The Selection

Hello everybody!

We have reached a symbolic milestone here—500 people have added this novel to their collection!

Here's a new chapter for you to enjoy!

Oh, and thank you to Porthos10, Mium, Ranger_Red, Shingle_Top, Microraptor, First_Time****, Taizilla, and Pimbadeiro. I hope I haven't forgotten anyone.

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An entire week had passed in the blink of an eye.

The days were gradually growing longer, and the heat had firmly settled over the region of Fort Bourbon.

While plans were being drawn up for the ambush to eliminate Robert Rogers' forces, the companies were training relentlessly in hopes of being selected for this major operation. Adam's company worked harder than the others, to the point where his men had no energy left to cause trouble and barely enough to entertain themselves.

Adam and his lieutenants had transformed into demons, pushing them to become real soldiers. What had once been considered rigorous training could now only be described as torture.

Even grenadiers weren't drilled this harshly!

Most of Adam's company's training, when not engaged in ordinary shooting and movement drills with other units, consisted of running to exhaustion with all their gear. He had them doing push-ups, sit-ups, and other exercises that would be considered routine in the 21st century.

Every day was hell.

That day, June 25, was a dull one, which was met with some relief by both men and beasts. Although there was still a heaviness in the air, likely a sign of an approaching storm, the temperatures had become significantly more bearable.

It was around 20 degrees Celsius—a drop of ten degrees in just one day.

"Good work! I'm proud of you, soldiers!"

Adam smiled with pride as he looked at his soldiers standing in tight ranks before him. Their faces were somewhere between red and purple, and even from a distance, it was clear they were out of breath.

Their breathing was ragged, rapid, and wheezy for some. Yet, not one of them had given up along the way.

Soldier Tournier, one of the less gifted among them, had made remarkable progress. He was as quick as his comrades when it came to handling his weapon and was gradually building his endurance.

Adam had also noticed that Tournier's accuracy had improved during shooting exercises. While the others had also made progress, it was more noticeable with Tournier because he had started at a lower level.

His superiors were very proud of him and encouraged him to keep going.

"Let's head back to Fort Bourbon. Marching column, three ranks. Forward!"

The French soldiers, resembling zombies, began to march along the path they had practically carved into the ground from constant use. It wasn't long before they reached the inside of the fort.

From there, they made their way to Long Island, which was busier than ever.

Numerous soldiers were chatting energetically in the grid-like streets that provided quick access to the various barracks. Adam easily caught snippets of their conversations.

"… They're leaving tomorrow morning! What luck!"

"Ugh! My company wasn't selected! What an injustice!"

"What do you mean?! You're only the fifth company! My third company deserved to participate more!"

"Ha! Maybe your commander has a little less seniority, but our soldiers are top-notch!"

"Then why wasn't mine selected? It has plenty of veterans!"

"Pff! Don't make me laugh! Your veterans are drunkards and good-for-nothings!"

"Say that again, I dare you!"

"What a shame. Mine wasn't chosen either…"

"Like most of us, Paul. Hey, they couldn't take all of us. They had to pick the best."

"Lucky them!"

Adam raised an eyebrow at the conversations but stopped only in front of his men's barracks.

"Lieutenant Marais, I'll leave the men with you for a moment. I'm heading to the officers' building. It seems those gentlemen have decided which companies will participate in the operation. Lieutenant Laroche, come with me."

"At your orders!"

The two men made their way to the large wooden building facing the square in the center of the military village. Unsurprisingly, there was a greater number of soldiers present there.

Adam crossed paths with Albert Fontaine.

"Ah, Albert! I've heard that Monsieur de Montcalm has chosen the companies for the operation."

"I know. I've been informed that my company was selected. Apparently, Captain Briscard's company will be joining as well."

"Oh."

At that moment, Captain Louis-Philippe Briscard emerged from the building, accompanied by his two lieutenants. His stride was brisk, and his expression resolute.

He ignored the envious looks directed his way and walked off without a word, his brows furrowed as if dissatisfied, even though he should have been pleased to take part in such an operation.

Though it wasn't as extraordinary as leading an assault on a fortress, everyone was aware of its significance. The Rogers' Rangers were a real nuisance, and taking them out would be an opportunity to distinguish themselves and earn merit.

Adam frowned at Briscard's disdain but quickly looked away to refocus on his friend.

"I suppose my company wasn't selected, was it?"

"Don't be too disappointed, François. It's just a matter of time! I'm sure there will be other opportunities to achieve glory!"

A sad smile formed on his lips.

"It's nothing," he said, shaking his head slightly as if to dispel his friend's concerns. "It was predictable. I expected it, more or less. After all, my company is brand new and full of youngsters.

