The Ordeal of the 29th Reserve

Jago Sevatarion was sent flying with a heavy thud.

He fell to the ground, his back hitting the metal floor with a heavy thud. But his enemies did not stop there.

The Combat Servitor roared toward him, stiff and rigid, yet it shook the ground. Sevatar barely managed to lift his head; his vision, blurred by pain, allowed him to see the Servitor's foolish face.

It was expressionless, its face appearing a near-poisoned gray under the light. Its eyes were dull, devoid of any fighting spirit; it was simply following procedure.

It raised its left hand high, and the heavy training sword crashed down the next second.

It missed.

Sevatar spat out a mouthful of blood mixed with saliva, which clung stickily to his chin, causing him discomfort. But comfort was no longer his immediate concern.

He staggered to his feet, ran over, and picked up his training sword. Its leather-wrapped hilt and weight gave him courage to face his enemies once more, so Sevatar turned and began to wield the sword like a club.

The Servitor's face was slapped askew, its jaw making a soft click before sliding off, dangling precariously from its joint and swaying precariously. It didn't seem to care; its dull, foolish eyes held nothing.

Without wavering, it raised its left hand high, thrusting out the blade and once again sending Sevatar flying.

He had already parried with his sword, but he still couldn't resist this power that far exceeded his own strength. The reserve soldier landed painfully, the blade slipping from his hand, and the Servitor stopped in place, creaking as it lowered its head.

A few seconds later, the iron cage door that had imprisoned him and his Servitor was opened.

"Unqualified, reserve." That's what Richter Nair of the Eighth Company said.

His face bore an expression that was hard to decipher—perhaps he walked in with other emotions, but in Sevatar's eyes, that was exactly what his expression meant.

Mocking, ridiculing, and scorning.

"Where is it not up to standard?" Sevatar asked, lying on the ground, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"You're not good enough anywhere." Sevatar's swordsmanship instructor crouched down and waved two fingers in front of him.

"You fought too crudely, reserve soldier. Your sword slipped from your hand three times, and you have absolutely no skill in swinging it. That Servitor was stupid, but you're even stupider than it."

"Second," Sevatar replied listlessly, "Is it really that stupid?"

"Didn't you notice that its movements follow a pattern?" Richter retorted, his gaze devoid of any emotion. Sevatar felt a sting, but still did not resist.

He's behaving very docilely, at least for now.

"What pattern?" the docile reserve asked.

"It doesn't turn. Just like you, reserve, it doesn't turn. You could easily attack its vulnerable joints first, like its knees or ankles. But you chose to attack its upper body. What, do you think you can cut Combat Servitor in two with your feeble strength?"

Richter grinned and smiled.

Sevatar began to imagine what he would look like with a bruised and swollen face, his lips twitching. His malice did not escape Richter's eyes; the swordsmanship teacher pulled Sevatar up from the ground, showing no regard for his current injuries.

"Stand up straight," Richter said coldly. "Unless you want to do extra training tomorrow."

I don't think extra practice will improve my grades.

"But it will shut you up." Richter nodded and greeted him.

This time, however, Sevatar finally caught a clear hint of mockery in his eyes.

An anger born from shame began to dance on his nerves, bouncing heavily and bending his thick nerves downwards until they reached a certain breaking point.

"No, I don't want to shut up." The docile reserve suddenly spoke up. "Even if you make me do extra training tomorrow, I'm going to keep talking nonstop."

"Then what?"

"Then you'll be driven mad by me," Sevatar thought. But what he said aloud was something else entirely, "And then you'll make me do even more practice."

"Yes," Richter asked. "So why do you keep talking?"

Because I want to drive you crazy.

"Because it's my habit," Sevatar said. "I just have to keep talking, esteemed fencing instructor. If you can't stand me, I hope you'll give this job to someone else."

Do you really want someone else to teach you?

"No, I just think you might not be able to tolerate me." Sevatar grinned, maintaining impeccable manners and attitude; his voice sounded flawless.

"Then you're wrong, recruit." Richter Nair crossed his arms casually.

