Black smoke rose from the places where countless soldiers' lives had been sacrificed. Countless corpses, entangled and driven to the same death, differed only by the color of their uniforms. This was a crematorium, a place to burn soldiers who had fallen in battle. Some had been burned to death in the dazzling flames, in the warrior's pose, but others lay strewn about, succumbing to shock or excessive bleeding, their limbs severed by bullets or explosions. There were hardly any intact corpses. Just as identical tombstones were erected, the conclusions were the same, but the inscriptions on each stone were different; the reasons were numerous.
A soldier's violin drifted like a requiem from within the temporary barracks across the street, built for rest and recovery after a fierce battle. Noah sat on the rubble of a nearby building, his back turned to the desolate, black-and-white landscape, and listened to the soldier's solo. The brief respite was short-lived, as gloomy gray clouds filled the sky, scattering sleet and drenching the remnants of the brutal battle. The walls of the collapsed building were thickly soaked. Before the damp sleet stained his uniform, Noah shook off the ash and dust from his combat uniform.
Noah, who had been sheltering from the sleet inside the church, which had collapsed like a brick wall, saw a soldier in a Frogen uniform lying dead, prostrate before a cross, as if in prayer. Blood was streaming from his head, wetting the floor, and he was clutching a military pistol in one hand. It appeared he had committed suicide.
He picked up the photo of a blonde woman in a nurse's uniform clutched in the corpse's hand. Her blue eyes focused on her name tag.
“Her name is Justice? I guess that’s your wife.”
The unanswered question vanished with the hazy dissipation of breath. On the back of the photograph, which was pristine, neither wrinkled nor stained with blood, was written a polite phrase in neat handwriting.
「Per Ardua Ad Astra.」
“Overcoming adversity and reaching for the stars.”
He rolled his tongue and pronounced it smoothly. He placed the photo neatly in the corpse's hand, then took out his water bottle, washed his hands, and dried them with a handkerchief. His throat was rough from the acrid smoke that burned flesh, and the damp, heavy air was nauseating. He stood there blankly, his face devoid of any emotion.
A place where one forgets who one is fighting for and even their purpose. Caught in the crossfire, amidst screams and bloodshed, the bitter cold and hail of bullets, war ultimately leaves only the survival instinct. Everyone claims to be protecting their lover, wife, or family, but in reality, it's a sacrifice made to benefit the nation, to carve the owner's name into the ruins of the land. Of course, if victory were achieved and peace were restored, the people's happiness would be guaranteed. But when viewed from the perspective of individual lives fading away like stars, it feels excessively unreasonable.
Heads of state exploit personal emotions and pride, using lives as expendable commodities. Ultimately, they suffer under the righteous banner of justice, peace, and sacrifice, ultimately being buried in a foreign land with their old helmets and guns as tombstones. Those in charge of operations call this "attrition of manpower," obsessed with calculating and filling the numbers. Death is the end, and if ultimately, they are not happy, what good is it?
Noah didn't want to die here. The reason was simple: if he did, he wouldn't be able to see Diana, and if he were unhappy, she would be unhappy too. Noah agreed to this unreasonable deal, knowing full well he was being used by the state. But this was the utterly ordinary way Diana had repeatedly spoken of, the way she pursued.
A soldier's violin drifted like a requiem from within the temporary barracks across the street, built for rest and recovery after a fierce battle. Noah sat on the rubble of a nearby building, his back turned to the desolate, black-and-white landscape, and listened to the soldier's solo. The brief respite was short-lived, as gloomy gray clouds filled the sky, scattering sleet and drenching the remnants of the brutal battle. The walls of the collapsed building were thickly soaked. Before the damp sleet stained his uniform, Noah shook off the ash and dust from his combat uniform.
Noah, who had been sheltering from the sleet inside the church, which had collapsed like a brick wall, saw a soldier in a Frogen uniform lying dead, prostrate before a cross, as if in prayer. Blood was streaming from his head, wetting the floor, and he was clutching a military pistol in one hand. It appeared he had committed suicide.
He picked up the photo of a blonde woman in a nurse's uniform clutched in the corpse's hand. Her blue eyes focused on her name tag.
“Her name is Justice? I guess that’s your wife.”
The unanswered question vanished with the hazy dissipation of breath. On the back of the photograph, which was pristine, neither wrinkled nor stained with blood, was written a polite phrase in neat handwriting.
「Per Ardua Ad Astra.」
“Overcoming adversity and reaching for the stars.”
