Chapter 1: Neither Right nor Wrong

A stench filled Walm’s nose. It was a familiar one: human excrement and urine, and spilled guts. The full clash of the two armies was still to come, but the killing had already begun. Scouts were butchering each other, and arrows and long-range magic were, naturally, scattering the entrails of poor bastards across the sky.

Walm’s heart was already pounding fit to burst, and his legs kept hammering the earth without letup. His crude breastplate bounced about as if demanding attention, clattering with every stride. Walm was holding back his own shout to keep his breathing efficient, but the moment was almost upon him. The men on either side couldn’t hold back any longer, and they let out war cries.

“Uoo, oooh, ooOOOH!!”

The shouts had no meaning. If anything, they were a primitive instinct, a way to rally yourself and scare the enemy. Walm gripped a spear just under two meters long in both hands, and his torso and head were protected by dented armor. So were the men around him. Out here, that counted as formal wear, a dress uniform. The dark red stains that wouldn’t come out might have passed for a fashion accent, but in truth they were the mark of the previous owner’s tragedy. Those ingrained stains told Walm, eloquently, exactly what had happened to the man.

Raizou Takakura - that had been his name in his previous life - was now Walm, and he was at war. Yes, war. Not a modern war like the First or Second World War, with iron, gunpowder, and science used in abundance. This was a primitive killing match: iron against iron, iron against flesh, flesh against flesh.

The twist was that magic, Skills, bizarre and mystifying creatures, and magic tools had been thrown into the mix, and Walm had learned that firsthand, with his own body.

He had been born into a second life as the third son of a farmer, in a world other than Earth. Reborn in a new body with a new name, the young man Walm had been enjoying his youth in the fields - only to be hit with conscription by the Highserk Empire, his homeland.

The Highserk Empire was a small nation in one corner of a region where countless kings and petty lords vied for power. Its first war after the founding was a defensive one: it drew the enemy’s main force into its own territory and annihilated it in a field battle. Riding that momentum, the Empire annexed the enemy’s lands.

In a region where small nations sprang up everywhere, the balance of power was everything. The surrounding countries, watching the Highserk Empire rise above the rest, banded together and invaded. But after a war that dragged on for decades, the only country left standing was the Highserk Empire. To the mid-sized nations nearby, it was an eyesore of a small country, running wild without knowing its place and growing bigger all the time.

Under those circumstances, one of those mid-sized nations, the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa, clashed with the Highserk Empire, and the Empire called up troops to make up for its shortage of manpower. Walm and his family were given a preparation allowance, and after one month of training, he had been thrown onto the front lines again and again.

If the country could afford it, regular soldiers who had trained for years would probably be the ones sent to war. But for the Empire, forever tied up in minor skirmishes and clashes, and for Walm, one of its citizens, that was a fairy tale. One month of training was judged sufficient for infantry, who were needed in large numbers.

The rest of his education was on-the-job training, something Walm had been through in his previous life as well. Being thrown straight into the field under the banner of “OJT” was, in Walm’s opinion, simply the best. If you failed, all you lost was your own life. His fellow recruits had dropped like flies all around him. In the half year since he enlisted, Walm had scraped through his first battle by the skin of his teeth, and this was already his eleventh.

The familiar faces of his fellow conscripts were completely gone now. Guts spilled, heads crushed, bodies burned whole by “magic.” There were all sorts of ways to die, a truly wide selection.

Thankfully, the enemy took care of both the cremation and the burial while the victims were still alive. It was like wandering into an amusement park of death. Walm spat, thinking at least it wasn’t boring. After enjoying a peaceful world in his previous life, he hadn’t expected to survive even his first battle, but ironically, Walm kept on living. Whether he would still be alive a few dozen seconds from now was anyone’s guess. All he could do was laugh.

The men Walm had killed easily numbered in the dozens, far more than a handful. Even when his hips had shrunk back, his hands had shaken, and his legs had locked up, the enemy soldiers hadn’t disappeared. Even when he had retched over the first life he had taken, no one had waited for him. When there was breathing room, a comrade might dispatch an enemy from the side, but Walm, who had been on the battlefield many times, had stopped expecting that.