They still have a lot to learn, though they've improved a lot recently."

"Oh, yes. I heard the lieutenant colonel mention your company to Monsieur de Bréhant. The progress has been noted and highly appreciated, but they decided to go with more experienced companies. By the way, how's it going with your idiot? The soldier… what was his nickname? 'The Catastrophe,' right?"

"Not anymore. I've changed it. Now he's 'The Hope.' I think he's earned it."

"'The Hope'? That's quite the change. He must be thrilled."

"I suppose so. Anyway, when are you leaving?"

"We head out tomorrow morning in small groups to stay discreet and pass ourselves off as simple scouts or patrols. The second team will leave the fort early in the afternoon with the wagons we've prepared."

"I see. So, you're part of the first team?"

"That's right. We'll play the role of captured civilians along with Briscard's men."

Adam's expression subtly shifted upon hearing this. Concern for his friend could be read in his gaze.

"Hey, everything will be fine," Albert Fontaine said in a reassuring tone. "This isn't the first time we've faced danger. My guys and I have seen worse than these people. Coming?"

"Where to?" Adam asked, still worried about his friend's safety.

"To have a drink, of course! We'll toast again when we're back! Ha!"

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Later, well after nightfall, several men gathered in a second-floor room of the officers' quarters.

The atmosphere was lively, and alcohol flowed freely, keeping the glasses constantly filled.

Topics shifted faster than the skies over Brittany in autumn. Some were trivial, while others were far more serious. Occasionally, the conversations grew so profound that the officers paused for long moments to think.

At times, these discussions could only be described as philosophical debates.

Despite his radically different upbringing compared to his friends—who themselves had received varied educations depending on their social backgrounds—Adam managed to follow and participate.

"Yes," he said, raising his glass again, though it was still a quarter full. "But if a person acts virtuously because they expect a reward, are they truly virtuous?"

"Ah, but every good deed deserves a reward, doesn't it?" murmured Martin Morrel de Lusernes.

"That's why Heaven exists!"

"Y-yes, but if they act just to get into Heaven, then they're not truly sincere, so they can only displease God and end up in Hell," sighed André Louis.

"Ending up in Hell for acting virtuously? That's absurd!"

"N-not necessarily! It's simply that their good deed isn't virtuous because it isn't sincere."

"But can someone do good—make the world better—without expecting some kind of reward?"

"Of course! It's because those people are kind! They do good because it's their nature."

"Is it their nature," Adam sighed, "or were they properly educated?"

"A well-educated person," Albert grumbled, "can do good or evil."

"Albert's right, François. And those who were well-educated were taught to fear God and Hell, so they're the ones most motivated to behave well to be accepted into Heaven."

"So, they're the ones most likely to end up in Hell?"

This conversation, far removed from the first, lasted another half hour before shifting yet again and so on.

Without anyone knowing how, the discussion turned to military strategy.

Adam, his cheeks flushed and mind clouded from nearly four and a half hours of drinking, seized the opportunity to ask his friends a question that had been bothering him since his arrival in this era, though he had never dared to ask.

"S-so, I-I was wondering… why don't we u-use shields?"

"Huh?" said all the officers present, except for Martin, who had dozed off against a wall opposite Albert's bed.

"N-no, but seriously! W-we shoot at each other for hours, but we have no protection! We keep shooting until one side loses too many soldiers. W-we should have s-something to defend ourselves, right? Why don't we equip our soldiers with shields, at least in the front line?"

Even drunk, the officers found Adam's words ridiculous. If it were possible, they would have done it, of course. Albert took it upon himself to explain the reason to his young friend, who clearly still had much to learn.

"It's because it wouldn't work," he said slowly. "We're not in the age of knights anymore, you know? Enemy bullets would go right through our shields. And it would create lots of little wood splinters—like cannonballs hitting a ship's hull."

"T-then we need th-thicker shields! M-more solid ones! Why not m-make iron shields?"

"Hahaha! D-do you have any idea? Do you think iron is so… ah… so easy to come by? The best iron comes from Sweden and Denmark-Norway, and it's very expensive!"

Adam lowered his gaze, roughly processing this information, but he didn't give up.

"Then… then we should only equip the front line! That way, the second and third would be protected!"

"You still don't get it, huh? And why not give them wings while you're at it? Even if we only equipped the first line, it would ruin the kingdom! Look, we're already struggling to properly outfit our soldiers, and you want to add shields? Can you even imagine the logistics? And even if it were possible, what would happen? We'd have one useless line in combat, meaning only two lines equipped with muskets. That'd cut a third of our firepower!"

