He'd had the luxury of seeing his own face in the mirror every morning. Other people didn't get to pretend they were still their old selves with pointy ears and superpowers. And with that in mind, it was hard not to wonder what was left of them back home in Japan. Had they all just vanished? A giant spiriting away?
Or had it been more of a John Carter deal, leaving behind their comatose bodies, or maybe… 'Maybe our corpses.' But the mood was morbid enough without saying that.
“That's why we've gotta support people like Enya-chan and the TRIST staff.” Klein said instead. “We gotta keep'm safe so they have time to work and try to figure out a way for us to get home.” TRIST had attracted the best and brightest of the players turned Faeries, the Doctors, Engineers, and a few advanced Physicists, or at least advance physics students, who had specialized in topics that Klein couldn't even pronounce.
Whether any of them were qualified to unravel the secrets of magic was anyone's guess, but nobody else on the Faerie side had a chance that was remotely above zero. Even Enya, a high schooler in that other world, was doing way more than Klein could have ever hoped to accomplish.
All he was good with was a sword, so he'd use it to protect people like Enya who were their best shot at getting home.
“Spoken like a real protagonist, Klein.” Caramella offered up with a grin. “Man, can we please change the subject now. It's weird being with you guys when you're talking about stuff I'm not supposed to know about.”
They hurried out along the packed earth that formed the surface of much of the Champ de'Mars HQ. The air outside was hot, but blessedly dry, and full of the smell of dust and sulfur residue that was accompanied by the not too distant shouts and -cracks- of soldiers drilling with their muskets.
On foot, the place was like a maze of outbuildings and barracks that had sprouted up around the three story high stone and brick HQ building, and that impression was only strengthened when taking to the sky. It reminded Klein a little of a documentary he had watched about the Roman Legions which had been known for their organized barracks and field fortifications.
It seemed that Halkegenia had maintained a little of that ancient discipline by way of its garrison forces, or maybe Lord Mortimer had already gotten his hooks sunk so deep that he was bossing people at the Headquarters now too.
Although whatever its source, a little bit of that organization had started breaking down recently. It was pretty obvious to Klein's untrained eye that the new construction, wooden barracks and armories put together by commoner carpenters, wasn't quite up to snuff with the long standing and magically crafted stone that made up the rest of the camp.
And things were definitely a lot more crowded around the HQ building since his first visit, the roads were packed, and everywhere Klein turned, there were mage officers walking about in groups or recruits being marched out for lessons and exercises.
Kirito and Asuna had a meeting with Lord Mortimer and General Eugene, something about the drills they'd been practicing the last couple of mornings. Klein's next stop was along the way, so he followed after the two, intending to break off when they passed the barracks.
It just so happened that their route took them past the edge of the HQ complex where the last of the buildings and parade squares surrendered to the expansive fields and network of berms that surrounded the Champ de'Mars training center. And it just so happened that while they were walking buy, a cloud of dust managed to work its way out from behind the berms, the product of roughly four dozen black ants. Or rather, Klein squinted, the dark specs resolving into people.
“PT?” Klein wondered out loud.
“Looks like the mage recruits.” Caramella said with a distinct lack of her characteristic cheekiness.
“You can tell all the way from here?” Klein wondered, Caramella's eyes lacked the telltale glow of an activated Perception skill.
“We're two weeks into the training cycle. Commoner troops were all levied from the farms and villages, so they're already pretty fit, Carmond and the other instructors had them running in formation in less than a week. Those guys are a mess, just look at'm.” The Nymph waved vaguely. “And their running gait sucks too, rookies are going to get some serious shin splints like that.”
Asuna frowned. “Shouldn't the instructors correct them?”
“They probably already have.” Caramella sighed. “A lot. But they have to complete the run, if they get lazy and their gait gets sloppy, the instructors can't do anything about that. I wouldn't worry, the pain's going to teach them pretty fast.”
Maybe faster for some, Klein winced with sympathy as was particularly corpulent mage fell behind, or really, just fell, which presented a problem for the trainees trudging along behind him who suddenly had to contend with an improvised vaulting exercise.
“Seems sort of like a waste to run mages into the ground like that.” Klein said out loud.
“I asked Lieutenant Gramont.” Caramella answered. “He said physical conditioning helps to improve focus and willpower efficiency. I guess it's like how exercising regularly helps you to stay energized.” The swordswoman worked her shoulders loosely.
“Huh.” Was all Klein could think to say. “Oy, something wrong Kirito?” Klein noticed that his Spriggan best friend had stopped in his tracks to watch, in fact, he seemed to be watching one of the recruits in particular, a boy who couldn't have been much older than Kirito, sweat soaked mop of blonde hair bouncing messily as he struggled to hold his own at the middle of the pack. “You know that guy?”
