Reincarnated with the Country System

CRACK.

Eli barely got his sword up in time to block the next blow. The impact rattled through his arms, but he gritted his teeth and shoved forward. Their weapons locked. Their breath came hot and fast.

"Not bad," Rolf admitted. "But not good enough."

He twisted, slamming his weight into Eli's chest. The air left Eli's lungs in a rush, and the next thing he knew, his back was hitting the dirt.

"Fuck," Eli groaned.

Rolf grinned down at him. "Told you."

"Enough flirting, ladies," Vos snapped. "Again!"

The fights lasted hours. Bruises bloomed across Eli's arms and ribs. By the end of it, his muscles screamed, his vision swam, and he could barely hold his practice sword.

And then came the rifles.

"Bayonets today," The Sergeant said, grabbing a long, wickedly sharp blade and attaching it to the end of his rifle. "You ever run out of bullets, this is your best friend. Better than a sword, better than a knife. This will punch through armor, flesh, and bone."

He turned and drove the bayonet into a straw dummy. The blade sank in deep, splitting the stuffed target in half.

"Your turn," he barked.

The recruits lined up. Eli gripped his rifle, the bayonet gleaming at the tip.

"Stab, twist, pull!" The Sergeant shouted. "Again!"

Eli drove the blade forward. It hit the dummy with a dull thud. He twisted, yanked it free.

"Again!"

By the time the sun started sinking, Eli's hands were raw, his shoulders burning. Blood—mostly his own—stained his sleeves.

The Bernard Empire didn't just want killers.

They wanted weapons.

And Eli could feel himself turning into one.

The first battle came sooner than expected.

The alarm sounded in the dead of night. A shrieking, metallic wail that tore through the barracks.

"UP! UP!"

Recruits scrambled from their bunks, fumbling for weapons, boots thudding against the wooden floor.

"What the fuck is happening?" Garrick hissed, struggling to buckle his belt.

"No clue," Rolf muttered, yanking on his coat.

The heavy door slammed open. The Sergeant stalked in, his eyes like shards of ice. He was already dressed for battle, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his pistol strapped to his thigh.

"Congratulations, shitstains," he barked. "Tonight, you see real war."

The recruits stood frozen, half-dressed, half-asleep.

"NOW, YOU FUCKING MAGGOTS!"

They moved. Fast.

Eli grabbed his rifle, slung it over his back. His fingers were stiff from the cold, his breath fogging the air as they rushed outside.

The night was black, the sky thick with clouds. Smoke curled in the distance.

Gunfire cracked through the air.

"Bandits," The Sergeant spat, leading them toward the outer wall. "Poor, desperate fucks who think they can raid an Imperial outpost and live to tell about it."

Eli swallowed hard.

Bandits.

He'd seen them before—half-starved men roaming the countryside, attacking villages, looting whatever they could find. The war had turned them into animals, scavengers feeding off the scraps left behind.

"Orders are simple," The Sergeant continued. "Kill anything that doesn't wear Imperial black. No mercy. No prisoners. You hesitate, you die. You run, you wish you died."

Eli tightened his grip on his rifle.

The closer they got, the louder the fighting became—screams tangled with the thunder of musket fire.

Then, suddenly, they were there.

The outer wall was a mess. Smoke curled from burning barricades, and bodies littered the ground—some in Imperial black, others in ragged clothes, their faces twisted in agony.

Eli barely had time to think before the first shot rang out.

The recruit beside him jerked. His head snapped back, blood spraying the air. He collapsed in a heap, the steam rising from his cooling body.

"TAKE POSITION!" The Sergeant roared.

Eli's body moved before his mind caught up. He dropped to one knee, raised his rifle. A figure rushed through the smoke—a bandit, wrapped in dirty furs, swinging a rusted saber.

Eli fired.

BANG.

The man crumpled.

Someone was screaming. Eli wasn't sure if it was him or someone else.

The battlefield was chaos. Shadows flickered in the firelight, black shapes darting between barricades. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark like bursts of lightning.

"KEEP MOVING!" The Sergeant bellowed.

Eli's rifle jammed.

"Fuck!"

A figure lunged at him.

Eli barely dodged, rolling through the dirt. He fumbled for his bayonet.

The bandit snarled, raising his sword.

Eli thrust forward.

The blade punched into the man's gut. He gasped, shuddered.

Eli twisted. Pulled free.

The man fell, choking on blood.

No time to think.

Another attacker. Another swing. Another thrust.

Another body.

Eli's arms ached. His breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air slicing through his lungs. His rifle was slick with sweat and blood.

Then—silence.

Eli blinked, chest heaving.

The battle was over.

The bandits were either dead or scattered, their bodies lying in heaps along the bloodstained ground. The Empire had won.

But as Eli looked around, at the frozen faces of the dead, at the recruits standing stiff, their eyes hollow—he realized something.

The brutality of war.

The fires still burned, casting eerie shadows over the corpses. Somewhere in the distance, a wounded man whimpered.

Eli wiped his hands on his coat, but the blood was already dried. He swallowed hard, staring at the body at his feet.

He'd killed before. In training. But this was different.

This wasn't a lesson.

This was real.

"Not bad, farm boy."

Rolf clapped a hand on Eli's shoulder. His grin was tight, forced. His face was smeared with dirt and sweat.

Eli didn't respond.

"Quit thinking," Rolf muttered. "They're dead. You're not. That's all that matters."

But was it?

The Sergeant strode past, surveying the battlefield. He nodded approvingly at the bodies, at the blood, at the silence.

"You did well," he said, voice like iron. "Most of you, anyway."

Eli followed his gaze.

A few recruits were missing. Some dead, some wounded, some—

His stomach turned.

One recruit was on his knees, his rifle on the ground.

Lukas.

The boy was trembling. His hands were slick with blood, his face pale as death.

"You didn't fire a single shot, did you?" The Sergeant asked, crouching beside him.

Lukas didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the body before him—a young bandit, barely older than himself, his throat slashed open.

The Sergeant sighed. "Pathetic."

He stood, pulled his pistol from his belt, and pressed it into Lukas's shaking hands.

"Finish it."

Lukas choked on a sob.

The bandit was still alive, his breath coming in wet, gasping rasps. Blood bubbled at his lips. He twitched, fingers scrabbling weakly at the dirt.

The Sergeant said. "Do it."

Lukas shook his head.

The Sergeant grabbed his wrist. "DO IT."

A gunshot rang through the frozen night.

Lukas collapsed, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gulps.

The Sergeant shook his head, disgusted. "Weak."

He turned, addressing the rest of them.

"Let this be a lesson," he said. "War doesn't wait for you to be ready. War doesn't give a shit about your conscience."