Chapter 4 4: the learning routine

------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- My life took a radical turn. I thought I'd return to the usual routine—locked all day in that familiar room. But that didn't happen. Suddenly, more often than I expected, I found myself outside the castle, watching the men-at-arms train. It wasn't just a stroll anymore. It became part of a new routine. They'd seat me on a blanket or a small bench, always under the watch of a servant or guard, and from there I could see the whole training field. Swords, shields, shouted commands, sweat, punishments—it was repetitive, but informative. I quickly noticed that the number of men had decreased significantly. Nothing like that first time my father brought me personally. The field felt emptier, the shouts fewer, duels more spaced out. And soon I learned why. Father had disappeared. He left days ago. No goodbye. No explanation. He just went—apparently to deal with the problem of the beastmen that he'd discussed with Rudolf that day. He took many fighters from the fortress with him. Probably to cleanse the forests, patrol villages, or hunt those beasts menacing the peasants. With him went the horses, squires, and banners. Silence descended on the fortress. But not for long. This apparent freedom ended soon enough, because the one who would be my teacher finally arrived—the Sigmar priest from the village temple. He didn't fit my expectations of a religious man. I'd pictured long robes, amulets, solemn words, white beard. Yes, he wore a robe and bore the twin-tailed comet symbol... but he also wore chainmail, hardened leather armor, and had a warhammer at his belt. I suppose for someone who worships a warrior god, that presentation made more sense than I'd admit. The priest took my hand—firm, but gentle—and with two guards guiding me, he made me walk. He was taking me on my own toward the village along a long beaten dirt road descending from the castle. For the first time, I saw the village up close. And, well... I can't say I was surprised. Most of the buildings were rough-cut wood, with no real windows—just holes likely patched with cloth or boards in winter to hold in the little warmth they had. The place smelled of smoke, mud, and bodies working beyond what a human body should endure. Only a handful of buildings had stone at their base or corners—slightly sturdier houses, probably belonging to wealthier artisans or a local official. I couldn't be sure, but you could tell who lived above the rest. We passed what appeared to be a carpenter's workshop. Adults were busy cutting and assembling wood while several children—not much older than me—carried boards, searched for nails, or helped hold up structures. Clearly, they weren't "learning" in a modern sense—they were working. A few steps later, I spotted a blacksmith's forge. The hammer's ring against anvil never stopped. Constant, rhythmic, deafening, and the heat was brutal even from several meters away. As we passed, I saw a smith, arms blackened by soot and sweat, barking orders while more children hauled coal, metal, and rough iron pieces—practice materials, presumably. Finally, I noticed the only stone building in the village, apart from the fortress. The Sigmar chapel. And unlike everything around it, no expense had been spared here. Well-cut bricks with firm mortar. Perfectly laid tiles with none loose. Arches with stained-glass windows—simple but catching daylight beautifully. It contrasted almost absurdly with the rest of the village: splintering wooden homes, thatched roofs, poorly nailed boards. It was like they'd ripped out a piece of city and planted it in the mud. The chapel stood in the center of the village, and directly in front was what really caught the eye: A statue of Sigmar. The figure was imposing—light-gray stone, taller than any house in the village. Depicted in classic form: muscular, heavily bearded, brow furrowed in serene wrath. He wore chainmail with plate tassets, a cape that looked wind-blown despite being carved in stone. But what drew the eye was the warhammer he held in both hands—Ghal Maraz. Not raised in attack, but planted firmly on the ground, like judgment incarnate, waiting for judgment to fall. The priest continued guiding me by the hand until we finally entered the chapel. As expected, the interior was fully decorated in homage to his god. Banners bearing the twin-tailed comet hung from pillars, stained glass depicted scenes of battle and miracles, and behind the altar stood another statue of the god—smaller, but equally stern. Other children were already there—likely the sons of knights and minor officers under my father's command. Only those who, by blood or position, could earn the "privilege" of being educated by a Sigmarite priest. Privilege—that is, to listen to Imperial theology burned into your soul, defining what you must be and what you can never question. And with that, the sermon began. The priest stepped up to the small stone pulpit. Despite his age, his voice was strong, clear, hardened by years of battle and preaching. He looked at us each with intensity before speaking: "Children of the Empire... children of Sigmar... listen well to what your god expects of you." He paused, inhaled, and spoke as though each word was a commandment: "Be strong! For the weak have no place in this world. The weak die—and with them, the Empire perishes. Be brave! For fear is no excuse for inaction. Cowardice is the crack through which corruption enters. Be loyal! Not only to your father and your land, but to Sigmar who