Vol 1 Chapter 6 – Childhood – Summer at Age Eight

(Author note: I was eight last autumn, I’m still eight this summer, and I’ll be nine next autumn. The title isn’t a mistake.)

It had been a while since that monumental blunder—when I recited a poem in a campy tone in front of my parents, a mistake that would be teased about for the rest of my life. By the time my eldest brother Heinz had somehow finished his greeting to the district magistrate and the spring sowing had been completed without incident, I was standing at the edge of the village.

“Hey, you little brats, good to see you!”

In an unremarkable field, a handful of kids from our farming family—the ones from the third son to the youngest—and a few older boys had gathered.

Then, standing before us in a neat row was a burly middle-aged man. With a towering, muscled build clad in light tanned-leather armor and a sheathed longsword in hand, he was Lambert. His short-cropped hair, now beginning to show streaks of white, and his square face with piercing golden eyes made it clear he was the head of the vigilante group of our Königstuhl estate.

“Welcome to the first vigilante training!”

We’d gathered for a simple reason: to participate in the selection training for the vigilante group.

According to what Margit taught me, the administrative system of the Line Triple Empire is surprisingly modern and systematic. The leaders of each province are powerful nobles, and beneath them, the heads of administrative districts are lower-ranking nobles or knightly families. In modern terms, it’s not much different from county governors, city councilors, or even hereditary public officials.

Moreover, this Königstuhl estate falls under the jurisdiction of the Thuringian Imperial Knight Family—stationed at Königstuhl Fortress—and even within the estate, a municipal system has been established. Although Lord Thuringen, acting as the district magistrate for the lord, is the head of the estate, he—stationed in the castle and commanding several manors—cannot possibly oversee everything. Even his subordinate riders and foot soldiers aren’t numerous enough to adequately defend every manor.

The cost of maintaining a standing army is enormous; only a modern nation-state could afford to keep one. Of course, the cavalry formed by Lord Thuringen’s riders and attendants, along with the infantry assembled by levy, do maintain public order—but they aren’t a permanent force. They’re mainly stationed in the fortress and deployed only when needed. That means each manor must manage its own basic self-defense and security until help arrives.
For that reason, a vigilante group is formed within each estate. This organization is an officially sanctioned body approved by the district magistrate—remarkably, they’re provided with barracks and lodgings and even receive a stipend as semi-regular soldiers. Moreover, it’s one of the few jobs available within the estate for the younger sons.

“I’m Lambert—the head of the vigilante group. Well, we’ve met plenty of times at village gatherings and festivals, so there’s no need for formal introductions—but since it’s the first day, here I am. You know, formality is important; there’s a long-established standard for these things.”

As he grinned ferociously, baring his teeth, the children—though they admired swords, were too timid to even consider the possibility of injury, let alone death—shook with fear. That’s how imposing this giant was. And it was no wonder: Lambert was a former mercenary, scouted by the district magistrate when he retired from active duty to become the head of our estate’s vigilante group. According to the tales of valor he recounted at festivals, he had participated in twenty campaigns, received commendations and rewards about twelve times, and decapitated twenty-five foes—heads belonging to men who were fit to wear fine armor. It is for that reason he’s been entrusted with recruiting and training the vigilante group.

“When I call out, they all show up—well, at least I can count on them having proper limbs. That said, I don’t really know what those skinny brats are capable of,” he sneered, looking down on us with all the disdain of an instructor. I even wondered if a Marine-style, Hartmann-type thrashing existed in this world too.

“What a riot—a bunch of fools with silly faces, all dreaming of becoming the dashing heroes of a swordsman saga.”

Let me just say: I didn’t come here of my own free will. My older brother Hans was too scared to go alone, so he practically dragged me out from where I was busy making board game pieces for a side job.
Well, I had thought that if I could learn to use a weapon—especially in this world where, come winter, mercenaries might show up when you’re short on food and shelter—it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“But this job isn’t all fun and games. It’s a shitty gig where your fingers can be torn off like branches and your guts dragged out like hemp rope. Fortunately, no one’s died in the past two years—but you know about Lücke ending up in the infirmary, right?”

Bearing his sword on his shoulder, Lambert slowly strode back and forth in front of us, speaking in a menacing tone. The vigilante group doesn’t exactly have an abundant budget, so when it comes to selecting permanent members, they’re very particular—probably sifting out all the cowards. In fact, I’d heard that most recruits get dropped; even if they keep up with the training, at best they become reserve members called upon only when needed. Still, even as reserves, if they’re of high quality as emergency forces or conscripts, they might even reduce the head tax a bit—so it’s not entirely a loss.

“It’s brutal—having your arms ripped out by those mangled little brats. You only survive because of sheer luck. Even the greatest masters, when it comes time to die, it’s all over in an instant.”

At that, one of the kids—who had come here inspired by glorious tales of heroic swordsmen—let out a strangled, collapsing scream, as if he’d failed to draw a proper breath.

“So, here’s a dose of reality.”

In the next moment, Lambert swung his sword downward with a motion as natural as if he were patting someone’s head. The indescribable clash of flesh and metal rang out, and I could see the boy who’d just screamed get struck hard. As he clutched his head and rolled about, crying out, it was clear he had been smacked by the sword’s edge.

“Run! That’s all you little brats can do!”

And then, with a ferocious grin, pain itself took shape and attacked us…

【Tips】 Public office comes with quite a few bonuses.

