Chapter 153 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (16)
"I swear on my life and on the honor of my beloved Lady Liselotte—if your so-called 'Star of Summer' had truly died, you would never have heard a single gunshot."
If Robert, who needed to stay alive as a hostage, hadn't said that after drinking lots of water, taking his medicine, and getting a good sleep, the Belliang Army would have attacked the 1st Battalion the moment they heard gunfire.
"You'd stake not only your life, but also the honor of your beloved Lady Liselotte? Are you truly certain?"
Bertrand had no idea who this Lady Liselotte was or what her relationship to Robert could possibly be, but, seeing the sincerity in Robert's eyes, he hesitated to give the order to charge.
If she knew that, on this distant foreign battlefield, a greenhorn was invoking her honor in front of a royal commander from an enemy nation, what kind of face would she make?
At least one expression was clear: right beside him, Baumann was scowling in unmistakable disgust and contempt.
His twisted obsession with this Blonde Beauty had truly reached pathological levels.
"After handing over Baumann and myself as hostages, do you really think Ernest and Ferdie would just stand by while someone killed her? If she really had died, there wouldn't have been any gunshots. If she wanted to die, suicide would be the only way—but as you can see, they don't hand guns to prisoners."
Robert lifted his empty hands and wiggled his fingers as if mimicking a baby playing peekaboo.
Baumann, forced to listen to Robert's incessant chatter the moment his fever broke, looked like he was about to resort to violence.
But he couldn't beat a patient for simply not shutting up, and besides, nothing he was saying was wrong...
"How can you trust them so completely?"
Bertrand narrowed his eyes, glaring at Robert as if he could kill him on the spot.
Unfazed, Robert replied confidently without even a hint of a smirk.
"They'd never play games with a friend's life, even if it meant dying themselves. If those bastards had really killed your 'Star of Summer,' we wouldn't be in your hands right now. We'd already be out of this damned forest, sleeping safe and sound back with our own forces"
"..."
Robert's trust was so strong and unshakeable, there wasn't the slightest hint of fear in him, even though he was being held hostage.
Even the most devout Believer of the Myth Era would have their faith called into question if compared to Robert right now.
"Then what was that gunshot just now?"
"Huh? Why are you asking me? I've been asleep here all day and only just woke up."
"Well... that's true."
Robert answered Bertrand's question matter-of-factly, then reached out to Baumann because he was thirsty.
"I'm not your servant."
"Hey, I'm a patient, you know. Hurry up and give it to me."
"Haah..."
Baumann sighed, but still handed Robert the water.
Robert took a deep, satisfying drink—so different from how he'd been back with the 1st Battalion, where water was so precious he'd lick up every last drop.
He even used the leftover water to wash his sticky hands.
Just this morning, he'd been licking up distilled urine and scavenged dew as if they were treasures; now, this was luxury.
"Are you friends with them?"
"Oh please, isn't it obvious? We're totally friends."
He didn't know exactly what "totally friends" meant, but at least he understood that they were friends.
Bertrand, finally given the chance, asked the question he'd been dying to know about this oddly brazen young man.
"Who exactly is Krieger?"
At that question, Robert and Baumann looked at each other and shrugged.
"He's a fox. But in a lion's body."
Robert answered carelessly, not wanting to give too much information about his friend to the enemy commander.
Bertrand tilted his head in confusion.
"…A fox? A lion?"
So, who the hell is this Damn Ernest, Damn Krieger—this guy who may be a fox or a lion, what is he really?
But even with just that strange remark, Bertrand felt he understood perfectly.
He was an incredibly despicable, sinister, cunning, and ruthless bastard, and although he wasn't even a Baltracher, he was second to none in strength or courage.
A fox's brain in a lion's body.
Having dealt with him firsthand, Bertrand thought there was no better way to describe Ernest Krieger.
After that, Bertrand tried to satisfy another curiosity.
"How old is he?"
"What'll you give me if I tell you?"
"Haha. I'm not so old that my ears are failing, but even so, I must be hearing things."
"Well then, for your health, you should exercise a bit and try some wrestling, too. Otherwise, you'll just drop dead one day."
"..."
Bertrand, who had only managed to hold his own in that pitiful wrestling match thanks to his armor, was at a loss for how to deal with this young prisoner.
Rank and royal blood aside, they never imagined there could be a single prisoner in the world who would talk like this to an enemy commander.
It was hard to call it guts, exactly.
