The history of the Sharan is a history of war, death, genocide, revolution after revolution, and perhaps above all else, slavery. It is something so ingrained in their culture that it is hard to find a moment in their history where you can say that it wasn’t somehow related to something that happened, had directly caused it, or even led to it.

Of course, Ignar knew this; he was painfully aware of it, yet it still surprised him at how apparent it was and how much of it there was.

People are already divided in so many ways, class being one of them, and slavery is, in a way, in the culture of the Sharan, something born out of class.

Those who are less powerful don’t have a say in what their destiny is or what they are to do with their own lives. But to be fair, most people hardly have a say in what happens to them or what they end up doing in life.

But here, in the cadet school, it was something that seemed like it wasn’t needed, for weren’t people here to lead armies during war? But all the cadets had slaves; they were there to serve them, and if there was a moment where one’s honor was tarnished, then one could exact revenge, but of course not directly on the one that had tarnished your honor; thus, you would punish their slaves. And at times, you would even kill them.

Why? Because it wasn’t murder in the eyes of the law. It was more like you butchered a cow or a pig, and for such a crime, you could pay with money. The people who went to the cadet school were sons of wealthy parents who either already had ties to the military or were just rich, and their parents felt like it would bring great honor to their family to send a son to become an officer.

It wasn’t like their sons would have to truly serve in a war or anything like it. There hadn’t been a real war in over a century, so the risk of them dying in one was basically non-existent.

Everything was about honor and having people look at you and know you in a certain way. If your family happened to have a lieutenant, a captain, or whatever in its ranks, then everyone could easily see that your family had ties to the military and that their ranks somehow gave proof that they were more patriotic than the other rich families that were just wealthy and never gave back to the nation and the Almighty that they so dearly loved.

And because of these reasons, he was the weird one. Ignar was the odd one out because he didn’t have a slave to his name, he wasn’t from a rich family, and none of them had ever heard of him or his family. And why? Because his family history was made up. Why? Because Kalma decided that he didn’t want him to carry his name quite yet. He had to earn it on his own merit.

But the other cadets weren’t stupid, for it was rare that anyone who wasn’t from a distinguished family, be it either from a military one or a rich one, to get into the cadet school.

So, of course, rumors start going around, and this leads to isolation and alienation from those that are around. And this is how it would be for him for most of his time at the cadet school. But at least he was above the curve. Most of these kids had no idea what would happen here; most of them barely knew how to wipe their bottoms. And only a few actually wanted to be here.

There was often a clear distinction between the children who came from a military family and those who came from a rich family. The sons from military families behaved almost rigidly and were far more disciplined than those from rich families, but on the other hand, they were far more nationalistic and more fervent in their beliefs.

They weren’t dumb or less smart because of it; it just clearly showcased how differently they were raised.

Ignar supposed that the rich kids would at least learn something useful from this ordeal. Or so he thought as he sat on a bench in a lecture hall on the very first day of his studies. His father had ordered Erjen to brief Ignar about the cadet school, the things that he might learn there, and just other useful bits of information that might help him in many ways.

One thing that she explained was the whole slavery thing. She herself had entered the cadet school, and it was already quite rare that women would be allowed to enroll, during her time, she had had slaves of her own, for her parents had insisted that she would have at least six, each of them so large and strong that no puny boy would dare approach her in any way.

She had done fine, and she had been prepared for most of the things that might be thrown her way. Her father had studied there as well, so it made sense. Often she was the last to kneel when faced with something difficult, and thus she became a sergeant. Though she did admit that she had done so mostly out of spite. Apparently, Kalla had been one of her teachers, and his lack of encouragement for his pupils was one of the reasons that she had hated him so much, which is why she decided to stay through the whole five-year period, just to spite the old man who had told her that she would be unable to graduate.

Later on, Kalla claimed that he said such words to “bring out her hidden passion” and that “she should thank him for inspiring her to grow into the potential that he had seen in her." All of which was obviously bullshit, as that was the language in which Kalla was most proficient.

Who doesn’t love a good lie, a bad one, or just any lie in general?

A man entered the lecture hall. He wore a dark uniform, one that they all seemingly wore, though his one was slightly different, for on his collar were stripes that indicated his military rank, and then above that a number that was like a serial code, meant to indicate who he was. It wasn’t a name, but just something that could be easily grabbed if he were to die. Behind that number would be all the information one could know about a man. It was his identity; after all, it was his life.

They would all get one, perhaps not the same amount of stripes; they would all get a serial code of their own. For if there ever came a day of war, then they would have to serve in that war, and if they were to fall in that war, then their homes should know of their deaths. They should know that their son had died on the battlefield, hopefully as a cowardly hero who died protecting them, all of those who would wait in the safety of their own homes for the return of their sons.

Such a number to be carried by all soldiers was invented after a long war, during which so many died or disappeared, their bodies just left on the fields and forest floors. Many of such bodies were recovered, but to then identify them was a different story altogether.

How are you supposed to figure out the name of a man who has lost his face? Or his head? And what are you to tell those whose sons never came back? Should they just live and hope in vain that their son might one day return to them? Surely such hope was beautiful and more comforting than the reality of loss, but parents always deserve to know the fate of their children, no matter how cruel.

But of course, a number on your collar will hardly be useful if the body is never found.

