Chapter 44

The twin moons seated in the night sky illuminated the Orzérica slope with a bluish-white light, as if to say that the distinction between day and night was merely a troublesome formality. The shadows cast by the moonlight revealed the creatures writhing on the ground. The busy Myard soldiers, tasked with guarding the cutting, were traversing the flat area inside the earthen rampart.

Just three days ago, the Cluest Kingdom's army had suffered a major defeat, inflicting heavy casualties on the soldiers. The reserve forces, which had been waiting on the plain, immediately attempted to regroup, but the training squadron, caught in the chaos and fear of the fleeing soldiers, lacked the necessary shock power to push through to the plain. The visual intimidation of the burning soldiers and the ghostly fire had brought about more significant results than expected.

The enemy, including the reserves, had suffered four hundred casualties. The training squadron, which had managed to buy some time by retreating the Cluest militia, had no time to rest. The filling of the approach roads, the removal of the earth mounds, and the repair of the earthen ramparts were endless tasks. It had only been three days since the clash, and they had just begun to deal with the dead bodies. Corpses were scattered everywhere in the cutting, from charred and shriveled bodies to those that looked far from being dead, with various causes of death. The soldiers were rushing to handle them.

"Hey, don't let go suddenly."

"Ugh, I didn't let go. It came off."

One of the two soldiers responsible for transporting the bodies scolded the other. The soldier who had been reprimanded frowned and thrust out what he had grabbed. A severed arm dangled from his hand, swinging back and forth. Moïz understood what had happened. The ligaments and muscles that had held the limb together had been burned by the fierce flames and could not withstand the weight during transportation.

"Ha, how long are you going to shake hands with that? Hold the sides, and let's get moving."

"I know, I know."

The older soldier, who had been holding the legs, urged his partner, who was short on time. He placed the arm on the chest and inserted his hand under the armpit. The unfortunate new recruit, who had been too close to the dead, cursed and tried to calm himself down.

"Why do we have to do such a hassle? We should just throw them off the cliff."

"If you throw them off the cliff, the wind will carry the stench all day. Besides, it's better to bury them in the enemy's path to lower their morale."

"That's true. I hate war."

Despite their complaints, they resumed the transportation. It wasn't a particularly blameworthy act. Moïz, adjusting his clothing and equipment and knocking off the visible dirt, stopped in front of a tent. The guards at the entrance saluted. After returning the salute, Moïz asked the sentry.

"Is the squadron leader here?"

"Yes, Sergeant Yorgim is inside with him."

The sentry, placing his hand on the tent entrance, invited Moïz in. Inside, the room was lit by bioluminescent lamps. A small desk was piled with maps and orders, and behind it, his relatives, who looked troubled, were seated.

"Captain Moïz, reporting."

"Good to see you. What were the results of the reconnaissance?"

"Most of the enemy has retreated from the slope of Orzérica and is reorganizing. On the way there and back, we engaged in combat with a small group, resulting in two injuries. All but the one with the broken arm can return to the front line."

The mission could be considered a success. Although there were injuries, there were no fatalities.

"Indeed, they retreated. If they keep hesitating, they'll be in trouble."

"You shouldn't get your hopes up. Moïz, you did well."

It felt like being praised for taking your first steps as a toddler. The disproportionate praise made Moïz feel uncomfortable, and he shook his head.

"It's thanks to Guardian Worm. If he hadn't been with us, several would have died."

Despite having some experience, Moïz and his soldiers were still new. Bringing them back without any losses in an unpredictable battlefield relied solely on personal skill and experience.

"Humility can be arrogance. Accept it honestly... It's better than overconfidence, but a commander must be able to laugh and remain calm even in the face of death."

"I understand."

If he could do that, it would be easy. Compared to his parents, who were as solid as a rock, why was he so timid? He deeply appreciated the advice as a commander and a parent. But at the same time, his heart felt increasingly constricted. After a casual chat, Moïz, who had received the future strategy, tried to leave the tent.

"Then, I'll return to my post."

"Wait, Moïz. Take a barrel on your way out."

Moïz, recalling the contents, asked.

"Drinking water, perhaps?"

"No, it's wine. A great gift from the Grand Duchess to celebrate our victory. Share it with your men."

"Don't drink too much. If you're unsteady on your feet, you can't fight."

His parents, who had been frowning lately, smiled and said,

"Thank you, we appreciate it."

