Chapter 157 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (20)
"First, let's get one thing absolutely clear."
Heinz fixed Ernest with a threatening glare as he spoke.
"Was it you?"
He was asking if Ernest was really the one who killed Bailey.
"Yes."
Ernest acknowledged it calmly.
Heinz had already kickstarted the conversation by cursing out the Emperor, so trying to back down now would have been foolish.
Heinz listened to Ernest's answer and pressed his lips together, staring at him with burning eyes.
After a moment, he nodded—very slowly, very heavily.
"I understand. In any further investigation, stick strictly to the statement you already gave."
"Yes, understood."
"..."
True to his reputation as Ferdinand's grandfather, Heinz went straight to the heart of the matter, dealt with it, and then just stared intently at Ernest without saying another word, a strange look in his eyes.
"Ferdinand is fine—he doesn't have a scratch on him and he's in good health."
Reading the worry in the grandfather's heart, Ernest spoke up about Ferdinand.
At those words, Heinz's twisted expression relaxed with a wrinkle of relief.
"Mentally, though—he's probably having a very hard time."
"What happened? Ferdie wouldn't tell me any details."
Heinz's voice was thick with worry as he spoke, not as the 2nd Corps Chief of Staff but as the grandfather of a young man dearly important to him.
Watching Heinz fidget anxiously, Ernest lowered his gaze and replied quietly.
"Georg is dead"
"..."
Heinz pressed his lips tightly together, deep lines forming around his mouth.
There was no way Heinz didn't know who Georg was.
Along with Baumann, Georg was one of Ferdinand's closest friends and often visited the Hartmann mansion, where he would greet Heinz.
"And he fought his superior for my sake. He used force to defend me. I imagine it's been very hard on him."
Ernest spoke gloomily, recalling what had happened just before their escape from the forest.
Truthfully, Ernest had often felt furious and exasperated by Ferdinand's stubbornness—sometimes he'd sincerely believed someone needed to knock some sense into that thick head.
And yet, for the sake of a friend, Ferdinand had finally cast aside his convictions: he used violence against a superior, seized his weapon, and even leveraged the status of his grandfather and father.
For Ernest, who values practicality above all else, such things were merely tools—violence, background, whatever it takes.
But for Ferdinand, who stubbornly insisted on serving in the field even with a Corps Chief of Staff for a grandfather, this was as good as shattering and breaking himself.
Depending on how you look at it, it was almost a kind of suicide.
"To keep from breaking, you need to know how to bend, but that boy is just so unyielding…"
Heinz recalled a moment from the past.
He remembered Ferdinand as a fifteen-year-old, standing firm and meeting his grandfather's gaze, proclaiming his convictions without flinching—a boy who was too proud to yield, so proud that in the end, Heinz had no choice but to let him go.
His grandson had grown too big to hold onto.
"If it's Ferdinand, he won't break."
Ernest spoke to Heinz in a measured voice.
"He bent himself by his own will, so he'll be the one to stand back up. He's too strong to just give up after being broken."
Ernest understood Ferdinand well.
Ferdinand had bent himself by choice, and he would be the one to pull himself upright again.
The war wasn't over yet.
Even after conquering Belliang, they still had to fight against Konchanya in the south.
Their friends were still battling on the front lines.
Ferdinand would not run away from this horrific battlefield. For the sake of his friends, he'd willingly remain in hell.
That's why he wouldn't break—he couldn't break.
No one but Ernest could truly grasp Ferdinand's heart.
After all, he was the same.
The truth was, it was something almost unbearably cruel.
After all, they were just seventeen-year-olds who, like their friends, had been dragged into the war.
Enduring that kind of responsibility and pressure would be a challenge even for a seasoned commander about to turn thirty.
Like Yurgen, who, overwhelmed by pain, had to keep a cigarette in his mouth just to hide his sighs.
"…Yeah, I see."
Heinz gave a weary smile.
"Still, it must be a relief to have a friend that understands."
It wasn't clear whether he meant Ernest or Ferdinand by that.
In any case, understanding the relationship between Ernest and Ferdinand seemed to bring Heinz some comfort.
"Is there something you want to ask?"
Heinz asked Ernest in a calm voice.
As the Corps Chief of Staff of the 2nd Corps, Heinz was privy to all sorts of secrets.
