Chapter 156 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (19)
After Ernest was confined to a tent for nominal detention, he fell asleep as though he had fainted.
He didn't open his eyes again until the sun had set and night had fallen.
The inside of the tent wasn't particularly dark, as a small brazier was pushing back the gloom with its faint warmth and firelight.
It seemed people had been coming and going from the tent, but even the sharpest Ernest hadn't noticed a thing—he had been so exhausted he couldn't have known.
The first thing Ernest did was grab the cup on the small table beside his cot and gulp down water.
His thirst eased, and it felt a little easier to breathe.
Sitting on the rickety bed, Ernest examined the rope tightly binding his wrists.
It was impossible to undo with bare hands, and since the rope was tied to one of the tent poles, escaping would be difficult.
Of course, if he was willing to struggle through the night, Ernest could break free from the sturdy rope anytime.
If he kept rubbing the rope against the edge of the bed or table, it wouldn't be hard to cut through it.
With only his wrists tied, he would be free to move and slip away.
Ernest could have snapped the rope before sunrise, slipped out of the tent, and even left the entire campsite.
But there was no benefit to doing so, so he decided to wait.
As Ernest awoke and began to move, he heard the sound of whispering and sensed people outside.
A moment later, the entrance to the tent opened, and an unfamiliar officer entered, accompanied by a non-commissioned officer and a soldier.
"You must be hungry. I'll leave this here for you," the officer said in a calm voice, placing food on the table.
Ernest didn't so much as flinch.
He simply sat and regarded the man in silence.
"I'd like to tell you there's no need to be tense… but it doesn't seem like you're nervous at all."
The officer mistook Ernest, whose face seemed to fade into the shadows, for being frozen with tension at first glance.
But when he saw Ernest's eyes, which seemed to swallow up even the firelight, he realized that far from being tense, Ernest was simply and quietly studying him.
He wasn't on guard.
He was merely observing.
"I'm Mach Glaser, intelligence officer of the 13th Regiment. I'm a captain as well, so you can relax around me."
A soldier quickly placed a chair across from Ernest, and Mach let out a long sigh as he sat down.
"I don't want to disturb your meal by dropping in so late at night, but we don't have much time. I'd like to talk."
"I'll postpone eating."
"You could eat while we talk, you know."
"I'd rather not."
"Hmm."
Ernest, strict about table manners, simply suppressed his hunger and met Mach's gaze directly.
"Let's start from the beginning. From before the battle in front of the forest."
Making a show of it, Mach took a notebook from his pocket and flipped through it.
"Ah, it's too dark"
"Could you turn on the light?"
"Yes, sir."
Only then did the non-commissioned officer finally turn on the Balt Lantern hanging from his waist and hook it onto a ring on the pillar.
"Let's see here… Ah, do you smoke?"
"No, but I'm used to it."
"Ah, right. You're still only seventeen. You graduated from the Military Academy early. Well then, if you don't mind."
Mach crossed his legs, set his notebook on his knee, then took a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket.
With the cigarette in his mouth, he tried to light it.
Click! Click! Click!
"Damn, I forgot to refill the oil. Sorry, but could I borrow your fire?"
Having fiddled with the lighter a few times, Mach smiled sheepishly, put it away, and looked at Ernest.
Without a word, Ernest awkwardly rummaged through his jacket with his bound hands and took out his lighter.
"Thanks."
Mach leaned forward, bringing his face closer.
He gave the cigarette in his mouth a slight flick.
Ddak.
"...."
"...."
Ernest tossed his lighter to Mach, and Mach caught it.
"If you're tired, let's stop here and get to the point."
Ernest spoke in a calm voice.
Mach grinned.
"Alright. Let's cut to the main point."
Mach was now convinced that his interrogation techniques wouldn't work on Ernest.
Wherever this kid had learned it, he saw right through all of Mach's tricks.
He'd tried acting friendly and polite, then added subtle pressure by saying he would listen to Ernest's statement.
Forcing him to eat in that pathetic state with his hands tied, flipping through a notebook to make it seem like he'd already done all the investigating—each tactic calculated.
Then, in the dim light, he added a sense of isolation, and used the cigarette and lighter to highlight their difference in status.
They were minor techniques, but they were often enough to make someone shrink back without realizing it.
