Chapter 152 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (15)
It took quite a long time to deal with the aftermath of the battle.
The simple reason was that there were hardly any uninjured soldiers left in the 1st Battalion to handle the cleanup.
Because of that, it was hard to even call it a small mercy, but at least there were fewer mouths left that needed water.
Even so, the situation was still dire.
They were distilling horse blood for drinking water, but the tools were crude, it took a long time, and the process was very inefficient.
Most of all, blood spoils extremely quickly.
If they made a mistake, the blood would coagulate and rot before they could even finish distilling it.
Some might think, "Can't you just distill it?" but with conditions as harsh as these, once the blood started to clot and decay, it had to be thrown out beyond the campsite immediately. If an epidemic broke out, everyone would be doomed, so there was no choice.
But what truly troubled the 1st Battalion right now was the fact that, just when they'd painstakingly collected the blood and should've been focusing on distillation, Bertrand's attack had struck.
"Oh no, all that precious water…"
They had been distilling water by spreading out leather sacks to collect the steam, but during the battle and its aftermath, more water was produced than the capacity of the leather sacks, and it had spilled everywhere.
The soldiers, feeling helpless, poked around in the dirt as if they might be able to reclaim the water the forest had already swallowed up.
"At this point, it's hard to even call us a battalion anymore. Both companies were basically wiped out from the start."
Andersen spoke with a heavy sigh.
Even after combining the soldiers from the 1st Company and 3rd Company, they had fewer than fifty men left, and only about twenty of them were still fit to fight.
On top of that, even the 2nd Company, which had suffered the least at first, had taken heavy losses in this last battle.
The 3rd Platoon left behind at the campsite, and the 1st and 2nd Platoons that had followed Ernest as a detached force to strike at Bertrand's rear, all had taken serious casualties.
There were just over fifty soldiers left in the 2nd Company, and of those, only about thirty were still able to fight.
The seriously wounded would not last much longer.
Once they were gone, the 1st Battalion would be reduced to a final count of about seventy men.
Seventy total, with twenty wounded and fifty combat-effective.
And all fifty were suffering from dehydration, while around ten were also down with colds.
The 1st Battalion, once called the very elite of the 13th Regiment thanks to the training and battles endured in the Bertagne Forest, now looked like they could put up a fair fight against the farmers in some country village. In reality, they were in no state to engage in battle—or to function as a proper military unit at all.
"The Battalion Commander's holed up in there and won't show himself, and with so few men left, the 1st Company Commander ought to just take charge."
Bailey was shut up in his tent, not moving an inch.
By custom, Hans, the Section Chief, should have assumed command, but after the battle, Hans passed authority straight to Ferdinand.
"It's proper for you, Section Chief, to lead," Ferdinand insisted. Hans waved him off.
"We'll handle the minor details. Just act as overall commander for now."
Straight-laced as ever, Ferdinand tried to refuse, but Hans refused his refusal. The 1st Battalion was facing an extreme crisis. In moments like these, having a company commander—who had actually led men in combat—step up instead of a staff officer like Hans was better for the morale of the troops.
It wouldn't have been so bad for Ernest or Andersen to take command, either.
But Ernest had collapsed into unconscious sleep from sheer exhaustion as soon as the battle ended, and Andersen had made the early mistake of falling into the enemy's trap.
And above all, with Ferdinand available—a commander who lacked nothing and excelled in every way—it would've been foolish to choose anyone else for the role.
His rank, background, leadership, sense of responsibility, prudence, judgment, and negotiation skills—he had it all.
Apart from his youth—he was only seventeen—Ferdinand was talented enough to be promoted to Major right away, gain experience as operations officer, and then rise to Lieutenant Colonel and lead a battalion.
Ernest was extraordinarily talented when it came to commanding, but he was so hopeless at navigating social situations that promoting him rashly was a frightening prospect.
If you wanted to make the best use of Ernest, you either had to leave him as a field commander with limited authority, like a company commander, or elevate him all the way up to Supreme Commander, where no one in the field could argue with his orders.
In other words, in Hans's view, Ernest was someone who should only be either a company commander, carrying out small-scale operations as ordered, or sitting in a division commander's seat, managing his unit independently over the long term.