Now, he was giving Ernest a chance.
Ernest fell silent for a moment, gently rubbing the fingernail that had been pulled out and the broken fingers of his left hand.
Heinz's gaze followed the traces of that terrible ordeal.
"There are two things."
"If it's something I can answer, I'll tell you."
Heinz gave his word.
Though he might later deny ever having told Ernest anything, for now, he intended to answer him truthfully.
"Why did Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman—Colonel Ort's senior—become Commander of the 1st Battalion?"
That was the first thing Ernest wanted to know.
Looking back, he simply couldn't make sense of it, so Ernest felt he had to hear the reason directly from Heinz.
Heinz's face twisted slightly as he began to speak.
"There was a purge throughout the entire Empire. It didn't matter if you were a noble, military officer, or politician."
"..."
"Long before Hoffman was assigned as the 1st Battalion Commander, the purge list was being quietly circulated. A massive purge was scheduled to begin right after the breakthrough at Bertagne Forest, and so personnel assignments were made excluding those who were marked for purge."
Heinz, fingers interlocked, rubbed the back of his hand with his scarred thumb.
"On paper, Hoffman was arguably the ideal candidate. During his service as a soldier, he never committed a single act of corruption. He was so upright that he not only exposed corruption within units, but actively tried to fix it. No matter where he was sent, he managed to turn untrained rabble into the finest elite soldiers. He never sweet-talked the higher-ups and was diligent in fulfilling his duties. Other officers unanimously praised Hoffman as an exceptional soldier—no one ever disputed that. He was, quite literally, a man who dedicated his entire life to the military."
Heinz was sharing the official evaluation of Bailey—a remarkably high assessment.
Ernest couldn't deny Heinz's words, either.
Bailey truly abhorred corruption, was a notably upright commander, and always made time out of his busy schedule to personally supervise the training of his soldiers. He didn't flatter others or avoid assignments, and always faithfully accomplished what he was given
"Although Bailey's relationship with Colonel Ort was somewhat unstable, I believed that Hoffman would handle things well enough. Yet, I was complacent."
There's no way Corps Chief of Staff Heinz wouldn't have involved himself in selecting the commanding officer for the unit his eldest grandson was in.
He carefully picked the most outstanding person among those who weren't marked for purge, and of those, chose the one he trusted most.
On paper, Bailey was truly the perfect soldier.
The problem was that Bailey's character—his envy and inferiority complex—simply couldn't be seen in the documents, and the higher-ups had no way of knowing.
They had even asked Bailey, "You're going to be Colonel Ort's subordinate—is that all right?"
To which Bailey had boasted that he'd gladly take the role. Looking back now, it was clear he was just pretending to be fine because, as a soldier, he couldn't refuse an assignment, no matter what.
If Heinz and the General Staff had been just a bit more cautious, or if Bailey had been just a bit more honest, none of this would have happened.
"This was all my fault."
Heinz didn't try to deny his mistake; he admitted it firmly.
To protect his eldest grandson, Ferdinand, he had chosen the best possible man to serve as commander of the 13th Regiment's 1st Battalion.
Yet, that very decision threw everything into chaos and nearly led to the destruction of the 1st Battalion.
Naturally, this also meant Ferdinand, who belonged to the 1st Battalion, almost died.
No amount of explanation—whether it was difficulties with staffing due to the purge, Bailey's flawless record, or Bailey's own confident acceptance of the post—could fully suppress Heinz's guilt.
No matter what, Heinz had made an irreversible mistake, and as a result, he had almost lost his beloved grandson.
Or rather, Ferdinand had once again lost a friend in his arms and was forced to break his own conviction.
For Ferdinand, it was as good as dying.
"…I have one more question."
Ernest decided not to blame Heinz and moved on to the next topic.
After all, no one was berating himself more harshly than Heinz was.
"Go on."
Heinz nodded calmly.
Ernest finally voiced a question he had carried for a long time.
"Why on earth did the Emperor start such a reckless war, and why did the 2nd Corps fight in such a reckless manner?"
What was the Emperor thinking, launching a war like this at a time like this?
And what was the 2nd Corps thinking, fighting the way they did?
"..."
Heinz closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the right words. Things were too tangled for any straightforward explanation.