Even though this guy's tongue never seemed to stop, it wasn't particularly irritating to listen to him.
He wasn't trying to be cocky—he was simply someone who liked to run his mouth like this.
He had a way of rolling smoothly through any conversation, so even his barbed words ultimately sounded good-natured.
At this level, you could call it a talent given by the heavens.
"Anyway, what if they really did kill the Star of Summer?"
"Oh, come on, I told you—that's not it. Honestly, it's more likely that the Star of the Mad Heat would steal a gun and shoot Ernest."
"You're underestimating the Star of Summer too much. Besides, isn't Krieger your friend? How can you speak so lightly of them?"
"How on earth would the Star of the Mad Heat steal a gun when Ernest and Ferdinand are so thorough? If she could, we wouldn't be stuck here like this, would we?"
"...."
"So, you get what I'm saying, right"
"Ha."
Bertrand couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The way this kid completely ignored his warning to call her the Star of Summer and stubbornly kept saying Star of the Mad Heat, or how he could so confidently declare, "If they were really that incompetent, you'd have wiped out the entire 1st Battalion and marched out onto the plains to crush the 13th Regiment by now"—it was all just too much.
"Alright, fine. We'll see for ourselves when dawn breaks tomorrow."
"But could I get some water?"
"After everything you've already drunk?"
"No, not for me."
"...Are you seriously asking your enemy for water right now?"
"If not, then at least give lots to me and Baumann."
"Why me?"
"You need to drink up and then go share water with the others. Starting now, hold it in—no more peeing."
"..."
Is he actually insane?
'Will those guys really be okay?'
Yet, for all his running mouth, Robert was genuinely worried about his friends.
Georg, who was still sick and frail, and Ernest and Ferdinand, who now bore responsibilities far too heavy for their age.
Even though he'd been handed over as a hostage, Robert felt a fierce sense of guilt as he rested comfortably, gulping down water and eating his fill.
At least he'd managed to stop Bertrand from attacking the 1st Battalion the moment he heard the gunshots.
The thought that he'd at least done something for his friends eased his guilt a little, which only deepened his self-loathing. With his head hot from fever, Robert desperately racked his brain, trying to figure out if there was anything he could do in this situation.
…He might really have to hold in his pee.
***
Estelle kept silent, listening intently inside the tent, where the faint glow from a small campfire flickered.
When the soldiers started gathering around her tent, she thought the moment had finally come.
She had resolved to make sure she didn't die quietly—if she was going to go, she'd take at least one of the bastards with her rather than face humiliation.
But instead of what she expected, a gunshot suddenly ripped through the nighttime silence, throwing the whole campsite into chaos.
Even so, the soldiers guarding Estelle's tent held their ground without moving an inch.
Still, they, too, were clearly rattled.
While it was hard to make out exactly what the murmurs outside meant, the noise alone was enough proof of the confusion.
Krieger.
As Estelle listened closely, she heard Ernest's hollow voice.
Instinctively, she realized that Ernest was at the very center of this chaos.
Soon after, Ernest left for somewhere else.
"The Battalion Commander has taken his own life."
"..."
When Estelle overheard the staff officer from the 1st Battalion delivering this message to the 2nd Company members surrounding her tent, she found herself more surprised by how little it surprised her.
Bailey was truly the kind of commander who deserved to die.
Both Estelle Pouarrié—hero of the Belliang Army and Star of Summer—and Bertrand agreed on that point.
In fact, she found herself almost admiring the Imperial Army's discipline for not having killed him sooner.
If it had been up to Estelle, she would've killed that incompetent bastard ten times over by now.
Krieger killed Hoffman.
Estelle realized this fact instinctively, even without any evidence, and was left with a feeling she couldn't quite describe.
She couldn't even figure out what exactly it was that she felt.
Why did Krieger kill Hoffman?
Why do it now, of all times, when everything seemed to be over?
What had influenced his decision?
"Sir Estelle, it seems things are taking a strange turn. It would be wise to be cautious," whispered Bertrand's attendant quietly from the opposite side of the tent.
He had to remain in the tent to verify Estelle's safety and her treatment as a prisoner, but as a gentleman, he was doing everything possible to be considerate and not cross any boundaries that would make Estelle uncomfortable.
"…We won't be in any danger," Estelle replied, sensing the unrest throughout the campsite gradually settling and order being restored.
She realized that Ernest had killed Bailey not out of personal hatred, but for the sake of the entire 1st Battalion.
