Reincarnated with the Country System-Chapter 241: Side Story Eli’s Training days

Eli stood at attention, his boots planted firmly on the frozen ground, the wind slicing through his uniform like a jagged blade. The Bernard Empire was rich, powerful, unstoppable—but it was cold. Not just in weather, but in everything.

"Move, you sack of shit!"

The Sergeant stalked the line of recruits like a hunting dog, his sharp eyes tearing through them, searching for weakness. He was a wiry bastard with a voice like gravel and a face carved from stone.

"Do you think the enemy will wait for you to warm your delicate little balls?!" The Sergeant spat, stopping in front of a shivering recruit. "Pathetic. Get down and give me twenty, you whimpering sack of rat-piss."

The poor bastard dropped to the ground, arms trembling as he pushed through the punishment. Eli kept his face blank, his muscles locked. Any sign of weakness and Vos would be on him next.

"Today's a good day," The Sergeant continued, pacing in front of them. "Today's the day you stop being useless shits and start being something worth the Empire's time."

His words rolled over them, thick with contempt. No one moved. No one even breathed too hard.

"Today," The Sergeant said, his voice lowering, becoming something worse than a shout—something quiet, cold, and deadly—"we learn how to kill."

A flicker of something passed through the line. Not fear, not really. Something else. A shiver of realization, an understanding of what they had signed up for.

"Follow me."

The recruits fell into step behind him, marching through the frostbitten dirt toward the training pits. The sun was a dull glow behind thick clouds, offering no warmth, only the illusion of daylight. The Empire didn't care about comfort. It cared about results.

At the edge of the training ground, a series of wooden dummies stood in neat rows, each carved into the crude shape of a man. But these weren't just for sword practice. The real training dummies stood beyond them—hunched figures, bound at the wrists and ankles, heads hooded in black cloth.

Prisoners.

The Bernard Empire didn't waste resources, not even its enemies. Those who defied them were given one of two fates—service or sacrifice. The ones who stood here, wrists bound, were the latter.

A slow, uneasy ripple passed through the recruits. This was different. Sparring against each other was one thing. Practicing with wooden weapons was one thing. But this—

Eli's stomach twisted.

"You're soldiers now," The Sergeant said, his voice matter-of-fact. "You think war is about glory? Honor? You think when the fighting starts, your enemy is going to wait for you to feel ready?"

Silence.

The Sergeant sneered. "You're going to kill today, whether you like it or not."

One of the recruits, a younger boy with wide eyes and shaking hands, took a half-step back.

The Sergeant was on him instantly.

"Scared, are you?" he whispered, voice like oil over steel. "Thinking of running?"

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The boy—Lukas, Eli thought his name was—didn't answer. His throat worked, his lips parted, but no sound came out.

The Sergeant leaned in close. "Run, then. Run back to your mother. Oh, wait. You can't, can you? Because Latvia burned that village to the ground. Because we own you now."

Lukas swallowed, his face pale as ash.

The Sergeant turned his back on him, dismissing him as if he wasn't even worth the effort. "The rest of you, step forward."

Eli's feet felt heavy as he moved. The man in front of him was thin, ragged, his tunic torn at the collar. He smelled like sweat and fear. His breath rasped under the hood, uneven and quick.

A blade was pressed into Eli's hand. He knew how to use it. He'd killed before—deer, rabbits, the occasional starving wolf that had wandered too close to the farm. But this was different.

This wasn't survival.

This was a lesson.

"Throat, heart, or gut," The Sergeant instructed, pacing behind them. "You pick."

Eli tightened his grip on the knife. His jaw clenched. His vision tunneled.

The man in front of him was shaking. He couldn't see his eyes, but he could feel them—burning through the black cloth, pleading.

No names. No stories. No hesitation.

Eli drove the blade forward.

It was fast. That was the important part. Straight to the heart. The man gasped—soft, short—before the strength left his body, before his knees buckled, before he slumped against Eli like dead weight.

He stepped back. The body crumpled. Blood soaked the frozen dirt.

Silence.

Then—

"Good." The Sergeant clapped Eli on the shoulder, his grip like a vice. "Not bad for a peasant."

Eli said nothing. His fingers were still wrapped around the knife. He could feel the warmth of blood cooling in the wind.

The others hesitated. Some of them hesitated too long.

One of the recruits—a scrawny kid from the slums—froze. His hands shook so hard the blade clattered to the ground. The prisoner in front of him didn't move. Didn't run. He just stood there, waiting.

"Pathetic," The Sergeant spat. "If you can't kill a bound man, how the fuck do you think you'll manage in battle?"

The boy didn't answer.

The Sergeant sighed. "Fine. I'll help you."

He pulled a pistol from his belt and pressed it into the recruit's hands. He guided him—forced him—to raise it.

"Pull the trigger."

Tears streaked the recruit's dirty face. His fingers trembled.

The Sergeant shoved the barrel against the prisoner's head. "Now."

A shot cracked through the cold air.

The prisoner collapsed. The recruit screamed.

The Sergeant only shook his head. "Weak. You'll either get stronger, or you'll die."

The training continued.

One by one, the prisoners fell. One by one, the recruits learned.

By the time it was over, Eli felt different. The blood had dried on his skin. His fingers ached from the cold, from the strain of holding a blade too tight. But it was something else, too—something deeper.

Something had changed.

Not just in him.

In all of them.

As they marched back to the barracks, Rolf muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. "Shit's getting real."

Eli didn't respond.

Because he already knew.

It had always been real.

Now, though? Now, there was no going back.