Even though his youth at seventeen was a bit of a concern, Hans felt that if Ernest was put in charge of a division, he could somehow run the unit, fulfill his mission, and succeed.
To put it differently, Ernest was just about the worst possible officer to place in positions like battalion commander or regimental commander—roles that required finessing orders from above while managing opinions from below, jobs where social skills were crucial.
Anyway, for now, Ferdinand was the right man for the job. Hans, the Section Chief and the battalion's chief of operations, said as much, and Andersen quietly stepped aside, avoiding eye contact as if to agree that Ferdinand should take over.
Ernest was still unconscious, but knowing how much he trusted Ferdinand, he probably would have supported this decision more enthusiastically than anyone else.
Truthfully, Ernest had always wished Ferdinand could be the battalion commander.
Besides Ferdinand, probably only Yurgen would make a better superior.
Ferdinand was competent and stubborn, while Yurgen was both capable and easygoing—a kind, older-brother figure.
"…Then I'll take command until tomorrow morning," Ferdinand finally agreed after much deliberation.
Once the negotiations happened tomorrow and they left the forest, his job would be done.
With Ferdinand in charge, the 1st Battalion was able, albeit slowly, to finish tending to what needed doing after the battle. First, they collected waterskins from the bodies of the Belliang soldiers, then gathered up powder guns. After that, they hauled the corpses out, far away from the campsite.
Everyone shared out the water, drinking just a little each.
Horribly enough, Bertrand had set aside water for his own soldiers and supplied only the bare minimum in the waterskins, so the remaining members of the 1st Battalion were still suffering from dehydration.
Bertrand himself was simmering with spite, and unfortunately, the 1st Battalion officers knew exactly how he felt.
And really, who could blame him?
They had victory in their grasp—only to have it snatched away multiple times by one bastard who might as well have been cheating, shattering the brilliant strategy he had prepared with so much ambition to save their crumbling homeland from the very start.
***
"Company Commander, are you alright?"
"…Yeah…"
"You were out for so long we checked more than once to make sure you weren't dead."
As Ernest gasped and struggled to sit up, Billim immediately handed him a waterskin.
Unable to bear the dizziness and headache from dehydration, or the pain of his parched throat, Ernest emptied the waterskin in a single gulp.
No one begrudged the water Ernest drank, so his waterskin had been filled generously.
To the surviving members of the 1st Battalion, Ernest was their guide, their savior, their hero.
If anyone dared say the water was wasted on Ernest, they'd be beaten to death.
"What happened…?"
Ernest, his head pounding and his stomach queasy, asked Billim in a strained voice.
Billim, hanging his head, explained the situation in a gloomy tone.
"Ralf… is dead?"
"…Yes."
"..."
For a moment, Ernest thought he'd misheard. He just couldn't picture Ralf dying—Ralf always seemed like the kind of man who'd survive anything, cracking filthy jokes with a grin through his grimy beard no matter what.
Ralf had cleared the way for Ernest, holding off the Belliang soldiers until the end.
Kol had witnessed his final moments: even with a bayonet stuck in his leg, Ralf fought back with a wild scream, only to be overcome by three enemy soldiers.
Both arms pinned, he died as a sword was driven through his neck.
"...I see."
With a rough voice, Ernest muttered softly.
It felt like he was missing a finger—like something that had always been part of him was suddenly gone.
And disgust welled up within him at the fact that the feeling wasn't worse.
It hurt and he was grieving, but it was bearable.
He wasn't going to die from this loss.
Such was the extent of Ernest's pain at the death of a comrade—someone who, over the last three months, had staked his life alongside Ernest's in every battle.
Unless someone was truly close to him now, he simply wasn't capable of fully mourning their death anymore.
Ernest got to his feet, moving sluggishly.
Dizzy, he staggered, and Billim jumped up in alarm, ready to support him, but Ernest didn't fall—and he didn't accept Billim's help either.
The soldiers, slumped by the campfire and staring blankly at the flames, watched Ernest cross the campsite with nervous, cautious eyes.
"...Georg."