Kirito sighed. “Something like that.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, the Spriggan turned to depart. “Come on, Asuna. We're already running late.”

***

It occurred to Guiche that there was a simple word which summed up his first two weeks of military training.
That word was 'Hell'.
Though he hadn't known it when he'd arrived, the Champ de Mars was quite simply Hell.
It hadn't seemed that way at first. Arriving at the camp, the trainees had, to a man, been in good spirits to begin their training. Even Guiche had found himself joining in the mood being bunked alongside many of his fellow students, his own friends, Malicorn and Gimli, among them, taking leave from their studies at the academy in order to fulfill their family expectations, joining the army that was being raised to protect the Kingdom.
Two weeks ago, they'd been eager to begin their training, to prove themselves to Queen and Kingdom. Guiche remembered lying in bed that first night, listening to Gimli and Malicorn, despite what he knew lay ahead, their enthusiasm had been comforting. By now, much of that enthusiasm had worn off.
“Huff… huff… huff…” Lungs burning so bad that Guiche wanted to cry, but there was no time for that, and no breath to do it with anyways. The shouts and bellows of the instructing mage officer were frighteningly close now, close enough that Guiche could hear the gait that his horse made across the hard packed earth.
“Trainee Malicorn, you have not been permitted to stop, back on your feet!” Two weeks of physical labor and the relative privation of a military diet had not but put a small dent in the girth of the Wind Mage, face puffed up and ruddy beneath a veil of sweat as he willed himself onward. “And Trainee Gramont, that is a disgraceful showing, pick up your pace, you'll shame your father the General like this!”
“Huff… yes… huff… Sir!”
Guiche knew it was hopeless one way or another, there was no telling when the instructors would decide they'd had enough and blow the whistle to announce they were relieved, some day it was but an hour, others, they'd marched until the sun had been sinking on the horizon. Never was any sign given of just what swayed their tormentors' judgment.
He couldn't cry out, but Guiche found himself more than able to weep tears of pain as he ran, and he did so with shameful enthusiasm as the path beneath his feet began to rise and the pack he carried conspired to ruin him.
When Axel had first told him of the rigors of training, Guiche hadn't believed his brother that he was expected to perform the first month without magic. A magician without his magic was simply… well… a commoner. It seemed a waste. Why even bother with such a thing?
But father had appeared most agreeable about the arrangement, as had Reinhardt and Erwin when he'd asked if it was true. Father had complained of the softness of the present generation, and Erwin had observed that it was the tendency of the Nobility to train their magic from a young age while neglecting all else.
To train the mind, one had to first train the body. A mage's power was the sum of the mental reserves that they could call upon and their innate faculties, trained to shape and harness their magic.
A mage who could not maintain their focus on the edge of physical exhaustion, or whose physical condition did even in the slightest weaken their state of mind, was not a mage worth sending onto the battlefield.
Only once they proved themselves capable of that much, would they be allowed the privilege of magic.
If Guiche hadn't understood that before he and the other recruits had been given ample opportunity to have it pounded into their skulls until a permanent impression had been made. A mantra that had been imprinted on them all from the moment they had been made to surrender their foci.
'A mage who is nothing without magic is nothing with.' Guiche couldn't stop thinking those words.
'A mage who is nothing without magic is nothing with.'
'A mage who is nothing without magic is nothing with.'
At least it gave him something to focus on save for the pain and his own ragged exhaustion, all the while, driving home that that they were all, from the highest noble son to the lowest, nothing in the eyes of their magic instructors and even the commoner staff. If they'd needed any proof of that it had been on the second day when Willhelm de'Garten, third son of Count de'Garten, a powerfully built and highly accomplished duelist, had been thoroughly taken apart before their eyes in a training duel.
That his opponent had been none other than her Majesty's personal guard commander, inspecting the training grounds on the Queen's behalf, had been little consolation to the students, Agnes de Milan, not merely a commoner, but a woman at that.
The match had been meant to be contact only, but her Majesty's Knight had seen no need to hold back after de'Garten had attempted to stave her head in with his training sword. Brutal and efficient, the hallmarks of a de'Garten and a bully. The end result had been one mage clutching his fractured wrist and one commoner standing over him with murderous intent in her eyes as she slammed the tip of her training sword into the hard packed earth at her feet.
The trainees had been shocked into silence, all except Guiche who had known better than to be the least bit surprised by the outcome. A mage was not physically superior to a commoner after all, and de'Garten was still a boy fighting a fully grown and superbly trained woman, a woman who happened to show far more accomplishment with the sword than any idle fencer at the academy.
