Rewrite That Witch
CH338 · Rewrite
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Chapter 338: Police

Vader rolled out of bed in one motion and ran through a quick sequence—arms, back, shoulders—testing for pain.

Nothing. The knight had been right: leave the wound alone and it heals. He pulled on his worn jacket, pushed his feet into his knee-high boots, and started on the laces.

“How does it feel?” Kukasim watched him from across the room. “You could rest another day.”

“I held my own yesterday, didn’t I?” Vader tied off the second boot. “Besides, I only get my share of the porridge if I work for it. I can’t keep eating yours. One bowl between two people is hunger with a story attached.”

“It’s not bad porridge,” the old man said, with the mild authority of someone who had eaten worse. “Better than what they serve in the slum districts—that’s clear soup with extra water and whatever they swept off the ground. A few extra wheat grains and they call it gruel. At least here there’s texture to it. I tasted a bit of meat.” He shook his head. “You’re a patrol team member, kid. You haven’t seen what the districts look like from the bottom.”

“I just want both of us to eat properly.” Vader stood and stretched. The back held.

“All right.” Kukasim sighed in the particular way of someone who has decided not to argue further. “Then take care of yourself. Don’t overdo it.”

The strangest part—and Vader caught himself thinking it without quite meaning to, one boot still in his hand—was how thoroughly it had all happened sideways. He’d been a scapegoat. A convenient name on a piece of paper, pointed at by a street rat who needed someone else to take the trouble. He’d met Kukasim in the wreckage of that, two people with nothing particular in common except bad luck and a shared night’s accommodation. Now the old man was lecturing him like blood, and Vader found he didn’t have a clear objection. Just the dim feeling of a life that had rearranged itself while he was looking elsewhere. He put on his hood. “You too.”

He pushed the door open.

Two men were standing outside, both in white uniforms with a shallow blue embroidered on their shoulder patches and armbands—city hall clerks. Not soldiers, not merchants. City hall.

Vader’s brows tightened. “Can I help you?”

One of them produced a slip of paper and checked it. “Are you Vader?”

“Yes.”

“Something happened?” Kukasim had appeared behind him.

“Congratulations.” The second clerk smiled. “You passed the paper examination for the public security agent selection. Training begins immediately—one week, comprehensive.” He extended a small card. “Your temporary identity. Report to the Second Army camp; someone will receive you there.”

Vader stared at the card. “I… passed?”

“The paper test,” the clerk clarified. “This is the first round only. Training follows, and then approval from the chief knight. Pass all of that and the position is yours. Nothing is confirmed yet.” They turned and left—no haggling, no implied request for a coin, no particular warmth. A delivery of information, completed.

“You did it!” Kukasim’s hand came down on his shoulder, harder than a man his age should have been able to manage. “Didn’t I say you had it?”

“You did.” Vader was still holding the card. “I was less sure.”

The old man’s expression shifted to curiosity. “What was in those questions? You seemed rattled when you came back.”

Vader exhaled slowly. A week ago: the posting went up. His Royal Highness is seeking public security agents—the new term for patrol guards, apparently. He had gone to the city hall the same day, presented himself as an applicant, and five days later received notice of a written examination.

He had been confident walking in. More than five years of field experience, practical knowledge of the district, a clear understanding of what the work required. The town needed people who could actually manage a population; he could do that. His chances seemed good.

What he had not expected was the format.

Over a hundred applicants in a large hall. A knight walking the rows distributing papers. Answer all questions in full. Write legibly. His Royal Highness will read these personally. That announcement had caused a visible stir—half the room was suddenly confronting the fact that they could not write. The literary requirement had been listed in the posting, but apparently most of them had trusted that literacy testing would be a formality.

Vader could read. He had read the questions. He had read them twice.

The one that stayed with him ran roughly: You are the driver of a four-wheeled carriage on a narrow mountain road. Two citizens are inside. A group of refugees appears in the road ahead. You cannot stop or swerve. You must choose: strike the refugees, or drive off the precipice. Either way, you will survive. Which do you choose, and why? Minimum 300 words.

The number of refugees wasn’t specified. Neither was their condition, their ages, or their relationship to anyone. The question gave no information that would let him optimize the arithmetic. And running over refugees—he’d seen it done, by people in authority, treated as a calculation. But perhaps that wasn’t what His Royal Highness was looking for. Choosing to let the citizens die seemed like an answer that would disqualify him for a position designed to protect citizens.

He had written three paragraphs and crossed out two of them. He still wasn’t certain whether what remained was an answer or an admission that he didn’t have one.

“It’s nothing,” Vader said. “Just an odd question.” He pocketed the card. “I’m going to camp.”

“Mhm.” Kukasim’s laugh was unguarded and warm. “You’ll pass. I know it.”

The Second Army camp occupied the north side of town, outside the inner wall’s stone perimeter. When Vader arrived, Carter was already in the yard, waiting for the last few to file in—arms folded, expression suggesting he had been born with a default level of patience that was already running low.

“From today forward, you are police cadets.” He let the silence that followed the word do its work, then continued: “You will live in this camp for one week. You will receive training. Those who pass will remain; those who fail will leave. I will teach you what discipline means, and what it means to work under His Royal Highness.”

Vader scanned the group. Fifteen people. From a pool of over a hundred.

The literacy requirement had not been decorative.

Most of the others looked like locals—the particular weathered quality of people who had grown up somewhere cold and worked their way to whatever room they were standing in now. Vader was, he thought, probably the only recent arrival.

“Permission to speak?” A hand went up.

Carter’s expression didn’t change, but something in it shifted slightly—a fractional adjustment, the look of a man who has just identified someone worth watching. “Seems you know how to ask. Go ahead.”

“My brother’s in the First Army.” The speaker had the relaxed posture of someone for whom authority was a familiar variable. “Sir—what exactly is the police? I thought we were applying for public security.”

“The police are public security. Think of them as the crew responsible for law and order within His Royal Highness’s territory: arresting criminals, suppressing illegal activity, maintaining order, implementing policy from the city hall, and”—a brief pause—“assisting the common people.”

“Assist the common people?” A slight confusion in the voice. “But you said we serve His Royal Highness—”

“There’s no contradiction. Serving the people under His Royal Highness is serving His Royal Highness. Unless you were hoping to attend to him personally?” Carter shrugged. “Come back after you’ve made knight.”

But knights are nobility. Old reflex. Not resentment—he’d stopped carrying that a while back—just the automatic calibration of a man who had spent his life noting where the ceilings were. The distance between where he stood and where a knight stood was not the kind of distance that effort closed. You couldn’t decide your way to a title.

He let the thought go unfinished. It didn’t change anything about the next week.

“Executors of the law and guardians of the people. That is what you are.” Carter clapped once, sharp and flat. “Now get to your tents and change into your uniforms. Once you’re ready, I have your first assignment.”

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