The first place Ernest headed after getting up was where the wounded were gathered. There were even more people there than in the morning, but Ernest found Georg immediately.
"..."
Ernest reached for Georg's neck.
His fever was burning hot, his breathing rapid, and his pulse quickened as well.
But the strength in that pulse was terrifyingly weak. Ernest squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to tamp down the overwhelming emotions threatening to break free.
As he wiped the sweat from Georg's forehead, Ernest stopped and stared at his own left hand.
In the deepening darkness of the forest, his broken and blood-caked fingernails made it look as though his nails were growing in pitch black on his battered hand.
After gazing worriedly at Georg, Ernest stood up and walked away.
First, he needed to hear more details from the officers.
"Is it true? Really true?"
On his way to the campfire that served as the makeshift command post for the 1st Battalion, Ernest paused, catching the sound of whispering.
"Yes, it's true. I didn't hear it from someone else—I heard it myself."
"..."
"What's going on?"
Ernest approached them and spoke up.
He would have listened in even if they were just ordinary soldiers, but he couldn't help but intervene when he recognized Hans, the section chief, and the operations officer among the speakers.
"…2nd Company Commander, you're awake."
Hans greeted Ernest with a complicated expression. From his demeanor, Ernest realized that the situation was taking a decidedly ominous turn.
"Yes, so what did you hear?"
"..."
Hans hesitated briefly.
Whenever Ernest heard of a problem, he would somehow work magic and fix it.
If he told Ernest about this issue as well, Ernest would surely resolve it again.
But to be honest, as both a soldier and a human being, Hans couldn't help but hesitate to let Ernest be the one to fix this particular problem.
"I heard the Battalion Commander Sir is planning to kill us all."
"..."
The Operations Officer, his face pale, whispered this to Ernest.
In the past, he had seen Ernest as just a brash, arrogant youngster and wouldn't even speak to him, but now he respected Ernest as a superior.
He also firmly believed that, somehow, Ernest would resolve this matter as well.
"Kill… all of us? What do you mean by that…?"
As Ernest questioned what seemed like nonsense, he quickly pieced together the situation.
Even if Bailey managed to survive, he would never be able to wash away this dishonor.
He had ignored Levin's orders and had run the battalion on his own authority, only to fall into the enemy's trap.
Even up to this point, things had reached an irreversible state.
During the battle in the forest, Bailey had made repeated blunders that put the 1st Battalion in danger, and at one point, he even stood idly by with his hands behind his back, doing nothing.
Now, even the last chance for Bailey to redeem himself by capturing Bertrand and the Royal Flag—the only way to reclaim his honor and glory—had slipped forever out of reach.
So, in order to cover everything up the story, "Disobeyed orders, charged, and was annihilated," and at the very least to have it reported that they died bravely in battle, he would have to kill every 1st Battalion member who might reveal his disgrace.
Of course, in reality, it would be impossible for Bailey to kill all the surviving members of the 1st Battalion by himself.
But if he were to kill Estelle Pouarrié, the Star of Summer who was taken hostage for negotiations with Bertrand, then Bertrand would never let the 1st Battalion go free—he would massacre every last one of them.
And Lieutenant Colonel Bailey Hoffman, the 1st Battalion Commander, possessed a Balt Pistol.
Even in the heat of battle, when a single Balt Battery would have been desperately needed, he never once fired it, just clung to that damned Balt Pistol as if it were precious.
An experienced soldier could fire a Balt Gun once per second. But since there's a limit to the number of bullets you can hold at once, you might get off seven shots in rapid succession at most—usually, it's over after five.
Even so, in this situation, simply having a weapon that could kill five people in an instant mattered more than anything.
While everyone froze in shock and fear, it would be nothing for Bailey to rush over and shoot Estelle dead.
And while he was at it, he would surely shoot Ernest as well, since he'd never liked him.
There was no way Bailey could restrain himself. He hadn't been able to control himself before, which had led to this disaster—there was no way he'd suddenly find remorse and turn over a new leaf now.
"…Haa."
With his eyes closed, Ernest buried his face in his ruined hands.
Flakes of dried blood crumbled, staining his young face even more.