But not with Ernest.
Ernest began his statement, setting aside any personal feelings.
He started from the very first battle outside the forest.
Mach silently listened, flipping through his notebook and comparing the statements of others to Ernest's.
Normally, he would have tried to trip Ernest up midway—throwing in distractions to confuse him and lead to mistakes—but that wouldn't work on someone like him.
When it came down to it, Mach was just a pitiable captain, beaten around by everyone and with no desire to get too invested in work that wasn't even his proper duty.
Engaging in pointless mind games would only make more work for himself.
Right now, all Mach wanted was to finish this nonsense a second sooner and collapse into bed.
After all, this was nothing but a formal process.
Whatever the regimental intelligence officer tried, the senior unit that would make the final decision would barely bother to look at any of it.
Ernest told the truth about everything except the moment he killed Bailey, where he stuck to the agreed-upon version of events. Mach glanced at Ernest briefly, but didn't press him about that moment.
Every single surviving 1st Battalion member, without a single exception, insisted on Ernest's innocence.
Some spoke passionately, saying they saw Ernest elsewhere at the moment Bailey pulled the trigger; others were nearly in tears as they swore he could never do such a thing.
Some also brought up the conflict between Ernest and Bailey—more specifically, Bailey's jealousy and inferiority complex fueling his irrational actions.
They described how Bailey ignored his subordinates' advice and aimed his gun at Ernest, who had only ever dedicated himself to the unit.
As they pointed out, if Ernest was going to kill Bailey, he would have done it when that gun was pointed at his own head.
Talking about the relationship between the two could have hurt Ernest, so the officers kept quiet about it.
The soldiers, however, were ignorant of such concerns, and openly spoke their minds.
Of course, depending on one's viewpoint, their testimony could actually help Ernest by showing just how irrational Bailey's behavior was.
In any case, it was clear all the surviving 1st Battalion members were desperately trying to save Ernest—not out of fear of being labeled accomplices, but out of genuine desire to help him.
Just as Thomas had said: Ernest had managed to earn recognition from his superiors, trust from his peers, and the respect of his subordinates And right now, that was what was protecting him from this crisis.
"Hmmm…"
After Ernest finished his statement, Mach flipped through his notebook again, nodding as he went. But he didn't get up right away to end this damned, unnecessary extra task.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but listen up."
Mach announced in advance that he was about to say something unpleasant to Ernest.
Having said that, it would actually be strange if he didn't go on to say something harsh.
"Looking at both other people's statements and yours, you come across as almost unbelievably competent. It's kind of unrealistic, you know."
"Come across as"—what an odd phrase.
"Of course, I know you're an exceptional officer who broke records every year and graduated top of your class from the Imperial Military Academy. But isn't this all a bit much?"
Mach spoke with an awkward smile—a look someone might have when they've caught a child in a lie and aren't sure how to deal with it.
In Mach's view—or honestly, anyone's—it looked as if everyone was exaggerating, trying to turn Ernest into a hero to save him. Regardless of the truth, at this point, it actually made things look suspicious.
"I only told the truth as it happened."
"Hmm… Well, all right then."
Mach shrugged at Ernest's response and gestured to the non-commissioned officer to hand him a quill pen he hadn't used yet. The non-commissioned officer passed the quill pen to Mach, then took out the ink bottle and opened the lid for him.
Mach scribbled something in his notebook, then stole a glance up at Ernest.
Mach gave a small smile.
"It's enough to make me too scared to write anything."
He had realized that Ernest was practically reading his notes just by quietly watching his hand movements. Though Mach was smiling, the sensation gave him chills, as if goosebumps were crawling up his skin.
He tapped the section labeled "Possible delusions of grandeur" with his quill, then dipped the pen heavily in ink and drew a thick line through it, erasing it.
"And now… let's see here…"
Mach carefully flipped through his notebook, being careful not to smudge or drip ink, then looked over at Ernest.
"This time, don't take offense—just listen."
Announcing once again that he was about to say something unpleasant, Mach gave a wry smile, as if he truly felt sorry this time.
"Why did you make the cowardly decision to retreat rather than fight the Empire's enemies to the bitter end with courage?"
He had succeeded in capturing the Star of Summer, who the Imperial Army was desperately trying to kill, and had nearly killed Bertrand as well. As an Imperial soldier, shouldn't he confront the enemy bravely to the end, without fear of death?
