Chapter 36 - The Daffodils Blooming Beneath the Hooves (6)
Ernest, who had previously been a rather notorious figure at the Military Academy for less-than-ideal reasons, suddenly found himself quite famous in a positive sense after the first main event of the Silver Horseshoe Tournament.
"Krieger, I watched your match yesterday. You were impressive."
"Thank you."
Even the Disciplinary Officer greeted him with a smile when they gathered for morning roll call. Considering how the disciplinary officers had always treated him coldly and formally ever since he smashed the Cadet Corps, this was truly surprising.
"You all saw what happened yesterday, right? It was something else, wasn't it?"
"Jimman, Krieger was the one who put on a show at the tournament, so why are you acting like it was all you?"
If Ernest was overly humble, then Robert's excessive pride balanced things out—enough that you could almost call it equilibrium. Robert was so excited that if you didn't know any better, you might have thought he was Ernest's riding instructor.
"Hartmann, you were incredible yesterday. Fourth place for a first-year..."
"Yeah, that puts you in the safe zone. The finals are all but guaranteed for you. That's pretty amazing."
Ferdinand had managed to take an impressive fourth place in the obstacle course. It wasn't unheard of for a first-year cadet to make it into the finals by placing in the top ten, but it was rare for someone to secure their spot so comfortably.
"Yeah, thanks."
Ferdinand offered a faint smile to his classmates who were praising him, expressing his gratitude. It was a remarkably mature response.
However, deep down, Ferdinand was a little excited—and at the same time, he was conflicted by a peculiar thought.
When he was praised for his marksmanship—a skill he never thought he'd need to use—he hadn't thought much of it. But this was a tournament, and achieving a good result was something to be happy about.
Even so, Ferdinand couldn't fully enjoy his success, preoccupied as he was with thoughts of how Ernest, who could have easily taken first place, had given it up without hesitation.
If it had been me—
Ferdinand remembered the expression Ernest wore when he turned around after being called. There hadn't been even a hint of regret on Ernest's face—only concern for his horse, Drek.
If it had been Ferdinand, even if it meant breaking the leg of his beloved Obsidian, he would have forced the horse over the obstacle. All he would've worried about was whether Obsidian could keep running to the end on a broken leg.
To give up the chance at victory in the Silver Horseshoe Tournament—a tournament so important that even Armin, the Headmaster of the Imperial Military Academy, came to spectate—just because of an unimpressive little gelding…
Truly, he's no ordinary person. In more ways than one.
That was the only way Ferdinand could describe Ernest. The same Ernest who had once hunted down his own classmates in simulated battles like a cold-blooded predator, now showing such gentle care for a mere gelding.
His judgment and temperament in combat, his mindset in daily life, even his abilities—none of them were ordinary. He really is an unusual guy.
But even so, he's acknowledged and accepted by everyone around him. Because he's irreplaceable.
Ferdinand reflected on Ernest's recent actions and the changing attitudes of those around him.
Lately, Ernest had been getting along well with the other cadets, and others wanted to befriend him too. The main reason for this was simple—Ernest's abilities were unmatched and could not be replaced.
At the Military Academy, the highest points were given for Military Science, and within that, Senior Instructor Thomas considered the Mock Battle the most important training of all.
And now, during Mock Battle training, cadets were taking turns acting as Platoon Leader.
In other words, for the first-year training, Ernest Krieger—who was more or less a living cheat code—was relegated to just another platoon member.
Naturally, whenever a cadet was made Platoon Leader, the first thing they did was call out for Ernest. Not even Wilfried, the Duke's son, nor Hartmann, the Chief of Staff's eldest, were chosen before Ernest had been assigned to a platoon.
In practice, any platoon Ernest belonged to performed far better in battle, regardless of whether they acted as the Alliance Army or the Imperial Army.
Whenever the forest terrain made situational awareness difficult, the simple phrase, "Krieger, lead the vanguard," really did work like magic and solved all their problems.
I'm learning so much from Ernest, too.
Thinking about Ernest helped Ferdinand reflect on himself.