It was very much a temperament that Guiche had grown familiar with while traveling with Midori and he had suspected the way that the match would go as soon as the two participants had taken the field.
de'Garten's curses had echoed as he was taken to the infirmary to have his bones reset and flesh knitted back into its proper shape, but not before he was able to launch a final threat.
They boy had screamed like a banshee that he would have the Chevalier's head for daring to so much as lay a finger on his person, Dame Agnes had merely taken the threat in stride, not even blinking as she reminded calmly that the third son of a Count was beneath the rank of one of her Majesty's personal agents and that he should be thankful she was not demanding recompense for him threatening her life.
When the mage instructors had sided with Dame Agnes, that had been when de Garten had truly lost it.
That had been an unwelcome surprise to more than a few of the trainees, expecting to be able to boss around and make demands of the commoners who had always been beneath them before. Certainly a commoner sergeant might outrank them, but the commoners would still know their place, the military was an institution where propriety mattered, after all. Malicorn had all but cried when the musketeers had begun ordering him around and the mage instructors had commanded he obey.
Guiche had been better off than most, he at least knew a modicum of field craft, how to get by without needing a spell for every last thing, and years of his father and brothers' expectations had shaped him into fair physical condition, albeit far from what was demanded of him now.
Perhaps then, the surprise had been seeing just how much better suited still the commoners were to this same sort of grueling activity. The commoner recruits, volunteers, mercenaries, and troop levies summoned from across Tristain, arriving here to train as foot soldiers and cannoneers.
Without their magic, the mage trainees were little better than commoners and their instructors had deemed to treat them as commoners all the same in their physical exercises. It was an opportunity to measure themselves against the lesser classes, and find themselves wanting.
Every day thus far, the mage trainees had known only the sight of dust kicked up by the musketeers and pikemen that began ahead of them and never fell out of step or dropped behind. So relentless in fact that Gimli and Malicorn insisted the instructors must have been doing something to enhance the commoners as part of this 'humiliating exercise'.
Guiche knew better, boys and men who had spent their lives working the fields and tending to animals, physical labor from sunrise to sunset, they needed only the discipline to march and fight in formation.
It was even more impressive when Guiche considered that, when the mage trainees broke for classes, the commoners simply continued with their physical drill, trading forced marches and field training for team exercises, musket drills, and melee sparring. Not that he was in any condition to appreciate the marvelous feat of physical endurance on this, their third lap of the Headquarters.
He did find the strength, however, to lift his head high enough that he could make out a dark silhouette standing at the edge of the barracks. Sweat stinging his eyes, reducing the shape to a blur, for a heartbeat he thought 'Midori?', but then he blinked and pale skin became like ash and long hair resolved into the collar of black jacket.
Guiche grimaced, of course, he had hoped for too much. Not the Swordswoman and Agent of the Crown, but simply that crow Kirito, the mercenary who had captured the attention of Queen Henrietta and ingratiated himself so well as to be made a Knight for slaying the traitor Wardes. Guiche was not one to argue with the decisions of his much beloved Queen, nose wrinkling in distaste, but surely there were Faeries who would have been more suitable for an elevation of status, even if he was the husband of a swan as pure and noble as Dame Asuna.
And all the while, the efforts of agents such as Miss Midori went unrecognized. Needs to keep it that way or not, it was hardly fair. Surely a just reward need not draw the public's eye or the ire of the Nobility. If Faeries and Protestants were being elevated to the status of Knighthood for their service to the Crown, than surely even a bastard daughter could be honored with that station.
But as far as Guiche knew, it had not happened, perhaps even because Miss Midori did not want it to happen…
“Trainee Gramont!” The instructor roared down from atop his horse. In a moment of distraction, Guiche had neither seen nor heard his approach.
“Huff… Sir!”
The slim, pinch-faced man gave Guiche a look like he was something he wanted to scrap from his shoe. “Trainee Gramont, what is the proper order for musket volley?!”
“Huff… Sir!… It's…” It was at that moment that Guiche froze, a deeply nauseous feeling striking his stomach at the most inopportune moment, for, try as he might…
“Trainee Gramont!”
“Huff…” He couldn't recall…
The instructor shrugged, spurring his hoarse onwards. “Third Platoon, continue your march, you have Trainee Gramont to thank today…”
The day before, it had been Malicorn, and the day before that, it had been a boy named Eli, son of a petty mage hailing from the Capital. Even so, Guiche doubted that shared fault would make them any more forgiving. It was a sensation that solidified itself into an almost physical ball of unease that started deep within his stomach before rising, bubbling up through his chest, nearly strangling him as he…
“Huff… huff… hurrrrrkkkkk…”
Perhaps… perhaps he shouldn't have dared to have sausages that morning.