"Well, then let's add a fourth row!" Adam exclaimed, refusing to back down.

Albert Fontaine, feeling his patience running out, rubbed his head with a long sigh and turned to André Louis with a desperate expression.

"Explain it to him, would you? He's not getting it."

André, grinning widely, burst into laughter at his friend's face, which practically screamed "help."

"Alright, alright. Listen to me, François. Our army is strong, but it's not all-powerful. If we add a fourth row, it'd weaken us elsewhere because we wouldn't be able to deploy those men to another front. It'd be too dangerous, got it? So we can't afford to have a line just holding big iron shields to protect two or three rows of soldiers. And there's another major problem."

"What… what problem?"

"You haven't realized it? Iron shields, François? Do you even know how heavy they would be? Imagine hundreds of soldiers forced to march, or even run, carrying those things while keeping up with regular soldiers. We always need to stay mobile, quick to react to flank an enemy or defend a threatened position. They'd never keep up at that pace. It's already hard enough as it is—imagine with shields!"

Adam lowered his eyes, defeated. He now understood why 18th-century armies didn't use shields. They could use stone or wooden barricades, take cover in a house, or hide behind a tree, but lugging around defensive equipment like that? Impossible.

So, he thought bitterly, there's really no solution? The colonel doesn't want us to have breastplates, and we can't have shields. Ugh… what now? Oh! If we can't improve our defense, maybe we can improve our offense!

"Say, do you think it's possible to make repeating weapons?"

"Huh? What are you thinking about now?" Albert asked, pouring himself another glass of wine.

"Just answer me, please. Have they been invented yet or not?"

Luckily, his friends were too drunk to notice he was speaking as if he knew what future wars would look like.

"Well, I think so?"

"Then why aren't we using them?"

Adam raised his voice so much he startled young Martin, who had begun drooling in his sleep.

"Hey, keep it down, will you?" Albert scolded, squinting at him. "It's late, and the others are probably sleeping next door. You know Captain Briscard's room is right next to mine? I really don't want him banging on my door because we woke him up, got it?"

"Sorry!" Adam whispered, covering his mouth with both hands like a chastised child.

"Now, to answer your question," André began patiently, "I think it's the same issue as with your silly shield idea. Imagine it's possible, sure. It'd almost certainly be a complex weapon, right? That means it'd cost a lot more to make. That's for sure!"

"But what if it gives us an advantage on the battlefield!"

André Louis shook his head but stopped quickly as it made him dizzy.

"Sometimes you're such an idiot, you know that? Do you think we'd be able to keep these weapons a secret for long? All it takes is one falling into enemy hands, and they'd have them too."

"Ah, damn, I didn't think of that!"

"And that's not all! It'd probably take more metal and be heavier too! Same problems as before."

Martin, who was slowly waking up, had caught part of the conversation and thought of something.

"My brother used to love hunting. He'd go into the woods on our estate and bring back game. He had a hunting musket with two barrels. I remember it well. It was just two barrels side by side, with two triggers and two flints. Even though it was pretty small—because it was made for a child—it was very heavy."

"There you go! So it's possible!"

"Yes, but is it practical?" Albert asked, rolling his eyes.

Adam said nothing and turned to Martin, who was wiping away the unflattering drool on his chin.

"Practical? Not really," he said hoarsely, his throat dry. "It could fire two shots in a row, but that was it. Then you had to reload both barrels. And it wasn't very accurate. Even though he liked it, he preferred using his regular hunting musket. Well, 'regular' is a way of putting it—it was engraved and gilded and all that."

"See?" Albert said, spreading his arms wide. "There's your answer."

"Tch, that's lame."

If we had modern weapons, we'd destroy them all. If I had a machine gun…

Without realizing it, his thoughts began to drift in a strange direction.

He imagined himself holding a heavy weapon, standing alone against an army of redcoats, with ammunition draped around his neck like a scarf and a headband tied across his forehead, like a certain movie character. An unstoppable war machine, spitting hundreds of bullets a minute, tearing through enemy ranks with ease.

It was something he loved doing in war video games. When playing online, he almost always chose heavy weapons, sometimes paired with a rocket launcher.

He started smiling stupidly, picturing the amazed looks of his comrades and the panicked screams of his enemies.

Adam imagined racking up kills and earning precious rewards. He had his favorites there too: calling in a drone or a helicopter to torment the enemy players.

If not, he'd call in a bomber, but that wasn't his favorite because it lacked precision. It felt like throwing darts while blindfolded.

"Well, friends, I don't want to kick you out, but I've got to wake up early tomorrow morning—or rather, later today. So, off you go! Go to bed already! Look at yourselves; you're falling asleep on your feet!"