He groaned in anguish, but with cold logic and reason, he drew the lines between what must and must not be done, between what could and could not be done.
"Let's kill him"
Then, crossing over all that anguish and conflict, despair and frustration so quickly that it seemed their colors had already faded, Ernest spoke.
If you gathered every person in the world together, there would be only five who could understand just how much Ernest had suffered in that brief moment.
"…What?"
So Hans couldn't help but be taken aback by the resolve in those decisive words.
To him, it felt as if Ernest had been waiting for this very moment to say it.
"Let's kill Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman."
With a face as dry and withered as an old tree, Ernest muttered the words gloomily.
There wasn't a hint of emotion in his voice.
"Section Chief, please persuade the staff officers. I'll convince the 3rd Company Commander and Ferdinand…"
"…Are you serious?"
When Hans asked again, Ernest looked him straight in the eye, his face stained with his own dried blood, and answered.
"If you feel different, then tell me, Captain Schum. Are we all supposed to die here because of one crazy bastard?"
"..."
A few days ago, Hans would have answered confidently, "Yes. Because that's what it means to be a soldier,' he would have said.
But now Hans couldn't bring himself to say it.
It would just mean dying alongside Bailey's idiocy for no reason.
A pointless death—nothing more, nothing less.
"More than two hundred people have died in this forest, thrown away in vain because of empty talk about honor and glory, and that number is only going to grow."
Ernest didn't raise his voice.
He just spoke softly, a touch of gloom in his tone.
"Robert, who was exchanged as a prisoner, is my friend. Baumann is my friend too. Ferdinand here is my friend, and over there, Georg, who's dying, he's my friend as well."
Ernest, who couldn't die here and couldn't let his friends die, spoke quietly, almost like a chant.
A crack appeared in his steadfast mask, and the face of a seventeen-year-old boy emerged.
"They're my friends."
After saying this, with a face twisted as if about to cry, Ernest strode off, leaving Hans behind.
"..."
Hans stared blankly at Ernest's broad, sturdy back.
All this time, even while thinking he was just seventeen, he hadn't really seen Ernest as seventeen.
But after witnessing that moment, Hans realized painfully just how young Ernest truly was.
Ernest first summoned the officers and non-commissioned officers of the 2nd Company.
"Make absolutely sure to guard and watch Star of Summer. Don't let anyone get close, and you must prevent her from leaving that spot under any circumstances."
Ernest used the tone of voice he reserved for actual combat, so everyone immediately realized something serious was happening.
"Yes, Company Commander."
"What exactly is going on?"
Unlike Simon, who answered without asking questions, Gustav asked in a worried tone. He had noticed that something was off about Ernest's demeanor. Billim was also glancing around, trying to read the situation.
"Don't ask anything—just do as I say."
"Yes, Company Commander."
Ernest didn't explain any details.
Gustav seemed dissatisfied, but since Billim, the platoon leader, responded first, he couldn't push further and quietly stepped back.
2nd Company members discreetly shifted their positions and took up places around the tent where Estelle was staying.
Since she was a woman, they made a small concession by using the tent Bertrand had provided.
But to be honest, it was really more for the 1st Battalion members, who were more fearful of her than she was uncomfortable—they basically locked her away so she wouldn't be seen.
Also, knowing that Estelle was effectively the lifeline of the 1st Battalion, there might be someone who would let their desires get the better of them and try something sneaky at night.
Right now, without the Balt Battery or weapons, Estelle would have had a hard time fending off even a single soldier. In hand-to-hand combat, differences in size and strength are decisive, and Estelle was simply too small and delicate.
In any case, there's nothing to gain by seeing each other's faces.
Next, Ernest quietly approached Andersen and explained the situation to him in a low voice.
"Then why not just kill him? What's the problem?"
After hearing Ernest's words, Andersen not only agreed immediately—he actually asked the question as if genuinely wondering what the issue was.
In truth, this was exactly what he'd hoped for.
"Causing an uproar won't do us any good."
"Ah, right. That's true."
Andersen scratched his smooth bald head in agreement.