Having someone close by who was different yet worth learning from was truly something to be grateful for. It let him hold up a mirror to himself and really consider who he was.
…But still, if it were me, I wouldn't have hesitated to make the jump.
Of course, Ferdinand didn't agree with Ernest's unorthodox way of thinking.
If he had been in Ernest's position, he wouldn't have hesitated to make the jump. No matter how much he cared about his horse, it was nothing compared to the glory of becoming the Silver Horseshoe Tournament champion.
After all, the chance to claim the honor of winning the Silver Horseshoe Tournament presented itself only four times during their four years at the academy. But a horse? That was just property—something you could always buy again if you had the money.
***
"Ernest, if anyone's going to get the highest score in mounted shooting, it's you! You've got the best riding skills and the best marksmanship!"
As they made their way to the stable for the second event of the Silver Horseshoe Tournament, Robert was so excited you'd think Ernest had already won.
"I won't deny that I'm good at riding and shooting, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'll be good at mounted shooting."
"…Wait, you can't do mounted shooting?"
At Ernest's calm reply, Robert spun around in surprise, looking as if he could hardly believe it. But when Ernest shook his head, the color quickly returned to Robert's face; he assumed his cautious friend was just being modest.
"I don't know. I've never tried it before."
Ernest said this plainly.
After all, claiming you're good or bad at something you've never actually done doesn't make any sense.
"We're doomed…"
"…Wait, hold on. You're good at riding, and you shoot well. Won't it work out somehow?"
"Doing both at the same time is a completely different skill."
"Hmm… Fine. We're doomed!"
Ernest decided to ignore Robert—this wasn't the first or second time he'd acted like this, after all.
It was a wise decision. When you're in a situation beyond saving, you either ignore the guy who keeps repeating pessimistic comments, or you stop him from talking altogether. But Ernest couldn't bring himself to physically shut Robert up, so ignoring him was the only option.
"There's Krieger over there."
"That's the guy with the small horse from yesterday. Ah, so that's why…"
As Ernest entered the arena, many eyes turned to him. When he appeared with Drek, just like the day before, people began to nod, thinking they'd figured out why Ernest had completely given up on clearing the tallest obstacle in the previous event.
They assumed he had no choice but to use Drek for both events since he hadn't managed to secure another horse. It was a reasonable deduction, but none of them considered for even a moment how much Ernest cared about Drek.
"His skills are impressive, but he might not even make it to the finals if he's unlucky."
"I don't mean to complain about the order, but times like this, it's hard not to feel disappointed."
"It's extremely rare for a first-year to make it this far, anyway"
Once again, Ernest was, of course, scheduled to go last. Just like yesterday, by the time he ran, night had fallen and the Balt lights had to be turned on. No matter how bright the Balt lighting was, it could never compare to sunlight.
And today, the Mounted Shooting Competition was taking place. This clearly put those later in the order at a disadvantage.
This happened because the event organizers arranged the order by year, based on each class's chances of winning. If they assigned numbers randomly, it might be fair, but then there was the risk that the fourth-years—who had the best odds of winning—might not even make it to the finals because of the darkness. First-years, at best, usually finished outside the top twenty, so it was considered reasonable to push them to the less favorable, later slots.
Still, once in a while, a talented junior like this would have a great run but end up frustrated by their position in the order, leaving both cadets and spectators with a lingering sense of regret.
"Hmm. Alright. No problem. Just make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Yes, thank you."
Meanwhile, Gustav, who was in charge of hosting the event, personally received each powder gun after it was inspected by the instructor, then distributed them according to the competitors' numbers.
A powder gun may not measure up to a Balt gun, but a firearm is still a firearm—a deadly weapon capable of killing someone. To prepare for any eventuality, the Baltrachers assigned to the Military Academy were on high alert, thoroughly guarding the guns, the audience, and especially the senior officers, including Headmaster Armin.
If a powder gun was poorly maintained, powder residue or other debris could clog the barrel, causing the chamber to explode and seriously injure or even kill the user. So, not just the guns, but also the gunpowder and bullets had to be inspected with the utmost care.
