imperial Army. If someone who is not a soldier possesses a Valt gun, it means they are either a retired officer of field-grade rank or above, or a high noble of baron rank or above, with an estate and the authority to command troops in an emergency.”
Ernst, who had ridden out of Grimman because Hires said they would camp in the forest as usual, tensed sharply at the Valt gun in his father’s hand.
“Especially the firing Valt battery. It does not even have a listed price, because imperial law makes it impossible to trade without Their Majesty the Emperor’s authorization. If you are discovered, you will be sentenced to death without exception.”
Having said that, Hires took out not the luxurious white Valt battery stored with the gun, but a yellowish standard-issue Valt battery. Unlike batteries for lighting, it stored enough Valt to fire a gun. Its shape had even been fashioned for that purpose. It was unmistakably a firing Valt battery.
Hires opened the breech cover at the rear of the barrel, then firmly pushed the battery inside.
He did not explain how he had obtained a firing Valt battery, and even curious Ernst did not dare ask.
Click.
Hires dropped a round lead ball into the muzzle of the gun with its battery attached. The ball, smaller than the barrel, went straight to the breech and struck the Valt battery.
Clack.
Hires pulled back the hammer. A very small Valt battery was attached to its tip.
Then Hires extended his arm and pulled the trigger so quickly that it was hard to tell whether he had aimed at all.
Ernst could not even perceive when Hires had extended his arm and fired.
The small Valt battery in the hammer struck the edge of the firing Valt battery through a narrow groove in the breech. The collision between the two batteries explosively released Valt. Blue flashes burst from the narrow groove in the breech, but most of the Valt rushed through the wider exit of the muzzle, forcefully driving out the bullet.
A flash and a thunderous report.
Bang!
Thud.
Then a squirrel fell limply from the tree.
Startled, Ernst stepped back, caught his foot on a tree root, and landed on his backside.
The squirrel had been sitting still on a low branch of a nearby tree, but Hires had hit it exactly without properly aiming. The bullet was quite large, leaving a gaping hole in the squirrel’s body and blood pouring out.
“Valt guns differ from gunpowder guns in nature. First, they are easy to load.”
Hires turned to his dazed son as he spoke, then moved his fingers with flowing ease and reloaded in an instant.
With a gunpowder gun, one would have to pull back the hammer, put powder in the flash pan, put powder into the muzzle as well, add the bullet, ram it down with a ramrod or strike the gun hard against the ground, pull the trigger while praying it fired properly, then remain aiming for a while even if the bullet did not fire, in case of a delayed ignition.
A Valt gun, in contrast, only required opening the breech cover, checking the battery’s condition, pushing it forward until it was firmly seated against the barrel, closing the cover, dropping a bullet into the muzzle, cocking the hammer, aiming, and pulling the trigger.
That was all. Misfires were extremely rare. Unless the battery broke when the hammer struck it or there was a problem with its contact against the barrel, it would usually fire properly.
“Second, its accuracy is incomparable to that of a gunpowder gun.”
Hires fired again as quickly as before.
Bang!
Valt discharged once more, and a blue flash flickered.
Thwack!
The bullet struck a tree some distance away. Hires immediately reloaded again. This time, he kept the muzzle pointed ahead and held his aim for a moment. His breathing was steady, his hand unwavering.
Bang!
Thwack!
Astonishingly, Hires struck nearly the same spot.
“Unlike gunpowder, with its many variables, it fires with the same force every time. If the barrel is long enough, then as long as your aim does not stray, hitting an enemy within effective range is easy.”
Even a Valt pistol with a short barrel, an outdated model from ten years ago at that, had far better accuracy than a gunpowder gun with a barrel as long as a person was tall. That was why Valt guns were rarely longer than one meter. Greater accuracy was only necessary when an enemy stood beyond effective range, making it useless.
This was the source of the power that turned Mihanil, once no more than a barony, into the strongest empire on the continent.
In an age when guns were merely objects for command and decoration, Walter Ulrich Mihanil created the Valt gun, armed his forces, swiftly conquered nearby territories, and rebelled to become king. Through the wars of conquest that followed, Walter Ulrich Mihanil seized vast lands and established a great empire.
Other nations hurried to develop gunpowder guns, and although they had now become sufficiently practical in battle, they were still miserably lacking beside the power of Valt guns.
Thirty infantrymen armed with Valt guns could kill hundreds of enemies armed with cold weapons and gunpowder guns. Their range, accuracy, and rate of fire were all overwhelming, allowing them to slaughter enemies one-sidedly in open-field battles without suffering losses.
Then Valt cars were developed as well, and the latter half of the wars of conquest became a succession of truly one-sided battles. Valt cars revolutionized supply and transport. They had problems with battery consumption and overheating, but they were still far better than wagons.
But in complex, rugged terrain such as forests and mountains, the advantages of Valt guns and Valt cars diminished greatly. Enemy nations began hiding in forests and mountains and employing dreadful delaying tactics. Weary of the stalled war, the Empire decided to withdraw for the time being, bringing Mihanil’s wars of conquest to an end.
“Valt guns have two flaws. One is heat, and the other is damage caused by the shock of firing. Both problems are even more pronounced in gunpowder guns.”
Hires removed the battery from the gun, then approached his son, who was shakily getting to his feet, and placed the gun and battery in his small hands.
