Chapter 34

He woke with the sunrise and powered through early morning training that lasted upwards of two hours. After breakfast, he tackled the mundane chores required within the Order, and on occasion, he was tasked with following his seniors on city patrols like a baby duckling trailing its mother.

Once lunch was over, the rest of the day was dedicated entirely to training. Now that he was actually living it, he found the schedule to be quite grueling.

More than two weeks had passed since he started this routine, yet nothing had changed for Harold—neither in himself nor in his surroundings.

Technically speaking, he struggled with neither the physical nor the technical aspects of training. No matter how much he exerted himself, his stamina seemed bottomless, and he could breeze through any drill.

On the other hand, his complete disregard for time and place—manifesting as a constant stream of verbal abuse directed at his superiors—meant his training menu was perpetually being expanded as punishment. While his body could easily handle the extra workload, the knowledge that his standing with his superiors was currently scraping the bottom of the barrel left him in constant fear that he might be summarily fired any day now.

His social situation remained equally stagnant. He was shunned by his peers and frequently harassed by the growing "Anti-Harold" faction.

As for his roommates, he still barely knew them. Unable to bear the oppressive silence of the room, he spent every moment of his free time training. To him, the barracks had become a place used strictly for sleeping.

In short, other than his interpersonal life being a complete wreck, no fatal problems had occurred thus far.

That trend seemed to break today when, just as he was about to sit down for lunch to prepare for the afternoon session, he received an abrupt summons to the instruction room. Am I finally getting the boot? Terrified, Harold reported to the room, only for the instructor to get straight to the point.

"Harold, you’re going to take the final exam for the Basic Training Course."

"The final exam?"

"Correct. If you pass, you'll officially graduate from recruit status and be formally inducted into the Order."

Harold dug through his hazy memories, recalling something similar in the legal code summarizing the Knight Order’s regulations. If he remembered correctly, one only became eligible for that exam after serving at least one year as a recruit.

"I was under the impression it hadn't even been a month since I joined. Does time flow differently in this place?"

"This is a special measure. We’ve judged that your abilities already far exceed the level of a mere recruit."

"That much should have been obvious during the entrance exam. However, I’ll commend you for having the wisdom to make such a decision."

Even toward a superior, his attitude remained insufferably condescending. As much as it was his own doing, Harold found it miraculous that he hadn't been kicked out yet.

The sudden advancement to the final exam was a surprise, but he didn't hesitate to accept. While Harold’s exact rank in the original story was unknown, the fact that he was seen leading subordinates suggested he eventually held some degree of authority. Harold himself didn't care about climbing the social ladder, but if a higher rank meant more freedom of movement, he wasn't about to complain.

"The final exam will be in a few days. The specifics will be revealed on the day of, but make sure your gear is ready for an expedition."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all. I wish you luck."

"A waste of breath. The result is already a foregone conclusion."

Even in response to the instructor's encouragement, he couldn't manage a simple "I'll do my best." If he failed now, he would be the laughingstock of the century.

At the very least, I need to make sure my actions are sincere, Harold thought, steeling his resolve.

---

Four days later, the day of the final exam arrived.

Harold marched forward, his armor—the very symbol of the Knight Order—clattering with every step. Nine shadows stretched out across the ground under the midday sun.

The group consisted of Harold, four members of Cody’s squad, two platoon leaders, a company commander, and his adjutant.

The exam was essentially a field exercise. Currently, they were marching toward their destination on foot. This, too, was part of the drill; they had been walking for three hours straight.

"How’s it going, Harold? Getting tired yet?" a voice teased from behind. It was Sid, sounding more playful than concerned. Like the others, he showed no signs of fatigue.

"If I look tired to you, go see a doctor. Though it might already be too late for your eyes."

"So much energy! I guess those subjugation expeditions you did back home really paid off."

"...How do you know about that? You mentioned something like that before, too."

"Before? What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. I'm talking about Erika."

"Ah, Lord Harold’s fiancée," Cody chimed in, emphasizing the word.

Harold realized he had dug his own grave. He had committed the ultimate folly of bringing up that topic himself. While he wondered how Cody was digging up information on him, he found himself caught in a pincer movement between Cody in front and Sid behind. He opted for a "strategic retreat" into silence.

However, a follow-up attack came from a completely unexpected direction.

"An interesting topic. Does Stokes-kun really have a fiancée?"

The speaker was Sakris, a company commander with a neat side-part who looked like he belonged in a business suit rather than a suit of armor. Despite his appearance as an elite bureaucrat, it seemed he had a penchant for gossip.

To make matters worse, Sakris’s interjection caused everyone’s eyes to fixate on Harold. While he was used to being stared at, ignoring a direct question from a commander was awkward.

"...I do. And?"

As soon as he answered—still unable to publicly deny the engagement—the air grew tense. The adjutant’s expression, in particular, stiffened.

I guess speaking casually to a company commander is where they draw the line, Harold thought, bracing himself for a reprimand.

Instead, a voice filled with profound sorrow replied.

"I see... so it's true... Even a boy twenty years my junior has a fiancée, while I..."

