Chapter 159 - An Unconditional Indulgence
Ernest couldn't leave the 2nd Corps Headquarters right away.
He wanted to go straight to the 13th Regiment, but they couldn't provide a vehicle just for him.
Luckily, the Logistics Corps was scheduled to depart soon, so Ernest decided to spend one more night at the 2nd Corps Headquarters and leave for Belliang in the morning with the Logistics Corps.
"Your achievements are going to be downplayed a bit," Mark said to Ernest the night before he was to depart with the Logistics Corps.
"If we want to acknowledge all you've done, we'd have to reference Count Lafayette's letter, but that risks bringing up the charges against you all over again."
"That's fine. Actually, let's use this chance to pretend it never happened. No! Let's credit all the achievements to Ferdinand! How much does he have to accomplish to be promoted to lieutenant colonel?"
"..."
Ernest didn't feel the least bit upset or regretful that his impressive achievements would be downplayed.
On the contrary, he was eager to see all the credit given to Ferdinand, hoping it would help him get promoted as quickly as possible.
Mark, flustered as if he were being brainwashed by Ernest's determination to elevate his own son to 1st Battalion Commander, hesitated before replying,
"Even so, he's still very young and doesn't have much experience…"
"This is war. Who has time to worry about that? If someone's capable, they should be promoted quickly and put where they can do the most good."
"Uh…"
"Well, that's true…"
Mark almost said that Ernest himself was the one who should be promoted as quickly as possible, but he caught himself and gave an awkward laugh instead.
"Anyway, right now there's a review underway for awarding you a medal."
"Can't I just refuse it?"
"That's not really an option… Giving you a medal is also their way of making it clear you've been exonerated from this whole affair. They'll probably award you the Silver Star Medal."
"What about Ferdinand?"
"Ferdie will probably get the Silver Star Medal as well. The other officers will receive either the Medal of Merit or the Distinguished Service Medal. Of course, any non-commissioned officers and soldiers who distinguished themselves will get medals too."
"Can those who were killed in action receive medals as well?"
"…Yes."
The only feelings Ernest had about medals were negative.
Still, he thought that at the very least, a medal might offer some small comfort to the families of Georg and Ralf, who had been killed in action.
Mark told him it would take time to review the list of medal recipients.
Since the battle had taken place in a forest cut off from the outside world, it was hard to properly assess who had done what.
For Ernest, that meant he could put off having another unwanted medal pinned on him for a while longer.
After talking a bit more with Ernest, Mark left.
Ernest fell asleep while finishing his letters to his friends.
The next morning, looking much more put together than when he'd arrived, he boarded a Logistics Corps vehicle and departed the 2nd Corps Headquarters, leaving Ruybern behind.
He passed through the hellish Bertagne Forest without hearing a single gunshot, gently touching Yurgen's cigarette box as he went.
The spot where Jonas had died was now covered by a wide new road, as if paving over the horrors that had happened there.
But inside Ernest, the Bertagne Forest still remained trapped in that dark, rainy spring.
He runs, gasping for breath, through a dark forest.
With every blink, new scenes rush in.
Even among the countless, seemingly identical landscapes of the woods, he remembers exactly where each one is.
The place where he committed his first killing.
The place where he fought his first battle.
The place where Benzen was killed.
The place where he fought his first battle with Star of Summer and where Paul died.
The place where he crossed through a pitch-black night.
The place where Yurgen was killed by Star of Summer.
The place where Jonas's legs were blown off by shellfire.
The place where Jonas died.
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Gasp!"
He runs through the endlessly raining forest.
He can't tell whether he's chasing something, or being chased himself.
All he can do is keep running, straining with everything he has.
Suddenly, he finds himself in a different forest.
Even in the lush green woods of early summer, his throat is parched and scratched raw.
That forest, too, is soaked by the downpour.
Yet somehow, it remains the most painfully dry place in his entire life.
The place where Georg was wounded.
The place where he fought a night battle.
The place where he shot and killed the horses that had shown him affection.
The place where Ralf was killed.
The place where Robert was taken prisoner.
The place where he strangled Bailey to death, then shot him in the head.
The place where Georg died.
"Aaaaah!"
Ernest spots someone running ahead and lets out a wild scream, lunging at him.
