Bad Born Blood

Translator: FenrirTL
Editor: Matt, Greedy
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< Chapter 1 >

My fate was decided in the Empire’s selection. Praise His Imperial Majesty.

It was the day I completed the second selection test. The orphanage director chuckled and patted my shoulder, his bloated, greasy fingers betraying how well he’d stuffed himself over the years.

“You’re going to be the masterpiece of our orphanage, Luka.”

Despite being a greedy pig, the director had an eye for talent. Three years later, when I turned fifteen and became a cadet of the Imperial Guard, his words proved true.

The day I left the slums of the lower sector, I underwent a baptism of steel. Imperial scientists severed my limbs, replacing them with cybernetic prosthetics—a luxury of artificial arms and legs that most lower-class citizens would never even lay eyes on.

I could shatter boulders or bend steel with my bare hands, and leap over two-story buildings with a single bound.

“The Irregular of Orphanage 72.”

People called me that. It was rare for anyone from the double-digit orphanages to reach the level of the Imperial Guard.

The majority of Imperial Guard cadets hails from single-digit orphanages or is the offspring of nobles.
Still, there was no class-based discrimination in selecting cadets for the Guard.

…It was simply a matter of capability.

Those with better genes, raised in superior environments, naturally exhibited superior abilities. That was the norm.

Occasionally, someone like me—an “irregular”—would defy that difference, but in the greater picture, the existence of irregulars like me was insignificant.

“Upper officials might call you an ‘irregular,’ but do you know how they truly call people like you?”

The Commander of the Imperial Guard looked down at me during the interview, then continued without waiting for my response.

“…They call you a genius. Someone who defies natural limitations and adverse conditions, creating outcomes that fall outside the norm.”

I didn’t smile at the praise.

“I am merely a loyal servant of the Empire and His Majesty.”

I replied, placing my hand over my heart.

“A model answer, Luka.”

The edges of the Commander’s eyes glowed with an icy blue light. His name was Hemillas Kusthoria, one of the Empire’s strongest soldiers.

“…Thank you, Commander.”

A sudden shyness came over me; it was hard to meet the Commander of the Imperial Guard’s eyes.

“It’s fine to be exceptional, but don’t be different. If you want to live a long life, that is.”

With that piece of advice, the interview came to an end.

* * *

I was required to live at the Imperial Guard Training Center for four years. The first year of cadet life passed in a blur of relentless training, so intense that I barely noticed the days slipping by. Each morning, I’d open my eyes in the barracks bed and begin training; every night, I’d close my eyes with an exhausted body, only to find it was already morning again.

An Imperial Guard had to master every combat skill of the Empire and be proficient with all military equipment. Swordsmanship, spear technique, marksmanship… these were basic; we trained to become experts in operating every kind of heavy weapon and equipment.

Every quarter, they tested our nervous system compatibility and limits, replacing my prosthetic arms and legs with higher-grade versions. It was a gradual process to increase energy output, allowing the nervous system to adapt to high-performance cybernetic limbs. Through this series of adaptations, we would eventually earn the right to operate the Legion, the exclusive combat armor of the Imperial Guard.

“Today is an important day for all of you. A sort of midterm assessment.”

On the final day of our first year of training, the Commander gathered the cadets in an underground coliseum, a space modeled after ancient Earth ruins.

Forty cadets, including myself, stood motionless, waiting for the Commander to speak.

“His Majesty the Emperor…” he began, pointing toward the opaque glass on the upper level. He informed us that the current Emperor, Yuri Accretia, and his family were present behind it.

Some of the cadets murmured quietly, as if in prayer, to praise Dino Accretia, the founder of the Empire—the first Emperor, the Father of the Nation, the Guardian of Humanity. Although the Empire’s founder had been dead for centuries, he was still venerated.

“…Under their watchful eyes, you will display your abilities.”

On the other side of the coliseum stood a group of condemned prisoners. We would be fighting against these armed death row convicts.

“You may choose any weapon you like,” said the Commander, gesturing to a wall where various weapons were displayed. There were swords, spears, and several firearms. Only one among us opted for a firearm. I cast a quick glance at the odd one who picked a gun, then shifted my gaze.

Zing!

I drew a sword. The blade was smooth, coated with a monomolecular layer capable of slicing through steel.