Even if they succeeded in the negotiations and made it back alive after killing Bailey, if it ever came out that they'd killed their own superior, they'd certainly be executed—if they were unlucky, it might even be a summary execution on the spot. Even if everyone knew what had happened, officially, they needed to make it seem otherwise.
That way, they'd at least have some cover, however shaky, to try to keep everyone quiet and sweep things under the rug.
Andersen thought for a moment.
Then, with a menacing lift of his eyebrow, he nodded.
"In a situation like this, it's entirely believable that someone might despair of their circumstances and take their own life."
Andersen believed the best course was to kill Bailey and stage it as a suicide.
In fact, Ernest had considered the exact same plan earlier but hadn't been able to voice it.
"All right. Let's withdraw the soldiers. As for the Star of Summer…"
"My company members are guarding her."
"Good. As expected, you're quick on the uptake."
Andersen spoke with a hint of playfulness, then lowered his voice to a whisper.
"So what will you do about the 1st Company Commander?"
The staff officers would agree to killing Bailey.
The 2nd and 3rd Companies would be on board as well.
But then there was Ferdinand Hartmann—so stubborn and upright it was hard to believe he was only seventeen.
How were they ever going to convince someone like him?
"I'll handle it myself."
"Hmm… Truly dependable. In that case, I'll make sure to keep a discreet eye on our Battalion Commander before we proceed."
Since Ernest said he would take care of it, Andersen didn't object further. While Ernest worked on persuading Ferdinand, Andersen decided to guard the area around Bailey's tent in case anything happened. At any moment, Bailey might snap, grab his pistol, and lunge at someone. If that happened, there would be no talk of staging a suicide—he'd have to be subdued, or killed, right then and there. Of course, casualties would be inevitable.
Ernest set off once more. Ferdinand, who had missed the movements of the 2nd and 3rd Companies because he'd been making rounds to check on and encourage the sentries around the campsite, spotted Ernest approaching. He glanced around, sensing that something was off.
"What's going on?"
Ferdinand asked directly.
But Ernest didn't answer right away, simply looking up at his friend in silence.
After a moment, Ernest spoke.
"Ferdinand. Georg is dying."
"...."
"He won't be able to hold on much longer."
"...."
"And the lives of Robert and Baumann, who we sent as hostages to Count Lafayette, are also in our hands."
Ernest spoke with a calmness that was almost painful, gripping Ferdinand's shoulder tightly.
Ferdinand's expression, usually solid as stone, twisted with violent emotion as he struggled to keep it together.
"Ferdinand, just… don't say anything, don't do anything. Could you just stay by Georg's side?"
"...."
"Just keep talking to him. That way, he might be able to stay conscious and hold on, somehow."
"...."
"You know what I'm trying to say, right?"
"...."
Ferdinand might look like a bear, but he wasn't slow-witted. Ferdinand was so upright by nature that it hardly showed, but even if he wasn't quite as sharp as Ernest, he was clever and cunning like a fox in his own way. There was no way Ferdinand could fail to understand what Ernest was saying. And of course, he was already fully aware of how things were unfolding.
Even so, Ferdinand was ultimately too principled a young man to go along with this.
He could send a friend to the enemy as a hostage if it was necessary to protect his friends, or, if push came to shove, charge head-on into the enemy, prepared to die.
That was why Ernest had created a refuge for Ferdinand—for him, for everyone, for "us."
Not to tell him to take part in this difficult decision, but to ask someone like Ferdinand, who loved his friends even if he looked like a block of stone, to look after the dying Georg.
Ferdinand's tightly closed lips trembled slightly.
He hadn't shown it, but he was just as terrified at the thought of his friends dying.
He could laugh off his own death, but the idea of losing his friends scared him deeply.
"Do we really… have to do it this way?"
Ferdinand managed to get the words out.
"Yes."
Ernest answered.
"Why?"
Once more, the question.
The answer to that question—Ernest had actually known for a very long time.
"To kill and die for something so pointless... it's just too stupid, don't you think?"
"..."
They fight for glory and die for honor.
Even when they could survive and return home, they're still willing to kill all these people for such a meaningless cause. Is there anything more foolish in the world than this?
