Chapter 37 - The Daffodil Blooming Beneath Hooves (7)

Chapter 37 - The Daffodil Blooming Beneath Hooves (7)

The competition continued without pause, and at last, it was Ferdinand's turn.

Today, Ferdinand had brought a different horse than the obsidian one he rode yesterday—a comparatively small gray horse.

"That's an Aeblon Horse."

The cadets began murmuring among themselves at the sight.

Horses native to the Land of the Aeblon People—a cold, harsh region—are known for being small in stature and covered in long hair. The wild horses of Aeblon are famous for being able to perform the lateral trot instinctively, without any training, and for that reason, both in the past and even now, they're considered the best horses for light cavalry marksmen.

Even the Imperial Army, which is primarily composed of infantry, maintains a light cavalry unit, and nine out of ten of their horses are Aeblon Horses.

"There's a saying: 'The true masters of Aeblon aren't its people, but its horses.'"

That proverb manages to simultaneously scorn the Aeblon people while praising their horses. Well-trained Aeblon Horses are hard to come by, and their price reflects it.

Ferdinand probably owned such a horse because Aeblon is included within the 2nd Corps, where his grandfather, Brigadier General Heinz Hartmann, serves as Chief of Staff.

"…"

Marie, who had come once again today to cheer for Ernest, went pale and her face twisted with distress when she heard the word "Aeblon" whispered among the crowd. She wanted desperately to hide her red hair, but the cadet uniform didn't come with a hat or anything to cover herself.

"Ernest!"

At that moment, Robert, who today as always had ended up next to Marie after being jostled by other cadets, called out to Ernest in a loud voice.

"Show them Drek's strength!"

Robert shouted, as if he were furious at the thought someone had insulted Drek. However, Robert wasn't angry in the slightest.

Ernest nodded to Robert, then turned his gaze to Marie, who was desperately trying to hide her red hair with her small hands, her face pale with fear.

Despite her fierce appearance, Marie's frightened eyes met the deep, dark eyes of Ernest.

Ernest raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"Stay strong."

He spoke as if it were nothing to worry about, then turned his attention back to stroking Drek and watching Ferdinand's performance.

Marie, trembling, looked at Ernest. After a shaky breath, she slowly lowered her hands. Robert glanced down at Marie and quietly let out a small sigh of relief, unnoticed by anyone else.

***

Ferdinand had already finished his first shot and was reloading.

Flap!

A cadet outside the course quickly waved a red flag to the side. The competitors had a set amount of time to reach each target for their next shot, and the flag signaled how much time was left.

Ferdinand calmly completed his reloading. He wasn't fast, but he was steady, with plenty of time remaining.

Ferdinand's skill played a part, but much of his smooth performance was thanks to the excellent Aeblon Horse he was riding. While several horses managed a lateral trot during the competition, none ran as steadily as Ferdinand's.

In some ways, the difference between the horses seemed to affect the results more than the difference between the riders' skills. Of course, acquiring a good horse was one of the essential abilities expected of a noble.

Bang!

Ferdinand checked the remaining time, sped up to approach the target, and fired in one swift motion. Immediately after Ferdinand took his shot, the cadet holding the flag quickly dropped it down, and another cadet at the next target raised a flag high.

Ferdinand slowed down again and began reloading without hesitation. Once he finished reloading, he picked up speed, shot at the next target, and completed the remaining course with time to spare.

Even in terms of timing, Ferdinand ranked near the top, and when the three targets he had shot at were checked, his accuracy was also outstanding.

"Hartmann! Hartmann!"

Ferdinand returned to the first-year group amid applause and cheers. The cadets from other classes, though also first-years, also applauded Ferdinand for his impressive performance.

At least at this moment, Ferdinand was recognized not as the Chief of Staff's eldest grandson, but as a man of genuine skill. When it comes to moments like this, men tend to get excited about pure ability, regardless of rank or authority.

Even though it was Heinz the Brigadier General who found Ferdinand's horse for him, there was no doubt about Ferdinand's talent.

After Ferdinand's round, the next first-year competitors performed poorly one after another. Perhaps it was because night had fallen and Balt Lighting was turned on, but there were cadets who didn't even get a shot off—spending the entire allotted time just trying to reload—or even dropped their guns, missing the target entirely.

