Chapter Fifteen: All Is Rubbish

Kevin’s writing style differed somewhat from that of most people. In his own words, it was a kind of humor born from a lack of inhibition. His Chronicles of Assassins were filled with such episodes, though they were not widely accepted by many bards. Quite a few considered it illogical nonsense, suitable only for short anecdotes rather than full-length novels.

Kevin did not argue much about it. There were plenty of bards here, and no one really knew anyone else. He tried to find a few old friends but failed, and instead overheard a group discussing matters of state. Kevin promptly joined in.

Though he had traveled for ten years and seen much of the world, the times were ever-changing. Each person’s perspective was inevitably limited, for the world was vast, and to understand the continent as a whole, one had to exchange insights with other bards who had roamed far and wide. The discussions grew heated, whether about customs and traditions, political disputes, magical innovations, or artistic pursuits. As was the custom among bards, exaggerations were unavoidable.

For example, if someone disapproved of a country, he would declare that everyone there, from the king to the lowest rogue, was a fool—idiots, even worse than the rogues in our own country. If someone admired another nation, he might say his own homeland was wretched, mere hell compared to theirs. There were those who attacked the wisdom of ancient heroes, citing dubious sources—documents no one had ever heard of—to show these figures were nothing special. But in truth, such contrarian stances were taken only to highlight their own cleverness. This inevitably drew the ire of those who revered the ancients, and debates would erupt.

Such quarrels drew large crowds, and those bold enough to debate were not without skill. Ordinary listeners could hardly discern who had the upper hand, since even the most brazen nonsense was backed by a certain sophistry.

Talk of whether a legendary hero truly deserved his reputation might quickly shift: if you spoke of strength, your opponent would shift to wisdom; if you spoke of wisdom, he would bring up chivalry; if you discussed chivalry, he would turn to longevity. He might cite someone who died young and argue that, had they lived, the so-called great would have been nothing. Or, had the hero in question survived to a later era, he would have been just another face in the crowd.

In the end, even if the hero himself were present, the debate would never be settled. Kevin listened, amused, believing neither everything nor nothing. In truth, many who argued so earnestly had little true understanding, and most simply followed the herd.

The ball continued late into the night before gradually dispersing. Bards, for the most part, were a refined group, carrying their rubbish away when they left. Though the event was crowded, the venue remained orderly after the crowd dispersed.

When the last guests left the hall downstairs, the rooms above were still ablaze with light, the sounds of revelry and music undiminished. Kevin understood—this was for the true luminaries. At their level, the conversation no longer revolved around novels or national affairs, but business. As a baron, Statte was upstairs, personally entertaining guests despite his recently mended leg. Tonight, there would be no early return.

Kevin had no desire to join them and returned quietly to his own room. Besides writing, he made it a habit to record anything interesting he observed—perhaps useless now, but always potentially useful for a future story. These notes were kept with his drafts, and fortunately, the female assassin had returned them.

As dawn broke, the servants were once again busy preparing for the festivities. Organizing a ball was not a one-day affair, but a two-day endeavor. Over these two days, the taverns of Sires City were packed to overflowing. Countless bards, eager to display their wit and style, argued fiercely for fame and for a seat in the taverns. To the regulars, however, these heated debates were merely appetizers to accompany the drink.

Kevin had not visited a tavern in ages and, staying at Baron Statte’s house, had no need to compete for business. As a mere observer, he was content and at ease. When the ball resumed that evening, Kevin once again sat quietly, listening to the boasting and occasionally joining in. Bards rarely quarreled; at most, when opinions differed, they simply stopped talking to each other—except, perhaps, when competing for a coveted tavern.

But the days of leisure did not last long; June first finally arrived. The annual June conscription in Bauler began in earnest.

Kevin and Statte rose early, donning the drab uniforms of new recruits. Seeing each other so attired, both could only exchange wry smiles. Both men were proud in their own ways—Statte, after all, was a noble baron, wealthy beyond measure; such common soldiers were usually beneath his notice. Kevin, though without a title, had long written tales in which such soldiers perished in droves at the hands of heroes.

Yet here they were, about to begin as common soldiers themselves.

“My son!” Statte’s mother was in tears. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s such a hard life! I’m afraid you won’t bear it!”

“It’s fine,” Statte forced a smile. “So many go to war and come back safely. Why shouldn’t I? Don’t worry.”