"All competitors, gather up front!"
After the inspection of all the guns was complete, Gustav called the competitors forward.
"I trust that everyone here can handle a powder gun, but just in case, I'll go over the instructions once more and give you the chance to practice shooting."
Gustav spoke in a serious tone. In reality, there were quite a few cadets who had never even handled an Alliance Army gun that operated with such a primitive and crude substance as gunpowder, and Gustav was well aware of this. Still, it wasn't like he could just announce, 'Since you're all idiots who signed up for the Silver Horseshoe Tournament without knowing how to use a powder gun, I'll be teaching you the basics now.'
A training instructor cadet, who was assisting Gustav in running the Silver Horseshoe Tournament, stepped forward and began loading the gun very slowly. Judging by how smoothly he moved, he could probably finish loading in under thirty seconds if he tried.
"Fire."
"Fire."
Bang!
Once loaded, the gun was fired. Flames burst from the muzzle, and the bullet shot out, piercing the target set up in an empty area. Acrid smoke spread in a thick cloud.
Watching this, the Empire's noble cadets frowned in distaste.
"Now, load your own guns and try shooting."
As soon as Gustav finished speaking, the cadets began to load their guns.
"Hmm..."
To focus on the feel of holding a powder gun again after so long, Ernest didn't start loading right away; instead, he examined the gun from various angles and even shouldered it to test the fit.
"It's short," he thought.
The short length of the barrel really stood out to Ernest. While it wasn't quite a pistol, it was noticeably shorter than the guns he used to carry when running through the mountains and forests with his father. That old gun, when stood upright, would reach a bit higher than Ernest's chest now, but this one barely matched the length of his leg.
Of course, a shorter gun was better for handling on horseback, but with a barrel this short, the already miserable accuracy of powder guns would only get worse.
While the other cadets struggled to load their guns, Ernest gazed over at the arena, where preparations for the Mounted Shooting Competition were in full swing.
"The targets are really close," he thought.
The distance between the riding course and the targets set up along its side was incredibly short. If he properly planted his feet in the stirrups and leaned out with the gun extended, the space from the muzzle to the target might only be about two strides.
After taking all of that in, Ernest began to load the powder gun with practiced ease.
"Huh."
Ernest loaded the gun so skillfully that the officers were even more surprised than the cadets. In particular, seasoned soldiers like Thomas involuntarily knit their brows at the sight.
Seeing Ernest load the gun, they were instantly hit by a wave of memories from the past—memories that probably should've stayed buried. Ernest's reloading technique with a powder gun was so advanced, it brought back vivid recollections of battles against the Alliance Army.
"He really did raise his son to be just like him. Krieger," Armin thought, chuckling quietly as he recalled seeing Haires on the battlefield.
After all, the Military Academy taught its cadets there was no need for them to handle such barbaric tools as powder guns. But in real combat, it's not unheard of for someone to charge the enemy wielding nothing but a rock, smashing in skulls to kill them.
Despite knowing this, the Academy never teaches cadets how to handle powder guns—because even the smallest doubt about the greatness of His Majesty the Emperor and the Empire's inevitable victory can never be tolerated. The Empire always wins, and in the process, it never suffers hardship. At least, that's what must be taught to the young boys of the Military Academy.
Armin was not satisfied with this, but he could hardly go against the will of Emperor Walter Ulrich Mihahil.
For that reason, the training given by Senior Instructor, Captain Thomas Kohler, was truly dangerous—and, at the same time, invaluable. And wasn't it precisely for that reason—while so many others joined forces to heap blame and criticism on Thomas—that Armin stepped in to protect him?
To Armin, Ernest looked just like a miniature Haires. And to Armin, who saw Haires himself as a small hero, that was the highest possible compliment.
Ernest was the last to begin loading, but he was the fifth to finish. Then, while the other cadets completed their loading, he quietly waited, holding the muzzle of his gun pointed straight up toward the sky. With a muzzleloader, if you lower the barrel, the bullet might roll out.