He tackles the person from behind, knocking him to the ground, and as they tumble together, Ernest climbs on top and starts strangling her.
He can see the face.
The person is Star of Summer, and Bertrand, and Bailey.
And he was also the incompetent, foolish, and hopelessly hypocritical man who lost his friends right in his own hands.
As Ernest strangled the man who offered no resistance, he reached behind his waist with his right hand and drew his sword.
Without hesitation, he stabbed the man's chest and belly over and over, turning him into rags.
Hot blood spurted out. It hurt so much.
He felt unbearably lonely and unbearably sad.
Even as he writhed in agony and sorrow, he silently accepted it all.
He believed it was the price he had to pay for what he failed to protect.
Ernest strangled his own neck, stabbing himself in the chest and belly again and again.
He felt as though he might cry.
But no tears came.
Ernest slowly opened his eyes and, staring into the darkness amidst the familiar emptiness and despair, gradually sat up.
He reached for the kettle at his bedside and poured water into a cup.
On a sweltering summer night, even gulping down tepid water did nothing to cool him off.
He'd sweated so much that his shirt clung to his body, making it hard to move.
Standing alone in the dark room, Ernest gazed into the overwhelming emptiness.
No matter how much he blinked, his vision didn't change.
There was only endless darkness.
Clink.
After fastening his belt, Ernest took the dagger he'd hidden under his pillow and slid it into its sheath, then slung his gun over his shoulder.
Creak...
He opened the door.
The grating sound of the old, rusted hinges made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Careful not to make any noise, he stepped cautiously across the creaking floorboards.
Once he'd descended the stairs to the first floor of the barracks, he spotted soldiers from the Logistics Corps slumped over in their chairs, dozing off in the flickering lantern light.
Moving quietly, Ernest slipped right past them and left the barracks altogether.
"..."
Once outside, the night breeze gently brushed past him.
As the wind passed over his sweat-soaked, clinging shirt, he felt his body cool.
He wouldn't have called it refreshing, or even cold—just simply chilly.
Ernest slowly raised his head to look up at the sky.
The night sky was scattered with countless stars, sparkling as if whispering some secret to him.
Still, the night itself was dark—so dark it felt almost cold.
The moon had hidden its gentle face away.
"Oh."
Ernest lowered his gaze at the sound of a voice, pulling himself away from the starlit sky.
In the darkness, someone flinched and raised a lamp, tense and wary.
"It's me. I'm a friend," Ernest said quietly, standing motionless beneath the night sky in his sweat-soaked white shirt.
Realizing who it was, the man let out a deep sigh of relief and stepped closer.
"Captain, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing out here at this hour?"
A man in his mid-thirties approached Ernest.
He was a sergeant from the Logistics Corps, already on familiar terms with Ernest.
"I couldn't sleep."
"You'll catch a cold like that. You should put your uniform on when you come out."
"Because I'd look like a ghost and scare everyone?"
"…It's not that."
"Right, of course it isn't."
Grumbling, the sergeant stood beside Ernest and looked up at the night sky with him.
"So, Sergeant, what are you doing out here alone?"
"Ah, please, just talk to me comfortably. You're making me nervous. I'm just doing what I always do."
He meant he was on patrol, as usual, during his shift.
Muttering a complaint about his superior, he slipped a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette box.
As he struggled one-handed to open the box and get a cigarette into his mouth, Ernest took one out for him instead.
Then he opened the lid of the lamp the sergeant was holding, lit the cigarette, and handed it to him.
"Thank you so much."
The sergeant gave an exaggerated bow, grinning playfully.
He tucked the box away inside his jacket and took the cigarette Ernest handed him, placing it between his lips.
"I wish all of our officers were like you, Captain."
After taking a deep drag of his cigarette, the sergeant let out a sigh, a cloud of smoke, and a weary sense of resignation all at once.
"If everyone was like me, how would this whole organization even function?"
"Hahaha."
It seemed the sergeant had taken Ernest's serious words as a joke, and he burst out laughing.
Ernest quietly watched the brief curl of smoke that broke up with the sergeant's laughter, then turned to him and asked,
"Mind if I have one?"
"Hmm? Oh, you smoke, Captain?"
"No, not really. But sometimes, I just light one."