If the opportunity arose to kill the Empire's enemy, the Star of Summer, shouldn't he have done so immediately and chosen to die heroically in that very moment, with honor?
"I thought it was foolish to let anyone else get hurt for a war that was already long over."
"…All right, I understand."
At Ernest's indifferent answer, Mach fell silent for a moment, then gave a brief reply. He handed the quill pen back to the non-commissioned officer as he stood up.
To avoid smudging the ink, Mach pressed his thumb against the open notebook, then, tilting his head, made a gesture as if taking off his hat to Ernest, who was sitting frozen on the bed. Unlike when he first entered, that seemingly casual motion now carried a sense of respect.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Captain Krieger. You'll be transported tomorrow morning, so get plenty of rest until then."
"Yes."
With that, Mach left the tent. Left alone, Ernest casually scooped up the stew on the table and began eating it with a spoon. It had gone cold during the interrogation, but thanks to his hunger, it still tasted good.
He also gulped down the cool water—something he'd desperately craved while in the forest—then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
Even though he'd slept through most of the day, the fatigue hadn't left his body.
Right now, he felt like he could sleep for two days straight without stopping.
Not that he understood what it meant to take a break from sleeping, anyway.
As soon as morning broke, Ernest was loaded into a vehicle and transported away.
Passing by, he noticed that the attack on Lanosel had also been called off, and it looked as if Lanosel would surrender by the end of the day.
Ernest was unable to see the members of the 1st Battalion. Although Levin was advocating for the survivors of the 1st Battalion, he was meticulous about following protocol. After all, at this moment, Ernest was being transferred on charges of murdering his superior. You can't just meet anyone you want, even if you wish for it.
"Mmm…"
With his wrists bound, the seventeen-year-old Ernest couldn't help but let out a groan as he climbed into the transport vehicle.
He still felt utterly wrecked—he was nowhere near recovered after just a day's rest.
The thought of having to return over the same route in this state was dreadful.
Inside the transport, a fully armed officer, two non-commissioned officers, and four soldiers accompanied him, their job to keep watch and subdue him if necessary.
Ernest sat in the center, surrounded on both sides and in front, slumping back against the wall with his eyes closed. He could only think about how much he wanted to just sleep.
"Snore…"
"..."
The moment he got in, Ernest immediately fell asleep. He was so exhausted that he even began to snore loudly.
The others looked at him, bewildered by his behavior.
Regardless, the vehicle set off, retracing the path they'd used when invading Belliang.
Ernest ended up living a lazy life unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
He would wake only to eat when it was time, then doze off again—sleep, eat, sleep, eat, over and over… Only when he was treated like a criminal, unable to do anything at all, did Ernest finally find himself stepping away from his relentless routine into the kind of idle paradise most people only dream of.
But it brought him no joy.
If anything, Ernest suffered through those moments as though he were a Balt Lantern that had burned out completely—so much so that it felt less like he was sleeping and more like he was simply losing consciousness.
A few days later, Ernest arrived in the city that now served as the 5th Division Headquarters Command Post And even there, after only a perfunctory investigation, he was sent even farther to the rear.
"Well, it's good for us, anyway."
He heard people say that in passing.
It seemed Ferdinand's letter had reached its destination without any problems.
They'd used his reputation as the Son of a Hero when it suited them, but now they just saw him as a troublesome bastard and wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible.
Ernest didn't even muster a bitter smile—he just let those comments wash over him.
He hadn't expected anything else in the first place.
After finally pushing beyond even the Bertagne Forest he had struggled so desperately to break through, Ernest at last arrived in Ruybern, where the 2nd Corps Headquarters was located, after a long journey.
"Get out."
"Oh man…"
"Ugh, I feel like I'm dead…"
At the command to get out, the officer escorting Ernest was the first to hop down from the transport vehicle.
Since the transport from the 13th Regiment had already dropped Ernest off at the 5th Division Headquarters and gone back, these men belonged to the 5th Division Headquarters.
Ernest also jumped down from the vehicle.
After sitting cramped inside the transport for days, his back and knees ached so badly he nearly tripped.