Yet with each blunder, for some strange reason, everyone's anticipation for this tournament only grew.

"Number 40! Ernest Krieger!"

"Waaah!"

As the name of Ernest Krieger—the most talked-about first-year competitor in this Silver Horseshoe Tournament—was announced, thunderous cheers erupted. Ernest, bathed in the blue glow of the Balt Lighting, mounted Drek and rode forward.

"We're looking forward to another great performance today, Krieger," said the Training Instructor.

Unlike with the other cadets, the Training Instructor didn't go over the usual warnings; he simply grinned broadly and said he was looking forward to it. It was his own way of paying respect to this young, yet exceptionally talented, competitor.

"I'll do my best to live up to your expectations," Ernest replied, smiling with easy confidence. He fastened the bullet pouch to his belt and accepted the gun.

The first bullet was already loaded for the initial shot—something the Training Instructor had taken care of. No matter how inexperienced a cadet was, this ensured everyone could take at least one shot.

Perched on Drek's back, Ernest spent a moment shifting the gun around, searching for the perfect grip and angle. Just as he had the day before, he didn't waste time with greetings to those around him; instead, he calmly moved straight to the starting line and came to a halt.

Even as Ernest stood completely still, so focused it was hard to tell if he was even breathing, no one saw him as arrogant for not greeting the crowd.

A hush fell over the Arena. In the blue Balt Light, Ernest seemed to meld into the glow, parts of him swallowed by brightness, the rest lost to shadow where the light didn't reach. Could someone really hit their target, aiming so precisely while straddling that stark divide between light and darkness?

"Begin!"

There was no time for doubt. The moment he heard the signal, Drek launched forward powerfully, pounding across the ground. The first bullet was already loaded. That meant he had to reach the first target as quickly as possible and take the shot to get the best time.

Drek, being smaller than Ferdinand's Aeblon horse, sprinted nimbly, but there was no denying he was slower than the other horses. Still, he moved fast enough that it was nearly impossible to aim properly.

"..."

From far off, Ernest kept both hands on the gun, sights trained on the target. Even as Drek sped forward, Ernest released the reins and wrapped them around his right arm, steadying his posture to help keep rhythm atop the horse. Soon enough, he had grown accustomed to the rocking motion.

Those who knew Ernest rode Drek without a whip or spurs couldn't help but wonder how he planned to control the horse's speed. But there was no need for concern.

"Drek."

As they drew near the target, Ernest spoke softly, and Drek smoothly eased his pace.

Not even his breathing faltered. Amid the bouncing landscape, he matched the rear sight, front sight, and target in a single line, recognizing the precise moment when their rhythms aligned and then misaligned.

Even at this incredible speed, perhaps even more than necessary, Ernest's aim was steady and careful.

One bullet—one life.

Would he just ride past without making the shot? That's what the crowd wondered in that instant—when Ernest's muzzle flared with fire.

Bang!

After firing, Ernest didn't look back at the target. The moment he pulled the trigger and the bullet left the muzzle, Ernest moved with mechanical precision to start reloading.

Although Drek had slowed down slightly, he was still racing ahead at a fast pace. On top of that, they were running diagonally, which made Ernest's body rock so much it seemed impossible to reload the powder gun properly.

"..."

But Ernest, his face calm, reloaded swiftly as if he'd done it a thousand times.

Just as he'd told Drek before the event, Ernest understood Drek's movements better than anyone else in the world—perhaps even better than Drek himself.

Like a dancer flowing with the beat, Ernest absorbed the jolts from Drek's running. He lifted his hips clear off the saddle, standing using only the strength in his legs, swaying perfectly in rhythm. His legs moved constantly, but his upper body hardly seemed to move at all.

"Wow!"

Finally, a gasp of admiration burst out from the crowd.

Ernest finished reloading faster than any other contestant today. His riding skills were impressive, but his mastery of the powder gun was on a whole other level.

Now, completely in sync with Drek's stride, Ernest finished reloading as if he were standing on solid ground.

The moment he finished, Drek surged forward with full force. Still gripping the gun in both hands, Ernest stood in the stirrups and aimed the muzzle at the target.

Right before he fired again, Drek smoothly slowed, and Ernest leaned dangerously far to the left, toward the side with the target.

"Ah!"

