Error

Morning came, and with it, our daily obligations. Our label as the kingdom's problem children did not exempt us from ordinary training by any means. In fact, it gave us even more work.

Four o’clock in the morning, before even the sky returned to its baby-blue hue, we stood side by side under a freezing waterfall. A form of mental training, our instructor said, for improving Mang control.

Ah, on that note, it would be most appropriate to introduce our hot-blooded instructor, Lieutenant Sahyat .

As her title implied, she was a step above foot soldiers like us, the Problem Children, while also being subordinate to our leader, Mai’wen of the Third Seat. Her temper was violent. Her expression was always unpleasant or neutral. Her strict routines demanded nothing short of perfection.

For someone such as I, an automaton born in the Eternal Twilight, physical exercise wasn’t much of a demand. My stamina, physical strength, internal cooling, and senses were far beyond those of an average human. It was nothing out of the norm for a warrior.

Keresaspa, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy this ordeal. She would go above and beyond in every activity, flaunting her strength as a great beauty to be witnessed rather than a tool for a greater good. In other words, strength was not a means, but an end in itself. To her, power was everything. Her worldview had no room for shame or remorse.

Altreides was a mysterious case. He was struggling a fair bit with the activities, yet his gait seemed almost mechanical, awkward, and inhuman. Was he perhaps faking his performance, putting on the appearance of an ordinary person? What reason did he have to hide his real strength? The answer alluded me still, though it hardly mattered. He was a respectable enough man, at least.

There was one man, no, one boy among us that failed in nearly every aspect as a warrior — a person that could only be described as dead weight.

“Derrick!” our hot-blooded lieutenant hollered. “Don’t you dare slack off! Straighten your back and pray with humble supplication! This country does not accept weaklings!”

He said through the jittering of his teeth, “Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Yes M-M-Ma’am!”

Derrick had the weakest constitution among the Problem Children, both in strength and endurance. During our weight training sessions, he could hardly lift 135 pounds. In foot races, he always lagged behind. In sparring, he always lost.

Honestly, he was the very opposite of a warrior. Nothing about him radiated strength, and everything about him further solidified his image in my mind as an incompetent. I do not understand why he is here in the first place.

After a series of gruelling exercises, Sahyat, being the cruel dictator she was, gave us a mere 5-minute break before moving on to the next activity — cooking and cleaning for the other barracks.

Derrick, whose body folded forward under the extreme stress, sighed with relief. “Finally…it’s over.”

We made our way to the pantry and aided in food service, handing out portions to our fellow allies in arms. After our respective shifts were over, we turned to cleaning. Derrick and I took to dishwashing, while Atreides attended to the food storage, and Keresaspa undertook trash collection.

It was rare for Derrick and me to be in such close proximity. No, it was actually rare for him to be in close proximity with anyone , given his general incompetence.

“Hey, Derrick,‘ I said in my greatest impression of a ‘friendly’ tone. “Why were you assigned to the Problem Children?”

“U-Uh…I…” His eyes darted erratically. Stammering increased. Was my question too forward?

“Ah, sorry. Perhaps I was a tad insensitive with my approach. Allow me to propose a separate inquiry — Why are you in the Imperial Army?”

“About that…”

Though his eye contact remained consistently terrible, his tone shifted a tad, as though his defences had broken down by a fraction of a fraction.

“I don’t like killing people, and I don’t like fighting. Nothing good ever comes from it. Everyone gets hurt. Everyone loses.”

“Then why are you here?”

“My punishment. It’s my punishment.”

“...”

An awkward silence. Shifting hands. Scrubbing dishes. And then, a break.

“Hey, Ereth…have you ever committed an error?”

“An error? Of course I have. Everyone has. Errors are what make people people.”

“No…that’s not true,” he replied with a certain determination. “People make mistakes, not errors. I’m not talking about being late to work once or twice, or forgetting to do a favour for a friend. An error is something you can’t take back. Something that won’t be forgiven, no matter how hard you want to repent. Something that disqualifies you as a human being.”

“I see…Then I suppose I haven’t committed an error. Well, no. That’s not it. It would be more accurate to say that I am unaware of what an error truly is. I’m a sheltered boy, you see. It’s not often that I get to interact with others.”

“Oh, w-well, Saranhell can be pretty out there in the desert. Anyways…I made one such mistake, and thus, I am repaying an infinitely compounding debt with my service. It’s not like I could pay it off anyway. Or rather, it isn’t something meant to be paid off. And don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying this out of self-pity. I am truly, without a doubt, a failure of a human being.”

“What an awful thing to say about yourself…”

“It’s precisely because it’s me that I can say it. I’m sure everyone else in the Problem Children feels the same. The life of a warrior is a life lived in hell. We are not heroes.”

“...”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t speak against his words. I couldn’t reason against his implication.

Never had I considered such a possibility — a possibility that a warrior's path was hell rather than heaven. I am no human, so I do not have any clear say on humanity, but I am a person . At least, that’s what I liked to believe.

Killing meant nothing to me. I had no qualms with raising my sword against the enemy and striking them down. All for a righteous cause, the cause of my father, Zoltin of the Promised Victory.

Yet here I stand beside this weak, pathetic boy, his apron dripping with soap and water, who brands himself a sinner.

His disposition was strikingly similar to Aevus of the Fifth Seat.

They felt nothing but disdain for their violence, resentment burgeoning to the surface as a tangible malaise. Their mein had a tint of dull purpose, a colour of melancholy, and I could hardly wash away that cloudy figure.

In that case, was I any hero at all? Could I become a hero?

Though I berated him, Derrick was a boy, no, a man, who perhaps had more wisdom than even I. It gave me a strange respect for the man who was utterly absent before.

And thus, I continued my duties for the day and rested at nightfall, awaiting another day.