"First, the 2nd Corps fought this way because of the Imperial Army's directives."
After organizing his thoughts, Heinz began to speak calmly.
"Our mission was to end the war with Belliang in the shortest possible time. We had to force Belliang to surrender before spring was over."
"..."
There were plenty of ways to carefully devise a strategy, conquer Bertagne Forest, and then advance into the plains. If it came down to it, they could have slowly pushed through the forest step by step.
There were even some lunatics who suggested setting the forest on fire.
However, due to the Imperial Army's directives, we couldn't wait for the rain to stop, and since there was no way to know how far an uncontrollable fire might spread, the discussion about using fire ended with Corps Commander Olaf Cohen simply telling the lunatic who suggested it, "Get out."
That was the last anyone mentioned fire attacks.
Maybe such a thing would work in a naval battle where there's no risk of wildfire, but a large-scale fire attack in a ground war would be no different than marching into flames with gunpowder on your back—a suicide mission.
First, just to start a fire big enough to clear the Bertagne Forest, we'd have to pour a massive amount of oil throughout the woods while under enemy interference, and even then there was no guarantee the fire would be large enough to burn the forest down.
Besides, if the flames spread to the plains, the Imperial Army could have suffered catastrophic losses.
Anyway, under the Imperial Army's orders, the 2nd Corps had to get past the Bertagne Forest and move into the plains before the rain stopped. All manner of outrageous ideas were discussed just to try to carry out that absurd order.
"But no matter what we tried, the situation never turned in our favor, and in the end, our only option was to throw every available man into battle and force Belliang into an unsustainable war of attrition."
The 2nd Corps ultimately chose attrition, trying to break through the forest before the rain let up. But the Belliang Army fought far better than expected.
On top of that, they possessed a staggering number of Balt Batteries, almost unbelievable in scale. Time and again, the 2nd Corps was driven out of the forest by Belliang's surprising strategies and sharp tactics.
"Despite all that, we still couldn't get past the Bertagne Forest by the end of spring. In the end, it means we failed our mission."
Bertrand, who led the Belliang Army, managed to hold the Bertagne Forest until spring ended, despite being in a disadvantaged position.
While Ernest might have defeated him in a skirmish, to the Imperial Army Bertrand was nothing short of a disaster.
If Konchanya had risked it and answered Belliang's request for support by sending an army, Bertrand might have crossed the Bertagne Forest and invaded Imperial territory himself by now.
"But even though we failed, the higher-ups didn't blame us—not even a little. Part of it might've been the issues with the artillery, but there was also something… strange in the air."
Speaking calmly, Heinz then lowered his voice to a near whisper.
"From here on out, it's all just speculation."
Heinz's voice is always too loud, and he's keenly aware of it. That's why, when he whispered, it sounded like nothing more than the rustling of the wind.
He began to confide in Ernest—a mere seventeen-year-old captain—about things he should never have heard, doing so secretly, but with complete honesty.
"There are three theories about the Emperor's reckless declaration of war. The first is that it was a tool for purges."
The Empire had expanded its territory and grown too quickly. The nation should have been focused on internal affairs, but instead, all resources had been poured into the military, and issues were festering everywhere.
It's said that the leadership chose purges to address these problems, and selected war as the means to carry them out.
Using war to deal with internal troubles is something that's happened in every era—it's just that, in this case, the scale is massive.
"The second theory is that, with the advancement of powder-based weapons, the Empire was afraid it would soon lose its dominance, and so it started this war."
Heinz's voice grew even heavier as he whispered.
Ernest, too, had considered the downfall of the Balt Gun in light of the development of powder weapons.
When Emperor Walter Ulrich Mihahil first introduced the Balt Gun to the world, the powder gun was little more than a dangerous plaything. It hardly resembled today's guns—it couldn't even be properly aimed, and with no standard for barrels or bullets, it often missed even targets ten paces away.
But in less than twenty years, powder guns, while not yet on par with Balt Guns, had achieved respectable accuracy and reloading speed.
In complicated terrain like forests or mountains, one could now imagine victory against Balt Gun-armed soldiers—such was the remarkable speed of progress, and it was genuinely alarming.
