Reincarnated with the Country System

The barracks stank of sweat, blood, and damp wool. Eli sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at his hands. They were clean now—no blood, no dirt—but he could still feel the warmth of it, the weight of the blade sinking in, the way the man's body had gone slack.

The Empire had made him a killer.

But he wasn't sure if that made him a soldier yet.

"Thinking about it, aren't you?"

Rolf sat across from him, chewing lazily on a strip of dried meat. His thick fingers tore through it like an animal. His face was unreadable.

Eli didn't answer.

Rolf snorted. "First one's always the hardest. After that, it gets easier."

Eli frowned. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

"No," Rolf said, grinning. "It's supposed to make me feel better. You ain't the type to crack, are you?"

Eli exhaled through his nose. "No."

"Good," Rolf muttered. "Because if you do, I'll be the one stuck carrying your sorry ass through battle, and I'd rather not."

Eli smirked despite himself. "How noble."

"Yeah, yeah." Rolf stretched, his bones cracking. "Get some sleep. They'll be working us to the bone tomorrow. Bastards are gonna throw us into the meat grinder sooner or later. Might as well be ready for it."

Eli lay back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come easy, but exhaustion finally dragged him under.

The next morning.

Eli slammed his tray down on the table and glared at the slop in front of him.

"Fucking hell, this again?"

The food stared back, unmoving, smug in its gelatinous defiance. Same unnaturally soft bread, same thick brown sauce, same pale-yellow mush. It quivered under the cold mess hall lights, daring him to take a bite.

Across from him, Rolf was already shoving it down like a starving dog. He chewed noisily, sauce smeared across his chin. "Stop bitching and eat. This stuff's a fucking miracle compared to what we used to get back home."

Eli scoffed, tearing off a piece of the suspiciously soft bread. "This ain't food. It's some kind of wizard's experiment gone wrong." He squeezed it between his fingers, watching it spring back into shape. "Real bread's supposed to be hard enough to break a man's teeth, not this... this cloud."

Garrick snorted, stabbing his spoon into the yellow mush and watching it jiggle. "Yeah? And what about this? Tell me that ain't some kind of alchemist's fuck-up. Food's not supposed to move."

The others chuckled, but the laughter had an edge.

Because no matter how much they mocked it, the food was better. It was rich. Soft. Filling.

Different.

Back home, breakfast was whatever you could scrape together. A bit of dried meat if you were lucky. Maybe a crust of old bread. Porridge, if your village still had grain left. Half the time, it tasted like dirt. The other half, it tasted like nothing at all.

The Bernard Empire didn't serve food. It served fuel. Meals weren't about keeping you full; they were about keeping you efficient. Every bite was packed with something—proteins, carbs, energy. The Empire didn't care if you enjoyed it. It just cared that you ate enough to fight.

Garrick shoved the mush into his mouth and made a face. "Tastes like... buttery milk and sadness."

Rolf grinned, still eating. "That's because it's made from cow tit."

Eli choked. "What?"

Rolf held up a spoonful. "Dunno how they do it, but the cooks said it's made from milk. Like... pressed into this. Some kinda process." He shoved another bite in, licking his lips. "Fucking genius if you ask me."

Eli grimaced. He knew milk. Milk was for drinking, or for making cheese that went rock-hard after a few days. Not... this.

"And the meat?" he asked, eyeing the thick, sauce-covered slab on his plate. "Where's it even come from?"

Garrick shrugged. "Beats me. Doesn't taste like chicken, doesn't taste like beef. Maybe it's from one of those big, fat animals they have here. I saw one in the market—thing looked like a cow, but fatter, shorter. Had a face like a goddamn demon."

Eli took a bite, chewing slowly. It was tender, soft in a way meat never should be. No stringy bits. No gristle. Just pure, melt-in-your-mouth something.

His body wanted it. It was rich, satisfying in a way nothing from home had ever been.

And that was the problem.

"Fucking Empire," he muttered under his breath.

Rolf raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Eli shook his head, pushing his tray away. "Nothing."

But it wasn't nothing.

Because the Empire had taken everything from them—land, freedom, their very names. And now? Now it was replacing even the taste of home.

Everything they ate, everything they wore, everything they used—it all came from the Empire.

And the more they consumed, the less they belonged to Britannia.

.....

Training Ground

After breakfast, everyone gathered at the training ground. For training again.

The Sergeant waited for them outside, arms crossed, eyes like a hawk's. "Today's lesson, maggots," he began, "is how not to die when someone tries to carve your guts out."

The recruits lined up. Wooden practice swords were tossed at their feet.

"Pick 'em up."

Eli grabbed one, feeling the weight of it. Lighter than steel. No edge. Just a blunt tool meant for breaking bones, not cutting flesh.

"Pair up!"

Rolf fell in beside him, cracking his neck. "Try not to cry when I knock you on your ass."

Eli smirked. "Try not to cry when I break your ribs."

The Sergeant paced between them, eyeing each recruit like a piece of meat. "First rule of a fight—don't get hit. Second rule—hit the other poor bastard harder than he hits you. Third rule—there are no other rules."

The training ground exploded into movement.

Eli barely had time to react before Rolf lunged. He dodged, rolling his shoulder back as the wooden blade missed his ribs by an inch. He swung low, aiming for Rolf's knee, but the bastard was faster than he looked.

CRACK.