"Let's put an end to this here and go home."
Ernest spoke firmly, though his heart was exhausted.
"Are you really okay with that?"
Ferdinand asked Ernest, his face contorted.
He asked this of the earnest young Ernest who, as a child, had risked everything to keep others from getting hurt or killed.
Now, Ernest was ready to kill with his own hands—not because of orders from above, but out of his own determination to protect his friends.
"No."
Ernest replied shortly, then tapped Ferdinand's chest with his fist.
"But someone has to do it."
Ernest slowly walked away.
By then, darkness had fallen and swallowed the forest, and with it, Ernest disappeared too.
To Ferdinand, it felt as if Ernest had vanished right before his eyes.
No matter how hard he looked around, focusing intently on his surroundings, he simply couldn't find him.
"..."
Ferdinand squeezed his fists tightly and covered his eyes. His large, rough fists trembled lightly, just like his trembling shoulders.
How did it end up like this?
Should I have listened to Grandfather and Father?
Was all of this a mistake?
…No, that's not it.
Ferdinand forcefully drove himself on, refusing to crumble.
Because he chose the field, he was able to help, even if only a little, in this desperate situation.
He hadn't done anything wrong.
If he could protect just one more friend, if he could bring even a single friend back from this hell, then—
So if a friend were to die by his hand, that, too, would be Ferdinand's responsibility.
Even if no one else saw it that way, Ferdinand couldn't help but feel responsible.
If it hadn't been for him—especially Georg, who trusted him completely and put his life in his hands—maybe Georg never would have thrown himself into such a reckless battle.
The seventeen-year-old young man walked on, his shoulders feeling like they could break at any moment.
He had so much he wanted to say to Georg.
Too much for it to end here.
And that list would only keep growing, never shrinking.
Someday, even these agonizing moments would wear down with time and turn into memories, and eventually, they would just be one of countless things they'd share back and forth over the years.
They didn't even have a Balt Lantern to use in the fight and had to prepare for close quarters combat, yet Bailey's tent was bathed in the pale light cast by the Balt Lantern.
"I have to do this... I have to do this…"
Bailey muttered, gripping his pistol with hands soaked in sweat.
His bloodshot eyes looked as if they could start weeping blood.
"I have to kill them all… Only then… only then can I preserve my honor, and my House…"
His words came out in a near sob.
The 1st Battalion had to be wiped out here.
Only then could he protect his honor, end things without bringing any further disgrace upon his House.
But Bailey was afraid of death.
Even though he'd driven so many others to their deaths without a second thought, when faced with death himself, he was just one small, pitiful human being.
And yet, even now, Bailey felt not a shred of guilt.
Even if that place was a trap, ordering a charge was his authority as Commander.
Using that authority to fight was only natural for a Noble and an Officer.
"Why… Why did it come to this…"
There was no guilt, but there was regret.
If only I hadn't ordered a charge into the forest.
If only we'd retreated from the forest after escaping the trap.
Maybe things could've turned out better than this.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it…"
Bailey crouched down, clutching his pistol tightly in his right hand Crouched on the floor, muttering, there was not a trace of the dignity or authority befitting Bailey Hoffman, son of Hoffman and Lieutenant Colonel, 1st Battalion Commander of the 13th Regiment.
After muttering and agonizing like that for quite some time, Bailey clenched his teeth and lifted his head.
"I'll end it with me. Yes, just like a son of the Hoffmans should."
But these words didn't mean he intended to take responsibility for everything.
This was simply a disaster caused by Bailey's own misjudgment.
Driven by excitement at the prospect of glory, he'd ordered the charge, and as a result, they'd been wiped out.
He intended to put an end to it in this way—to die while at least maintaining a shred of honor and avoiding further disgrace to his House.
That was his intent.
Thump.
"Mmph!"
Ernest, who had been quietly standing behind Bailey like a shadow as he crouched and muttered, understood exactly what Bailey meant—and so he hardened his own resolve, too.
Ernest's left hand clamped firmly over Bailey's mouth while his right hand seized Bailey's pistol, his thumb locking the hammer in place.
