Alda’s nervous face said everything. She looked around the barracks and fixed her gaze on the swords hanging from the walls. The place wasn’t very large—there were only three full suits of armor set on finely made wooden mannequins. In the center stood a table with a map of the kingdom, and at the back of the room there was a large iron chest, probably filled with spare equipment.

  “Why are you so nervous?” I asked my sister, whose face wouldn’t stop sweating.

  “I-It’s my first time with the Master of War… I’m not good at studying, and I don’t know if I’ll do well…”

  “No one is born knowing. That’s why we’re taking lessons. Just relax.”

  Seconds later, Sir Einar entered the room and, without saying a word, took a seat across from us. The wooden chairs weren’t comfortable at all. My skin itched just sitting there, and the broken backrest didn’t help either.

  Was military life really this miserable?

  “Good. We won’t waste time on introductions. I am Sir Einar. While you are here, you are not royalty—only apprentices. You will obey and listen to my words at all times. There will be no special treatment. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” we answered in unison.

  “Excellent. Alda, question for you: how is our army composed?”

  Our mentor questioned my sister without mercy. Alda brought her right hand to her chin and took a deep breath.

  “The army of Etrica is made up of four different sectors: men-at-arms, levies, mercenaries, and noble knights.”

  Her answer was correct. We had skimmed these topics with Gonzalo, so we weren’t caught off guard.

  “Very good. At least you know the basics—that will make things easier. Listen carefully: up to now, your martial education has been based on the warrior’s path. Sir Marte Hogan is a great knight, but he is not a military commander. With me, you will learn to use your head. Remember: warriors win battles, but generals secure final victory in wars. Thinking is more important than honor or heroism. If your aspirations are to become legendary fighters and have bards cradle you in songs, you may leave.”

  Neither Alda nor I left the room.

  We both knew exactly what kind of man Sir Einar was. To him, chivalry was an inconvenience.

  “We’re willing to learn, Sir Einar. A good monarch must be an excellent military commander. Hard times are coming for our country—this is no time for heroes.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Your Majesty.” The instructor turned his gaze to my half-sister. She nodded as well, and he continued. “Good. I’ll begin by explaining the recruitment system.”

  “We’re listening.”

  “The Kingdom of Etrica does not maintain a permanent army like in the mythical age. Instead, all men and women without children must train under the captain of the guard once a week. They are taught to use spear and shield, and also how to shoot the longbow. Every two months, the barons hold archery tournaments to keep the population active.”

  I’d heard this explanation before from Gonzalo, but Sir Einar stood and walked to the rear wall, where a spear and shield were mounted.

  “Levies are mandatory, right?” Alda asked.

  “They are. Anyone who refuses military service is considered a traitor and punished.” The soldier took the equipment effortlessly and placed it on the table. “This is a standard infantry spear. Each peasant is trained well enough to hold the line with one of these. Here’s the wooden shield—triangular, useful for blocking projectiles raining from above. Try lifting them.”

  Alda gripped the wooden shaft and awkwardly held it in her hands. The spear wobbled from side to side, and she placed it back down.

  “I-It’s heavy,” my sister murmured. “Let’s try the shield.”

  She couldn’t lift it. The weight was too much for her delicate arms.

  For me, it was similar. I could raise the spear with effort, but the finely made wooden shield was out of the question. I still didn’t have the physical strength for it.

  “Alda’s right,” I said. “This is heavy equipment.”

  “Even an adult would struggle to carry that over long distances. As generals, you must calculate your troops’ endurance—so you don’t exhaust them, but also don’t allow them to become lazy. We’ll talk later about morale and conditioning. Now, the next segment of the army: men-at-arms. Explain what they are, Your Majesty.”

  “Men-at-arms are professional soldiers in the service of a noble. They swear loyalty to their lord, and unlike militia, they serve as guards, shock troops, and heavy cavalry.”

  “And what’s the difference between them and noble knights?” he asked again.

  “Knights are not part of the regular army. Instead, they gather into independent chivalric orders that function as elite, specialized regiments. Others roam as errant knights, offering their services for a time and returning to the road once conflicts end. It’s worth noting, Master, that many knights serve as men-at-arms—but not all men-at-arms are knights. Knighthood is a social rank within the military.”

  Reading those massive books really did pay off.

  Alda’s mouth fell open. Sir Einar actually smiled.