He rolled his tongue and pronounced it smoothly. He placed the photo neatly in the corpse's hand, then took out his water bottle, washed his hands, and dried them with a handkerchief. His throat was rough from the acrid smoke that burned flesh, and the damp, heavy air was nauseating. He stood there blankly, his face devoid of any emotion.
A place where one forgets who one is fighting for and even their purpose. Caught in the crossfire, amidst screams and bloodshed, the bitter cold and hail of bullets, war ultimately leaves only the survival instinct. Everyone claims to be protecting their lover, wife, or family, but in reality, it's a sacrifice made to benefit the nation, to carve the owner's name into the ruins of the land. Of course, if victory were achieved and peace were restored, the people's happiness would be guaranteed. But when viewed from the perspective of individual lives fading away like stars, it feels excessively unreasonable.
Heads of state exploit personal emotions and pride, using lives as expendable commodities. Ultimately, they suffer under the righteous banner of justice, peace, and sacrifice, ultimately being buried in a foreign land with their old helmets and guns as tombstones. Those in charge of operations call this "attrition of manpower," obsessed with calculating and filling the numbers. Death is the end, and if ultimately, they are not happy, what good is it?
Noah didn't want to die here. The reason was simple: if he did, he wouldn't be able to see Diana, and if he were unhappy, she would be unhappy too. Noah agreed to this unreasonable deal, knowing full well he was being used by the state. But this was the utterly ordinary way Diana had repeatedly spoken of, the way she pursued.
"I miss you."
He hummed softly. It was something he hadn't said to anyone since arriving here. In fact, it was something only one person could hear.
The fragile expression he'd only seen with Diana was quickly removed. He turned his head back, his face expressionless.
To be recognized and be with Diana, he had to face pain and suffering in a normal way. Ultimately, he felt it was his own choice, and he has no regrets.
She told him not to kill anyone, but ultimately, someone had to die for her. But he had no intention of returning to Frogen, conquering Medea, and killing the Queen and her people to keep her by his side. Diana would certainly dislike him unless she asked for it first. She would never smile at him or speak to him.
***
“It’s only the end of October, and it’s this cold? Even wearing a winter coat, I feel like I’m freezing to death.”
As Noah was leaving the aid station to receive treatment for his bullet-wounded arm, a military doctor approached him, grumbling. He was Lieutenant McCullin Davidson, a gentry doctor from Magnolia, a constituent state of Medea. Within the military's hierarchical structure, social status and rank were of little consequence, so the two men felt at ease, as if they were colleagues. Noah stared at the chatty man before him with a somewhat disinterested expression. McCullin asked again.
“You’ve been ordered to stand by until the next battle. What are you planning to do?”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“Shall we go meet the lovely ladies in the garrison town? If we go with our Lieutenant Rotsilt, they'll come running on their own.”
“So what? Whether they have a lover or are married and have kids, they all do well.”
After the battle, soldiers gathered to celebrate their survival. They would drink, gamble, visit brothels, or date women they met in the city, all to relieve their physical urges and feelings of depression. They were all trying to do something, as if to confirm their existence. Seeing Noah's expression, which seemed quite disgusted, McCullin asked again.
"Don't you have anything you want to do? I'm worried, that's why. Hans is obsessed with playing the violin, but you really don't do anything except have a drink. I don't think I could stand it."
The chatty military doctor, McCullin, was concerned about Noah's mental health, as he kept building up his emotions without any resolution. He had often seen soldiers suffering from psychological aftereffects after combat. But Noah shook his head.
“There are things I want to do, but I can’t.”
"What is it? Tell me, and I'll help you in some way. I can even use my authority to provide you with beds in relief centers and field hospitals."
Noah, who was staring at McCullin's green eyes beneath his shaggy black hair as he joked, slowly turned his head away and didn't respond. McCullin's eyes widened as he saw the blood seeping out of the sleeve of his wool cardigan.
"Hey, you're seriously injured? I'll fill out a wounded soldier form for you, so you can go to the military hospital and get treated."
"I wonder if I treated him wrong. The doctor, who seemed so delicate, was shaking while treating me."
"Oh, Lieutenant Colin? He was a young doctor who ran a clinic in the countryside. I heard he suddenly volunteered for the military after his older sister died. I wonder if he, a young man, could survive in a battlefield like this."
“But do I really have to go to the hospital? I hate hospitals.”
Noah frowned and swept back his silver-white bangs.
Despite his impressive resume—he was a Duke and a former colonel in the Frogen Army—McCullen was attracted to Noah, who treated everyone with respect. He wasn't as crazy as he'd heard, but rather seemed like a normal, slightly eccentric person.
