Chapter 339: Siguyi

"Siguyi," he said simply. "But remember, weapons are only tools. What truly determines victory or defeat is the person."

He began explaining the essentials of operation: how to load the magazine, how to switch between semi-automatic and full-automatic fire, how to shoulder the weapon when shooting, how to quickly change the magazine...

The recruits listened earnestly. Some had light shining in their eyes, as if already seeing themselves wielding this rifle on the battlefield, cutting down all before them.

Matsumoto watched them, a complex surge of emotions welling up inside. These young men still did not know what they were about to face. They thought war was glory, was heroism, was an opportunity to win glory and establish a legacy.

They did not know that war was mud, was blood, was mangled corpses and shattered dreams.

"All right, now each person will test-fire one magazine," Matsumoto said. "Remember, control the recoil, short bursts, conserve ammunition."

The recruits lined up and walked to the firing positions. At the edge of the training ground stood wooden targets simulating trenches, painted with simple human silhouettes.

The first recruit pulled the trigger.

"Dadadadada—"

The rapid gunfire tore through the afternoon stillness. Spent casings scattered like golden raindrops, falling onto the dirt. The target was instantly riddled with bullet holes, wood chips flying.

"Wow!" the recruits exclaimed in awe.

The recruit who had been shooting lowered the rifle, his face flushed with excitement: "Instructor! This gun is incredible!"

Matsumoto nodded. "Next."

One by one, the recruits experienced the power of this new weapon. Everyone's reaction was about the same—surprise, excitement, and even a touch of... fanaticism.

They liked the feeling. The feeling of wielding great power. The feeling of being invincible on an imagined battlefield.

But they did not know, or perhaps did not want to know, that the enemy had similar weapons, perhaps even better ones. When both sides possessed such efficient killing tools, war would only become more brutal, more bloody.

"Instructor."

Matsumoto turned and saw Muto Shin'ichi standing behind him. The young man's left arm was still wrapped in bandages, but his complexion was better than when they had last met.

"Muto." Matsumoto nodded. "How's the wound?"

"Almost healed." Muto moved his arm. "The doctor says the bandages can come off in another week. But I probably can't go back to the front line. My arm's range of motion is affected—I can't hold a rifle steady."

When he said this, his tone was calm, even carrying a trace of... relief?

"Then what do you want to do?" Matsumoto asked.

"I don't know." Muto looked at the excited recruits on the training ground. "Maybe logistics, maybe the training camp as an instructor, just like you."

He paused. "At least, I'll be alive."

Matsumoto wanted to say something, but in the end only patted his shoulder.

Muto looked at those recruits and suddenly asked: "Instructor, do you think... this war will end?"

"It will," Matsumoto said. "All wars end."

"And after it ends? What will happen to us? What will happen to these recruits?"

Matsumoto fell silent. He did not know the answer. Or rather, he knew the answer, but could not say it aloud.

After the war ended, the survivors would go home, carrying scars and memories. Some would become "heroes," commended and decorated. Some would fade into obscurity, quietly reentering ordinary life. Some would be trapped forever in the nightmares of war, unable to break free.

And the dead would become names on monuments, numbers on pension accounts, an eternal void in the hearts of their loved ones.

"Muto," Matsumoto said at last, "as long as you're alive, there's hope. As for the rest... let's talk about it when you live to see that day."

Muto nodded. He stared at those recruits for a long time, then said in a low voice: "I hope they all survive. At least, live until the war ends."

Just then, a commotion suddenly rose from the training ground.

Matsumoto turned to look and saw several officers surrounding a man in a brand-new uniform, his chest covered in medals, walking over. The man was in his fifties, short and stout, with a toothbrush mustache and very small eyes that gleamed with shrewdness.

"It's a special envoy from the Ministry of the Army!" someone whispered.

The special envoy walked to the center of the training ground and raised his hand. Everyone fell quiet.

"Gentlemen!" His voice was resonant, carrying a Tokyo accent. "I am the direct special envoy of the Minister of the Army, Major General Tanaka Giichi! By the command of His Majesty the Emperor and the Minister of the Army, I have come to convey regards to the soldiers on the Eastern Front!"

Applause broke out, but it was not enthusiastic. The front-line soldiers had seen plenty of these "special envoys" and knew they usually came to inspect, give speeches, and then return with a pile of photos and reports to claim credit.

Major General Tanaka did not seem to mind the sparse applause. He walked up to the recruits and looked at the new weapons in their hands.

"Is this the new automatic firearm provided by Lanfang?" he asked.

"Yes, General!" an officer replied. "Distribution testing has just begun."

Major General Tanaka took a rifle, hefted its weight, and went through several aiming motions.

"Good rifle," he assessed. "Lightweight, heavy firepower, suited for close combat. Gentlemen, with weapons like these, you are the sharpest spears of the Imperial Army! You will surely achieve unparalleled glory on the battlefield!"

The recruits puffed out their chests, proud expressions on their faces.

Major General Tanaka returned the rifle to the officer, then turned to face everyone: "Gentlemen! When I was back home, I saw news of your victories in the newspapers every day! Great victories on the Eastern Front! Advancing three hundred kilometers! Annihilating a million enemies! All of this is glory you have earned with your blood and your lives!"

His voice grew ever more impassioned: "The people back home are proud of you! His Majesty the Emperor is gratified by you! The renown of the Imperial Army has resounded across Europe, resounded across the world!"

Applause broke out again, somewhat more enthusiastic this time. The recruits' emotions were stirred by these words; some even had tears in their eyes.

But Matsumoto noticed that the veterans—those who had survived from the first and second waves—wore expressions of calm, even indifference.

They had heard too much of this kind of talk, and knew that the glory in those words and the reality of the battlefield were two different worlds.

Major General Tanaka continued his speech, talking about how the home front was celebrating, how much the government valued them, how His Majesty the Emperor commended them. He spoke for a full twenty minutes, his rhetoric ornate, his passion full.

After the speech ended, he walked up to the officers and said something in a low voice. The officers nodded repeatedly.

Then Major General Tanaka departed surrounded by his entourage, off to inspect other locations.

The training ground returned to quiet, but the atmosphere had changed. The recruits were still excitedly discussing the special envoy's words, discussing the celebrations back home, discussing "the renown of the Imperial Army."

Muto watched their backs and said quietly to Matsumoto: "They really believed it."

Matsumoto did not reply. He thought of the words in his younger sister's letter: "The young people in town all envy you, saying you're a hero."

Hero.

Renown.

Glory.

These words were like beautiful wrapping paper, wrapping up the cruel reality, wrapping up the muddy trenches, wrapping up the mangled corpses.