Though an Imperial Guard had to be proficient in all weapons, melee weapons—especially swords and spears—were held in the highest regard.

Melee weapons were impractical in battle unless wielded by a highly skilled fighter. For regular soldiers, firearms were more efficient.

For this reason, the Imperial Guard specialized in melee weapons, priding themselves on being able to defeat enemies armed with firearms using just swords and spears.

Creeeak!

Five armed convicts stepped onto the coarse sand arena from the opposite side.

Soon, each cadet took their turn, stepping forward to face the condemned inmates.

I watched every duel in the arena, waiting for my turn.

No cadet had died, but even when they succeeded in executing their opponents, some ended up with severe injuries. A lack of skill was often to blame.

Before long, my turn approached. I noticed the cadet going before me—the one who had chosen a gun.

“So, you’re planning to use a gun? If you’re confident, that’s fine,” the Commander remarked, looking at the unusual cadet with the firearm.

After a year of training together, I knew this gun-wielding cadet’s abilities. Though he’d chosen a gun, he wasn’t a coward—he was exceptionally skilled.

The gun-wielding cadet entered the arena.

Bang!

The gunshot echoed. If he’d chosen a gun, there had to be a reason. With near-supernatural skill, he moved fluidly, like he was dancing, firing his shots.

Clang!

Without looking, he fired, intercepting a bullet fired by one of the convicts. It wasn’t luck but calculated precision, a technique that allowed him to deflect bullets with bullets.

“Ah, as expected…”

“As one would expect from House Carthica.”

Cadets murmured in admiration for the gun-wielder.

Before long, he was face-to-face with the convicts. The prisoners, now demoralized, were pulling their triggers in vain. Their magazines had long since emptied.

Impressive. He had demonstrated the gap in skill, subduing the condemned with ease.

Bang!

He pressed his gun directly to the convict’s forehead and fired. It was practically close-range execution, not unlike using a bayonet—if anything, it was a more challenging approach.

Clap, clap, clap.

Applause rang out from beyond the opaque glass. Bowing his head and bending at the waist, the gun-wielding cadet made a lasting impression on the Emperor.

If you were going to use a gun, that level of skill was required. His performance left no room for doubt about his abilities.

“Unfortunate, Luka. Comparisons are bound to be made,” the Commander said, smirking. A surge of defiance roared within me. Though I hated to admit it, my temper was far from mild.

“We’ll see who’s really unlucky,” I replied, realizing I may have overstepped. I glanced at the Commander, but he only shrugged, laughing.

Click.

As I entered the arena, the door closed, sealing off any path of escape.

Either all the condemned would die, or I would. There were only two possible outcomes.

Zing.

I raised my sword to my face. The hum of the blade was unsettlingly sharp.

‘Bullets are manageable. I can deflect or dodge them.’

This was a basic competency for an Imperial Guard. But for us cadets, it was far from guaranteed—a comrade who was injured in this test served as proof.

What I needed in that moment was superhuman focus. Through special drug administration and multiple surgical procedures, our nervous systems had been chemically enhanced. There were minor side effects, but it allowed us to achieve an artificial state of heightened concentration, maintaining an accelerated thought process akin to the moments before death.

‘In simulation training, I managed to deflect bullets several times in succession. My abilities are sufficient.’

But being able to do it nine times out of ten wasn’t enough. In reality, a single failure could mean death. Only a perfect success rate would make this skill dependable in live combat.

“Huff… huff…”

The five convicts emerged into the arena, breathing heavily. They looked terrified, warily eyeing the young cadet before them.

It was the pressure of facing a member of the Imperial Guard. Even if I was only a cadet, they were demoralized by the name of the Guard.

Click, click.

The convicts watched me, firearms in hand. For a moment, we were locked in a standoff, neither side moving.

I examined them closely. Their bodies were patched together with cheap cybernetic augmentations, the functionality of which was questionable. Their limbs were illegally modified and asymmetrical, leaving some of them lopsided and unbalanced.

They barely met the most basic standards. If they were unarmed, I could kill them all with my eyes closed.

But they were holding guns. A lucky bullet to my head or a vital area, and I’d be dead. Complacency would be fatal.

Swish.

I steadied my stance, focusing forward. As I assessed the battlefield, my mind shifted into the combat-focused thought acceleration that had been deeply ingrained through training.

