Secret Society: Raising Calamity Class Disciples

I am still not in peace thanks to the admission process. Will see you soon

After 6 whole months of hard work, sitting for entrance exams after entrance exams, I am finally accepted into the best business school in my country. All praise to the Almighty. Sorry for all the inconvenience till now.

My schedule is still filled with exams courtesy to my parents' pressure (obviously). But I am much more free from before and hopefully, I can shift to regular updates like before.

Thank you. Stay tuned.

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I grew up in an orphanage. When I first arrived there, I was afraid I would be shunned like my classmates back at school. The silver of my hair and eyes apparently made me 'different'.

But contrary to my expectations, the Holy Crescent Orphanage, known to be one of the more polished orphanages at that time showed me something different.

The children flocked around me, as if they discovered something exotic. They scanned me head to toe with utmost intrigue. I though they would have their moment and then start avoiding me.

But nothing such happened. They stepped forward to befriend me. I clearly remember their names faces even now, even though two whole centuries passed. Estan- the trickster, Martha- the elder sister, Tobey- the clown, Simon- a rare silver eyed boy like me, Christopher… heh… Chris even said that I was the 'Chosen one', pointing at my hair and eyes.

That day, I realised something. Nobody is born evil. Children are blank canvases upon which their parents or guardians can draw whatever they want. Depending on their wishes and efforts, the end results can either be a masterpiece, or something unwanted by everyone.

And those children I met at the orphanage, those canvases were far from being misused. That day, I smiled for the first time after her… my mother's death.

Years passed. I grew up there, surrounded by my friends and the ever-caring orphanage staff. I was 16 in no time. And Simon, who just turned 18, attracted the attention of a generous couple. He was on the verge of being adopted.

The entire gang celebrated. Martha was a great chef. She baked us a cake using the ingredients we bought with our allowance. The night was supposed to be great.

But that evening, a notice reached us—a notice that wiped the smile off our faces. The Sistine Imperium declared war on us. And every abled male—18 and above were required by the law to join the army.

The moment we heard that, everyone turned to Simon. He was supposed to be the one with the brightest smile on the face. But all that was left on his countenance was shock and horror.

After 18 whole years, he was finally going to have parents—a family. But no, he was going to join the army and go to war.

The gang set up a meeting; our objective—protect Simon from joining the war. Crazy ideas were proposed, which included breaking his limbs. But it was soon rejected because the government wouldn't care as he was an orphan. He would just be a cannon fodder. Finally, I proposed the craziest idea of them all.

"Let's replace him," I said.

The camera wasn't invented yet. With our similar builds, if I dyed my hair black, and his—silver, nobody would arouse any suspicions.

Of course, they vehemently rejected, especially Simon. In the end, it was the same, they said. But my argument silenced them all.

"I have nothing to lose, while Simon—everything."

Soon, the day came. I bid my friends and my little siblings… Did I tell you about my little siblings? I had 27 little brothers and sisters back at the orphanage, and I loved them all. Anyways, I bid them farewell and joined the recruitment party that came to fetch me.

I, 'Simon Walkford', was the only eligible recruit from the orphanage. Though Martha was older, thankfully women were not forced to join.

They brought me to a training camp just outside Aramon. Warfare was evolving fast. They handed me a musket and told me to shoot the dummy a dozen metre away.

It was already loaded. I glanced at one of the instructors teaching older recruits and copied his form, pushing the musket's butt against my shoulder and aligning the sights with the dummy's head. I anchored my feet to the ground, took in a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

The recoil pushed me two steps back, but I held my balance. I lowered the smoking musket. My shoulder was hurting bad, and my ears were still buzzing from the gunshot, but the first thing I focused on after opening my subconsciously closed eyes was somewhere else—the target.

I missed. The bullet grazed past the dummy's cheeks and hit the wall behind.

Before I could express my disappointment, someone hit me on the back of my shoulder. I remained sturdy and turned back. It was the lieutenant in charge of my conscription. I still remember his tanned skin and bald head.