"Oof, what a waste…"
Though he sounded regretful, the sergeant retrieved the cigarette box from his jacket again.
Ernest opened the box himself, took out a single cigarette, popped open the lamp lid, and lit it.
...
Ernest held the cigarette between his fingers and lifted it, studying it intently—the glowing ember drifting through the darkness.
Bang!
In the blink of an eye, a blast of fire tore through the darkness, dazzling his vision.
A sharp gunshot rang out by his ear.
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.
It felt as if a powder gun had actually gone off right in front of him.
Moments when death had come rushing toward him flashed through his mind.
Yet Ernest didn't even flinch.
He knew it was nothing more than an illusion conjured up by his own mind.
He was used to it by now.
Ernest placed the cigarette, gripped between his fingers, in his mouth.
He didn't inhale, just let it rest lightly on his lips.
The day he laid Yurgen and Jonas to rest still pushed at his heart with force.
Back then, with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, he'd used the stinging smoke as an excuse to let his tears fall—those aching times.
"Huff…! Ack! Cough!"
Thinking of Yurgen, who used to chain-smoke, Ernest took a deep drag of the cigarette—only to double over, racked with painful coughing.
The cigarette he'd been holding in his mouth flew out, trailing a red ember, and landed on the ground.
"Haha! Of course that's what happens if you take a big drag on your first try!"
The sergeant burst out laughing as he patted Ernest's back, trying to comfort him.
Noble, son of a hero, a captain—but looking at him now, he was definitely still a greenhorn.
Ernest coughed for a long time, then rubbed his eyes and spoke in a rough voice.
"What's so great about this cursed thing…"
"That's how everyone starts out. You should go in and get some sleep now."
"Hm, ahem... No, I'll stay out here a little longer before heading in."
"Be careful not to catch a cold."
"Yes."
The sergeant, realizing Ernest's back was drenched with sweat as he patted him, didn't try to force him back inside.
He knew that even if Ernest went to his room now, he would just toss and turn all night.
So, the sergeant left Ernest there and walked into the barracks.
"You little punks!"
"Ugh!"
"Shit! All of you, get out here right now!"
"Y-yes, sir!"
He roused all the sentries, who'd been sound asleep, and dragged them back outside.
Still half-asleep, the soldiers were forced to run laps around the barracks, spurred on by the sergeant kicking their backsides.
Ernest, feeling somewhat foolish for lingering outside, finally returned to his room to try to get some sleep.
Tomorrow morning, they would have to leave this city and move out again.
He could try to sleep in the vehicle, but it would be better to rest properly in a bed while he had the chance.
Ernest continued his journey westward with the Logistics Corps.
They would travel by vehicle, stop to rest at a fortress or city, then set off again, repeating this routine over and over.
Unlike before, he felt strangely uncomfortable about exploring Belliang culture, so Ernest ended up staying inside the vehicle or in his lodgings.
"Does anyone here want to learn how to read and write?"
But a leopard can't change its spots.
Overcome by boredom, he soon found himself searching for a new victim to endure some mental torture for his amusement.
"Do you like math? How about science? Anyone want to learn rhetoric while you're picking up literacy? What about military science? Having some knowledge in that could help you get promoted to non-commissioned officer."
"Why, why are you doing this to us… Please don't…"
However, frustrated from being so restless, Ernest made the mistake of trying to cover too much at once.
As a result, he failed even to open 'Ernest's Literacy Eradication Class,' and ended up studying Belliang language on his own, feeling lonely and disappointed.
Still, once he began studying again, that heavy feeling inside him started to lift, even just a little.
After all, people should live the way they're used to. For Ernest, studying was no different from breathing or eating a meal.
As he returned to studying Belliang language, Ernest's curiosity about Belliang culture began to stir once more.
The truth was, Ernest understood why he wasn't willing to wander around Belliang's castles and cities.
Ernest could never forget the scene that flashed through his mind the moment he gripped Estelle Pouarrié—the Star of Summer—by the throat in the forest before the Bertebras Mountains.
That ordinary, harmonious family scene.
Surely, even among the countless Belliang people Ernest had killed, each of them must have had a family like that.
Even when thoughts reach this point, only a handful among so many would choose to face it head-on instead of looking away or running.
And in reality, almost no one could truly do so.
Human beings, for all their apparent strength, are ultimately fragile creatures.