Although she couldn't quite explain exactly how she'd reached that conclusion, she felt certain it was true.
If that was the case, there was no reason Ernest would harm her.
The soldiers stationed around the tent weren't there for any other reason—they were simply there to protect her.
Estelle felt both frustration and anger at this realization.
In some twisted way, she almost wished they intended to kill or violate her; at least then, Bertrand would have a legitimate reason to wipe out the entire 1st Battalion.
Before long, the soldiers posted outside the tent began to withdraw.
Only a few remained around the tent to keep watch and protect Estelle.
Even though word had spread that the Battalion Commander had taken his own life, the soldiers handled it with a composure that was almost shocking.
It was clear just how thoroughly Bailey's authority had collapsed within the 1st Battalion.
Everything seemed to be settling into place. Bertrand's attendant visibly relaxed, relieved.
"Company Commander."
"..."
Just then, a voice came from outside the tent.
There were no footsteps approaching, so the "Company Commander" the soldier referred to could only be Ernest Krieger.
And then, silence. In that heavy stillness, Estelle narrowed her eyes and stared toward the tent entrance.
Soon, the flap opened noiselessly, and a large figure entered with an almost floating, somber motion.
As the shadow stepped into the light, it revealed only darkness.
"..."
Ernest slowly tilted his head, surveying the inside of the tent. It was a gesture entirely devoid of meaning.
The moment Ernest opened the flap of the tent, he had already taken in everything inside with a single glance; without doing anything at all, he was in complete control of everything within.
"Have you come to kill me?"
Estelle felt her soul burning with hatred, but she asked Ernest in a low, calm voice.
Ernest was empty-handed.
He didn't even have a dagger.
He'd left all his weapons with the soldiers at the entrance.
Still, if he wanted, he could kill Estelle—who was without the Balt Battery—and Bertrand's attendant, who was unarmed, in the blink of an eye.
"..."
Ernest looked down at Estelle and slowly cocked his head.
His deep, dark irises seemed to swallow even the light from the campfire, yet he took in every detail of Estelle with his gaze.
"Do you resent me?"
Standing as rigid as a twisted, withered tree, Ernest spoke as he once had in gentle conversations with his father during childhood.
But unlike those soft days, his voice now was so rough that it sent a chill of unease through anyone listening.
"Yes, I want to kill you."
Estelle's vivid green eyes blazed as she answered, almost provoking him.
Ernest's eyes shifted slightly, turning to look at the campfire.
"…Why?"
Ernest asked.
But that question was also ultimately meaningless.
Even if he didn't know the specifics, he could already guess.
There was no way Ernest didn't know—because he harbored the same feelings toward Estelle.
"Because of you, my brother died, Krieger."
Estelle spoke, clenching her small, battered hands tight.
"If it weren't for you, my brother would have lived."
"...Did I kill him?"
Ernest recalled the faces of those he had killed.
Though the number he'd sent to their deaths through orders in battle was beyond counting, he remembered clearly the faces of those he had killed with his own hands.
He sorted through the boys he'd killed himself during the Bertagne Forest battle, picking out anyone who could plausibly be Estelle's younger brother, especially those who resembled her.
Since Estelle was a noble, her brother would probably have been an officer.
So he narrowed it down to those wearing officer's uniforms—but among those Ernest had killed himself, Estelle's brother was definitely not there.
"If only you hadn't existed."
Estelle ground her teeth as she spoke.
Her eyes were wide open, unblinking, and tears streamed from her bloodshot eyes.
Ernest realized how he had contributed to the death of Estelle's brother.
Her brother was probably stationed in the rear during the Battle of Bertagne Forest.
If Estelle had managed to hold off the 5th Division, there wouldn't even have been a battle.
But Ernest blocked Estelle three times in a row, and in the end, their lines faltered, giving up Bertagne Forest.
In the process, Estelle's younger brother lost his life.
"Clemence wasn't someone who should have died like that," Estelle said, tears spilling from eyes so red it looked as if she might bleed.
"There are so few people in this world who truly deserve such a fate…"
Ernest began to reply in a flat voice, but after darting his gaze, he amended what he was about to say.
Not none.
Maybe a very few.
"Clemence hated fighting. He was a good kid who loved his family."
"Hardly anyone here came because they love fighting."
"He was only eighteen."
"My friends were seventeen."
"If your Empire hadn't invaded, none of this would have happened."
"You're right."
"..."
"You're right. If only you hadn't, if only there hadn't been a war... Things would've been so much better."