Exiting the tent, Moïz took a small breath. The cold outside air felt refreshing against his heated body. The relationship between superior and subordinate, and the strange parent-child dynamic, was something he couldn't dislike, despite its peculiarities.

"The barrel is this way. I'll arrange a handcart."

Guided by the sentry, Moïz stood in front of the wine barrel, pondering. A couple of light taps confirmed the contents were sloshing inside.

"This should be manageable with just my hands."

"Captain, that's a silly question. My apologies."

The sentry, who meant no harm, was probably praising him. His mother was known for her boldness, after all. But Moïz, feeling the insincerity, couldn't accept the compliment. Shaking off the negative thoughts, he reached out to lift the barrel when he noticed two of his soldiers approaching.

"Gaston, Evrak."

Called by their superior, the two froze, knowing that being stopped near the front command post was never a good sign. They were probably wondering if it was due to improper attire or a reconnaissance mission. Their equipment was dirty, and their uniforms disheveled from days of combat. They looked exhausted, but their eyes gleamed with determination. Moïz, who knew them well, found them reliable despite their appearance.

"Captain, did you call us?"

"Are you going to cause trouble again with a small group?"

This was a resigned acceptance. They were bracing themselves for any unreasonable task, a sad habit of the versatile infantry. Moïz's mischievous side thought a surprise might not be bad.

"Carry one barrel to our position."

"Carry that heavy barrel?"

"Two of us alone can't—"

The two protested, giving up without even trying. Moïz didn't push further.

"That's a shame."

The meaningful words made Evrak suspicious, and he stared at the barrel.

"Is this... wine?!"

"Really, wine!?"

Sniffing the faint alcohol scent like hounds, their eyes lit up as they clung to the barrel.

"Hehe, it's full."

"Can we drink it at the position?"

"Of course, it's for us."

Gaston, determined not to let it go, hugged the barrel. Evrak, swaying slightly, lifted it with him. Their movements were stronger than any they had shown during construction work. Moïz, suppressing a laugh at the sudden change, led them, calling out to the soldiers stationed at the position. This kind of leadership wasn't bad.

"Men, gather. Wine from Grand Duchess Rita Myard has arrived."

"Wine!? Hey, wine!!"

"Is it really wine, not a joke?"

Though not particularly loud, no one missed it. Those who had been sleeping jumped up in excitement, even putting on their comrades' boots by mistake. Moïz and the wine barrel drew the squad together, like dogs at the sight of food. They were eager, and their patience wouldn't last long. Everyone held cups.

"Everyone's here. Two cups each. No cheating. The one who drinks a third cup will be assigned heavy labor."

The enthusiastic response was immediate. After drinking, they would likely start tattling on each other.

"Grand Duchess Rita is generous!!"

"Where's the spout?"

"Idiot, it'll be morning. Just remove the top and stick the cups in. There won't be any left anyway."

"Hurry up and open it."

"Relax."

Gaston, placing his weight on the knife handle, pried open the top. The overwhelming scent of alcohol spread, and the soldiers, clanging their armor, welcomed it with joy. Cups clashed as they competed to fill them.

"Idiot, don't spill it."

"You're the one pushing."

"The wine isn't going anywhere."

With a serious expression, a soldier, still pouring wine, contradicted Moïz.

"Captain, the wine won't run away, but it will run out!!"

The feast began as the soldiers, pulling out their meager rations and sitting on the ground, gathered around the barrel. Poor dancing and off-key singing mixed in. Despite the madness of war, they were fulfilling their roles admirably. But what about himself? Was he doing his best? Was he deceiving them, who had shared hardships with him? Moïz drowned his rising shame in alcohol.

The suppressed emotions began to surface. His limbs felt heavy. Fatigue and lack of sleep were eroding his rationality. He couldn't process the disconnect between the act of killing and the feeling of disgust. The guardian's words, that one would get used to it after repeated exposure, were probably true. In fact, the soldiers, who had once averted their eyes from the dead, now handled the bodies with complaints. They had become desensitized to death. Whether this was good or bad, Moïz couldn't say.

"Three days ago, that was intense."

"Unbelievable, at least a hundred burned to death."

"I almost didn't make it, but the guardian saved me."

The soldiers, who had been celebrating with wine, naturally turned their conversation to the war around them.

"Scary, but reliable. Sometimes, I wonder if it's really the same person when he's fighting."

The slightly drunk Evrak's words were met with nods from the soldiers around the barrel.

