Chapter 193 - Face to Face with the Marshal (14)
The morning after the secret meeting, as soon as dawn broke, Soren sent a courier to Levin to report the results of the meeting.
Soren's report detailed everything that had happened the night before, leaving out nothing—not even the fact that Bertrand was refraining from attacking the Imperial Army out of fear of Ernest.
Levin couldn't hide his bewilderment upon reading the report.
The situation defied everything he thought he knew.
"No matter how exceptional he is, can a single company commander really have such an enormous impact on a battle?"
Levin was well aware of Ernest's talents.
He had witnessed Ernest's feats several times since he first assumed command of the 1st Battalion, and had been so thoroughly impressed that he kept a close eye on him.
Any way you looked at it, he was clearly a remarkable man.
But to think that just one company of barely a hundred men could strike fear into Bertrand—it was hard to believe.
In the military, size is everything.
When there is overwhelming force, strategy and tactics can become almost irrelevant.
So what could a mere hundred infantry do on a battlefield where thousands, even tens of thousands, clash?
Levin sat staring at Soren's letter for a long time, lost in thought.
He couldn't help but wonder if he had overestimated Soren and put too much trust in him, or, on the flip side, if he had underestimated Ernest and tried to suppress his wings.
"Have I, too, lost perspective and become blinded by my own success?"
He worried that, like the incompetent officers he despised, he had risen too high, become a regimental commander beyond his abilities, and let the taste of power cloud his judgment.
That was how serious this was.
He had trusted Soren's report and positioned Ernest as a shield to block Bertrand.
But if this was a miscalculation on Soren's part, and they were ensnared by one of Bertrand's schemes, it could have truly catastrophic consequences.
"I have to look at the facts."
Levin brushed away the mist clouding his eyes so he could grasp the essence of the situation, deciding to focus solely on the facts.
He resolved to set aside external factors like Ernest's youth and short career, and look purely at what Ernest had accomplished.
"What exactly has Captain Krieger done?"
As he asked himself this, Levin recalled the many achievements Ernest had to his name.
In truth, there was no room for doubt about Ernest's abilities.
After all, Ernest was the man who began his military career by earning a Medal of Merit in his very first battle.
Not long after, he was awarded the Bronze Star Medal—and it was Levin himself who had pinned that medal on him.
Then, at the end of the brutal Battle of Bertagne Forest, during the breakthrough of the Triple Trench Line, Ernest had protected his unit from Estelle's attack and was the first to cross beyond the trenches.
Even after the death of Yurgen, who was company commander at the time, Ernest led the company flawlessly.
Although there was some unease swirling around Bailey's death, it was also Ernest who drove Bertrand back in the fight in front of Lanosel.
Every surviving member of the 1st Battalion had unanimously praised his military merit.
After that, Ernest continued to distinguish himself, though his successes were on a smaller scale—simply because there hadn't been any large battles.
In terms of unit management, he handled everything impeccably without a hitch.
And in this latest battle, Ernest, serving as the vanguard of the 5th Division, accomplished a difficult mission with outstanding skill.
When he first faced Bertrand, Ernest had come up with the harebrained idea of using the Logistics Corps as bait—an idea that sounded as if he'd been shot in the head.
Yet that absurd notion had led to a successful operation, becoming a bold and unconventional move that would be remembered in the annals of this war.
"Hoo…"
Levin set Soren's letter down and let out a long sigh.
"If only he were three years older"
Levin couldn't help but lament Ernest's youth.
Ernest was so exceptionally talented that it seemed almost absurd when you set his age aside; it made his young years feel all the more tragic.
If only he were just three years older—if only he were twenty by now—then Ernest would be more than just a propaganda hero; he would already be a true hero of the Empire.
Levin realized that, just like everyone else, he had let Ernest's age cloud his judgment and hadn't evaluated him properly.
If only he had realized this a little sooner.
'That was my mistake.'
Levin recognized his error and rubbed his face with a rough hand.
'I should have refused.'
He should never have accepted Bertrand's request for a secret meeting.
Now that he knew Ernest was talented enough to stand against Bertrand, there was nothing more he could do with that knowledge.
Ernest was far too valuable to keep as a mere company commander.
He needed to be promoted as soon as possible.
'I need to promote him, but I can't explain why.'
The problem was that he couldn't say why Ernest needed to be promoted—because the information came from the secret meeting with Bertrand, and he couldn't reveal that.