Some of the cadets gasped, thinking Ernest was about to fall off his horse. But Ernest clamped his legs tightly around Drek's waist, holding on firmly while stretching his gun arm forward. From a distance, it looked as if the muzzle might actually touch the target, they were that close.

Of course, there was still plenty of space between them. No matter what, the targets were never set so close that the gun could actually reach.

Bang!

The second shot rang out. Ernest straightened his body from his leaning position and began reloading again. This time, Drek's speed barely dropped at all—they were still charging ahead at a remarkable pace. Considering Ernest's skill and his incredible reloading speed, it made sense to keep going fast instead of slowing down too much; that way, he could aim for the shortest completion time.

"Wow!"

Everyone jumped to their feet, cheering loudly at a feat that not only seemed impossible for a first-year, but extraordinary even for the most highly trained soldiers—a performance bordering on the miraculous. Ever since the Imperial Army had issued the Balt Gun and cavalry shooting while galloping through open fields had all but disappeared, there were almost no people left who could display mounted marksmanship at this level.

Ernest's mastery on horseback allowed him to pull off such stunts; he wasn't fully grown yet, so his body was light and supple. That lightness and flexibility enabled those acrobatic movements—plus, they put less strain on Drek as he carried Ernest in the race.

Bang!

Ernest kept up the rapid pace, only slowing Drek right before each shot. With flawless form, he fired at the targets and then, at last, grabbed the reins with his left hand and urged Drek into a final furious sprint.

Despite Drek's small frame, he exploded forward, devouring the course at breathtaking speed. Thanks to Ernest's outstanding performance, Drek somehow seemed even faster and more magnificent than he appeared to the naked eye.

"Krieger! Krieger! Krieger! Krieger!"

The cadets welcomed Ernest back, chanting his name at the top of their lungs. Even those from High Noble Families forgot their own pride and leapt to their feet, shouting loudly.

Ernest, having finished the competition, felt oddly dazed. He wasn't tired, but the voices calling his name made him feel as if he were intoxicated. So many people were cheering for "Krieger." That alone made Ernest feel as if he had already become his father's pride.

With his face flushed from excitement, Ernest raised the gun in his hand high overhead. But when it came time to return the gun, he suddenly felt embarrassed by his own actions—his face still burning red as he clamped his mouth shut and quickly handed back the weapon before hurrying off to his seat as if fleeing.

"Heh! He'll make a fine cavalryman."

"A cavalryman, huh… That used to be the highest praise you could give someone."

The officers murmured among themselves as they watched Ernest.

With the changing paradigm of war, the Imperial Army had drastically reduced its cavalry units. Most battles had devolved into small-scale skirmishes against the Alliance Army, who hid in forests and mountains, leaving little room for cavalry to shine. In the past, cavalry used to be the main force on the battlefield— but not anymore. Also, the only one who can influence the outcome of a battle with individual strength alone is a Baltracher.

"He was born in the wrong era," one of the officers remarked.

That was the honest sentiment among the officers regarding Ernest. If he had been born just fifty years earlier, he could have achieved truly remarkable things.

In the second event, the Mounted Shooting Competition, Ernest finished with the second fastest time. And after a thorough review, it turned out he had the highest shooting accuracy of all participants.

The cadet who finished before Ernest had a noticeably lower accuracy rate. This wasn't just about mounted marksmanship—the key factor was the level of proficiency with the powder gun. While a few cadets had tried out powder guns as a hobby, no one had put in the intense, systematic training that Ernest had.

With his overwhelming first place in the Mounted Shooting Competition, Ernest soared up the overall rankings—jumping from 14th to 6th place in an instant. He had secured a spot in the finals.

Ferdinand also clinched a place in the finals, ranking 7th overall. It wasn't unheard of for a first-year cadet to barely squeeze into the finals at 9th or 10th place, but having two first-years advance with solid mid-tier rankings was unprecedented in the history of the Imperial Military Academy.

Among those advancing to the finals, there were four fourth-years, three third-years, only one second-year—and incredibly, two first-years!

"Krieger! Krieger! Krieger! Krieger!"

"Hartmann! Hartmann! Hartmann!"

Ernest and Ferdinand had become heroes of the first-year class. All the way from the stables back to the dormitory, a crowd of first-year cadets surrounded them, endlessly chanting their names.

