SDMA 11

Chapter 11

Don’t Tell Me You Don’t Know What “Class Year” Means

Most Northport instructors were former Northport graduates, but there was no way that lunatic—or idiot—had taken that into account when he called them here.

“Cadet Grevan, what’s going on in the middle of the night? I heard the fourth-years summoned an instructor?”

At the one-eyed instructor’s low question, the fourth-year senior snapped to attention and saluted so rigidly it looked reflexive. Sweat trickled down his face as he forced a stiff smile.

“Cadet Mia Grevan of the 84th Class! It’s nothing! The freshman must have been mistaken!”

Having understood the situation instantly, the instructors ignored the desperate, pleading eyes of the 87th Class and simply advised the seniors to ‘keep discipline reasonable.’ Then they left the storage building.

The moment the instructors were out of sight, the fourth-year senior’s expression twisted sharply as he sneered at the one who caused the assembly.

“In all my life, this is the first time I’ve seen a kid call the instructors because he couldn’t tell ‘above me’ from ‘below me’ in the chain of command. Really—thank you so much for ranking me above the instructors, junior.”

“Haha, don’t mention it.”

The useless idiot scratched his head shyly and laughed.

Is he actually insane?

Even the fourth-year senior looked genuinely thrown off, unable to hide his bewildered expression.

Giving up on dealing with the lunatic, the fourth-year turned his attention to the third-years instead.

“Guys, are you that busy since the semester started? So busy that you can’t even keep the freshmen in line?”

“No, sir!”

Even though the third-years shouted loudly with their heads planted on the floor, the twisted smile on the fourth-year’s face didn’t fade.

“Times have really changed. Back in my day, freshmen didn’t even dare step on a fourth-year’s shadow.”

He tapped the crown of a bowed third-year’s head with the tip of his boot.

“We disciplined them so tightly that none of them even dreamed of crossing a fourth-year. And yet you were so busy that you let a freshman stroll in during fourth-year shower time and get us cussed out? Seriously?”

Other fourth-years behind him grumbled irritably.

“At the very least, these bottom-of-the-barrel brats should have the basics drilled into their skulls—how to line up, how to behave toward seniors. Is this something you allow just because it’s the start of the semester?”

“With your level of seniority, we’re supposed to fix it?”

“You think reaching third-year means you get to slack off like this? Didn’t you see us get our asses handed to us by the 83rd Class last year? If you saw that and still act like this, you’re just worthless trash.”

“We’ll correct ourselves!”

Watching heads get kicked mercilessly made even the spectators’ scalps tingle.

“Let’s do better, alright?”

Still wearing a smile, the fourth-year delivered the threat and walked out. The others followed, swearing as they left the building.

The moment all the fourth-years were gone, the third-years finally lifted their heads—only to glare viciously at the second-years.

Front and center stood a blonde senior, arms crossed, her tone icy.

“So. You kids step out of the training grounds and into the barracks, and suddenly you think you run the place?”

The air froze instantly.

Watching the intimidatingly disciplined 86th Class, Chloe’s gaze drifted back to the blonde girl.

Her.
The beautiful blonde who had stared directly at Chloe during the entrance ceremony.

And the girl standing at the very front of the 85th Class during morning roll call—Daphne Lusset, if Chloe recalled correctly.

Something about her kept nagging at Chloe, as if she’d seen her before…

At that moment, Daphne and Chloe’s eyes met. Chloe quickly looked down, afraid of being singled out. Daphne’s gaze followed her persistently.

“Hey, 86th Class. Can’t even keep your juniors in line? At your seniority, we shouldn’t have to discipline freshmen for you.”

Slaps and beatings flew everywhere. Watching the chaotic violence, Chloe barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping.

Unbelievable. I didn’t think a military academy that still used this kind of primitive violence existed.

At the elite academy she came from, the harshest punishment was endurance drills or staying up all night running—not this barbaric physical assault.

As she watched the second-years getting “disciplined,” Daphne suddenly approached her. She scanned Chloe’s face.

“Name?”

“Chloe Winslet.”

At the alias, Daphne’s expression shifted subtly. She beckoned a second-year over and whispered something. The second-year nodded with grim resolve.

Once the third-years left, the chain of discipline finally dropped to the second-years—and then to the first-years.

The second-years cracked their knuckles with the hungry look of starving hunting dogs.

Great. I came here for a mission and now I’m getting beaten up by baby chicks. I’ve got years of seniority on these brats.

Chloe, used to this kind of posture, put her head to the floor. But surprisingly, no one hit her.

She had expected her striking hair color to make her the primary target.

“Do you dare hit me? Do you know what family I come from—urk! Agh!”

Beside her, someone bragged about their noble family and immediately got beaten twice as hard.

With her head down, Chloe didn’t see the second-year—who’d received Daphne’s whisper—standing beside her and frantically signaling at his approaching peers not to touch her.

“If anyone still wants to act tough just because of their family, speak up. I’ll kill you.”

With that chilling threat, the second-years finally left the building.

Only the 87th Class remained.

Every furious gaze immediately converged on one person.

“Hey, you little bastard! Try having some basic awareness!”

“You’re banned from washing, you hear me? If you must wash, go do it in the river outside the school gate!”

“What did you even do to get the entire academy assembled on day two?!”

Thus, the first true discipline session of the 87th Class came to an end—with curses hurled at the one responsible for it all.

Everyone limped out of the storage building, holding their sore butts and stinging cheeks. The fact that they still had four years left until graduation hit them harder than the slaps did.

***

The next morning at roll call, the 87th Class appeared in full dress uniforms.

Their sleeping area was still the open field, so they had to wait outside the first-floor communal bathrooms until all the upperclassmen left before they could change. It was inconvenient, but far preferable to more demerits or group punishment.

Still, they couldn’t avoid group punishment entirely—today’s reasons were tardiness and sloppy formation.

After their morning run, they were ordered not to the classrooms but to the outdoor training grounds.

The moment the instructors arrived, the 87th Class fell silent and formed ranks.

The instructor standing at the front dropped a large box at his feet and swept his gaze across them.

“A few months ago, on the border with the Duchy of Niehlen, an entire squad was wiped out. Investigation confirmed that artificially dispersed toxic fog was the cause.”

His voice was heavy—appropriate for such grim news.

A frontline squad wiped out by poisoning. Chloe had encountered that case while working in the Intelligence Operations Division.

The incident nearly caused a diplomatic crisis with Niehlen, and evidence strongly suggested that remnants of the coup faction were involved.

Hearing this, Chloe’s eyes sharpened.

This incident should’ve been classified by Intelligence… yet the instructors here know the exact cause?

She knew Northport had strong ties to frontier units since most graduates were posted there.

But she hadn’t expected information classified at the Intelligence Bureau level to have made its way here.

No wonder the bureau sent her specifically to Northport.

“The squad was lost in part because they had only learned about biochemical attacks in theory—no practical training—so they missed the golden window for response. This was not merely a failure of vigilance but a systemic failure in information sharing and emergency protocols.”

He paused, surveying the cadets.

“You must never allow such tragedies to repeat. As you learned on your first day, the frontlines are not only where you fight—they test your ability to survive.”

At his gesture, two instructors opened the box.

“Therefore, starting this year, contamination-survival training will be added to basic military training.”

Inside the box were rows of gas masks.