'And even if I promote him, his assignment is a problem.'
There was another issue: if Ernest was promoted, he would become a major.
In the Imperial Army's rank structure, a major could only serve as a staff officer.
Rangers had majors as company commanders, but that was a rare exception.
If Ernest was pulled from the field, Bertrand might seize the chance to attack.
So, if he wanted to use Ernest properly to block Bertrand, he might have to promote him two ranks at once and make him a battalion commander.
As if that would ever happen!
Levin had realized the reason why Ernest ought to be promoted by two ranks, but he couldn't say it aloud.
After all, he had committed an act of treason by secretly entering into a peace treaty with the enemy.
Sin is like a muddy swamp—once you set foot in it, you can't escape unless someone pulls you out with real force from the outside.
He'd just grown weary of this foolish war, and his judgment had faltered for a moment.
That's why right now, the brilliant officer who ought to be promoted immediately and put to work—even if it meant working him to the bone like a dog—no, made to serve the army in an appropriate position, could not be promoted because of Levin.
On the contrary, Levin now found himself in the position of needing to prevent Ernest from being promoted to major.
"I can't promote Lieutenant Colonel Kaufmann, either."
Levin couldn't even promote Soren, whom he'd been so eager to advance.
If Soren, who'd had a secret meeting and made a promise with Bertrand, were promoted, he'd become a colonel and then become regimental commander of another unit.
Some other lieutenant colonel would become 1st Battalion Commander of the 13th Regiment.
In that case, the only person at the front lines who knew about Bertrand's promise would be Captain Ernest Krieger, a mere company commander with no authority at all.
His hands were completely tied.
Levin was now forced to keep both Ernest and Soren from being promoted—keeping them right where they were, maintaining the status quo.
Faced with the reality that he would have to sabotage, with his own hands, the careers of the brightest talents who bore the future of the Imperial Army, Levin was overwhelmed by despair.
The prudent Levin had never made a single mistake in any of the previous wars and had carried out every task assigned to him with stability.
But in the end, he had made a mistake too great—the price for which had come back to him painfully.
"We don't have to get promoted! We're saved!"
While Levin was tormented, groaning over the fact that he'd unwittingly sabotaged the future of the Imperial Army's brightest talents, the people actually affected—Ernest and Soren—realized their paths to promotion had been blocked and were thinking things like that.
"Don't let your guard down."
Ernest, trying to hide his subtle sense of relief, made sure to thoroughly supervise the soldiers so they wouldn't relax their vigilance.
Only a handful of people knew about last night's secret meeting.
Ernest had tipped off Robert so he could move secretly into the 1st Platoon's patrol area, and aside from those who attended the meeting itself, only Robert really knew what had happened.
The same was true for Bertrand, who now had to be mindful of Konchanya.
The soldiers on both sides of the front, standing face-to-face in the woods, had no knowledge that last night's secret meeting meant the other side wouldn't attack—they remained tense, none the wiser.
Even though the trees partly obscured the enemy, the distance wasn't far enough to let their guard down.
"So, this means the battle's over, right?"
"If they keep the promise."
"No way they'd come all this way only to turn on us."
"Yeah, I suppose."
Ernest and Robert whispered quietly, sneaking around the eyes and ears of others like little rats plotting mischief.
If the promise were to be broken now, the Belliang Army—essentially Bertrand's lifeline—would end up being decimated, one after another.
Bertrand might have defected to Konchanya for now, but he'd eventually have to change sides again.
Losing his troops for Konchanya's sake would be the worst outcome possible for Bertrand.
"But what are they even planning with this military action? One wrong move in this situation, and we'll be straight into another battle."
"They'll probably do things like training or reconnaissance."
They were also talking about the military action they'd agreed to discuss in detail later.
This was something they needed to approach with real caution.
Even a slight misstep could trigger an all-out battle.
But they didn't have to worry about it for long.
Bertrand ended up showing them exactly what he meant by military action.
"Someone's coming!"
"Company Commander! Someone is approaching from the enemy camp!"
Bertrand had taken military action even though there'd been no final agreement yet.
But it was a rather bewildering kind of action.
From the Belliang side, they had sent a dignified gentleman dressed in a red uniform, riding a horse.
Flanking him were two Baltracher, also on horseback, who conjured barriers to protect him.
"…What are they up to?"
"Should we shoot?"
