Regis had fallen into a deep slumber.
He could hear a voice right beside him. It was impossible to separate dream from reality, but the voice definitely belonged to a young girl.
“He’s not getting up at all. You think he’s dead?”
“Fufufu... He’s just tired, Princess. Let him have his sleep. There aren’t any urgent jobs for him right now.”
“...Hmph. Very well.”
He was still far from waking. He listened to the chit-chat of the two girls... or at least, that was what he intended on doing before he was smacked awake by a deep, manly yell.
“Grr-ah!!”
“...Hrm?” He opened his eyes.
An unfamiliar ceiling rested above him—a plain, undecorated ashen ceiling of stone arches. Their gentle curves carried right along into the stone walls. A cellar or a prison? he thought absentmindedly.
Regis had been sleeping in a bed in the furthest depths of the room. He could touch the craggy stone wall just by reaching out his left hand.
A small window had been carved into it, which had been left wide open for the time being. Through it, sunlight poured in from outside.
He could hear the fervent cries of men from not too far off.
“Hrr-ah!!”
Were the soldiers training? He could hear the swish of practice swings and the thump of feet on the earth.
“Oh... That’s right...”
I was demoted and cast aside to Fort Sierck—Regis’s brain began its wake-up procedure.
The soft bed was heaven compared to the carriage of the merchant caravan, and with the previous night’s events still fresh in his mind, he was thankful just to be alive.
“...It’s already morning,” he groaned.
“Urr-ah!!”
The heavy cries again. Regis covered his ears.
“Is it... going to be like this every day? That’s quite the harsh awakening...”
He slowly lifted his body. The previous night he had been almost frozen solid upon reaching the fort. He recalled being granted a bath to use and being told he could use this room, but had no recollection of anything after that.
He took another look around the room. It was wide enough to accommodate four beds with accompanying desks. There was a single support pillar in the center. If he had to take a guess, Regis suspected that the room could have housed ten rank-and-file soldiers, if necessary. At the very least, he knew it was enough for four low-ranking officers such as himself.
Despite that, there was only the one bed by the wall. Beside it, a splendid desk that made him question if someone had mistaken his rank, and beyond that, a luxury he’d thought he would never see again: a bookshelf. The stretch from the bed to the doorway remained empty, boasting enough space for another six large bookshelves.
This all made him more anxious than delighted.
“Are there open rooms because we’re out in the country? But the fort doesn’t seem any more spacious than the others... Don’t tell me they really have mistaken my rank.”
A fifth-grade administrative officer was ten spots from the top. Field marshal, general, lieutenant general, major general, brigadier general—those five ranks were the commissioned officers. The remaining officers were divided between administration and combat with first-grade, second-grade and third-grade administrative officers being senior non-commissioned officers. After that came the junior non-commissioned officers, fourth-grade to sixth.
In short, fifth grade for an administrative officer put him second from the bottom.
On a side note, the ranks for common soldiers were trooper, trooper first-class and head trooper. Even the lowest trooper enjoyed decent treatment and wages in the empire’s regular army. Conscripted farmers and underaged apprentices, on the other hand, essentially worked for free.
Therefore, concluded Regis, as second from the bottom, I was presumably issued this vast room by mistake.
“I need to get someone to lead me to my proper room... Oh, come to think of it, who’s my commanding officer?” A senior administrative officer was supposed to direct him and show him the ropes. He hadn’t met them yet.
Regis stripped off his pajamas. Despite the fact that he was indoors and in broad daylight, he could feel the unpleasant cold brush his skin—a stark reminder he had ventured to the northern front.
He passed his arms through the sleeves of the mint-condition uniform that had been left on the desk. While the Belgarian army uniform consisted of a gaudy array of blue, red and white, the border regiment wore a much plainer deep green, closer to black. The thick material and numerous pockets made for quite a practical ensemble.
“I see they put some thought into it, as expected of the front lines.”
And just as he had finished changing, someone came to get him—
“...Or not. Looks like I should get to searching on my own,” he said as he left the room.
Beyond the door, a stone hall extended to both his left and right. It was a narrow, gently curving corridor that could just barely fit two people walking side by side, regularly dotted with wooden doors.
He walked down the left passage for the time being and out into the courtyard.
✧ ✧ ✧
“Frr-ah!!” The throaty voices cried out again.
Surrounded by stone buildings, the courtyard was a parade ground whose soil had been trampled until it was as hard as stone. Thirty-odd soldiers practiced swinging their swords in unison.
Before the lines of soldiers stood a conspicuously larger warrior. He was a burly man swinging a fauchard, whose hulking muscles shot sweat every which way with every flex. As far as Regis could see, he looked to be about forty and boasted a bald head and an abundant black beard.
It was so cold Regis was silently wishing for a scarf, yet this man had no restraint in showing off his scar-ridden torso, steam rising from his whole body.
Upon noticing Regis, the man broke into a broad smile.
“Mn! So you’re up, young one!” he boomed.
The robust young men training continued their cries of “Grr-ah!!” and “Urr-ah!!” They were similarly topless, sweaty, and letting off clouds of vapor.
The bald-headed man thrust out his polearm.
“All right! Come and swing this with us! Your spirits will shoot up in no time! Swing and swing and strike through the wind! Wa-hahahah!”