Chapter 1

※This work is inspired by 15th to 18th century Europe and the Orient, but it is ultimately a different world. It differs from the real world in many aspects.

※This work is written in the format of a "Swaidel language translation."

【Chapter 1: The Reaper's Scythe】

In my previous life, I died unexpectedly and was reincarnated in this different world. Now, I find myself in a situation where I might die again.

"Fire!"

At my command as the squad leader, fifty of my subordinates, who are line infantry, fire their muskets simultaneously.

"Load the next round!"

The scene resembles a 17th-century battlefield. It is an era nearing the end of the Age of Exploration, with colonies established in various regions and absolute monarchies at their peak.

This is also true for the Swaidel Empire.

When one thinks of an "empire," it evokes the image of a great nation, but after over a century of continuous wars, the empire has lost much of its territory and is now not much different from its neighboring countries.

Still, the past glory cannot be forgotten, and the empire continues to strive for the recovery of its lost territories.

This second homeland is a mess in every way, but the worst part is that most of the surrounding countries are heretics and have been longstanding enemies since the founding of the empire. In reality, they are different sects of the same religion, but this only intensifies the animosity.

That is why the war has lasted for over a century.

Enemy bullets whiz by. They are the line infantry of the neighboring Agan Kingdom.

I want to charge and finish this quickly, but the enemy's barrage is intense. A charge now would be futile.

I raise my command sword and shout.

"Move your hands, not just your eyes! Fire!"

About three to four men have been knocked to the ground by the enemy's attack, but the remaining soldiers follow the order and fire in unison. The battlefield is shrouded in white smoke from the black powder, making it hard to see anything.

Despite the confusion, I fulfill my duty as a squad leader. If I don't drive back the enemy, my military career might be on the line.

I give another order.

"Fire!"

Musketeers can fire about once every twenty seconds. There are no clocks, but my body has learned the timing. I have the soldiers who can't keep up save their ammunition for the next round.

"Damn, the enemy isn't decreasing! There are still more than forty of them!"

My subordinate, a non-commissioned officer, peers through a telescope, trying to see the enemy through the smoke.

Another non-commissioned officer shouts.

"Captain, six men are down!"

It seems two more have been hit.

Out of the fifty men in my squad, "more than ten percent" have been hit.

In a modern war, this would be the point where one might want to retreat, but this is a different world, a pre-modern era. With "nearly ninety percent" still standing, retreat is not an option.

"Captain, it's hopeless!"

A trembling soldier shouts, but I force a smile and laugh it off.

"Ha ha ha! If we run now, we'll all end up in the punishment unit! Do you want to be in the front line with a pike in your hand?!"

"Ah! I don't want to!"

The soldier, who is loading his musket while whimpering, is a product of training. His hands don't stop, even if his mouth does.

I pat him on the shoulder and shout loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"If we kill them, our job is done! We'll finish this by dinner! Once we capture the next town, we can have all the alcohol and women we want!"

Ah, how distasteful. I really don't like it. I wanted to work in the rear at the military academy, so why am I fighting here?

To be honest, I hate war and this world. I don't care what happens to the empire.

However, if I don't fight, I'll be killed, so I continue to kill to avoid being killed. Both enemies and allies.

"Fire! Your guns are tireless and virile! Show the Agan people that you're not lacking in that department!"

I boost morale with some crude jokes. It's silly to make jokes while risking your life, but you can't survive without being a bit silly.

The enemy's resistance is stubborn. They are defending a narrow pass with just one squad. We have several more squads coming up, and once they arrive, we can flank and annihilate the enemy.

In other words, the enemy's resistance is meaningless. It's just a delay.

Hmm? A delay...?

Suddenly, a cold sensation runs down my neck.

"Shit!"

I grab the collar of a non-commissioned officer and force him to crouch down.

Almost simultaneously, the white smoke in front of us is torn apart, and something flies into the formation. It's a cannonball.

"Ah!"

"Whoa!"

"Ahhhh!?"

Loud screams fill the air. I estimate about ten men have been hit.

I quickly stand up and assess the damage. The men who died instantly are unrecognizable, and I can't tell how many there are. Some are lying in pools of blood, moaning.

I focus on counting the men who are still standing and holding their muskets.

About thirty.