The pattern of crossfire from the five convicts formed several possible scenarios in my head. Overlaying these fire patterns revealed a safe path—a route I could exploit.

Of course, it was only a prediction. If I advanced and got hit, I would pay the price for my lack of skill.

‘For now, I just have to trust my instincts and move forward.’

In a split second, my decision was made. I kicked the ground, and as if on cue, gunfire erupted.

With my high-performance prosthetic legs, I could sprint faster than a vehicle over short distances.

Bang!

I ducked. A bullet grazed past, close enough to brush my hair. It felt chillingly close. Death was closing in on me.

But the thrill of success outweighed any fear. In that moment, I must have been smiling.

Bang!

More gunfire erupted. I twisted my body and sharply changed direction. The abrupt stop put strain on my left ankle, causing a creak. I could hear the sound of a few components shifting out of place.

‘For now I have no time for minor issues.’

I only needed to keep moving for ten more seconds.

Thud!

Sliding to shift my momentum, I pushed off the ground with my fingertips and sprang forward, hardly losing any speed.

I closed in on the convict furthest to the right. From here on, he was within sword’s reach. My domain.

My arm moved, and the blade traced its path.

Slice!

The convict didn’t even have time to scream. His head slipped off in a clean cut, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish.

Good, one down. My hormonal system was attuned to combat, so the guilt of killing was faint, dissipating as quickly as it came.

I scanned my surroundings. Using the body of the convict I’d just killed as a shield would make it easy to take out the remaining enemies.

‘But this is a place to display my skill.’

Surviving wasn’t the goal—I needed to catch the Emperor’s eye. I recalled the sight of the cadet performing tricks with his gun.

‘Could I pull off something similar?’

I’d never attempted it before, but right now, it felt possible.

My senses sharpened to an extreme. As if the fog had lifted, my expanded awareness rendered my surroundings in three dimensions, like a radar map. I could predict each enemy’s position and movements even with my eyes closed. The paths of their gunfire appeared to me as countless lines.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly.

I angled my sword forward and tilted it just slightly.

Ting!

A bullet struck the blade and deflected to the side.

“Aaagh!”

A scream echoed as the deflected bullet pierced another convict’s eye. The screaming convict collapsed to the ground shortly after.

‘I did it.’

But there was no time to celebrate. A barrage of gunfire followed immediately.

Ting! Tiiing!

I tilted my blade repeatedly, deflecting bullets one after another. Each deflected bullet twisted in trajectory, embedding itself into the bodies of the convicts.

Whoosh!

My arm moved so fast it seemed to leave afterimages. Sparks flickered from my overloaded elbow joint, and my unsteady eyes felt as if they were scraping dryly.

A faint smile crept across my face. I had surpassed my limits. My value was rising.

‘But this neural fatigue is severe.’

My focus was running dry, and I felt my field of vision narrowing. After today’s battle, I would need a full day or two of sleep to recover.

“Huff…”

Only the sound of my rough breathing filled the silent arena. I was the only one left standing. The convicts lay scattered around me, each with bullet holes in their heads.

I was on the verge of collapse, but I forced myself to suppress the fatigue.

Clap, clap, clap.

Applause was heard from above, and I bowed in formal acknowledgment toward the unseen Emperor.

Creak.

The door opened, and I returned to where the Guard Captain and my fellow cadets were waiting.

“Ballistic trajectory control techniques aren’t in the cadet curriculum yet, are they?” the Commander remarked, looking at me. Until now, I hadn’t known this technique even had a name.

“I just… copied what the previous cadet did,” I replied honestly. There was no reason to hide it, and besides, I was eager to finish speaking and rest. I felt as though I could collapse at any moment. That wasn’t an exaggeration.

“Ilay Carthica is from a renowned household. He was already taught the curriculum in advance. It’s different from an orphanage kid like you using ballistic control.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. Excessive modesty wouldn’t look good, but neither would arrogance. This was one of those times when diplomacy was required—diplomacy, one of my weakest skills.

“I…”

Before I could finish, the Commander patted me on the shoulder.

“I’m not interrogating you, it’s praise. Now go and get some rest. And don’t forget to get your prosthetics repaired.”

Under the stare of the other cadets, I limped out into the hallway. By now, my gait had turned into a hobble. It looked like my left prosthetic leg was completely wrecked.