“My lord, the carriage is ready,” the butler announced, leading it over. “Are you certain you don’t want us to accompany you?”

“No need,” Statte waved him off. “I’m a grown man; I’ll be fine. From now on, I’ll need to manage on my own. Take care of the library. If any problems arise, convene the editors and resolve them. If all else fails, contact the Bard’s Guild headquarters—I have friends there who can help.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, his eyes full of reluctance.

“We’re off,” Statte called, climbing into the carriage. Kevin boarded from the other side, cracked the whip, and the carriage sped away. Statte glanced back at his receding home, a pang of melancholy in his heart. Kevin, used to wandering for ten years, felt nothing; to him, all places were alike.

“I wonder what sort of soldiers we’ll become?” Statte mused. “I hope for something easy—an archer, perhaps, or a catapult operator. Even a cook would be nice.”

“Don’t count on it,” Kevin laughed. “With your build, you’re destined to be a heavy cavalryman or an armored infantryman—front line, no doubt.”

“Hmph!” Statte protested. “It’s just baby fat. I’ll slim down with some exercise.”

“Not necessarily,” said Kevin. “Some people gain weight just by drinking water. The army might only make you more robust.”

“Hmph! And what about you?” Statte deflected. “With your silver tongue, you should be the one taunting the enemy out front, drawing all the attention.”

Kevin chuckled, unconcerned. “Taunting doesn’t require eloquence, just a loud voice. I’m not suited for it—you’d be better.”

Their banter lightened the mood somewhat. Though they had long known each other, they’d never spoken so freely before.

Soon the carriage stopped, and they disembarked. Statte patted the horse’s head. “Go home.” The horse, long accustomed to the routine, turned and trotted back. It had pulled carriages for over ten years and was almost humanly intelligent. After a short distance, it even looked back, as if it, too, knew Statte would not be returning soon.

Outside the conscription office, crowds had already gathered. The carriages of many nobles had nowhere to park. Parents, whole families in tow, wept as they sent their sons to enlist. Kevin could not help but shake his head; in the presence of these spoiled children, he felt a certain sense of superiority.

Bang! A figure was thrown out the door, accompanied by a cold snort. “I told you, nothing but yourself and your recruit’s uniform! Take off that spatial ring before you come in!”

“Why?” the young man protested, climbing to his feet. “That’s a family heirloom, a symbol of my status!”

The reply from inside was dismissive. “Next!”

The crowd buzzed. Many who had hoped to sneak in forbidden items reluctantly began to remove them. The youth who had been ejected stood dumbly, uncertain whether to try again or remain where he was. Kevin quickly asked Statte, “You didn’t bring anything you shouldn’t, did you?”

“Of course not,” Statte replied, mature as ever. “What about you? Surely you didn’t bring your bard’s badge? That’s a point of pride, after all.”

“I’m not that foolish,” Kevin replied. “Though, I did bring one extra thing.”

Statte’s face paled. “Don’t drag me into trouble!”

“I’m wearing an extra pair of underpants.”

Statte was speechless.

Just then, another youth approached. “Baron Statte?”

They turned—it was young Master Gray, whom they had met at registration, now clad in the same recruit’s uniform as any other.

“Oh, what a coincidence!” Statte replied.

“Yes! I’m surprised to see you here, Baron. Didn’t notice you last time, what with all the arguing with my father.”

“Well, reasons,” Statte said vaguely, then changed the topic. “Where’s your father?”

“He dropped me off and left,” Gray replied, sulking. “He even threatened to break my legs if I tried to come home. Hmph!”

“You don’t seem keen on being a soldier,” Statte observed.

“Of course not,” Gray said with distaste. “I want to be a ranger, or a hero. Who wants to be a nameless grunt?”

Kevin interjected, “Formulaic fiction has ruined things—now every soldier is just a faceless extra.”

“Isn’t that true?” Gray retorted.

“Well, yes,” Kevin conceded, not bothering to argue.

After a moment’s silence, Gray sidled closer. “Baron, is there a way out of this?”

“How could there be?” asked Statte, surprised. “You could run away, no one’s stopping you.”

“My father would beat me if I did,” Gray complained. “Isn’t there a better way? Like, if I were injured—wouldn’t I be disqualified?”

Statte recalled the officer saying that if his leg hadn’t healed by June first, he wouldn’t have to come. He nodded. “Probably.”

