PTSD Military Chaplain of the Academy

Dawn at five o’clock.

The eyes begin to move reflexively, searching for the lamp in the darkness.

The cool dawn air hangs heavily in the narrow room. A faint stuffy smell intertwines with the chill, piercing the nasal passages.

The thin blanket appears somewhat insufficient for the season, but a thick quilt to warm the body is not yet needed. It is only natural for frequently used items to wear out over time.

And acquiring a new blanket frequently is a luxury.

“…May diligence dwell within me.”

After abruptly sitting up, the first task, of course, is to straighten the quilt.

The neatly arranged blanket is placed tidily in one corner of the bed, and cautiously, steps are taken toward the window in the narrow room.

The desk still embraced a dark hue. Carefully bringing the match to the lamp placed on it, the warm crimson light finally drenches the floor of the seating desk.

In the center, there is a cross. In front of it hangs a portrait of the Virgin Mary.

From the moment I opened my eyes until now, time must not exceed ten minutes.

The moment it becomes ten minutes past five, the first task of the day begins.

I make the sign of the cross. A sacred feeling wells up within me. My eyes humbly close, and my hands fold gracefully without guilt.

“As the morning sun rises in the east, I offer my morning prayers to the Lord. Please guide us today to be mindful of our tongues’ holiness….”

I sing a simple hymn to the Lord, recite the afternoon prayers, and if there are any unfinished tasks from the previous day, I repent and reflect.

The Lord listens. Holiness saturates my body and mind.

Light is created.

“My Lord, my Father says that praise suits the upright, those who dwell in faith, and those who follow the kind Lord’s words. I sing praises to the Lord….”

A prayer more sincere than anything else.

The spirituality fills the room with that holy faith. The prayer focused solely on the Lord naturally extends beyond thirty minutes.

However, offering praise to the Lord and yearning to confess one’s flaws and seek forgiveness is never considered long.

At six o’clock, I go out for morning meditation. The prayer room, filled with chairs, is humbly illuminated by the dim sunlight streaming through the narrow window.

Many monks are already settled in their places, engaged in meditation. I tread cautiously, making sure not to make a sound, while cold sweat gathers due to my efforts to keep my large, heavy body silent.

Even reaching my place is a struggle. It’s not easy, even if it’s something I’ve done all my life, but not a hint of annoyance arises.

As I meditate, the bells that announce the mass ring a couple of times.

After the morning mass, which officially marks the beginning of another day at the monastery, I finish a modest breakfast of bread and potato soup.

Each monk’s tasks vary greatly. Some go to tend the potato patch, others to manage carrots and cabbage, and still others to prune the grapevines.

Others will clean the monastery, polish the bells, prepare food for the next mass and meal, or go down to manage the wine cellar. There will be no one among them harboring discontent. It’d be fine to place bets on it.

At eleven forty, when the morning tasks conclude, the bell rings once more. The monks immediately stop what they were doing to offer prayers.

After the midday prayers, it’s time for lunch. It’s not much different from breakfast, but lunchtime especially features meat. Unlike other monasteries, this place requires meat in its diet.

Having tasted a modest amount of meat that doesn’t provoke gluttony, the monks gradually rise from the dining hall and head somewhere. Naturally, I follow in their steps.

In the center of the monastery, surrounded like a fortress, lies a spacious clearing.

In this well-trodden, open earth, no monk misses the opportunity to gather. There are no idle chatter. Unlike other monasteries, the usual principle here is silence. Unless it concerns prayer or the monastery’s operations, noise cannot be heard.

And from now on, it is undeniably time for the monastery’s future.

“I will begin.”

As the firmly closed lips of the trustworthy monastery head utter this, the monks each remove their robes that had covered their bodies and heads. After placing their robes neatly in one corner of the yard, they quickly don lighter attire and pick up their training swords to face their designated opponents.

“I’m counting on you.”

Today’s opponent is Joseph. He is the third son of the Count Otte.

Of course, that’s no longer the case.

With neatly exhaled breaths, I take on my training with a devout heart. Small cuts and scrapes may occur throughout the process, but as long as I move carefully not to injure my opponent, nothing grows.

– Clang!

The bamboo swords collide in the air. At times like this, one can simply drop the sword, allowing the force of the opponent’s push to flow through, but Joseph is not someone who took sword fighting lightly.

The clashing swords separate for a moment, and Joseph is the first to charge in. He swings his sword quickly, as if chased by something.

The powerful wind pressure follows, but after about seventy parries, the speed of his swings gradually slows.

A very subtle gap. It is most important to penetrate that gap.

And the round tip of the wooden sword strikes precisely at that point.

“Ugh…!”

Oh dear. A moan escapes from Joseph’s lips.

He instinctively retreats a couple of steps, holding his rapidly reddening knuckles. Not merely out of frustration, but because he seems to be losing in the struggle. Naturally, short breaths escape.