Most of all, artillery, which emerged thanks to advancements in high-quality powder and metallurgy, posed a tremendous threat to the Empire, whose supremacy over the continent had been secured by the Balt Gun.
"There are also problems with the barrels of the artillery. They stole the Empire's metallurgy techniques and started making steel artillery."
The Empire's metallurgy played a significant role in the Alliance Army's artillery development.
When they examined the cannons captured after battles with the Alliance Army, they found not only shoddy iron and bronze barrels, but also steel artillery that appeared to have been forged using Imperial methods.
"We may not be able to do the kinds of miracles only the Baltracher can perform, but if gunpowder technology keeps advancing at this rate, the consensus is that the Balt Gun will definitely become obsolete within twenty years—at the latest.
The Empire is pouring everything it has into researching gunpowder technology, but if we miss this moment—while the Balt Gun still controls the battlefield—there may never be another opportunity."
Ernest agreed with Heinz's assessment. Even the Baltracher couldn't stop artillery, and because of its mechanical limitations, the Balt Gun could never match the sheer destructive power of a cannon. That much, Ernest had already suspected.
"What's the other theory?"
Ernest asked Heinz if there were reasons or at least theories, beyond purges and the development of gunpowder, that explained why Emperor Walter started such a reckless war. Heinz clenched his locked fists tightly, gritted his teeth, and glared fiercely at the center of the table.
After a moment, Heinz practically spat out his next words.
"There's a theory that the deaths themselves—that the purpose of all this is simply people dying."
"…What?"
Ernest reflexively asked back.
He thought, for a moment, he must have misheard because he was so exhausted.
"Do you know what the Balt Battery is made from?"
"…No"
To Heinz's question, Ernest replied that he didn't know. However, just hearing that question set his now frighteningly sharp mind in motion, speculating rapidly.
Ernest wanted to deny it.
"The Balt Battery is made from the bones of living creatures."
"...."
"They don't necessarily have to be human bones. Animal bones work too. But to make a high-quality Balt Battery, you need a Baltracher's corpse."
Heinz revealed the brutal truth to Ernest.
"Batteries for Baltracher use, for vehicles, and the high-grade firing batteries issued to officers of Field Officer Rank and above—all of those are made by mixing in the bones of Baltracher, of humans."
That was why there had been strict orders to recover the bodies of any Baltracher at all costs.
"The Balt Battery is an object created through such wicked and repulsive means. There's no way the power it contains is the so-called divine grace of the godlike Emperor, as people claim."
"…The surge in Balt Battery production…"
"Yes, it happened after massive deaths in the war. Of course, there's no definitive proof. So at this point, it's nothing more than speculation."
The secret of Balt Battery production was something Heinz Hartmann, Corps Chief of Staff, had confirmed thanks to his authority. But as for the power placed in those batteries—how and where the Balt itself originated—it was all still just a matter of conjecture.
Just as everyone believes, maybe it really is Master Baltracher—the Emperor Walter Ulrich Mihahil—who creates something from nothing. Or, aside from Walter, there might have been other Master Baltrachers they've concealed until now, only to use them to ramp up Balt Battery production when times got tough.
But perhaps the power known as Balt itself is a wicked and abominable force, produced through death.
"At a time like this, when the Balt Gun can still overpower gunpowder weapons, if they tried to overwhelm the continent in war by boosting Balt Battery production, it would make sense—even if there's no proof and the logic leaps are pretty extreme, it sounds plausible enough. Along the way, they can handle domestic affairs through purges, too."
Heinz summarized his thoughts. It was a disturbingly plausible theory.
Win probability rises, they don't miss a chance for victory, and they tie up internal problems.
War serves as a means, as a way to support those means, and even as an end unto itself.
If that theory is true, starting a war could be seen, depending on your view, as "a rational choice."
"Can't… can't this be stopped?"
"No, it can't."
When Ernest, desperate, asked if there was no way to fix this, Heinz answered without hesitation.
"Mihahil is a vast empire built on the Emperor's Balt. The nobles and soldiers—who make up the ruling class of the Empire—are terrified of its collapse, and to stop that, they might be willing to pile up even more deaths. The downfall of the Balt Myth would mean the collapse of the Empire, and the fall of the Empire would mean the downfall of the current ruling class."
Heinz spoke resolutely.
