Chương 57: When Military Doctrine Cites Cheap Pulp Fiction

The outdoor tactics training ground at Solaris Academy was the size of four soccer fields, ringed by sturdy grey stone walls. At the center of the field, General Vormund — a legendary war veteran, a sulfur-burn scar running from his forehead to his chin, chest weighed down with medals — stood towering over an enormous three-dimensional magical sand table. CLACK! The bronze-tipped command baton in Vormund's hand slammed down against the edge of the sand table with a sharp, ringing sound.

Three hundred elite students from the College of Military Command snapped to attention at once, chests thrown out. At the far corner of the last row, Lucian shrank himself behind a two-meter-tall beastkin student, collar pulled up, eyes fixed dully on his own boots, doing his best impression of an invisible shadow.

"Students!" Vormund's voice, rough and rasping like corroded metal, boomed across the training field.

"For a thousand years, this empire's army has done nothing but line up in rows and charge to their deaths for that idiotic notion called 'knightly honor'! That era is over!" Vormund swung his baton, and the sand table shifted, reconstructing a treacherous marsh terrain thick with violet fog.

"This year, the Ministry of Defense has officially approved a complete overhaul of the tactics curriculum, formally adopting the Nameless Knight's Doctrine of Predictive Tactics as mandatory teaching material!" Ting! A dim black Unified System v2. 0 notification appeared in front of Lucian. [CULTURAL INSTITUTIONALIZATION EVENT DETECTED] Concept: 'Nameless Tactics' officially adopted as Royal Military Curriculum. Academic saturation level: Absolute (100%).

Lucian stood behind the beastkin student, a chill running down his spine. Vormund tapped his baton hard against the marsh section of the sand table, eyes burning with passion.

"Study the classic scene in chapter twenty-eight of Volume One! Facing three thousand elite cavalry of the beast legion, the Nameless Knight deployed the 'Echoing Retreat, Wing-Splitting Tactic': personally leading a single, isolated squad in a direct charge down the center line, then feigning panic and fleeing deep into the treacherous mudflats!" Vormund leaned both hands on the edge of the sand table, his voice thick with emotion.

"Using the shame of a retreat as bait! Using his own life as the lure to draw the entire enemy force into a bog trap! This — this is the pinnacle of unconventional military thinking! A tragic sacrifice that transcends ordinary honor!" At the back of the formation, Lucian pressed a hand to his forehead, cold sweat pouring down as if he'd stepped into a shower. Merciful heavens... Lucian remembered exactly how that chapter had been created. He had been six years old. Sitting in the garden.

Eating questionable berries because curiosity was apparently stronger than common sense. Then his stomach betrayed him. The legendary "Echoing Retreat, Wing-Splitting Tactic" was born from a six-year-old child desperately trying to reach the nearest bush before disaster happened. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The heroic sacrifice. The calculated retreat. The genius battlefield maneuver.

All of it came from one simple thought:"I need a bathroom. Immediately." He'd written the whole thing hunched over, grimacing, halfway to the bathroom, the sentences clumsy and thrown together just to hit his Old Elvish word quota. And now, ten years later, filtered through the hands of military marshals, a stomachache and a desperate dash to the toilet had been analyzed into "the Echoing Retreat, Wing-Splitting Tactic," a supposed "pinnacle of unconventional military thinking"?!

Evelyn stood in the row beside him, arms crossed, staring at the marsh diorama through her glasses with utter contempt. She ground her teeth and muttered under her breath in English. Evelyn stared at the battlefield simulation. Her expression became darker.

"Leading an entire squad into a swamp with no backup route?" She adjusted her glasses.

"No logistics. No escape plan. No consideration for terrain." A pause.

"If I ever meet this author..." She clenched her fist.

"I am having a very serious conversation with him." Lucian quietly stepped half a meter away. Lucian pulled his neck deeper into his coat collar, eyes fixed on the ground, not daring to breathe too hard. SLAM! General Vormund's command baton suddenly lifted off the sand table, tracing a straight line over the heads of hundreds of students, and stopped directly in front of Lucian's forehead. The entire training ground fell dead silent.

Three hundred pairs of eyes snapped around at once, locking onto the ten-year-old boy tucked into the back corner.

"Cadet Lucian Vance!" Vormund's voice rang out, echoing off all four walls.

"You are the only son of Sword Emperor Regulus — who personally consulted on the choreography for this work's stage musical! What is your assessment of the profound humanity and depth behind the Nameless Knight's decision to flee into the marsh?!" Lucian stood frozen. His face was as flat and still as a frozen lake, but inside his pockets, his fists were clenched so hard his nails cut into his palms.

Facing the old General's expectant gaze and the reverent stares of hundreds of students, Lucian took a deep breath and answered slowly, hesitating over every word.

"General..." Lucian chose every word carefully.

"I believe..." A hundred students watched him.

"... that perhaps the person in that situation was not considering such complicated strategies." Vormund leaned forward. Lucian continued.

"Maybe..." A terrible silence.

"He simply had an urgent physical problem and needed to find a private place as quickly as possible." A brief silence fell over the field. General Vormund stared at Lucian for a full ten seconds. His one good eye welled up, his mouth trembling with emotion. He nodded rapidly, striking his baton against the ground.

"Magnificent! What an outstanding answer!

'An urgent, unavoidable physical situation' — a subtle metaphor for the inner turmoil of a hero forced to cast aside his own survival for the greater good!" Vormund turned to face the entire cohort, his voice choked with feeling.

"Do you see this?! Even the Sword Emperor's own son understands the humility at the heart of this doctrine! War is not a stage for showmanship — it is quiet endurance in service of the greater cause!" All three hundred students turned to look at Lucian with the deepest reverence. Whispers of admiration rippled through the crowd without pause.

"Truly the Sword Emperor's heir..."

"One sentence captured the full agony of that retreat!"

"That's a frightening level of depth!" Lucian slowly lowered his head, eyes shut in absolute, helpless defeat. Beside him, Evelyn glanced over, the corner of her mouth twitching, and whispered.

"Deep performance there, finance boy. You almost had me convinced you're an actual sage." Lucian didn't bother answering. He looked up at the sand table, where Vormund was excitedly planting red flags across the marsh section of the Academy Dungeon, preparing for next week's live-fire field exercise. A cold chill ran straight from Lucian's spine to the top of his skull. If these overeager kids actually tried to apply his stomachache-and-toilet-run tactic in a real dungeon... someone was definitely going to die.