"…Hold your fire."
Faced with this puzzling situation, the Imperial Army decided not to attack for now and simply waited.
"Ahem."
The gentleman, still astride his horse, cleared his throat softly and calmly surveyed the Imperial Army, who were aiming their muzzles at him in readiness.
Then, as if making a bow before a theatrical performance, he took off his stylish hat—not a helmet—and bent his head in a graceful flourish.
"Filthy invaders! You'd do well to return to your own homeland!"
"…Oh…."
And as that dignified gentleman shouted these words in Imperial language with a thick, archaic Belliang accent, Ernest immediately realized what kind of military action this was.
Ernest wasn't the only one who caught on, either.
"Everyone shut up! Not a word from anyone!"
"Keep your mouths shut!"
Suddenly, a few people frantically tried to stop those around them from speaking.
The abruptness left many confused and unsure of what to do.
"Shut it! I said quiet! Don't answer him, do not engage!"
Even the officers, who were nobles, came rushing out in a near panic as if they'd touched fire, stopping the soldiers from responding.
There was something these terrified, controlling individuals had in common: within the 1st Battalion of the 13th Regiment, they were among the more experienced veterans.
To be precise, they were the ones who had survived fighting Bertrand in the forest in front of Lanosel.
"What's he going on about? You don't even have a homeland to go back to!"
"No, don't!"
One soldier, unaware of the gravity of the situation, shouted back at that dignified noble weakling with a sneer, just trying to get in a jab.
The veterans of the 1st Battalion, however, could see exactly what was about to happen.
"Oh, so you actually have a hometown to go back to? How wonderful for you! Of course, the only one staying in your dear home and lying in your bed is that filthy Emperor of yours, who's been having his way with your wife! By now, I'm sure the child your Emperor sired is nearly ready to come out of her belly! Let me give you some earnest advice: you'd best hurry home as fast as you can! The longer you wait, the more children you'll have back home that aren't even yours! Not that you mind, since you seem perfectly happy to raise another man's children! After all, as long as you lick the Emperor's ass, you'll be showered in gold, so what's there to worry about? While you're all dying here, your wives and daughters are probably at this very moment licking the Emperor's ass and filling their mouths with gold! When you finally return, a splendid grand mansion will be awaiting you! But if any of those women have any sense, surely they'll love the Emperor's ass more than a worthless beggar like you. So they won't be your wives or daughters anymore, and that grand mansion won't be your home either!"
"..."
"Damn it all. We're screwed."
As that nightmare-inducing voice—the one that had held complete sway over the battlefield near the forest in front of Lanosel with mere words—echoed over the noise, the 1st Battalion's veteran soldiers could only press their aching foreheads in resignation.
The newcomers who heard that vulgar verbal tirade for the first time were dumbfounded, their eyes spinning in disbelief.
Watching such a refined-looking Belliang noble spew such possessed filth in Imperial language, it all felt like some nasty dream.
"Should we just shoot him?"
"Shoot."
When the soldiers, unable to bear another word from that foul-mouthed Belliang noble, suggested shooting, Ernest readily gave the order.
Unlike the battle in the forest in front of Lanosel, where resources were scarce, here they had plenty, so shooting freely was the right call.
Bang bang bang! Bang bang!
"You damn fools! Not a single one of those bullets hit! Just like there wasn't a single child born to your wife who was actually yours!"
"Wow..."
But not a single bullet reached that Belliang noble bastard hiding behind two of Baltracher's barriers, huddled by the tree to keep out of the line of fire.
Instead, as payment for shooting, they were subjected to another psychological attack.
"Is that thing even human?"
"Hey, hey. Don't make eye contact. We're screwed."
"Can't we just charge in and kill him?"
"No way..."
There were over three thousand Imperial Army soldiers stationed on the front line, yet not a single one dared to take on that crude tongue.
Since they couldn't win with words, they'd have to win by force, but attacking now would only play right into the enemy's hands—so that was off the table, too.
It was enough to drive anyone mad.
Ernest, watching the situation unfold from a step back, shook his head in disbelief.
This was definitely a military action.
In fact, it was a perfectly peaceful military action, ideally suited to the current situation, since it didn't even involve actual combat.
Until they finished the discussion and reached an agreement on the specific details, they had no choice but to keep listening to that psychological attack.
Levin really needed to send the order soon...
***
Several days had passed since the 5th Division recaptured half of the forest.