Looking down at the kids crawling in pain and fear, Lambert snorted in disdain—it was hardly a pleasant sight. I couldn’t quite put it into words, but this wasn’t born of some twisted personal fancy; it was efficiency and genuine concern for the children. The grim reality of the vigilante group’s work, as he had described, was no lie.

Mercenary work is brutal, but the vigilante group does the same thing. If a deranged magical monster sets up its lair near the village, they must go out and exterminate it; if packs of wolves or giant wolves appear—beasts even hunters alone can’t handle—they must take up spears and go forth. Moreover, if famished bandits or mercenaries come seeking shelter for the winter, the village men are roused into forming a spear formation. Where is the glamour of a heroic saga in that?

And the aftermath of a fierce battle—just like last year’s goblin hunt—is nothing but pain and blood. Lücke, who ended up in the infirmary, is still among the lucky ones. Even though it’s been peaceful for the past ten years, there’s no shortage of villagers who have fallen to blades.

Fighting isn’t beautiful or noble like in the stories. It’s simply the cold reality of killing or being killed, with nothing but the stench of blood and entrails left behind. That’s why every few years, a kid has to get a good slap to show them reality—to whip them into shape as proper farmers rather than letting them wander off to become mercenaries or adventurers. If they still manage to stand up after that, it’s even better. Lambert believes that any man with the guts to pick up a spear or halberd and stand against thugs for the sake of his family or estate truly earns the right to wield a weapon. After all, when a blade comes your way, in the end, only you can face it.

And for a man with that kind of spirit, he’s more than willing to train them.
But it seems this year’s harvest of recruits is poor. He’s been delivering blows so precisely adjusted that they hurt just enough to make you cry and wail, yet he holds back so everyone can walk home. It’s fine if you end up bawling or even wet yourself a little—but you must at least have the grit to glare and mutter, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” In battle, it’s that fighting spirit—of “I’ll kill you, bastard”—that makes all the difference.

Just as I was about to sigh over the lack of reserves and reinforcements, I noticed one kid stand up at the edge of my vision. I recalled that Lambert had noted it was likely the kid from Johannes’ group—the one who was about to turn nine. Seeing him rise, covered in mud, Lambert appraised him. Even though he was still a skinny kid, there was promise. Aside from his gentle, mother-like features, his narrow shoulders belied a solid bone structure, and his lean build hinted that he might “grow” into something more. As he wiped the blood from his split lip and stood up straight, his expression didn’t exactly scream rebellious, but there was an unmistakable air of a boy who gets things done.
Thinking that this kid might be more suited to serving as a knight’s rider or retainer than to the vigilante group, Lambert grinned, baring his teeth so that even his own eyes could hardly hide the approval.

“Oh? Looks like you’ve got some backbone.”

【Tips】 A proper falling technique can reduce a lot of damage.

“Breakfall is amazing,” I thought as I wiped the blood from my face and got back up. Thanks to my endurance stat being at 《Excellent》 and the several skills that assist my breakfall, I managed to deflect most of the damage from the sword blows meant to beat me down. Otherwise, I’d probably be rolling around, crying “It hurts!” just like the others. After all, even when reduced, the pain still hurts.

“Oh? Looks like you’ve got some backbone.”

As Lambert laughed and complimented me, I couldn’t help but think he was one seriously capable adult—he made me realize that even a minor injury can shatter a young dream. This pain is the kind only he can inflict. No matter how carefully he wields his blade, the training sword is a hefty piece of iron. It is precisely because he swings it with such exquisite control that we can groan and roll around without breaking a single bone.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s overdoing it. I mean, if you asked Mr. Lücke—who ended up in the infirmary—to show you his wounds, you’d see enough evidence.
Oof.

Just when I let my guard down after being complimented, another blow came. A sweeping strike hit my cheek and sent me flying. I managed to relax, letting the impact wash over me as I took a breakfall that let the ground bear the brunt of it. Even so, being hit with an iron bar still hurt like crazy. I just hoped I hadn’t broken any teeth—there was an awful taste of blood.
By the second blow, I had gotten used to it enough to use the momentum of my roll to get back up. The first hit was bearable because I’d resigned myself with a muttered “Ah, here it comes,” but this surprise attack really got to me; the spinning made my head dizzy.

I see… so this is what it means to “fight.”

In retrospect, my previous life was truly fortunate. Growing up in a gentle home with a proper environment, I rarely experienced real pain outside of trivial childhood squabbles. I had never seriously thrown a punch or been knocked down for real.
And only by experiencing it can you understand why so many NPCs in TRPG scenarios drop out of being adventurers or soldiers. If they handle it like this, I shudder to think how much worse it would be if someone went full force. What if a sword pierced your flesh? What if an arrowhead severed muscle and bone? What if a blunt weapon crushed them? What if you were scorched by magic?
Just the thought sends shivers down my spine—imagining genuine murderous intent, unbridled by moderation, tearing deeply into both mind and body is terrifying. And I can’t even fathom how excruciating it would be if that were inflicted on a family member.
I see—this is why people become police officers or soldiers: so that their families and innocent bystanders aren’t exposed to such horrors.
That being the case, I suppose I should learn a bit about fighting too. In this world, you never know when the unreasonable will strike. I must be prepared so that the villages I’ve saved countless times as a player—and for which I’ve, as a GM, prepared an endless horde of barbarians and monsters—don’t end up losing their homelands.

While I rubbed my throbbing cheek to clear the dull haze from my head, I noticed a notification pop up at the edge of my vision. It read:
“Many combat-related categories have been unlocked…”