created this civilization. Betrayal is the seed of Chaos. And destroy evil wherever you find it! Without doubt, without remorse, without wavering in blade or judgment. For evil does not reason. Evil does not negotiate. Evil must be crushed, annihilated, eradicated." It went on like that for what felt like an eternity. Words and more words about what Sigmar expected from us: strength, discipline, courage, faith, devotion, purity, obedience, justice, fire, death. All the other children stared fixedly at the priest, as if every word was a revelation. Maybe some understood. Maybe others were too afraid to look away. I simply complied. I nodded. I feigned interest. Inside, I wanted to die from how damn predictable and boring it all was. It felt like reading military propaganda mixed with a poorly edited medieval sermon—dressed up in dramatic, repetitive tones that probably worked on half-literate peasants or proud nobles who dared not ask questions. Finally, with a loud fist pounding on the stone pulpit, the priest ended the sermon. The echo rolled through the chapel like a dry thunderclap, marking the end of the punishment. But just when things seemed over... "Here begins your first lesson, children of the Empire. Here—in this place, under the watchful gaze of the god Sigmar—you will witness the story of his most faithful son... Magnus the Pious." With that, he took a heavy leather-bound book—well-worn at the edges—and placed it on a low table before us. "It will be my duty to teach you to read the story of this sacred man." To my genuine surprise, the priest actually started teaching us to read. It wasn't elaborate. He used the basics: letters, syllables, connectors. We repeated syllables, words, simple phrases—the minimal literacy needed for an Imperial child to read Sigmarite writings without committing accidental heresy. The catch was simple: if you didn't get it right on the first try, tough luck. This priest had no interest in repeating himself. He didn't shout at first—it came later—but he made it clear that anyone who didn't learn quickly would be left behind. And if you failed to read correctly in front of the group, he'd take you through a verbal hell until you could pronounce every word, every title, every sacred name perfectly. The older children did okay—reading slowly, stumbling over phrases but figuring out the text with effort. The younger ones—around two to four years old, barely even a full year old in my case—couldn't even manage a complete sentence. They babbled, stuttered, some couldn't identify letters: a complete mess. When it was my turn, I expected the same—some public humiliation like the others. But not at all. He was gentler with me. Perhaps because of my age. Perhaps because he expected nothing. He simply pointed to a passage and asked me to say the name "Magnus" out loud. Normally, I'd have done just that. Comply. Don't stand out. But I had a father to impress. A brother who'd already failed. And a future I'd rather be lord of the castle than the spare. So I chose to do more. I took a breath, forced my still-developing throat, and read straight from the text: "I can see in your eyes that you fear this enemy. I can see in your eyes that you wonder how we can fight such terrible monsters. Men of the Empire, I have the answer: We fight them with our steel, we fight them with our courage, but above all we fight them with our faith in Sigmar!" My phrasing wasn't perfect. A few words stumbled. I struggled with the rhythm. But I didn't stop. When I finished, I looked at the priest. He looked genuinely pleased. He didn't say anything—just nodded once and moved on. After that, the children were retrieved one by one by their servant . The knight's children accompanied me back, led by the priest. As we climbed the slope back toward the tower, I took the chance to examine the fortress from outside. It wasn't as large as I imagined from within—but its height and position dominated the village. The stone was gray. The walls bore signs of recent repairs, suggesting not-so-distant conflicts. On the battlements, a few guards strolled listlessly, likely bored by the relative peace. From then on, visits to the Sigmar chapel became a daily routine. Every day for several hours, the priest returned to teach letters, connectors, simple phrases—and always with the book of Magnus the Pious. We read it over and over, each aloud, while the priest corrected or scolded as needed. It wasn't hard for me. Having mastered French, English, Ukrainian, and Russian in my previous life, this dialectal variation of German—Reikspiel—posed no barrier. It felt familiar, even comfortable. Within weeks, I was reading fluently. Occasionally, the priest let me stay longer than the others. He'd sit me alone with the book and step away to write or clean the altar. In his way, I think he believed he was doing me a favor... or he saw me as an exceptionally devoted child. He didn't realize that for me, this was a thousand times more interesting than watching sweaty men swing sticks all day. In time, the priest began teaching me to write. But there was a problem: paper was expensive and scarce. He couldn't give me parchment just for me to ruin with crude scribbles. So he used moments when he himself had to write—likely letters for nobles, the castle, or the religious order—and let me watch closely. He pointed out the strokes, the symbols, how to hold the pen, how to dip it, how not to drip ink. I figured all of this would serve me well in the future. ------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------