"All the power in the Empire is concentrated in the hands of the nobles and soldiers. No matter how hard the commoners struggle, they can never win"
Balt is permitted only to nobles and soldiers.
The best weapons commoners can manage are outdated powder guns. With just a hundred soldiers armed with Balt Guns, you could slaughter all the rebels who rose up in an entire count's domain and maintain "peace."
"Unless someone or some force emerges to replace the Emperor, or Balt itself, at least until the Emperor dies, the Empire will not fall to rebellion."
Walter will never stop the war until the day he dies.
And as long as Walter lives, rebellion cannot succeed.
With Walter alive, the wild gale of this war will never cease—it will burn everything in its path.
"Any more questions?"
Heinz put a tidy end to this utterly terrifying and hopeless story, then asked Ernest. Ernest, with his head bowed, couldn't say a word. Heinz silently waited, watching him.
After a long silence, Ernest slowly shook his head.
"What do you need?"
Heinz, mindful of the friend who had saved his eldest grandson, asked if he needed anything. Once again, Ernest sank into silent thought. Eventually, he slowly raised his head, looked at Heinz, and answered.
"Likewise, there are two things."
"Alright. Tell me. If it's within my power, I'll do anything."
Heinz didn't even wait to hear Ernest's requests before accepting them, almost frighteningly fast.
"I want to know about my father. I haven't been able to get in touch with him at all."
"Alright. I'll look into it as soon as possible and get you news."
Without the slightest hesitation, Heinz nodded at Ernest's request. With a heavy gaze, he looked at Ernest, waiting for the second request.
Ernest finally brought up something he had desperately wished for, time and again.
"Please, could you get Ferdinand promoted quickly and make him the 1st Battalion Commander?"
"...."
"If we'd been fighting under Colonel Ort, with Ferdinand commanding us, none of this would have happened. Even if someone had died, or I'd ended up facing death myself, I wouldn't be left with this feeling of injustice. You're the 2nd Corps Chief of Staff, and you're Ferdinand's grandfather. Please—whatever it takes, whether you have to knock some sense into that stubborn guy or just give the order—just make Ferdinand a Battalion Commander as soon as possible."
Clutching his head, Ernest pleaded earnestly. Levin Ort as the 13th Regiment Commander and Ferdinand Hartmann as the 1st Battalion Commander—just imagining it made Ernest feel like piping hot, meat-packed stew would well up endlessly from the very depths of his stomach.
He thought he could go three days without food and still fight, full and strong, for another three days.
To fight under Levin's command, led by Ferdinand—and still end up on the verge of defeat or death?
At that point, there'd truly be nothing more you could do.
Even Captain Thomas Kohler, senior instructor at the Imperial Military Academy, would probably say in that scenario, "In a fucking mess like this, there's nothing you can do. Don't burden yourself—accept death with dignity." That's what he'd say. Or maybe, "We should've just killed that bastard of a Division Commander."
"That's…"
Heinz fell silent, unable to continue, clearly deep in thought over Ernest's words.
He was happy to have the absolute trust of his eldest grandson's friend, but he couldn't help but sigh at his proud grandson's stubbornness—so unyielding, it was as if his head had turned to stone.
"…That would be a bit difficult."
And no matter the circumstances, he could only give a wry smile—there was just no way he could promote Ferdinand, not even seventeen years old and with barely half a year of military service, to Lieutenant Colonel.
Giving him a Captain's rank had already been a special favor, but skipping even the Major rank and making him a Lieutenant Colonel wasn't even something he could consider before worrying about the repercussions; it was simply impossible.
Even in peacetime, it's considered fast to be promoted to Major around thirty.
Some don't make Major until past forty, and plenty never get promoted at all.
And after becoming a Major, making Lieutenant Colonel is even harder.
From Lieutenant Colonel onward, you could be appointed as a Battalion Commander, commanding several hundred men with tremendous authority.
Naturally, making Lieutenant Colonel is much harder than making Major.
No matter how distinguished you were in wartime, you just couldn't hand that kind of post to a seventeen-year-old.
"..."
Ernest felt an overwhelming disappointment at the realization that Ferdinand couldn't become the 1st Battalion Commander right away.
The thought of yet another incompetent, foolish Lieutenant Colonel taking over and worrying about his friends still in the 1st Battalion made his head spin.