"At first, I was indeed quite resistant to teaching you swordsmanship. But now it's different. You have a great talent for swordsmanship, Jago Sevatarion. And I really enjoy improving alongside those who have talent."

"You don't think you can learn anything from me, do you?"

"Oh, actually, I did learn something," Richter smiled slightly. "Like, never be as stupid as you in battle."

"The students' problems might lie with the teachers," Sevatar retorted, suppressing his anger.

"Indeed, unless that student had serious problems from the start." Richter glanced at him, a rather enigmatic expression suddenly appearing on his pale and usually cold face.

He stared intently into Sevatar's eyes, unblinking. The reserve straightened his back and met his gaze, his eyes stinging, but he still refused to blink.

One minute and twenty seconds later, Richter spoke again, "You've been having nightmares a lot lately, haven't you, reserve officer?"

"Yes," Sevatar answered softly, finally blinking.

What kind of dream?

"Blood," the boy answered briefly. "Dead men, corpses, and their screams."

"Is that all?" The swordsmanship instructor shook his head. "That's enough to scare you? You're a Nostramo, for goodness' sake."

But they are all people I know.

Sevatar lowered his head. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, reserve officer. Pick up your sword now."

Sevatar did as he was told, touching once more the leather-wrapped hilt, feeling once more the sword's heavy yet reassuring weight. Richter grasped his right wrist and commanded, "Now grip tight."

The reserve soldier gripped his right hand tightly, his fingers wrapped around the leather, the blade trembling slightly.

"No wonder. Relax a bit now," Richter instructed.

"Never grip the sword with all your might, or you'll lose your agility. That's why you look like a monkey wielding a stick when you swing it. Also, some attacks can't be parried with the blade; remember to dodge quickly."

He released his grip on Sevatar's wrist and shook his head at him. "Now, go find our chief medical officer."

--

"It seems Richter Nair is very strict with you," Jairzinho Guzman said to Sevatar, looking down at him. "I thought he would make things a little easier for you, after all, you just went through a rigorous nine-week training program."

"I'd rather train for another nine weeks, esteemed Chief Medical Officer," Sevatar replied, rubbing his ribs and grimacing. "At least the physical training is much easier. Weren't you fighting those killer Servitor every day back then?"

"No." The chief medical officer shook his head, speaking casually. "Back then, we fought real people, death row inmates, usually one against ten. You could clearly feel the blade slicing through their necks or piercing their abdomens."

Sevatar looked at him with a hint of awe, Jairzinho laughed, reached out and poked his forehead, instantly dispelling any remaining awe.

"Weapons are extensions of the limbs; that's when I learned that phrase," the medic said. "Of course, sometimes you'll have to abandon your weapons. In those situations, you'll have to kill your enemy with your bare hands."

"Strangling them, or beating them to death—neither feels good. You'll clearly capture every breath and struggle of a dying person, and you'll try to let go and spare their life, but you can't."

He looked away, turned around, and injected a syringe into Sevatar's wrist. The sting was fleeting, followed by a surge of cold sensation that began to throb in his veins. The reserve soldier let out a low growl, clenching his fists.

"Because then, you'll be the one who dies," Jairzinho Guzman said. "So we're never Mercy, not even to you. Stop complaining or holding grudges, boy, try to accept it all; you have no other choice."

Sevatar closed his eyes, trembling, and began to endure the stinging and cold sensation from the healing potion. He gasped for breath and managed to speak with difficulty, "The instructor said I still have a choice."

"When he returns, you can ask him yourself about his definition of choice." Jairzinho smiled. "Of course, it's just a suggestion."

"So, when will he be back?"

"It will be soon." The physician looked up at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful, and then fell silent.

Sevatar opened his eyes, trying to catch the physician's expression, but due to the angle, he could only see Jairzinho's slightly trembling body. After this unsettling silence ended, Jairzinho spoke again.

His voice had returned to normal, and not only that, he even reached out and poked Sevatar's forehead again.

"He'll be back soon," the physician chuckled. "Start praying for your future, kid. You'll be getting your Gene-seed implanted next week. Then, you'll probably be able to feel what we feel."

Two more chapters to go.