Ernest quietly raised his left hand, the blood dried into a blackened fingernail, and stared at it in silence
"We're just some of the countless people who got swept up by a madman and thrown onto the battlefield. I know that. I really do."
He lowered his gaze from his left hand, dropped both arms to his sides, and looked down at Estelle with a calm expression.
He was remarkably calm.
Unbelievably so.
"Even so, I still want to kill you."
Because he didn't even feel guilty about his feelings toward Estelle, there wasn't a single stain of doubt in that pure honesty.
"Do it."
Estelle sprang to her feet and strode right up to Ernest.
She grabbed his hands with her small ones, lifted them, and pressed them to her throat.
"No one can stop you. Kill me—end it, Krieger."
Thinking of her beloved brother, whose body they couldn't even find, the one she'd sacrificed everything to protect, Estelle spoke through tears streaming from eyes brimming with hatred and resentment. Ernest stood perfectly still, looking down at Estelle as her slender neck fit squarely within his large hands.
Suddenly, an image flashed through Ernest's mind.
A scene from Shadello—the simple dining table that spoke to the ordinary rhythms of family life, plain but full of warmth.
Ernest blinked slowly, and tears began to slip from those black eyes, so emotionless they hardly seemed human.
He remembered Yurgen, who had died in his arms, Jonas, who died piggybacked on his back, and Georg, who died in Ferdinand's embrace. He remembered the moments at the Imperial Military Academy, laughing, joking, and playing around with his friends.
He recalled the warm meal they somehow managed to share at Krieger's modest home, five people squeezed around a small dining table meant for four—his father, Marie, Robert, Jonas, and himself.
Ernest's two thumbs rested against Estelle's carotid arteries and applied a bit of pressure.
Both Ernest and Estelle stared at each other, silently crying as tears streamed down their faces.
How could a single human being so desperately, with a heart overflowing like a prayer to God, wish to kill another?
Estelle was ready to lay down her own life—as long as she could kill Ernest.
Ernest, too, would have willingly given up his own life if it meant taking Estelle's.
"…That's really a foolish thing to do."
But in the end, Ernest did not strangle or snap Estelle's slender neck. Still gripping her throat, sobbing with his eyes closed, he spoke, recalling a moment from when he was just fourteen.
"We don't have to kill each other for something like this—no one else needs to die."
Ernest slowly loosened his grip. Estelle didn't try to stop his hands. His hands fell limply, brushing against his own legs, and Estelle's hands dropped in the same fashion, hitting her legs.
Truly, Ernest wanted to kill Estelle.
If he set his mind to it, and even if ten Estelles without weapons from Balt Battery attacked him, he could have killed them all with his bare hands.
But Ernest didn't do it.
He couldn't do it.
He had to make it back alive—with the friends who had survived alongside him.
Ernest understood all too well that the slender neck he had been gripping was, in a sense, his own and his friends' as well.
"I hate you. I want to kill you. Even after a long time passes, these feelings probably won't change. I'm sure you feel the same way."
Ernest took a step back, opened his eyes, and with a calm and gentle tone that reflected his true nature—though he filled it with all the hatred and resentment he could muster—he softly cursed Estelle.
"Let's never meet again after this. And die somewhere I don't know about. Die suffering a hundred times more than the pain my friends went through—writhe in agony, despairing, cursing, and crying out in misery."
Perhaps the reason he didn't include his own pain among those was that, even after everything he had gone through, he remained a kind person.
Compared to his friends' pain, his own didn't seem so significant.
Ernest then turned away. With his back to Estelle, he slipped out of the tent like a shadow disappearing into the darkness.
"..."
Estelle glared painfully at the spot where Ernest had been.
"…I'm sorry. Sir Estelle. I… it's just that…"
The attendant, completely overwhelmed by Ernest, could barely breathe and couldn't move an inch.
He tried to say something, but Estelle didn't hear a word of it.
She already knew.
She knew she couldn't blame Ernest for this.
She knew it was all such a meaningless, mad thing to do, and that even if she died here at Ernest's hands, it would only add another pointless death to the pile.
She also knew it could put even the army Bertrand commanded in danger.
Estelle, weeping, muttered under her breath.
"Please, just die."
Even so, they had come too far—too deep—to ever forgive each other.
Maybe it was because they were simply too young.
Ernest was only seventeen, and Estelle just twenty-one.
No one could say if this dark night would ever end. For these young souls, the dawn was still heartbreakingly far away.