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
Bang! Tatatat!
At the order to fire, the competitors opened up on the targets. Thirty-nine bullets shot toward the targets—some hitting, others flying off somewhere behind.
...BANG!
And then the final shot rang out. The only person who saw exactly where that bullet flew was Ernest, who had fired last.
Not bad at all.
Ernest was a little surprised to realize his accuracy wasn't so poor. And then it dawned on him that the powder gun in his hands wasn't some cheap piece of junk you'd find lying around, but a high-quality weapon intended for the hobbies of imperial nobles.
With this level of accuracy… that's not actually good…
But Ernest didn't feel happy about how accurate the gun was. It meant you could probably hit the target easily, even while sitting comfortably in the saddle. What Ernest actually wanted was for the gun to be so embarrassingly inaccurate that you'd have to stick the muzzle right in front of the target to make a hit.
While the other cadets were turning in their guns, Ernest nonchalantly shoved a cleaning rod down the muzzle to clear out the gunpowder residue from the barrel.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll take care of it—just hand it over, head back to your seat."
The Training Instructor sighed as he said this. Who would have ever thought a kid like this would be so familiar with powder guns?
"How could you possibly manage to clean it during the competition?"
"There probably won't be any time."
"But there's still a risk of misfire…"
"These aren't some low-grade weapons. They're made with strict standards for the barrels and bullets."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
The Training Instructor had started to give a dismissive reply, but then realized Ernest wasn't your average cadet and offered a bit more explanation. At those words, Ernest promptly handed over the gun and returned to his seat.
If the bullet fits snugly in the barrel, the gunpowder can fully combust inside, and as the bullet travels down the barrel, it also cleans out any gunpowder residue. Of course, you can't fire endlessly this way, but for a single round of competition, it's more than sufficient.
Once the competitors returned to their seats, the first thing they checked was their horses. After all, the repeated gunshots might have frightened these sensitive animals.
"Easy now..."
Ernest stroked Drek's neck, noticing the horse seemed a bit startled. Fortunately, as soon as Ernest came closer, Drek quickly calmed down. For a horse taking part in this mounted shooting event, the most important quality is the courage to remain unshaken by the sound of gunfire. The next most important is the ability to run smoothly, without faltering. No matter how well-trained a horse is, if it panics and bolts at gunfire, there's no way you could do mounted shooting.
The event began. But rather than watch the senior cadets who were competing first, Ernest locked eyes with Drek, gently stroking his neck and whispering something softly in his ear. Thanks to that, Drek, who had kept flinching and snapping his head around at each gunshot, gradually grew more accustomed to the sound.
Being the last to go doesn't necessarily put you at a disadvantage. It can be an advantage, since you get more time to let your horse adjust if it isn't already trained to ignore gunfire like Drek.
"Wow! He's using a lateral trot!"
But even Ernest couldn't help but turn his head toward the arena at that shout. One of the horses on the course wasn't cantering diagonally, but was using a lateral trot.
The lateral trot is a gait where a horse moves both legs on the same side forward simultaneously. Only wild horses from certain regions or specially trained horses can run like that. Since the lateral trot causes less bouncing, it offers a big advantage in mounted shooting, and it also puts less strain on the rider, so you don't tire out as quickly even after riding for a long time.
Some cadets had brought in horses capable of the lateral trot just for the mounted shooting event of the Silver Horseshoe Tournament. And it wasn't just one or two of them.
Drek, who was clever, watched those other horses using the lateral trot with keen interest. Then, looking a bit anxious, he started tossing his head and whining to Ernest. Drek didn't know how to do the lateral trot.
"It's okay, Drek. All you have to do is run the way you always do."
Ernest soothed Drek, whispering to him.
"I know your movements better than anyone else."
That was enough. As Drek listened to Ernest's words, he calmed down and rested his head on Ernest's shoulder again.
Just as Ernest knew Drek well, Drek also knew Ernest very well. If Ernest said it was okay, then for Drek, it really was okay. There would be no problem at all.