"Whew…"
Under the blazing sunlight of Ruybern now fully in summer, Ernest lifted his bound hands and squinted, frowning at the brightness. After being cooped up in that dark transport, he could barely keep his eyes open.
"Krieger."
Someone called out to Ernest, who couldn't even open his eyes in the dazzling light.
Ernest knew that voice.
"Lieutenant Colonel Hartmann, sir."
Shielding his eyes from the sunlight with his bound hands, Ernest squinted toward the source of the voice.
Standing there, wearing an expression of conflicting emotions, was Lieutenant Colonel Mark Hartmann—the Section Chief of the 2nd Corps, Ferdinand Hartmann's father.
Mark gazed silently at Ernest, who looked utterly disheveled.
"…I received a letter."
Mark looked at his son's friend with pained eyes, then forced a smile as he spoke.
By saying he'd received Ferdinand's letter—not just that he'd heard the news—he subtly let Ernest know that he was on his side.
"For now… yes, for now, let's get you cleaned up and changed into some fresh clothes first."
"At last," Ernest breathed out with a sigh.
Even though the charges against him hadn't been finalized, the accusations were so grave that he was already being treated like a criminal. Because they refused to remove his restraints, he couldn't change clothes, wash himself, or even shave—which would require a blade, of course.
Ever since escaping from the Bertebras Mountains' forest, Ernest hadn't been able to wash properly or shave.
To put it kindly, he looked little better than a beggar—and, hygiene-wise, he was in a dire state.
The dried blood on his skin was festering, giving off a foul odor. It was a miracle he hadn't fallen ill.
"You've been through so much, Krieger. And—thank you."
Mark spoke in a low voice, conscious of the people around them. He firmly grasped Ernest's filthy, grimy clothes by the shoulders and led him into headquarters.
"Don't worry. Just take it easy and get some rest."
Mark whispered softly,
"We'll take care of everything."
"Yes, sir."
Ernest replied calmly to Mark's words.
'He has no doubts—he's completely convinced I killed him.'
Ernest couldn't help but lament how everyone assumed the worst of him.
Both Levin and Mark, the moment they saw him, were so certain: 'This guy really did kill Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman!'
Their conviction was plain to see.
Of course, it was true.
Once inside headquarters, Ernest was finally freed from that cursed rope and regained the use of both hands.
But even when he washed up—or went to the bathroom—he was closely monitored at all times.
For the record, unfortunately, he still wasn't allowed to shave. No matter what, there was no way they'd hand Ernest a blade under these circumstances.
That evening, Ernest did nothing but rest in a clean room. They served him an excellent meal, and he was given a freshly pressed, spotless officer's uniform to change into.
If it hadn't been for the armed guards sticking to his side, he might have thought he was being treated like an honored guest.
'What exactly is the difference between killing the enemy as a soldier and killing Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman by my own decision? Why does this torment me so much?'
Ernest couldn't let even the aimless passing of time go by without purpose.
He tormented himself by obsessing over things that didn't need to be revisited, making himself suffer for no reason. If only he could sleep and lose himself awhile—but he'd already slept too much on the way here. Now that he'd cleaned himself up, his mind was as sharp as ever, just like before, and there was no way he could fall asleep.
Lost in endless torment, Ernest realized that something inside him had been irreparably damaged.
He'd killed over a hundred people with his own hands by now. He'd been a crack shot, and there were few who could best him in close quarters combat.
As a commander, his orders had driven dozens of his subordinates to their deaths, and hundreds of the enemy had died as a result.
Even so, all of it had been in the line of duty, acting as a soldier. He knew perfectly well that this was a coward's excuse, but even so—
But killing Bailey had been different.
When Ernest resolved to kill his superior, Bailey, he had ceased being a soldier.
In that moment, he acted solely as Ernest Krieger—a single human being—committing murder with no orders, based only on his own judgment, his choice, and his decision.
Just before killing Bailey, Ernest remembered standing silently behind him, listening to his broken mutterings.
No one but Ernest himself would ever know just how desperately he had prayed in that moment.
He'd hoped, down to his core, that even at the very last moment, Bailey would come to his senses and choose to retreat.
Or maybe, he wished Bailey would just put that pistol to his own head and pull the trigger right then and there.
Anything to avoid having to kill Bailey with his own hands.
But Bailey was far too broken to regain his senses, and far too cowardly to take his own life.