"He's a natural," he told his colleague. "Send him to the 3rd regiment," he said.

I was confused at first. Hadn't I just missed? But I came to know later that these training muskets lacked accuracy.

They trained me for a month. It was rigorous, forcing a 6 month course onto us in just one. It only meant the war was too close.

Nevertheless, I met other new recruits there. For the first time in years, I was reminded of my school days, when I was ostracised due to my silver traits. Though I had dyed my hair black, my eyes still drove people away. However, there were exceptions—ones who I would call my brother in arms soon after.

We marched northwards. Steamliner weren't invented yet, and we foot-soldiers were not worthy enough to board a carriage.

After three weeks of hellish march—through mud, rain and heat—we reached the war front. We barely had time to prepare, as we received news that the imperial army was fast approaching.

Uneven lands divided our borders. We force marched to take as much high grounds as possible. But before we were done, the enemies came into our sight.

The Sun was already on its way to setting down, but our intuition said there would be no ceasefire tonight. Our legs were still lanky from the march, our back aching from carrying the ration filled backpack. We could hardly hold onto the wooden muskets, which seemed to become heavier each and every second.

But we had no choice. The enemy charged.

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A bit of history lessons:

Line infantry:

Line infantry was the type of infantry that composed the basis of European land armies from the late 17th century to the mid-19th century. Maurice of Nassau and Gustavus Adolphus are generally regarded as its pioneers, while Turenne and Montecuccoli are closely associated with the post-1648 development of linear infantry tactics.[1] For both battle and parade drill, it consisted of two to four ranks of foot soldiers drawn up side by side in rigid alignment, and thereby maximizing the effect of their firepower. By extension, the term came to be applied to the regular regiments "of the line" as opposed to light infantry, skirmishers, militia, support personnel, plus some other special categories of infantry not focused on heavy front line combat.

Line infantry mainly used three formations in its battles: the line, the square and the column.

With the massive proliferation of small arms (firearms that could be carried by hand, as opposed to cannon) in the infantry units from the middle of 17th century, the battlefield was dominated by linear tactics, according to which the infantry was aligned into long thin lines and fired volleys. A line consisted of 2, 3 or 4 ranks of soldiers.

The soldiers were supposed to fire volleys at the command of officers, but in practice this happened only in the first minutes of the battle. After one or two volleys, each soldier charged a musket and fired at his own discretion, without hearing the commands of the officers. This brought confusion to the system, and the smoke interfered with accurate shooting. Such a shootout in a puff of smoke could occur for a very long period of time and the result was unpredictable.

In addition, at the time of the "hot" shootout, the soldiers were so busy and focused on shooting that they could not notice the attack of cavalry from the flank. Therefore, experienced troops tried to avoid such costly shootouts and restrained their soldiers from premature firing, in order to get as close to the enemy's line as possible to deliver several crushing volleys at a short distance. In some cases, it was possible to overturn the enemy with just one volley at a short distance. The line was considered as the fundamental battle formation as it allowed for the largest deployment of firepower. Troops in skirmish formation, though able to take cover and use initiative, were highly vulnerable to cavalry and could not hold ground against advancing infantry columns. Line infantry provided an 'anchor' for skirmishers and cavalry to retreat to if threatened.

Against surrounding enemy cavalry, line infantry could swiftly adopt square formations to provide protection. Such squares were hollow (consisting of four lines), unlike the pikemen's and old-style musketeers' square.

Movement in line formation was very slow, and unless the battalion was superbly trained, a breakdown in cohesion was virtually assured, especially in any kind of uneven or wooded terrain. As a result, line was mostly used as a stationary formation, with troops moving in column formations and then deploying to line at their destination. Usually, columns would be adopted for movement and melee attacks.

Line infantry was trained in the manual of arms evolutions, the main objectives of which were fast deployment of a line, rapid shooting and manoeuvre.