Chapter 70: The Devil’s Drill Ground on the Eve of the Storm
After Fabian left, Caesar did not imdiately leave the hall.
He held the tampered “Holy Light potion” between his fingers and turned it idly, the golden gleam inside reflected in his violet eyes. His expression was unreadable.
“Roland.”
Caesar spoke suddenly.
“Your subordinate is here.”
The iron-tower figure stepped out from the shadows.
“How much of it do you think Fabian believed?”
Roland pondered for a mont before giving the sort of precise answer only a soldier would.
“On the surface, at least eighty percent.”
“But in his bones, he did not believe a single word.”
“A man like that trusts only what he sees with his own eyes, and whatever serves his absolute interests.”
“Well said.”
Caesar smiled, though there was not a trace of warmth in it.
“So he will soon create an opportunity for to show him sothing with his own eyes.”
A flicker of confusion passed through Roland’s gaze.
Caesar tossed the vial to him, and Roland caught it steadily.
“Dispose of it sowhere. Do not let anyone touch it.”
Caesar spoke calmly.
“And then go to the training ground.”
“I want that pack of drunken fools to understand that last night’s wine was not so easily earned.”
“I want them to learn what hell is.”
…
At that mont, the training ground of the City of Miracles had truly beco a place of wailing.
The soldiers of Black Dragon’s Wing, still half-dead from their hangovers, were doused awake with freezing water. Then Barrett and several grizzled veterans under him, fierce as wolves and tigers, drove them together with whips.
“Stand up straight, you useless bastards! Did none of you eat!”
A savage light blazed in Barrett’s single eye. He carried a thick wooden cudgel and strode back and forth before the ranks. Whenever he saw soone unable to stand steadily, he smashed the man across the shin with it. The pain made them bare their teeth, yet none of them dared make a sound.
The sa “good elder brother” who had drunk and boasted with them last night had turned into a King of Hell co to collect their lives by morning.
When Roland stepped to the front of the formation in full plate armor, carrying that terrifying two-handed greatsword in silence, the temperature of the entire training ground seed to drop by several degrees.
Every soldier instinctively held his breath.
“From today on, I will personally oversee your training.”
Roland’s voice was hoarse and cold, like two sheets of iron scraping against one another.
He paused, and his hawk-like gaze swept over every man present, making them feel as though they had been stripped bare and left standing naked in the snow.
“Yesterday’s defeat was your sha.”
“The lord was rciful. He rewarded you with wine and at so that you could forget that sha. But I am not.”
“I will only make you carve that sha into your bones!”
“All of you! Carry thirty kilograms and run ten laps around the wall! Anyone who cannot finish will get no midday al!”
“What?!”
A wave of shocked cries burst from the crowd before they could stop themselves.
One lap around the wall was ten kiloters. Ten laps ant a hundred kiloters.
And they had to carry thirty kilograms besides. That was enough to kill them!
“Do you object?”
Roland’s gaze locked onto the soldier who had cried out.
The man shuddered under that stare. He had just started to shrink back when an old veteran beside him kicked him straight out of formation.
“Good.”
Roland nodded slowly.
“You. Fifty kilograms. Fifteen laps.”
The soldier’s face went deathly pale. His lips trembled, and he nearly dropped to his knees.
Roland did not spare him another glance. He turned to the rest of them, and his voice suddenly rose like thunder.
“My words are military law! If any man disagrees, he may step forward now! I permit you to challenge !”
“If you win, you beco the new drill instructor.”
“If you lose…”
He slowly raised the greatsword in his hand, the tip dragging across the ground with a harsh, grating screech.
“You die.”
The entire training ground fell into deathly silence.
Challenge Roland the Skullcrusher?
What kind of joke was that? They still wanted to live.
“Good.”
Roland sheathed his sword.
“Since there are no objections, begin!”
“Run! Run! Run! You useless trash! Did none of you eat!”
Barrett lashed the air with his whip, driving the despairing soldiers toward that death track that seed to have no end, like a man herding livestock.
And behind an inconspicuous window on the second floor of the main keep, a slender figure watched everything in silence.
Anneliya had wrapped her dazzling golden hair in a plain linen headscarf, and wore a coarse dress that had been washed so many tis the color had begun to fade.
Her face was still pale, but there was more life in those sky-blue eyes now than before.
Watching the hellish scene unfold on the training ground, she instinctively clenched her fists.
She did not understand.
That man nad Caesar had been drinking with these soldiers just last night, like a generous elder brother.
Why, then, was he tornting them in such a brutal way today?
Her gaze fell upon Roland, standing there like a demon god in the midst of it all.
In him, she saw a trace of Uncle Gregory—the sa iron blood, the sa authority.
But… Uncle Gregory’s training, though severe, had never been so utterly rciless, as though he ant to drive n to death with his own hands.
“Is this… his way of surviving?”
Anneliya murmured softly to herself.
One day of indulgence to win people’s hearts, then ten days of cruelty to grind down every edge they had left, until they beca tools of absolute obedience.
That man… what was his heart made of?
As she was thinking, the door to the bedchamber was gently pushed open.
Caesar walked in.
Anneliya’s body stiffened. She instinctively stepped back, lowered her head, and looked like a startled fawn.
Caesar did not look at her. He walked straight to the table, picked up a water jug, poured himself a cup, and drained it in one swallow.
“Are you frightened?”
Caesar asked suddenly.
Anneliya’s shoulders trembled slightly, but she did not answer.
“Do you think I am cruel?”
Caesar asked again.
Anneliya bit her lip. After hesitating for a long while, she finally spoke in a voice as soft as a mosquito’s hum.
“They… will die.”
“They will.”
Caesar’s answer was simple and direct, without the slightest emotion.
“Better they die under my training than be torn apart by the undead on the battlefield.”
“At least if they die at the hands of their own side, they will leave behind a whole corpse.”
He turned around, his deep violet eyes resting quietly on her.
“In a place like this, rcy is the most useless thing there is.”
“The compassion you cling to will only get more people killed, including yourself.”
“Rember this, Anna.”
“Here, only wolves survive. There are no sheep.”
With that, he ignored her completely. He turned and walked to a massive table, upon which lay a crude parchnt map showing the terrain around the City of Miracles.
Anneliya stood frozen where she was, her hands and feet gone cold.
Wolves… and sheep…
She rembered what Uncle Gregory had often told her.
“Survive like a lion.”
But now, after all this ti, even though she held the exalted position of Chief Administrator in the City of Miracles, she was still nothing more than a lamb waiting for slaughter.
No.
She did not want to be a sheep.
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