If they feel they can't endure, they avert their gaze; if they can't look away, they break down.
Most Imperial Army soldiers laughing and carousing in Belliang cities are probably desperately turning a blind eye, terrified of confronting what they've done.
Ernest, though weighed down by guilt, decided he couldn't keep covering it up and running forever—he was determined to face it directly.
He was still only seventeen, and perhaps it would have been easier to look away and escape.
But by now, no one could consider him just an ordinary seventeen-year-old.
He had lost far too much to remain a normal seventeen-year-old.
Though Ernest was resolved, the timing wasn't ideal, so he decided to quietly stay in his lodgings for the time being.
The next day, as they left the city and stopped in a village along the way, he made up his mind to once again observe the Belliang people and their lives.
This village was quite sizable, thanks to its location linking one city to another, which meant there was a lot of traffic.
Merchants frequently passed through, so there were plenty of inns and many places to eat out.
Of course, now that it had become part of the Imperial Army's supply route, the atmosphere was tense and things felt awkward.
Ernest stood at a small plaza in the center of the village, quietly watching the people passing by.
Whenever Imperial Army soldiers passed, the true owners of this village—the Belliang people—shrank back, casting wary glances and stepping aside.
The soldiers seemed to take a certain pleasure in witnessing that sight.
But just standing around like this wouldn't accomplish anything. Ernest decided to walk through the village himself, observe the people, and look for a place to eat.
He deliberately avoided the main road—he didn't want to see any Imperial Army soldiers.
Passing by the narrow, dirty alleys, he rolled his eyes around to take in the shadows lurking there.
"Hm, hm-hmm…"
"..."
Then, Ernest suddenly stopped in his tracks, having caught a faint humming.
Deeper in the dark alley, a young girl darted across, holding a basket tightly to her chest and humming a tune as she kept to the shadows, away from the main street.
Before he knew it, she had passed by and vanished from sight, but her humming lingered, almost as if it were calling out to him.
Ernest recognized that song.
He had only heard it once before, but the memory was still there.
I see her, above the river tinged in red, Her eyes curve beautifully as she smiles.
Following the girl's humming, Ernest stepped into the dim alley, and, almost as if reciting, he added lyrics to the steady melody without a tremor in his voice.
As he listened to the melody, bursting with warmth like flushed cheeks aglow, he felt as though he'd been transported back to the riverside at sunset from two years ago.
So much like the sunlight, Yet how could she shine with such darkness?
That ticklish voice, that laughter filled with affection.
As Ernest followed the girl humming her song between the alleys...
Thump.
"Don't mo—!"
…Before she could even finish her warning, before she could aim the muzzle at him from the shadows, Ernest had already hooked his index finger over the cocked hammer, tightly gripped the gun, and lifted the muzzle high.
With the girl's hand forced upward by his strength, she was drawn in front of him.
Her frightened mouth was gently covered and silenced by Ernest's right hand.
She who brought sparkling starlight with her
Stole away my small moon.
Her eyes—round as a full moon with fear—stared at Ernest's face.
The tension eased from her rigid shoulders, and warmth returned to her cold hands, which had been trembling as they clutched the gun.
The full moon quickly waned, thinning, and soon a crescent moon shimmered at Ernest from the night sky.
"Hello, Ernest."
She greeted Ernest, her anxious smile melting softly into relief.
The gentle smile in her eyes and her affectionate voice were just as he remembered.
Yet the heat of her lips against his palm now felt so far from their childhood.
"…Erika."
Just two years.
But for a fifteen-year-old boy and girl, two years was anything but a brief span.
Now a strong, broad-shouldered young man, Ernest let go of Erika's face—she herself on the verge of becoming a grown woman—and stepped back.
Though he still held tightly to the gun, ready if needed, there was no reason for tension anymore.
Erika had already released her grip and handed the weapon over to him.
"You remembered."
Erika stood before him, completely unguarded, looking up at Ernest with a joyful smile.
Though Ernest had stepped back, Erika took a step forward, keeping the distance between them unchanged.
"Why are you here?"
Ernest muttered in disbelief.
Truly, he was bewildered, unable to understand why Erika, a Saraan, was here—in this village of Belliang that had been occupied by the Empire and turned into a supply route.