The Schwarzwald Infantry Training Camp was no place for children. Located at the foot of a frigid mountain range, this place was a "cauldron of creation" for teenagers aged twelve and up who aspired to become officers.
And there I was, standing in the middle of a muddy field in a cadet uniform that had to be resized threefold to fit my five-year-old body.
"Do you hear me?! From this day forward, you are filth!" roared a drill Sergeant named Gunter. His neck was as thick as an adult's thigh, and his face was a map of scars. "And my job is to burn this filth until it becomes iron useful to the Kingdom!"
Gunter paced down the line of cadets. He stopped right in front of me. The other cadets, teenagers averaging seven years older than me, began to whisper and stifle their laughter.
"And what is this?" Gunter leaned down, his sweat-stink face only inches from my nose. "A lost puppy? Hey, Kid, did you piss yourself just looking at me?"
Laughter erupted from the row of cadets behind me.
I stared into Gunter's eyes without blinking. In my mind, I was dissecting the man's anatomy. If this were Berlin, I would have shot his feet for lacking etiquette in front of an officer. But here, I had to use their methods.
"Sergeant Gunter," my voice was calm, cutting through the laughter on the field. "According to Arcania Infantry Training Manual Chapter 1 Section 4, an instructor is prohibited from wasting training time merely to hurl tactically ineffective insults. We have been standing here for six minutes. In six minutes, an enemy artillery unit could have leveled our position three times over."
Silence. Instantly, the field became as quiet as a graveyard.
Gunter's eyes bugged out. His face flushed red with rage. "You... how dare you lecture me, Midget?! Who do you think you are?!"
"Cadet Karl Von Reichenbach," I answered while snapping a rigid salute. "And if the Sergeant wishes to test whether I can piss myself or not, I suggest we begin with physical drills. I do not care for wasting time on low-class rhetoric."
"Dammit!" Gunter screamed, the veins in his neck bulging. "Fine! Since this Midget is so eager. All cadets! Fifty laps around the field! Carry your combat gear! And you, Reichenbach... if you stop before the others, I'll personally kick you back home to your mother's armpit!"
Two hours later, the field was filled with the sound of wheezing and vomiting.
The twelve-year-old cadets began to collapse one by one. Carrying a rucksack full of stones while running under a drizzling rain was torture for a teenage body. It was even worse for the body of a five-year-old.
My heart pounded wildly. My lungs felt like they were on fire. Biologically, I should have passed out by the tenth lap.
However, I had one secret: Mana Management.
Every time my leg muscles were about to tear, I funneled a thin current of Mana into my nerves. I used magic not to blow something up, but to reinforce bone structure and trigger instantaneous cell regeneration. In my old world, this was impossible. Here, it was bio-hacking.
I ran with a constant rhythm. Left, right, breathe. Left, right, breathe. I passed cadets who had fainted. I passed cadets who were crying. And most importantly, I kept passing Sergeant Gunter, who stood in the center of the field, his face growing increasingly pale.
By the 40th lap, only I and the two strongest cadets remained.
"Why... why doesn't he stop?" whispered one of the fallen cadets on the sidelines. "Is he human or a monster?"
I didn't listen to them. My eyes were focused only on the path ahead. In my head, I imagined myself leading an infantry line across the snowfields of Russia. This pain was nothing compared to the cold of Stalingrad.
The 50th lap was complete.
I stopped right in front of Gunter. My body was drenched in sweat, steam rising from my shoulders due to my high body temperature. I was panting, but I remained standing tall.
"Report... Sergeant," I said, my voice trembling but remaining firm. "Task complete. Fifty laps. Awaiting further instructions."
Gunter was speechless. He looked at the other cadets lying like corpses across the field, then looked back at me. A boy who didn't even reach his waist, yet possessed a chilling aura of presence.
"You..." Gunter swallowed hard. He no longer saw me as a spoiled General's son. He saw something wrong. Something dangerous.
"At ease, Reichenbach," his voice softened, almost sounding like forced respect. "Get to the barracks. Tomorrow we begin marksmanship training."
I gave a final salute before turning away.
As I walked toward the barracks, the cadets who had once laughed at me now parted the way. They stared at me with a mixture of fear and awe. This was exactly what I wanted. In the military world, fear is the foundation of loyalty.
That night, inside the dark barracks, I sat on my bed. I felt my Mana strength surging after being pushed past its physical limits.
Good, I thought, staring at my blistered palms. This body is starting to adapt. If tomorrow's marksmanship training involved magic-based weaponry, I would show them the true meaning of 'Precision Bombing.'
I closed my eyes, dreaming of a sky filled with bombers I had forged from magic. I slept soundly, the sleep of a predator that had just marked its territory.
Marksmanship training was the place where I would truly separate myself from "ordinary humans." In my old world, shooting was a blend of weapon mechanics and ocular sharpness. In this world, shooting is the art of energy manipulation.
And I am its master.