"There won't be another incident like this. I'll send a prudent soldier who will faithfully obey the orders of the 13th Regiment Commander."
"…Yes…"
Heinz comforted Ernest, who was steeped in frustration. In truth, more than trying to soothe him, Heinz simply had no intention of letting Ferdinand die, so he was determined to choose someone as carefully as possible.
"If there's nothing else to discuss, I'll be going now."
Heinz stood up, looking exhausted.
Though Ernest still wore a gloomy expression, he also rose to his feet.
"Do not speak a word of what we discussed today."
"Yes, understood."
"Then…"
After giving his warning to Ernest and making to leave, Ernest tried to salute him.
Thump.
At that moment, Heinz grabbed Ernest's arm with his large hand. Using tremendous strength, he forced Ernest's arm down, then, in his usual booming voice, said,
"Attention."
"Attention."
Ernest snapped to attention, instantly on edge. With a solemn expression, Heinz took a step back and glared at Ernest with eyes so intense, it was as if he meant to burn him alive.
Snap!
Then, Heinz saluted—with impressive precision—the captain who was still so young at seventeen, and to Ernest, who bore a heavy responsibility and had saved his beloved eldest grandson.
Startled, Ernest hurriedly returned the salute.
Heinz stared intently at Ernest, while Ernest nervously watched for his cue.
"Are we just going to stand here like this? Are you expecting me to tell you to stand here all night saluting? Where did you pick up this kind of harassment?"
"Y-you should lower your hand first, sir."
"The person returning the salute puts their hand down first. Don't you know that?"
"How could I possibly be the one to receive a salute from you, Chief of Staff?"
"Then, I suppose, at my age, I'll be standing here saluting you all night."
"Please, don't do this."
"Fine, let's see who breaks first."
"..."
Heinz truly seemed ready to stand there all night unless Ernest lowered his hand first.
One shouldn't forget: before Ferdinand, there was Heinz. Where do you think that stubbornness of Ferdinand's—like not a drop of blood reaches his brain—came from?
In the end, hesitantly and with some reluctance, Ernest slowly lowered his hand first.
Only after Ernest's hand was all the way down did Heinz lower his own, then, with his huge hand, he grabbed Ernest's hand and gripped it tightly.
"Thank you for saving Ferdie, Krieger. Please, remain a good friend to him from now on."
"…No, thank you, sir."
Ernest answered in a mumble, sounding both awkward and a bit embarrassed, and finally, a broad smile spread across Heinz's tired face.
Whack!
"Ugh!"
"Walk with your shoulders back. You have nothing to be ashamed of, so don't slouch those manly shoulders." Heinz slapped Ernest's shoulder with his pot-lid-sized hand, then spoke in a stern tone before striding out of the room.
"…Well, I'm not sure."
Ernest stared blankly after Heinz, muttering to himself.
He still couldn't tell if what he had done was truly right.
Whether there could have been a better way, or if there truly was no other option besides what he did—even with his keen mind, he couldn't find the answer.
The right answer isn't handed to you; it's something you reach yourself. Ernest still remembered and followed his father's teachings. He believed in them without a doubt. But Haires had never told his son just how hard that path would be Had he known it would be this difficult, Ernest might have rejected that teaching altogether.
Unable to simply accept Heinz's words as the answer and find peace, Ernest ended up driving himself once again to exhaustion in search of his own answer.
He wanted to ask his father. If it were an answer given by someone else, maybe he'd doubt, but if it came from Haires, he felt he could accept it without question. But his father wasn't by his side now, and several months had passed with no way to reach him.
Ernest took out the cigarette box he kept close, carefully selected a cigarette, and placed it on the table. His lighter was still with Captain Mach Glaser, the intelligence officer from the 13th Regiment who had interrogated him—he hadn't gotten it back. Given that he was essentially being treated like a criminal, it wouldn't have been appropriate to hold on to a lighter he could use to light a flame at any time, so he'd had to turn it in.
"Hoo…"
Ernest stared down at the lone cigarette resting on the table and let out a long sigh, just as Yurgen used to, using his cigarette as an excuse.
He didn't put the cigarette in his mouth or light it, but he gave himself permission for the sigh—using the memory of Yurgen as an excuse.