Bailey thrashed in shocked panic, but he could not so much as shake Ernest off or stand up.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Ernest forced Bailey fully to the ground, pinning him down and sitting on his back.
Then, wrapping both legs around Bailey's neck, he squeezed with all his strength.
Click.
Bailey tried to pull the trigger, but with Ernest's thumb locking the hammer, it was useless.
Thud. Thud.
Bailey flailed his left hand, striking at Ernest's leg that was wrapped around his neck.
Of course, Ernest didn't budge.
Rip.
Bailey's left hand grabbed Ernest's leg, digging in his fingernails and scratching at him.
But with mere human fingernails, he couldn't tear through the tough military uniform.
In the end, his nails broke and tore off, just like Ernest's left hand.
Strength slowly drained from Bailey's struggling legs. The tips of his toes scraped the ground, then stopped, then trembled, and finally fell still.
Silence settled over the inside of the tent.
Ernest remained exactly as he was, clamping Bailey's mouth shut and squeezing his neck without moving an inch.
He did it as a deliberate, rational act—to make sure Bailey was definitely dead.
At the same time, he couldn't quite comprehend what he himself was doing.
Only after what felt like an eternity—so long that his own legs cramped from squeezing Bailey's neck—did Ernest finally realize that Bailey had been dead for some time.
Before he knew it, the only hand gripping the pistol belonged to Ernest.
"Haa…"
Ernest panted shallowly.
Right now, he felt a soul-crushing pain as he realized with agonizing clarity that he hadn't killed someone simply as a soldier following orders in battle—but through his own conscious decision and will.
Still, Ernest didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Someone had to do it, and right now, there was no one in the 1st Battalion who could do this better than him.
Because he had to protect his friends.
Ernest staggered to his feet, still gripping the pistol, and took a step back.
He stared blankly down at Bailey's limp corpse, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, then started moving once more.
First, he turned off the Balt Lantern that had been lighting up the tent.
From outside, they might have seen a silhouette shift, though the Balt Lantern's light was so dim that it wouldn't have revealed much.
Complete darkness fell inside the tent.
It wasn't that his eyes needed to adjust to the light—there simply wasn't a speck of light left, so he couldn't see a thing.
Even so, Ernest moved without a hitch, having memorized the entire layout of the tent.
First, he turned Bailey's collapsed body over and lay him flat on his back, positioning his hips precisely where Bailey had originally been sitting.
"Huff, huff, huff…"
Bailey's limp body made it difficult, so Ernest was drenched in sweat and panting heavily by the time he was done.
After putting the corpse back in its place, Ernest sat Bailey's upper body up straight.
When taking bodies out of the trench, it was manageable even if they were heavy, since he could just sling them over his shoulder and hoist them out, but that was because there had been so many bodies then. Now he only had to move a single corpse, but had to do it so quietly that it was far more exhausting.
"Urgh…!"
In the end, Ernest had to grip Bailey's thick hair tightly and lift him up to get his upper body upright.
He checked the position of Bailey's right hand, then—pistol now switched to his left hand—pulled back the hammer.
Sickened with self-loathing, he felt like he was about to vomit at the thought of shooting into the skull of a corpse he himself had killed by his own will and decision.
Given the situation, it didn't really matter if he fired carelessly, but he found himself going out of his way and suffering for nothing.
Then he hated himself for that all over again.
Yet, he also felt relieved that he could still feel disgust in the first place.
And then he hated himself again for feeling relieved...
Ernest turned his head away, pressing his forehead to his right shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
The firing.
A flash.
A jolt.
A deafening bang.
And yet, even in the pitch-black darkness, Ernest placed the pistol precisely in Bailey's right hand, let go of Bailey's body, and crawled through a gap in the tent floor, making his escape in an instant.
"What the—! Where did that come from!"
"It—it's the enemy! We're under attack!"
"Calm down! Nobody move! Goddamn it! I said don't move!"
The 1st Battalion campsite instantly erupted into pandemonium.
The soldiers, completely unaware of what had just happened, were terrified, convinced they were under enemy attack.
And the officers who had been primed in advance started screaming their heads off, only adding to the confusion.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Ernest dashed through the darkness, escaping to the outskirts of the campsite.