The Valt gun was hotter than a human body, and the end of the standard-issue battery had crumbled, with powder falling from it.
“Load it.”
“Y-Yes...”
With trembling hands, Ernst attached the battery to the gun. He pushed the bullet his father gave him into the muzzle, then pulled back the stiff hammer with all his strength.
It took only ten seconds for a Valt gun in an eleven-year-old boy’s hands to be ready to kill a person. Once he was used to it, he would be able to reload as quickly as Hires.
“Try aiming.”
“Wh-what should I aim at?”
“Anything.”
With trembling breath and hands, Ernst copied the movements his father had shown him. He stood straight, chest and waist upright, and extended his right arm.
But Ernst’s hand, holding a Valt gun for the first time, would not stop shaking. The gun was heavier than it looked.
“Not like that. Hold it with both hands. Wrap your left hand over your right. Yes. Extend both arms, tuck in your chin. This is the rear sight, and this is the front sight. Keep the front sight centered in the rear sight.”
Hires wrapped an arm around his son’s back and calmly taught him how to shoot.
Shooting one-handed was only necessary in an urgent situation, when holding reins on horseback, when one arm could not be used, or when one needed to fire at an official occasion without sacrificing dignity. That was, unless one was highly trained like Hires and accurate even when shooting casually.
“Settle your breathing. Yes, slowly...”
Feeling his father’s low voice and warm embrace, Ernst took a deep breath. His breathing calmed, as did his startled heart.
“When you are ready, pull the trigger. There is no need to rush. Wait as long as you need. One bullet calmly aimed is more threatening than a hundred bullets fired in panic.”
Hires held his little son’s hands steady. Leaning on his father’s hands, Ernst kept his aim.
“Do not take a single chance too lightly just because loading is easy and fast. One bullet can kill an enemy. Know that weight, and do not waste an opportunity for nothing.”
Ernst flinched and froze at his father’s words.
It could kill an enemy. What Ernst held was not a toy, but a killing weapon developed to kill human beings.
“Ernst.”
Feeling his son’s agitation and confusion, Hires spoke in an even voice.
“Do not hesitate. The moment you point a gun at an enemy, you have only one choice. That hesitation is unnecessary, and it will only lead you to death.”
Hires advised his son in a gentle voice.
“Do not think about who they are, what they are, or why they became your enemy. Do not think about such useless things. If you have pointed a gun at them and believe you can hit them, pull the trigger and kill them.”
Hires was sincerely advising his son. It was the lesson Hires Krieger had learned while surviving amid the flames of war.
In war, a human life is no different from the life of a fly gathering around garbage. At a single gesture or word from someone, people die like flies.
Those who hesitate do not survive.
Ernst’s breathing grew somewhat ragged. His hands continued to shake, and sweat made the grip feel too slippery.
But Hires held him firmly, so Ernst’s gun did not waver at all.
“Pull it.”
Hires whispered. By the time Ernst came to himself, the Valt gun had already fired, leaving behind a blue flash and report as its bullet struck the trunk of a tree.
Ernst’s bullet embedded itself directly below the spot where Hires had struck twice in the same place. The flash before his eyes, the thunderous report slapping at his ears, and the sting in his hands startled him so badly that he could barely breathe.
“Well done, my son.”
Hires took the gun from his dazed son’s hands, patted his shoulder, and praised him.
At those gentle words, Ernst looked up at his father.
In his daze, Ernst thought he might have smiled a little.
After that, Ernst fired the Valt gun several times and became accustomed to it. He went further, handling even a gunpowder gun that Hires had somehow obtained from who knew where.
He later learned that obtaining a gunpowder gun was not difficult. Compared to Valt guns, gunpowder guns were far inferior, so there were almost no restrictions on their trade.
“If Valt batteries are depleted on the battlefield, you will use gunpowder guns too. Since gunpowder guns are much harder to handle, you must practice with them more than you practice with Valt guns.”
To Ernst, whose first shot had been with a Valt gun, the gunpowder gun was literally little better than garbage. His historic first loading of a gunpowder gun took a full three minutes. He made a mistake halfway through and spilled all the powder.
Still, he quickly became accustomed to it. In the autumn when he was eleven, Ernst struck and killed a rabbit with a bullet he fired from a gunpowder gun.
Hires patted the back of his son, who had hunted the rabbit, and stroked his hair. Delighted by his father’s praise, Ernst butchered the rabbit with a dagger. The stew made from rabbit meat, his historic first prey, tasted unbelievably good.
Ernst quickly became skilled at shooting. By the spring when he was twelve, he could load a gunpowder gun as tall as he was in forty seconds. Once he grew taller, he would be able to load it much faster.
Ernst did his utmost to meet his father’s expectations. He grew far more accustomed to riding, shooting, and martial arts, and he gained much muscle. He began shooting up in height as well. There was no longer any sign of the weak boy who had once loved reading books. He studied hard, accumulated knowledge, and learned refinement.
He still took the “tonic” and suffered chronic difficulty concentrating and headaches, but he had grown so used to those that they no longer seemed like much.
Ernst was still small and weak, but because he had learned the “way to survive” Hires taught him, he already possessed the ability to serve as an excellent soldier.
Put another way, it meant that in two years, a boy who loved reading books at home had acquired enough skill to kill.
Ernst did not understand that weight at all.
But Hires understood it well. He could not help but understand.
And so, Hires trained his son even more harshly.
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