Gray thought for a moment, picked up a stone, and seemed about to smash his own foot, but hesitated. “How badly do I need to be hurt? Does it have to be broken?”

Statte and Kevin exchanged looks of contempt. A boy willing to break his own leg but unwilling to serve—was that bravery or cowardice? They said nothing, but Gray, only fifteen, couldn’t read their expressions and grew agitated. “Say something!”

“We don’t know. Do as you wish,” Statte replied. Kevin had plenty of advice, but decided it wasn’t his responsibility to educate him.

“Fine, I’ll do it!” Gray declared, slamming the stone onto his foot. His face twisted in pain.

Kevin whispered, “No bones broken.” Statte merely nodded.

“Is this enough?” Gray hobbled over, oblivious to the disdainful looks from those nearby.

“It’ll do. Looks like it’s our turn.” Statte called them, and the three entered the conscription office together.

The same major from before greeted them. Gray limped forward. “Excuse me, sir, I’ve hurt my leg.”

The major frowned, felt the foot indifferently. “You’re fine. Inside, now. There’s a teleportation array—straight to the barracks.”

“But I’m injured—” Gray protested.

The major cut him off. “Next.” Gray looked around, crestfallen, and was finally forced to shuffle into the teleportation room.

Statte and Kevin stepped forward. “Do you want to be assigned together, or separately?” the major asked. “Kevin, you’re a mage. I have instructors experienced with magic, but since you all know each other, you could join the same group.”

Kevin shook his head. “I don’t have elemental affinity. Never mind, let’s stay together.”

“Wait,” Statte objected. “We barely know Gray—he might drag us down. Let’s just the two of us.”

Kevin disagreed. “Frankly, with Gray sure to be at the bottom, the rest of us will look better by comparison.”

They fell silent. The major asked coldly, “Have you decided?”

“We’ll go together,” Statte finally agreed. At least it was easier with acquaintances. The major said no more and waved them into the room.

A flash of white light—and they arrived at the training camp’s teleportation point. The military atmosphere was palpable: shouts rang out, guards marched to and fro, and the distant clamor of practice—blades clashing, voices bellowing—filled the air. Kevin and Statte looked around in curiosity.

“You two—names!” barked a nearby guard, his attitude far more arrogant than usual. In the past, Statte, as a noble, and Kevin, as an upper-class commoner, would be treated with deference. Now, as mere recruits, they ranked below the guards and received no courtesy.

They gave their names respectfully. The guard checked his list. “Go to the easternmost tent. Find Instructor Marcus.”

“Yes, sir.” They set off, and soon encountered the limping Gray. In unfamiliar surroundings, a familiar face was welcome. They supported him as they made their way to the tent.

Inside, four others were already seated on low stools. The man in the officer’s uniform, a lieutenant by his insignia, could only be Marcus. The three other recruits, though dressed alike, radiated strong personalities—one twirling his cap, another jiggling his leg and chatting, until their entrance brought silence.

Marcus checked the new arrivals and gestured for all to sit.

“Pleased to meet you all,” he said with a harmless smile. “You may call me Instructor Marcus. For the next three months, I will lead your training.”

The cap-spinner kept spinning, the leg-shaker kept shaking. Marcus only smiled. “It’s your first day; I’ll go easy. You’re all scions of noble families, doubtless talented. But let me be clear: here, in uniform, there are no nobles—only recruits and instructors. I hope you all understand.”

“Hmph.” Someone snorted.

Marcus smiled on. “The next three months will be hard. But I hope you persevere. We want only the elite here. We have no need for—” He snatched away the recruit’s cap, depriving him of his toy.

“No need for trash,” Marcus finished, still smiling.

“What did you say?” the cap-spinner exploded—he was clearly a high noble. Before, someone of Marcus’s rank would have been obsequious. This newfound authority was hard to swallow.

“You misunderstand,” Marcus smiled coolly. “I don’t mean you. I mean all of you—every last one—is trash.”

The three in front leapt to their feet, exchanged glances, and found consensus. Clenching their fists, red battle aura flared as they surged forward. Gray, quick to mimic, jumped in as well.

Marcus’s expression did not change. With a single punch, one opponent fell. Dodging the others with ease, he grabbed two and slammed them together. With a swift kick, Gray went flying.

In moments, without even using battle aura, Marcus had laid out all four, leaving them groaning on the ground, unable to rise. Only Kevin and Statte remained calmly seated, backs straight, hands on knees, faces grave.