"I understand. During today's reconnaissance, he killed three people in the blink of an eye."

"A head rolled to my feet, and I almost wet myself."

Moïz agreed with the brutal intensity, which seemed to come from a different person. The imperial knight, who was revered and feared, was far removed from the image of someone involved in construction or meals.

"Still, the Cluests haven't attacked properly since then."

"The enemy's five hundred-man units are in disarray. The replacements are probably hesitant too. They can't even form a dense formation."

"We have the guardian and the instructor. Captain Moïz can take out several with one swing."

"Ha, no way."

Gaston, with a broad smile, praised him. There was no doubt in his trust. Moïz, feeling his throat tighten, forced a laugh. He was putting on a brave front, but his relatives could see through it. Dandueg had been more relaxed. Despite the responsibility and the need to motivate his subordinates, he still couldn't kill with clear intent. He was bluffing with grand gestures, but he couldn't keep it up forever. He had driven away monsters that ravaged crops, but when it came to humans, his hand hesitated. It was a betrayal of his subordinates, who fought with all their might.

"By the way, where's the guardian?"

"I think I saw him by the cliff."

"Just stay here and drink. I'll bring wine to the guardian."

Holding two cups, Moïz left the group, hiding his reluctance. On the opposite side of the cutting, the imperial knight stood on the cliff, a purple smoke drifting around him, with no attendants.

"Guardian, you're here. Wine from Grand Duchess Rita."

"Thank you for bringing it."

The guardian's expression was soft, unlike the one who calmly ended the lives of enemy soldiers. Watching the guardian take a sip, Moïz also tilted his cup. The sweetness spread in his mouth, followed by a rough astringency. He could feel the hot liquid flowing down his throat and into his stomach. After a few rounds of drinking, emboldened by the alcohol, Moïz asked, almost letting the words slip out.

"How do you become like the guardian, able to kill the enemy?"

The conversation, which had been flowing, came to a halt. Regret welled up after the foolish words. Peering at the imperial knight, who was staring into the void with dark, murky eyes.

"Sorry, I misspoke."

"No, don't worry. You're troubled. I received advice from my superior during my first battle, about the duties of a soldier."

The knight, who seemed human, had his own struggles and fears. The guardian paused, then continued slowly, as if recalling and reminding himself.

"Surprisingly, many people can't kill their own kind. But if you can't kill, the enemy will not only take your life but also the lives of your comrades, your unit, and your hometown. Remember that, even if you hesitate, weighing your own life."

He exhaled softly. The words echoed in Moïz's mind, piercing his current state and conveying the concern of the superior who had given the advice.

"Well, it's just a repetition of someone else's words. Is there anything that disrupts your movements?"

"I... don't know."

No matter how much he thought, the alcohol-addled brain couldn't provide an answer. The knight, as if guiding Moïz, who was lost in thought, offered a suggestion.

"Something innate, someone's influence, or an experience from childhood, perhaps?"

Despite being from a farming background, the guardian was remarkably knowledgeable. Moïz, as if in a fever, repeated the words, sensing the answer in his closed-off memories.

"Ah, right. When I was a child, I played with the neighborhood kids. It was a stick or my bare hands... I thought I was holding back. But the kid's arm broke at the elbow, and I still remember the scream and the protruding bone clearly."

Since then, Moïz had never played with children his age.

"The body and the mind can both be hurt. If the wound is deep, it becomes a scar that never heals. It's a kind of psychological trauma."

"Guardian, you're a poet. Is there a solution?"

Moïz asked, clinging to the hope. The imperial knight, with the most troubled expression of the day, scratched his head.

"Well... I don't know. Sometimes time heals, and sometimes the situation overcomes it. Sorry to disappoint."

"If this psychological trauma heals, I might end up worshipping you for life."

"That would be a shame. Well, let's end the gloomy talk. As a thank you for the wine, can you smoke?"

The offered item was a cigarette. Moïz, holding it up to the moon, marveled.

"This is top-notch."

The leaves were neatly rolled, and even without a smoking habit, Moïz could tell it wasn't the cheap soldier's tobacco.

"I extorted it from the cavalry commander in the capital."

The serious tone only made it funnier. Moïz, unable to hold back, said what the Myard people often said about their neighbors.

"Haha, that's the Haiselk people for you."

Despite the impolite phrasing, the knight showed his teeth in a happy smile. The problem wasn't solved, but Moïz felt strangely lighter.