"You, you're safe, Captain... You avoided that well, didn't you?"

The non-commissioned officer, pale-faced, stands up, and I help him. If I had been a split second slower, both of us would have lost our upper bodies.

"I've known the Reaper for a long time."

Perhaps because I died once before, I can sense the premonition of death. A cold, blade-like sensation runs down my neck.

I don't know why I can do this, but I call it "The Reaper's Scythe."

Without this ability, I, a modern man, wouldn't have survived in this era.

In any case, if we get hit by another cannonball, the squad will be wiped out. Even though it's probably a small-caliber field gun, at a distance of just a few dozen meters, its power is overwhelming.

We can't afford to hesitate any longer.

But I act as if I've been waiting for this moment, raise my command sword, and run forward.

"Alright, they've used their trump card! We've got this! Charge, everyone!"

Behind me, the non-commissioned officers are shouting.

"Ah!? Captain!?"

"Don't let the Captain die!"

"Charge, everyone! Charge!"

For infantry, a charge order is absolute.

"Yaaaaaah!"

The musketeers charge into the smoke. The bayonets, which are more like pointed iron stakes, are used to stab the enemy.

Of course, I lead the charge into the smoke. In such situations, the squad won't follow unless the squad leader moves.

I know it's crazy, but I have "The Reaper's Scythe."

While running through the smoke, I suddenly step to the right. A bullet whizzes past my ear with a whizzing sound.

As I emerge from a gap in the smoke, I see the enemy line infantry waiting.

"Fire!"

At the enemy commander's order, musket fire erupts, and flames and smoke obscure my vision.

But "The Reaper" says nothing. I don't fall.

The accuracy of muskets is low due to the strong spring that strikes the flint. The lack of rifling in the barrel makes the trajectory unstable, and the impact causes the barrel to wobble.

Thus, trying to dodge is futile.

"Yaaaaaah!"

By the time I swing my command sword, my squad has closed in on the enemy.

"Die, die, die!"

"Damn you, damn you!"

The enemy probably anticipated our charge, but the smoke has made their shots ineffective. After firing, it's a matter of bayonet combat.

"Kill, kill, kill!"

I become completely barbaric and slash an enemy non-commissioned officer. Since their job is to prevent soldiers from fleeing, taking them out causes the enemy to run. Look, run, run.

Scattered gunshots ring out, probably from our side. They must have run up with loaded muskets and fired at close range. Good work.

I realize that the enemy is no longer moving. About twenty enemy bodies lie on the ground, and the rest have fled. About ten of our men have died.

"Captain, the enemy has fled. Our squad has about twenty men left."

The non-commissioned officer I helped earlier reports.

"That was a tough fight..."

In reality, there were a few more survivors, but they were clutching their stomachs and crouching. The non-commissioned officers didn't count them.

In this world, without proper medical care, a shot to the stomach is almost certainly fatal.

I want to honor their last moments with a victory.

I raise my command sword and shout as loudly as I can.

"Our squad has driven back the enemy and reclaimed this strategic point! This is our victory! Well done, everyone! Capture the enemy's field gun! Hold this position until the next squad arrives!"

"Oooh!"

Even the men who are dying from stomach wounds raise their muskets and shout.

I shake each of their hands and offer words of encouragement.

"You fought bravely. You are a hero of the Imperial Army, a pride of your homeland."

"Hehe... I... I did... my best..."

I don't like the militaristic tone, but it's a militaristic era, so it can't be helped. To maintain the dignity of the dying soldiers, or the surviving soldiers might refuse to fight.

Besides, they really did fight bravely. If I don't praise them, who will?

As the surviving soldiers gradually lose their strength, the next squad rushes through the pass. They are comrades from the same battalion.

A fellow squad leader, still mounted, gives a quick salute as he passes. I return the salute.

More battalions from the same regiment keep arriving. Cavalry and supply wagons that can't bypass the pass also arrive. The next battle will be their responsibility.

I salute the fallen soldiers and then order the twenty or so survivors.

"Take care of the wounded and bury the dead. Bury the enemy as well to avoid complaints from the locals."

I put my cap back on and smile.

"Once that's done, it's time for alcohol and women."

Ah, how vulgar.

【Chapter 1: The Battlefield】