"Oh, uh…"

Marie hadn't really wanted to, but caught up in the excitement of the first-year cadets, she ended up swept along to the stables as well. Even though she was a first-year herself, surrounded by noble-born officer cadets who had clearly grown up well-fed and well-cared-for, Marie found herself pushed and pulled along wherever the crowd moved her.

"…K-Krieger…"

Watching the mood, Marie hesitantly joined in the cheering, mumbling Ernest's name softly. Of course, no one heard her feeble voice, and in fact, everyone seemed to have entirely forgotten she was even there.

"…"

As the competitors handed over their horses in the stables and the crowd finally began to disperse, Marie managed to slip away and, from a distance, stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse of Ernest. But being as short as she was, she couldn't even spot the top of his head. Ernest, for his part, would have had no idea she was there.

Standing within the darkness where the blue light of the Balt Lighting didn't reach, Marie quietly watched the crowd streaming back toward the dormitory. She wrinkled her freckled, pale nose just a little.

"Still, it's fine."

After all, Ernest had told her to keep her spirits up. For Marie, that was enough. She decided to count the encouragement she'd received from Ernest—whether as an excuse or a prize for the Silver Horseshoe Tournament—as more than enough.

Even after the cadets returned to the dormitory, the excitement didn't die down. Not only the first-years—the dorms of every year seemed as though they would collapse from the uproar of cadets still shouting the finalists' names.

"Enough! If you don't return to your rooms this instant, something very unpleasant is going to happen!"

But with just one shout from the Disciplinary Officer, everyone instantly turned into obedient little angels and scattered in a flash. If you ignored an order like that, something truly unpleasant was sure to happen. If you were really unlucky, you might end up stuck cleaning the stables, shoveling up piles of horse manure.

"Waaah... We really did it...!"

Back in their room, Robert dropped to his knees on the floor, threw both hands up, and whispered his cheer with a voice nearly strangled by fear of being scolded by the Disciplinary Officer.

"Yeah, we did it...!"

Ernest, too, was bursting with excitement. Instead of saying, "Wasn't it me who did it, not us?", he simply shared the joy of the moment in a hushed voice. The two boys hopped around the room, spinning in circles, mouths gaping in silent shouts of triumph. It was honestly a ridiculous sight no one else should have to see, but since his only audience was his equally ridiculous friend, it didn't matter.

"…Let's stop."

"…Yeah."

Finally snapping back to their senses, Ernest and Robert stopped their crazy celebration, feeling a bit embarrassed, and decided to call it a day. Even so, the excitement still pounding in their chests refused to fade. Ernest was so worked up that his heartbeat quickened enough to give him a headache, even with the tonic.

Tomorrow was finally the finals. If they had made it into the finals in 9th or 10th place, there was a chance they couldn't win, even by finishing first in the finals. But in 6th place, a stable victory seemed within reach. In other words, if I don't come in first place at tomorrow's finals, I can forget about winning the whole thing.

"But I have to ride Bereter tomorrow—do you think it'll be okay?"

"Uh, well… um…"

"…Are you sure it'll be okay?"

"…Maybe…"

"…We're doomed…!"

The real problem was that tomorrow Ernest would have to ride that ill-tempered horse, Bereter. They couldn't help but worry that the treacherous beast might suddenly go crazy and betray not only Ernest and Robert, but also everyone hoping for the unprecedented victory of a first-year cadet. In a way, it would totally live up to his name!

In fact, at the Military Academy, the name Bereter was so infamous that not just first-years but cadets from other classes—and even officers—would immediately respond, "Oh, that ill-tempered horse, right?" Even if someone got disqualified because Bereter picked a fight with another horse before the race started, nobody would be surprised. It would be considered an act of God—a total natural disaster.

Bereter had actually once gotten so angry while picking a fight in the stable that he broke down a door and bolted out.

Bereter was a completely wild horse. Whether Ernest could manage Bereter's violence and rage—that was the real trial waiting for him at tomorrow's finals.

"Why is it that while everyone else will be racing for rank, I have to fight against my own horse?"

"You see," Robert answered, his voice full of sympathy, "that's exactly what it means to ride Bereter…"

That is exactly what "Traitor" means. Someone who's closest to you, yet turns into your most dangerous enemy.

Robert thought he had chosen the perfect name for Bereter. It was truly fitting—there couldn't have been a name more appropriate than this. Absolutely spot-on.