  “Correct. We’ll move quickly with you. Lady Alda, your turn. Explain how mercenaries work.”

  My sister smiled nervously and toyed with her hair for a few seconds. I gave her an encouraging thumbs-up, and she loosened up a little.

  “Mercenaries are soldiers for hire who only stay for a season. You pay them for a campaign, and then they wander again.”

  “Not wrong, but superficial. Mercenaries operate in many ways, and their organization can be as complex as our own levies.” Sir Einar inhaled before his lecture. “Sellswords come in two forms: independent agents or mercenary companies. In small operations, most are solitary fighters who demand a fee for their service. They’re paid by monthly commission and march alongside regular troops.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “And mercenary companies?” I asked, since the difference still wasn’t clear to me.

  “A mercenary company is a private military organization. Their leaders are often minor nobles or decorated veterans with enormous charisma. They train daily, and their presence can be decisive on the battlefield. But they are expensive—very expensive. Many kingdoms have bankrupted themselves hiring large companies. We currently can’t afford any.”

  That tracked. In my old world there were private military companies too—governments hired them so their own hands wouldn’t look dirty during international incidents.

  Same road, different era.

  “How many members does a mercenary company have?” I asked again. I genuinely wanted to learn everything about warfare.

  “Some are small—two hundred to five hundred. The largest can reach ten thousand units, including cavalry, infantry, and missile troops.”

  “T-That’s a lot… are they all professionals?” Alda asked. Another good question—Sir Einar appreciated it.

  A good student never stays silent.

  “Mercenary quality is inconsistent. Some will be the best swordsmen of their generation. Others picked up a spear because it was that or starvation. Never rely on mercenaries for defense—they’ll be the first to run. Use them offensively, because they’re willing to loot and seize anything they find.”

  Looting.

  That word disgusted me.

  I frowned, lifting my left hand to my head. The mere idea of endorsing something so barbaric made my skin crawl. In my previous life, such actions were punished under international treaties. Here, the world wasn’t nearly as humane.

  “What if I ban looting?” I asked.

  Sir Einar stared at me with a mix of confusion and surprise.

  And I couldn’t blame him. Not even sweet Alda said anything. To them, this was normal.

  “Banning looting is difficult, Your Majesty. Soldiers are simple men guided by instinct. Most can’t read, and many feel no remorse; once they hold weapons, they become beasts.” Sir Einar lowered his gaze for a moment, then returned to his hard tone. “If you ban looting, morale will drop and some may turn against you. I wouldn’t recommend it—unless you have a backup plan.”

  Silence filled the room.

  I couldn’t allow my soldiers to become bloodthirsty animals.

  Looting under my command was unacceptable.

  How could I permit such cruelty?

  No—there was no version of myself that commanded a violent raid without becoming someone else entirely.

  “We’ll continue the lesson…”

  The rest of the class was straightforward. Sir Einar taught us supply lines, army ranks, and other formalities to memorize. But the thought of banning looting stayed in my mind like a thorn.

  Can I really keep that promise?

  Or will I become a hypocrite in the end?

  The answer scared me. I didn’t want to learn it the hard way.

  In any case, with military classes added to my schedule, I had to rearrange my days:

  At 9:00 AM, lessons with Gonzalo.

  At 12:00 PM, lessons with Sir Einar.

  After eating, around 5:00 PM, physical training.

  Luckily, I rested on the seventh day of the week (Sunday in my old life). Nights were for games, relaxation, and spending time with Alda and Ingrid. Mother didn’t want to overload me—she still wanted me to have as normal a childhood as possible.

  Within reason.

  “I’m not exactly a fan of having so many obligations.”

  The seventh day became my favorite.

  And that was when Alda had an absurd—but oddly interesting—idea.

  We were enjoying midday beneath the lemon tree when my half-sister suddenly raised her voice.

  “What if we play Truth or Dare?”

  “Truth or Dare?” Ingrid and I spoke at the same time. The game had been popular in my previous life too—especially at casual gatherings.

  “Exactly. The rules are simple: each of us takes a turn asking another person. If they choose truth, they have to prove it so there’s no cheating. If they choose dare, it can’t be something that gets us into trouble. Agreed?”

  “I’m in.”

  “I want to play too,” Ingrid murmured.

  “Then I’ll start… Ingrid, truth or dare?” Alda pounced with her claws. Ingrid thought for ten seconds before answering.