In the end, Ernest had no choice but to finish it himself.
'Even his death had to be this messy.'
He'd made everyone miserable while alive, and even now, his death was torturing Ernest.
Facing execution for killing his superior wasn't the only thing tormenting him—Ernest was suffering, for the first time, over a murder he'd truly committed of his own will.
In some ways, Bailey Hoffman might be an even more horrifying presence to Ernest than the Star of Summer, Estelle Pouarrié.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Sitting in front of the table, lost in thought, Ernest turned his head toward the door as he heard heavy footsteps approaching.
Bang!
The moment he recognized those footsteps and was about to rise, the door was slammed open so violently it seemed about to break.
Everyone jumped and stared at the entrance. And there stood the Angry Bear.
"Get out."
At the words of the 2nd Corps Chief of Staff, Brigadier General Heinz Hartmann, the men guarding Ernest exchanged nervous glances.
"I said, everyone out."
"Y-yes, sir!"
When Heinz growled, his bloodshot eyes blazing, everyone jumped in shock and dashed out of the room.
For a moment, Ernest almost bolted out with them.
Bang!
Heinz slammed the door shut with a hand as big as a pot lid. The booming noise and sheer force startled even Ernest, who stood up awkwardly, unsure of himself.
Ferdinand—possibly the strongest and biggest man not just in the 1st Battalion but in the entire 13th Regiment—was still just a seventeen-year-old, still growing.
Meanwhile, Heinz had long since finished growing, now well into old age, and was even larger than Ferdinand, his strength undiminished by the years.
Ferdinand might be able to kill a man with his bare hands, but in front of his grandfather Heinz, even he was nothing more than a cute little boy.
Even if Ferdinand pushed Heinz with all his might, Heinz would just chuckle at his grandson's antics and treat him to a round of the High-High Game—lifting him up and slamming him to the ground hard enough to knock him out.
And if Ferdinand ever landed the wrong way on his neck, he'd end up stuck in the 'high-high' state forever.
It would probably take at least three more years before Ferdinand could beat Heinz in a contest of strength.
The room, which had felt spacious enough for five people including Ernest, suddenly felt cramped with just Heinz in it.
As Heinz strode forward, puffing with anger, it really was like an angry bear charging.
Ernest couldn't help but briefly wonder if maybe Ferdinand's letter had been misdelivered, and Heinz had come to beat him to death.
"You don't have to worry about that fucking dogshit Emperor eavesdropping on us."
"..."
Even though he was the 2nd Corps Chief of Staff, Heinz reassured Ernest by openly insulting the Emperor—an act that would mean certain execution if overheard.
Only Ernest and Heinz, the two people actually involved, were present to hear this conversation—and Heinz made it clear he was entirely on Ernest's side.
Announcing it like this was just like Heinz, a man as bold as he always claimed to be.
"Sit down."
Heinz told Ernest to sit, then pressed down firmly on his shoulder, folding him into his chair as if he were folding a piece of paper.
With one hand, Heinz grabbed the edge of the table and pulled it closer, shoving the chair into place with his foot to set himself down right across from Ernest.
Screech!
The chair let out a desperate cry under Heinz's massive weight.
Still seething, Heinz placed both his large hands on the table, locking his fingers together, and glared daggers at Ernest with bloodshot, furious eyes.
Heinz was famously straightforward, unable to hide anything, so instead of his anger being directed at someone else, Ernest had to face Heinz's rage head-on.
Frankly, at that moment, Ernest wanted nothing more than to run away from Heinz.
He'd joked about Heinz being a bear to Ferdinand, but now Heinz really did feel like one—a bear who might snap a person's limbs and devour them.
When Ferdinand had a gun pointed at his own head in the forest at the foot of the Bertebras Mountains, he'd given off a terrifying presence, but even then, Heinz right now seemed just as fearsome.
Still, having those two on his side was an enormous reassurance.
And, of course, Mark was a comfort as well.
He'd never asked for it, but with all three generations of the Hartmann family stepping up to protect him, Ernest could finally taste a hint of sweetness in power, which had always felt bitter until now.
Anyway, thanks to this, Ernest was probably not going to die over what had happened.
The Hartmanns could be incredibly rigid—almost to the point of exasperation—but when they were on your side, there was nothing more reliable.