SDMA 13

Chapter 13

“What the—why are they acting like that?”

“Damn it, someone’s actually dying! Are they insane?!”

Even if these cadets were the notorious troublemakers disowned by their own noble families, most of them had never actually seen a person die from poison gas. Suddenly being forced to witness what looked exactly like that was no different from pure terror.

“W–wait! I breathed that gas in too!”

“Aaaagh! My skin burns!”

Those who had put on their gas masks or protective suits too late began clawing at their throats, foaming at the mouth, or violently scratching their burning skin. More and more cadets collapsed to the floor.

Lucian, who had inhaled a generous dose of the gas, was among them. He trembled, reaching out with a dying man’s hand as he whispered in a fading voice:

“Please… on my tombstone, write that I died honorably while protecting the ladies… And if the ladies could visit my grave once a day… I’d be so… happy…”

“Once a day is too much. How about just on your death anniversary? I’ll send Mariel daily instead.”

Finny nudged Chloe for cutting off Lucian’s dying words.

“Chloe, you can’t talk like that to someone who’s dying. When they’re alive, you say ‘okay,’ and after they die, you only go on the anniversary.”

Chloe couldn’t help but think that Finny was being even worse.

“Oh, it’s tradition in our territory to bring alcohol to the grave… Visiting daily with drinks doesn’t sound so bad… I’ll be sure to tell people that his last wish was to receive liquor at his grave…”

“Lady? That wasn’t my wish…”

No, perhaps the worst was Mariel, who was happily rewriting someone else’s last will to suit herself.

Chloe began to wonder just what Northport Academy had been thinking when they planned this insane training. Surely, even for first-timers, some degree of error was expected—but there were limits.

Having cadets die en masse during training because of the academy’s negligence wasn’t something that could be brushed aside. Even for cadets who had been practically discarded by their families, this was a disaster that could make the academy headmaster resign.

Wait… something’s off. If this were nerve gas, their symptoms should be different.

According to the report, the frontline platoon had been wiped out by a paralyzing nerve agent.

If that were true, those exposed should already be convulsing and progressing into full-body paralysis. But the cadets in front of her were far too lively—flailing wildly, rolling on the ground, or proclaiming imminent death.

Don’t tell me…

The instructor, watching the chaos with a bored expression, finally spoke.

“It’s not poison gas. It’s non-toxic tear gas. So stop the theatrics and get up.”

So that was it. There was never a disaster to begin with.

The “foam” the first cadet spewed was simply a placebo effect—more precisely, the nocebo effect.

When Class 87 heard it was just tear gas, the fear of death vanished instantly—and so did nearly all their symptoms. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

But the pain caused by tear gas didn’t simply disappear.

The moment the storage door opened, they ripped off their gas masks and bolted outside.

Tears, snot, sweat, and drool streamed down their faces as they gagged or rolled on the ground. Instructors poured water over their heads.

A cadet rubbed their eyes and screamed, and the sight reminded Chloe too much of her own past. She offered some silent sympathy.

The drill officer smiled proudly.

“See? When they think it’s real poison gas, cadets train very enthusiastically. Hah!”

He’s laughing? Now?

Thirty pairs of burning, murderous eyes turned toward him, but the drill officer, thrilled by the valuable training data he had gathered, couldn’t care less.

“This school is insane…”

The dazed mumble from someone summed up the feelings of all of Class 87.

Still, none of them would ever forget how to quickly don a gas mask and protective gear again.

And Chloe—

So even an ordinary instructor knows details about a classified incident suspected to be the work of the coup faction… I need to investigate the connection between Northport and the border units.

She had found a promising starting point for her mission.

What comes after hellish CBRN training?

Another hell, of course.

The next training awaiting them was marksmanship. During basic training in the wasteland, they had only ever dodged the instructors’ tranquilizer rounds—this was the first time the new cadets would be the shooters.

Of course, Chloe had fired rifles so often she could hit a target with her eyes closed.

“Expel me! Expel me from this damned Northport right now!”

Chloe clicked her tongue at the pitiful lamb who immediately pointed his rifle at the instructors in a panic.

“That idiot didn’t even attach the magazine.”

Roselyn said exactly what Chloe had been thinking.

“You know how to shoot?”

“Yeah. Thanks to that damned old man who dragged me to the hunting grounds every day to keep me out of the gambling hall. If I had known I’d end up in a place like this, I would’ve run off to gamble anyway.”

Roselyn’s eyes grew distant, as if reminiscing about happier times at the gambling hall.

At least if he had loaded the magazine, he could’ve been threatening. Instead, he performed something closer to rifle baton-dancing before getting slammed to the ground and dragged off by the instructors.

“Anyone who wants to be excused from training, speak up anytime. We can arrange it.”

The instructor with the eyepatch flexed his massive arm threateningly.

Before the actual training even began, one cadet was removed. Class 87 went from thirty to twenty-nine.

“A rifle is not a toy. Stay sharp. Four years ago, during marksmanship training, a cadet died after being hit by a classmate’s misfire. Carelessness leads directly to accidents. Understood?”

The warning that fell over Class 87 was much heavier than anything they’d heard during CBRN training.

From preparatory drills to zeroing, the basic marksmanship training proceeded surprisingly by-the-book.

After being thrown into wastelands and minefields, and deceived into entering a gas chamber under the pretense of poison gas, ordinary training felt unnatural.

“We’re shooting at paper targets? Not moving people?”

Chloe muttered without thinking—then froze in horror at herself. Had she really become so corrupted by this delinquent academy? Northport was truly terrifying.

Some cadets like Roselyn were experienced with firearms, but most shot terribly.

A complete mess.

Having already hit a perfect center cluster, Chloe held up her flawless target sheet and watched the others shoot with a sigh.

They lacked the desperation needed to hit the center of a target 25 meters away. Most seemed more focused on wasting their ten rounds as quickly as possible.

Back at the Royal Central Military Academy, the competition-crazed elites trained with zeal. Northport was the complete opposite.

Dragooned troublemakers had no motivation to try unless their lives were on the line.

“Five seconds to choose a partner! Go!”

Startled by the command, Chloe instinctively reached for Roselyn—the one shooter who at least had decent skill.

She would have succeeded, if not for the hands that grabbed her first.

“You there—be my partner.”

The moment the instructor shouted “five,” Theodore grabbed her arm with a bright smile.

“Stop! The person beside you now is your partner.”

Because he latched onto her at the last moment, she couldn’t throw him off without tackling him to the ground.

Mariel, who ended up next to Roselyn by chance, was the only lucky one. Their rifles were swapped out for different ones.

Seeing Theodore still smiling made her anxiety skyrocket. He looked like he already knew what the next training would be.

And if he chose her… it couldn’t possibly be something good.

“Now—one of you will stand next to the target!”

As expected, damned Northport never failed to exceed Chloe’s worst expectations.