  “T-Truth.”

  “Alright. Would you dye your hair another color?”

  A very innocent question.

  Alda wasn’t cruel enough to corner Ingrid with something painful—especially now.

  “No. I like my hair.” Ingrid’s reply came with a small smile. “Y-You’ve told me it looks pretty and… that’s very important to me.”

  Seeing her build even a little confidence made me happy. Over these months, Ingrid had improved—she’d gone from frequent panic attacks to being relatively normal.

  Her progress brightened the afternoon.

  “And it will always look good,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up.

  “Of course it will!” Alda agreed. “Now it’s my brother. Truth or dare?”

  “Dare, obviously.”

  “Fine. I dare you to do one hundred push-ups right now.”

  “Hey! That’s too many. I don’t want to sweat.”

  Okay, I take it back. Alda’s only nice to Ingrid. To me, this was a declaration of war.

  “Do you want the penalty then?” my not-so-adorable sister huffed.

  “No. I’ll do them.”

  My arms weren’t built for that, so I broke it into sets of twenty until I reached one hundred. The heat made me sweat, and my forearms screamed because I hadn’t warmed up and barely rested between sets.

  “O-Oh… well done.” Alda hadn’t expected me to endure it. She probably wanted an embarrassing punishment. Too bad—my stubbornness had carried over from my old life.

  “My turn. Alda, truth or dare?”

  Revenge is never good. It kills the soul and poisons it. But it feels great.

  “Dare,” Alda answered—pride and fear forcing her hand.

  “I dare you to repeat the military process we learned this week.”

  Since Alda could handle physical challenges, I hit her weak spot: studying.

  Ingrid smiled and patted Alda’s head.

  “Come on, Alda. You probably know it.”

  “Of course I do,” Alda muttered. “Wars are won with open-field battles and grand clashes. Everyone knows that, right?”

  Ingrid and I exchanged a look.

  Even someone inexperienced in warfare knew pitched battles were catastrophic for the losing side.

  “Wrong,” I said. “Wars are won by taking fortresses, securing towns, and destroying enemy crops. More siege and urban struggle than open battle. We covered that this week. So… punishment.”

  My eyes must’ve looked like a cartoon villain. Alda hid behind Ingrid in a weak attempt to save her dignity.

  “E-Eh, but I almost got it.”

  “No. Your punishment is to go to the kitchen and bring pastries for me and Ingrid—but you can’t eat any.”

  “W-Why not?”

  “Because it’s your punishment.”

  “Aww, that’s cruel. Fine. I accept defeat.” Alda ran off toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with Ingrid.

  “You’re going to give her half your pastry, aren’t you?” Ingrid asked.

  She was right. I wasn’t a monster. And the pastries were big—I didn’t want to fill up before lunch.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I’m getting to know you, Ulric. You’d never truly do something to hurt Alda. You’re very kind.”

  “That’s how kings should be.” I puffed out my chest a little, and Ingrid laughed again.

  “I’ll give her a piece too. Food tastes better when you share it with friends.”

  I’d heard that line many times in my old life—especially in university. Students gathered in the cafeteria, always finding excuses to eat together.

  I never had time for that. I focused too hard on improving myself, so I ate alone.

  I never felt depressed about it. Solitude helped me think.

  But how could I miss something I’d never truly experienced?

  It was in this world that I learned the value of friendship and family.

  And for that, I was grateful.

  “You’re right,” I murmured, pushing aside old memories and returning to the present.

  “Oh—Alda’s back! That was fast!”

  After that, we kept playing until the servants called us to eat.

  The wound in our hearts was slowly closing. Afternoons like this—games and smiles—were essential to letting go of the pain Sora’s death had left behind. For the first time, we didn’t mention her name. We just played Truth or Dare until dusk.

  After all, Sora wouldn’t have wanted us to lose our childhood because of her death. She had always watched over Alda and me.

  That night, I walked past Alda’s room and stayed there nearly half an hour.

  I didn’t hear any crying.

  Instead, I heard soft giggles from the romantic book she loved so much.

  “Grief isn’t eternal. Sooner or later, a new day comes, and eventually the bad memories fade to make room for a new future. Life continues—and it’s up to us to decide whether we move forward or stay behind.”

  With that final thought, I returned to my room.

  There was nothing more for me to do here.