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!"
His heart felt like it was about to burst, and his breath was so ragged he thought he might just keel over and die right then and there. Still, Ernest carried out what he needed to do without hesitation.
First, he tore off the military uniform he'd been wearing and flung it far away.
It was a soldier's uniform.
Then, using the water he'd brought for Bailey, he washed his left hand, which was filthy with Bailey's blood and brain matter.
"D—damn it…!"
But he couldn't tell if his hand was actually clean. There was too little water, and he couldn't distinguish whether the slippery feeling left on his skin was blood, brain, or just water.
When he ran out of water, Ernest frantically scrubbed his left hand against the grass and the trunk of a tree.
The wounds where his fingernail had broken and torn off stung sharply.
Afterward, Ernest hurriedly changed into his own hidden officer's uniform, then slipped back inside the campsite.
The place was still in an uproar, but the confusion had settled somewhat.
Clenching his trembling hand tightly, Ernest blended into the commotion and grabbed Andersen by the shoulder as he barked out orders to raise the alert.
"…You—! I nearly had a heart attack!"
Andersen had never expected Ernest to appear so silently and nearly screamed in surprise.
Ernest said nothing, and Andersen soon realized there was something off about his condition.
'Ah, of course.'
Andersen remembered that Ernest was just a seventeen-year-old greenhorn.
He also realized, perhaps for the first time, this must be a killing Ernest was entirely responsible for himself.
Ernest had always seemed so reliable that Andersen had started to forget they were almost a generation apart in age.
"Calm yourself. I'll handle things with my staff officers, so just show your face to the men and then get some rest."
Whispering to the silent Ernest, Andersen cautiously steered him away. Ernest, looking surprisingly put-together for someone who had just killed a man and shot a corpse in the head, walked off in a daze to rejoin the 2nd Company members.
"Company Commander, what should we do?"
Gustav, who had already grasped the situation, grabbed Ernest's arm—he was old enough to be his father—and pulled him close, putting an arm around his shoulder and back as if to protect his superior.
Swallowing hard, Ernest replied in a flat, emotionless voice.
"It doesn't seem to have been an enemy attack. Still, keep ready just in case. And make sure to guard Star of Summer well so the enemy doesn't get the wrong idea."
"Yes"
Gustav quietly patted Ernest's back, which felt as rigid as a withered tree, and replied.
After standing there for a moment, Ernest started to walk away, as if in a trance.
Neither Gustav nor anyone else tried to stop him.
'Robert.'
Ernest went looking for Robert. He wanted to see his friend—the friend he'd tried to protect, the friend he must protect.
But Robert was currently being held hostage by the Belliang Army, along with Baumann.
'Ferdinand.'
He also searched for Ferdinand, but even in this chaos, the big fellow was nowhere to be seen.
Of course—that was only natural.
He would be beside Georg, just as Ernest had told him to be.
Drifting aimlessly, Ernest slowly made his way through the noisy campsite toward where the wounded were gathered.
It was impossible to ignore Ferdinand's bear-like, massive back, no matter how much Ernest wanted to pretend otherwise.
He walked over with heavy steps and let himself collapse beside his friend.
"...."
"...."
Ferdinand, who'd been hunched over, slowly raised his head to look at Ernest.
Ernest stared blankly at Georg, who was slumped limply in Ferdinand's arms.
Tomorrow, they would finally leave this forest.
Tomorrow, Balthracher could treat them.
"Georg…"
Ferdinand, tears streaming down his face, fought back sobs that threatened to break him apart as he spoke.
"…he said thank you. That it was an honor and a joy to have been friends with us all."
"...."
"I'm sorry, Georg… I'm so sorry… I'm sorry…"
"...."
Still clutching his friend's feverishly hot head, Ferdinand wept and murmured into his hair.
Ernest said nothing.
He couldn't say anything.
Once again, like sand slipping through his fingers, he had lost a friend, right in his arms.
Surely, he could have held on—if only he'd tried.
Ernest buried his face in the hands that had just killed Bailey.
He couldn't tell if the wetness was Bailey's blood, water, or his own tears.