I retrieve my sword, which I had thrust forth with restrained motion. Joseph’s chest rises and falls heavily.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, gazing blankly down at the earth before suddenly snapping back to reality and lowering his sword.

“I lost.”

There remains a sense of piety in his eyes.

Shining eyes that one can only see by believing in the Lord! Surely, that is an example for everyone.

“I cannot fathom how you are so strong. Even the monastery head….”

After the match, we engage in discussions regarding our training, helping each other identify weaknesses. Of course, numerous flaws that Joseph needs to improve on pop up.

Joseph shows no sign of displeasure. When he first came to the monastery, he always made disrespectful remarks, but now he has completely devoted himself to the Lord, ready to wholly present both body and spirit before Him.

It would be a lie to say I do not feel proud.

“…Then, may I challenge you one more time?”

Joseph persistently challenges me, but it would be unwise to end up injuring himself. I gently refuse while gesturing to my bruised knuckles, and he briefly looks downcast, clutching his hand.

Previously, he had engaged in training while nursing a wrist injury and had been bedridden for several days. I cannot allow him any further.

“…Understood. You are right, brother.”

Having sent the hard-fought opponent away to the infirmary, I must now stand still once more, waiting to find another opponent.

It is not right to seek out a lower-ranked monk for a match. Courage, after all, is born from maintaining faith even in the face of adversity.

Standing there, waiting for an opponent, is certainly the usual flow of things.

“Brother Johann.”

The monastery head approached. He spoke calmly, without a wrinkle showing on his face even while in front of someone drenched in sweat.

“Come with me to the monastery head’s office.”

* * * * *

Johann de Papin. Johann of Antiene.

He moved his exceptionally large body to follow the monastery head.

Walking in front of him was the monastery head Antoine, who naturally felt tense having someone so large walking just behind him, filling the monastery corridor. Something about his imposing figure exuded a unique aura.

Yet, the silence as he walked without making a sound was indeed a strange occurrence. Antoine comforted himself, attributing it to Johann’s piety.

As they walked through the narrow corridor, entering a wooden door they found midway would reveal the monastery head’s office, spacious enough to comfortably fit five or six people. Of course, due to Johann, whose size occupied the space of two, it appeared even more cramped.

“Sit down.”

“Yes.”

Antoine looked at Johann sitting in front of him and then handed over a letter placed on his desk. The smooth letter glided across the desk soon to be positioned in front of Johann.

Johann stared blankly at the letter for a moment before shifting his steadfast gaze back to Antoine. Standing over 190 centimeters tall, he always had to look down on Antoine.

“What is this?”

“Brother, it’s from His Holiness the Pope.”

“…Have you read it?”

“I swear before the Lord that I did not read it. How could I read someone else’s letter first?”

Without hesitation, Johann opened the envelope. It didn’t take long for the two-fold paper to unfold before him.

“Order of the Blue Rose and… Little Brothers.”

“May I inquire about the content?”

Johann’s steadfast eyes shifted to Antoine.

“His Holiness has commanded the requisition of a paladin.”

“…How many does he desire?”

“One.”

Antoine let out a sigh of relief without realizing it.

It is exceedingly rare for the Papal States to seek paladins, but conversely, it can happen at any time.

The issue is that such requests typically arise when deploying force through the Holy Empire.

‘Joseph is still inexperienced… who should I send?’

Antoine’s gaze naturally shifted to Johann, only to shake his head shortly afterward.

‘You wouldn’t use a slaughtering knife to kill a chicken.’

If judging ordinary heretics is akin to slaughtering chickens, then Johann is undoubtedly the slaughtering knife. With the forces of heresy steadily diminishing now, they can no longer maintain even a complete organization, resorting to committing minor crimes or acts of sacrilege through small groups.

Eventually, Johann, finishing reading the letter, spoke up.

“You have named me.”

“…What?”

“The Johann de Papin of the Order of Saint Matthew and the Antiene Knight Monastery…. Monastery Head.”

“……”

“His Holiness commands me to come to the Holy Empire.”

It became a commotion. Antoine’s mind was thrown into a panic.

While it was true that using Johann for a simple task lacked any argument, it is also known that the Papal States would not dispatch paladins for trivial matters. This means…

“…Is it a grave matter?”

“I’m not sure.”

“G-Give it here!”

Antoine snatched the letter from Johann’s hand. His eyes hurriedly scrolled over the words.

Blue Rose Order, Little Brothers, cooperation, city…

“Goodness….”

Antoine placed a hand on his shiny scalp. He felt a slightly warm body temperature.

“…Prepare. Brother, you will join the priests of the Blue Rose Order and Little Brothers in the Holy Empire, and then proceed directly to the city.”

“I didn’t finish reading it, but may I know the reason?”

“I’m not entirely sure of the details….”

As he swallowed hard, Antoine thought.

“…It is said to be for the protection of the holy land.”

The Holy Empire has begun to lay the groundwork for a small step toward the international situation.

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