Although the suffocating tension still lingered on the battlefield, the fighting itself had stopped for now.
"Sniff..."
Marie sat curled up alone in a dark tent, sniffling quietly.
Ever since she lost to Estelle and fainted, she had been crying over and over again.
She had fought as hard as she could to protect Ernest and Robert.
She had fought, risking her life, doing everything she possibly could.
But against Estelle, she hadn't even been able to lay a finger on her.
She had been utterly and helplessly defeated.
And because of that, Ernest and Robert had to go back into the forest to fight the enemy.
She had failed to protect them.
She had failed in the worst possible way.
'I'm useless.'
Marie once again repeated the self-reproach that had been running endlessly through her mind since her defeat.
Protecting those two was the one thing she absolutely had to do, and she hadn't even managed that.
What use was she to anyone like this?
'I ruined everything. Because I failed, Ernest and Robert nearly died. This is all my fault.'
Marie cried, hugging her thin legs with equally thin arms—she hadn't been eating properly at all.
At this point, she felt like she might as well just die.
No, maybe that would actually be better.
What value was there in a tool that couldn't even fulfill the one role it was given?
Her whole reason for existing was being denied. Marie felt like there was no place left for her in this world, and nowhere that needed her.
'Next time I fight, I'll just let myself die.'
So Marie resolved to give her all in the next battle and die there. It was a conclusion she'd reached after a long, confused spiral of thought completely devoid of logic and reason.
That was how close Marie was to her breaking point.
"Um, excuse me, Senior Captain Marie. Uh… a letter has arrived..."
Just then, a timid voice called out from outside the tent. Marie still didn't budge, just curled up and continued to cry.
"It's from Captain Krieger and Second Lieutenant Jimman…."
Thud!
But when she heard those words, Marie reacted so abruptly that she tried to get up too quickly and collapsed helplessly.
She crawled across the floor where she had fallen, then managed to rise and stumbled toward the entrance of the tent, flinging it open.
A cool autumn wind swept in, accompanied by sunlight pouring into the gloom, and Marie, who had been sobbing in the darkness, couldn't even open her eyes.
"Where, where is it?"
"H-here…."
The soldier delivering the letter was so startled by Marie's disheveled state that he hastily handed over the letter and ran away.
Clutching the envelope tightly to her chest, Marie retreated into the tent, avoiding the light.
Her body weak from crying too much, she staggered and just barely managed to steady herself, then tottered over to the table and switched on the Balt Lantern. Squinting her swollen eyes against the pale Balt Light, she hurriedly tore open the envelope.
"...."
Thunk.
While reading the letter, Marie dropped her small head onto the table.
Her injured hands trembled so much she feared she might crumple the letter, so those tiny hands gently laid the letter paper down on the table and traced over it tenderly.
She bit down hard on her lip to stifle another sob, and hot blood seeped from her pale lips.
Marie curled up and cried for a long, long time. She thought she had no more tears left to shed, and yet the tears kept flowing, so much that she wondered if her small head might eventually dry out completely.
For Marie, who had grown up abused and abandoned her own family, the only connections she had left were Ernest and Robert.
And now, the two of them, worried for someone like her—a useless tool that couldn't even perform her one role—had sent her this heartfelt letter.
"Ugh…"
In the end, Marie couldn't hold back her sobs any longer, and a sound escaped from her lips. Marie felt as if she had been saved by the letter from Ernest and Robert, who didn't measure her worth or usefulness, but genuinely cared for her as a fellow human being.
Even though she had failed to fulfill the role expected of her, she was still someone important to them.
It wasn't because of her abilities or what she could do—it was simply her existence that mattered to them.
Marie realized that it was okay for her to keep on living.
As long as Ernest and Robert were there—as long as there were people who cared for her not for her power or her purpose, but for who she was.
"Next time… next time, I swear…"
That was why she could once again steel herself to protect those two, to fight the enemy, to kill the enemy.
Next time, she would protect them, no matter what.
Next time, she would win.
Next time, she would kill.
No matter what happened.
Marie began preparing herself to fight once again. She ate well, slept well, took care of her battered body, and relentlessly trained to kill Estelle.
However, no matter how long she waited, there was no battle.
All that happened were drills and reconnaissance agreed upon by Levin and Bertrand, and occasionally approaching the enemy camp to hurl insults.
Before she knew it, winter had arrived.