"The NCO maintenance sergeant just finished fixing the ambulance. It rolled over because of a dud. I almost fainted. I need to pick up the wounded soldier now, so get in the car quickly. I'll buy you some candy when you get back."
McCullin, who felt he needed to use his injury as an excuse to take him to the city and give him a change of pace, urged him again.
Noah showed a slight displeasure at his childish treatment of him, then followed him into the ambulance with a helpless expression. The sleet had already stopped. The ground was slick with melted, frozen mud, and the crunch of ice cracked with every turn of the car's wheels. McCullin grumbled.
"They said they'd complete the road for transport vehicles, but why is it still like this? The fortress was built so quickly."
Before they knew it, they'd circled the mountain and arrived at the permanent hospital in the garrison city where the combined forces headquarters was located. The Belgaian doctor, removing the bandages from Noah's arm and examining it, frowned.
“Who stitched it up so poorly?”
“Medea’s youngest sister, the palace maid.”
“Who is that?”
“Why are you asking when you wouldn’t understand even if I told you?”
The doctor grumbled at Noah's indifferent tone and removed the sutures. After Noah silently received the sutures and disinfected, a nurse with neatly tied reddish-gold hair approached him and smiled.
“Are you an Esatian?”
“I’m a progenitor.”
"Yes?"
“I am Lieutenant Noah Rotsilt, who defected to Medea and joined the Allied Forces.”
McCullin, who had seen the nurse's blue eyes widen slightly, spoke in defense, adding a little exaggeration. Only then, seemingly relieved, did she introduce herself to Noah.
"My name is Emma Everton. I'm from the Francia Nursing School. Do you speak Francia?"
“Yeah. I’m a married man.”
Noah, accustomed to this situation, drew a clear line. He was, after all, indifferent to anything, let alone women. A nurse named Emma, with doll-like beauty, refused to give in and continued to talk to him. McCullin, watching, debated whether to step aside, but ultimately said he would wait outside and left. The nurse's blue eyes, as they gazed at Noah, caught his eye.
“I heard that at Frogen, when we have important conversations, we talk about sausages. Are Frogenians that serious about sausages?”
"That's right."
The nurse covered her mouth and laughed. As she bandaged Noah's arm, she brought her lips close enough to brush against his ear and whispered softly in Francian.
“Dear Ubermensch, everyone is waiting for your return.”
Noah scoffed.
“I see. I already told you that nothing will change.”
The nurse, standing up straight with her back straight, smiled charmingly. He sat down on the bed and snapped his fingers, and she tilted her head back toward Noah. With a gentle expression, he placed a hand on her shoulder and added in a soft voice.
"Do not disobey my will. Be silent. This is my message."
To the three men, the scene seemed like nothing more than a handsome officer and a beautiful nurse making a secret date. Such things were commonplace. The nurse smiled kindly. Her hand, clutching something, reached the front pocket of Noah's uniform.
“Your pronunciation is really attractive.”
As the nurse turned and disappeared, Noah rummaged through his front pocket and saw that there was a piece of paper inside.
***
The Frogen Empire, surrounded by great powers and in a disadvantaged position, had the chronic problem of having to spread its forces out on all sides and establish defensive lines. Therefore, if the general mobilization order and reinforcements were delayed, it would suffer great losses and could face defeat. Therefore, it sought to prioritize offsetting this disadvantage.
During the time when the former Frogen Emperor maintained the Peace Alliance, he focused on building a railway connecting the continent under the pretext of exchange. He invested considerable time and capital not only in improving the performance of steam locomotives but also in commercializing the Veron engine locomotive using an internal combustion engine. Count Derek Ford, Vincent Ford's grandfather and director of the Frogen Railway Bureau, and the steel company owned by the Rotsilt family collaborated to lead development research and railway construction. In essence, the current Frogen railway and locomotives can be seen as a long-standing collaboration between the Ford and Rotsilt families.
Even the idea of burying explosives under the railroad tracks, ready to be destroyed whenever necessary, was a secret family secret passed down through generations.
Sebastian Freud, Crown Prince of Freud, was advancing with the Freudian Defense Forces to occupy Francia when he heard that the railway connecting them had been blown up. Realizing he was isolated and unable to receive reinforcements or supplies by train, he issued a hasty order to withdraw and launched a retreat. However, he was surrounded by Allied forces waiting in advance along the retreat route. While escaping in a vehicle with his staff, he was captured and taken prisoner. And it was to his former friend, Lieutenant Noah Rotsilt.
“Hello, Sebastian. You’re still so fragile.”
Noah Rotsilt, dressed in his Medea Army uniform, smirked as he looked at Sebastian, who was imprisoned in the prison camp.
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