The man was imposing, his eyes deep and dark, his expression stern and unmoving, and he observed the rich kids and military children that had gathered for the first time before him. And he just waited, until one by one, most took notice of him, until slowly, most shut their mouths in anticipation and in ever-present curiosity that might’ve risen among them, for who was this man that now stood before them, what was his name, and what did the stripes on his collar mean?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Most wouldn’t know; some would, of course, know, and this reality could be seen in the expressions in the very eyes of those who now stared at him. Those visibly confused had no idea what four stripes meant; those visibly excited knew and perhaps romanticized the very experience of being a part of the military, and those nervous knew that this was the real deal.

This man was lethal and exact; this man was war incarnate. Perhaps Kalma was death incarnate, and perhaps Kalla was his son and no less than that.

But war? War is different. War is that which by nature takes lives in a fashion that seems chaotic but is orderly, and in its most beautiful form, precise and swift. Any general would love a swift and total victory in a war—a heroic one that makes the winners of said war look like heroes before the eyes of the people. A war would bring more land, more resources, and more wealth for the people of a great nation and the heroic leaders of a war.

War, even though there was much theory about it, wanted to be simple. Surely a great strategist will be remembered by history; his contribution to the art of war is another chapter read over and over again, studied, and then perfected by later contributors.

But is there anything better than the most simple form of warfare? One that had two masses of people placed against each other, fighting until death would do them apart, a battle that would declare one the winner and the other dead, thus a loser.

The man who stood before them was a man as such. He believed in the beautiful simplicity of warfare, for what was the use of an elaborate scheme to conquer a nation if the same could be achieved much more quickly, although less delicately, through the meeting of two forces on the fields of glory?

“Good morning, new recruits, or as your parents prefer to call you, ‘cadets’…” He said when at last there was only silence in the lecture hall.

“I am Captain Illarion Dain,” he introduced himself and then examined his new pupils, “and I’ll ask you a simple question: What is war?”

And as silence was his only answer, he sighed, “Then I shall answer this question as well... War is confusion. War is the greatest waste of time that anyone has invented, yet it is the most beautiful form of confusion and the most beautiful waste of our times.”

“War, dear ‘cadets’… War is everything that you will ever hate; it is the most disgusting thing that we’ve come up with and what we have to sometimes deal with.” He scoffed, “Why is war? Because it has to be, there is no other way; it has to exist.”

“For peace requires a price, one that we have paid for. Freedom requires that same price, though we can argue about whether we have it or if the very concept of it exists."

“Why would there ever be war if we have all these things, for can’t we just agree to be without them? Can’t we just all get along?”

“Clearly not.”

“For I have a simple belief, and it is this: What is peace without justice? It is a war waiting to happen.”

“What I believe is that we might want peace after a war; I believe that we might truly want that, but what we want the most is justice, for if there is no justice in a given peace, then war is sure to re-emerge; it is sure to return, and this is why I am here.”

“I love war, not because I love death; I love war because I want justice. For me, justice and freedom are all concepts that are most important, and they are things that we should be ready to defend and that we should be ready to demand. For which we should be ready to go to war and to die if that is what it takes.”

Captain Illarion Dain was a man who spoke such terrible things with such passion that one wanted to almost believe in them. There was enough truth in his words for one to understand where he was coming from.

Ignar had never truly thought of war for himself. He had only read about them in old books and in the old dialogues of philosophers that had long since passed. And sure, Kalla had spoken about wars to him, calling them all shams and wastes of resources and lives. And he or he had believed, that all wars are terrible and mostly useless.

But if you thought about it and if you really tried to understand such a sentiment as Captain Illarion’s, then it wasn’t so difficult to believe that perhaps there were wars that were just and for justice. For what, is really worth fighting for? For what, or for whom, would you be ready to die?

He pondered such thoughts as the lecture continued, one that was more so a speech meant to inspire the next generation of leaders that might, perhaps, someday lead in the coming wars of the empire.

What one needs are values and ideals—things that don’t truly exist as a physical reality but are real enough for any man to die for. For them to place their bets on it as that one thing, or a collection of things that they would be ready to defend if they were called to do so.

A nation wasn’t enough unless this nation had values that were precious enough to want to protect and cherish.

It was clear that this was one of the most important things they tried to teach them: these values and ideals, and then connecting them to the crown, the empire, and the leaders of this empire, portraiting them as physical manifestations of said values and ideals.

Kalma is their king, their god, and their emperor. He is who gave them freedom; he is who saved them all; he is the one who protected them when they needed protection the most. Kalma is freedom, and he is justice, and those are the things that are worth dying for.

It usually begins slowly, like planting seeds in a garden, then years go by and the roots grow deeper into the ground, and then one day, perhaps years from now, something happens: a rebellion and a subsequent war. The seeds planted then blossom; they bloom as the man who had carried the seeds within for so long armors himself and raises his sword to die for the things he finds most important.

To kill and die in the name of a flower in bloom. But a flower, as such, will often wither. As regret and guilt gnaw the mind of a hero, of a man who served his country and who killed for things that he most valued, but the things that he most valued, are they really worth dying for? What about those who died by his sword? Didn’t they also have something that they were ready to die for? Who is to decide which is better and which is worse? Which cause is more just and pure for one to be more in the right? Or are all such beliefs equally correct, yet at the same time wrong?

There is nothing heroic about war. There are no heroes in war. It, too, is another myth created to comfort those who have lost a loved one, so that they might not blame the country that sent them to war but instead blame the enemy for taking away their sons. Isn’t the enemy always morally wrong? One has to believe such a lie, or else that seed-carrying soldier will never kill or die for the flower that is in bloom, for the flower will then never bloom, as the seeds planted are in a soil that rejects them and that won’t allow weeds in its garden.