Sakris began muttering dejectedly to himself. As the adjutant tried to console him with cries of "It's okay, sir!", Cody and the two platoon leaders struggled to stifle their laughter. Apparently, it wasn't the disrespectful tone that had caused the tension; Harold had simply stepped right on Sakris’s emotional landmine.

Single soldiers really do all have the same reaction, Harold thought as he glanced over at Aileen.

"Want me to crush you?" she snapped the moment their eyes met. He wasn't sure what she intended to crush, but her hostility was entirely unearned. It was easy to see why she didn't have a boyfriend.

Since he had no desire to be crushed in any capacity, Harold turned back toward the front and focused on the march. That focus, however, was immediately broken.

"Two Hammer Trents! Approaching from the flank!" Robinson barked.

Looking ahead, Harold saw two trees, each about five meters tall, moving toward them. They used their massive branches—thick as their trunks—like crutches to haul their heavy forms across the terrain.

Naturally, these were no ordinary plants.

Hammer Trents were tree-like monsters named for the way they swung their giant branches like clubs to pulverize their enemies, defenses and all. Their trunks featured distorted eyes and a mouth, earning them the nickname "human-faced trees." Despite being vegetation, they were carnivorous, using those mouths to consume animals—and humans—for nutrients.

"Hmm. It seems they've targeted us."

"There's still enough distance to outrun them, and the highway is just down the hill behind us," one of the officers noted.

"No, we should finish them here. Stokes-kun, you—"

"Don't you dare tell me to stand back," Harold interrupted, asserting his intent to fight.

"Encountering Hammer Trents was unplanned. This won't affect your exam score, you know?"

(It won't?!)

Harold had braced himself, thinking that handling unforeseen variables was part of the field exercise, but he had been wrong. That said, backing down now would be pathetic. Besides, Harold had a personal grudge against Hammer Trents; one had cracked his ribs in the past. This was the perfect opportunity for a revenge match.

"I don't give a damn about scores. That thing is mine."

"...Very well. Lucas and Selim, you’re on support. Don't let him do anything reckless."

Under Sakris’s orders, the group split. Harold and the two platoon leaders took one Trent, while the rest moved toward the other.

"We’ve got your back. Fight with confidence," Lucas said.

"I’m looking forward to seeing this 'prodigy' in action. But back off if it gets dangerous, alright? These things are usually too much for a recruit to handle," Selim added.

The two seniors patted Harold on the back encouragingly. They were incredibly reliable.

(Actually, these guys don't have any hostility toward me at all. That alone is a huge relief.)

Harold was composed enough to appreciate the lack of drama. Despite calling it a revenge match, he wasn't feeling particularly emotional. Even when he had been injured previously, he only struggled because he had been trying to protect other soldiers. In a straight fight, he knew he could win.

Given that this was an unplanned detour during an exam, he decided to finish it as quickly as possible.

Without even drawing his sword, Harold stepped into range with a steady, casual gait. The Hammer Trent reacted immediately, hoisting its right "hammer" high and slamming it down toward him.

A heavy thoom echoed as a cloud of dust erupted and the ground shuddered. Harold, however, was already in the air, having leaped over the strike.

Suspended in mid-air, he was a sitting duck. The Trent didn't miss the chance, swinging its left hammer to swat him out of the sky. The timing made a direct hit seemingly unavoidable.

In one fluid motion, Harold performed a mid-air spin. His right leg, shrouded in a pulsing purple aura, slammed down into the incoming branch.

"Housenkyaku!"

It was a bare-handed strike on par with Goudashou—a kicking technique players often referred to as a "Heel Drop." Normally, Housenkyaku was a move used to extend combos, as its short reach made it difficult to land on its own, though its raw power was significant. As for the purple effect that flared upon impact, Harold didn't really understand what it was, but since it happened automatically, he just accepted it as part of the world’s logic.

The Hammer Trent's petrified bark collided with Harold’s leg. It was a collision between a fifty-kilogram teenager and a hammer weighing several hundred kilograms. By the laws of physics, the lighter object should have been sent flying.

However, an "original story character" was a being that existed to defy such logic, often producing results that were utterly absurd for their opponents.

A sharp clang rang out upon impact. The Hammer Trent was the one overwhelmed.

The tip of its massive branch was driven into the earth with a violent thud. The wood was crushed, and the bark at the point of impact had completely shattered.

Lucas and Selim stood frozen in disbelief. Even Cody’s group, engaged with the other Trent, paused to gape at the scene. Ignoring them, Harold moved to finish the job.

Using the buried hammer as a stepping stone, he closed the distance and finally drew his blade, thrusting it deep into the monster's "mouth." He didn't give the creature even a second to howl in pain.

"Flame Sword!"

Torrents of fire erupted from the blade. For the Hammer Trent, the agony of being incinerated from the inside out lasted only a fraction of a second. Harold wrenched the sword upward in a vertical slash.

The giant tree was cleaved in two by a massive blade of fire, its life extinguished instantly.

The five-meter-tall body split down the middle and was immediately consumed by the inferno. Flaming wreckage collapsed onto the dirt.

The entire engagement had lasted less than a minute. The fight was over in literal seconds.