What had saved him wasn’t his homeland, the Highserk Empire, or any divine guidance. It was the spear of just under two meters that the Empire had lent him, and a ninety-centimeter longsword he had picked up on the battlefield. The battlefield is fair. Walm believed that with all his heart. Death comes to everyone, young or old, man or woman, fair and square. While he had been busy with all that pointless thinking, Walm had closed the distance until he could see his opponent’s face clearly.

It was a Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa light infantryman, a type he had seen far too many times already. Probably a conscripted militiaman like himself, enemy or not. Their faces were all pale, which Walm put down to nerves from lack of experience. Having closed to killing distance, the two lines crossed spear tips without any signal. The enemy’s spear came for Walm’s torso, aimed at the breastplate. Walm turned it aside with a half step, and the spear scraped along the armor and slid past.

A mutual kill was the last thing Walm wanted. With his spear held at the hip, he thrust at the enemy’s throat. The enemy tried to knock it aside with his pulled-back spear tip, but the real target was the unprotected lower body. Feeling the spear strike the thigh, Walm grimaced. The wound, which must have reached the bone, sent a jolt of agony through the man and drained a huge amount of blood in an instant.

The enemy soldier barely kept hold of his spear, but he couldn’t stand up to the thrusts Walm drove at him again and again, and he sank to the earth. He was still breathing faintly, but a man who went down in the front line had only one thing waiting for him: being trampled to death under military boots.

Muttering a few words of condolence, Walm looked away from the soldier being trampled by both armies. Another soldier stepped into the empty spot in the line. He looked pale too, but Walm sensed this one was a notch better than the last.

A spear fight broke out, but neither side gained the upper hand. Walm had thought this might be another disposable front-liner, but unfortunately, this one didn’t look like a battlefield virgin either.

“Tch!”

The spear tips clashed hard. Walm knocked aside the thrust coming from below, and the Liberitoa soldier who had stepped in smiled, sure of victory. But Walm lowered his head to meet it. His head was protected by a sallet. A round iron bowl covered him from the frontal bone to the parietal bone, a curtain of chain hung at the neck, and plates extending from the bowl guarded the sides of his head down to the cheeks. The spear struck his left temple just as he had anticipated, then slid upward and away.

Even so, he couldn’t absorb all of the impact. Walm clenched his back teeth against the dull ache. The Liberitoa soldier’s smile had turned rigid in an instant, and two short thrusts went into his face. The first hit the cheek. The second slipped in through the eye and dealt fatal damage to the brain. By the time Walm had his spear ready again, the enemy soldier had lost his support like a puppet with its strings cut, and he collapsed from the legs down.

“Damn it!”

There was no joy in it. He let out a small curse. Killing two men wasn’t going to end this battle.

A snarling enemy soldier came charging at Walm. It was a universal law: the moment you finished a job quickly, more work came flying in. This one was like a wolf starving for flesh and blood. Walm refused his company, lunging with his spear to intercept him, but the armor turned it aside.

A regular soldier, armored from head to foot, stood in Walm’s way. Judging by the gear, he was a formidable opponent, at the level of a decurion or platoon leader.

A two-handed sword, swung with the momentum of a step-in, came for Walm’s throat. Walm let go of his spear and caught the blade on the round shield he had been carrying on his back. Unlike the disposable front-liners before, this blow was brutally heavy, and Walm sensed the enemy’s high level of Skill.

A diagonal scar was carved into the round shield, and the lingering shock left Walm’s palm tingling and numb. Regardless, experience had taught him that stopping to rest and handing the initiative to the opponent was a bad move. He drew his longsword and slashed upward at the throat from a low stance, but the enemy’s gauntlet deflected it.

Against the two-handed sword coming down from above, Walm tilted his round shield and sent it off to the left. A second scar was carved into the shield, crossing the first. A flash of panic ran through him: he wouldn’t survive a third strike. Given the difference in equipment, if he was fool enough to keep trading sword blows, he was almost certain to lose.

Steeling himself, Walm dug in his heels, tucked his shoulders, and drove forward with his full weight behind the round shield. For a moment the two of them were locked in a shoving match, but the enemy had just made a heavy swing, and his posture gave way slightly backward.

Walm used the blind spot the shield created to thrust his longsword in from behind it, aimed at the man’s feet. The chain skirt guarding the man’s waist and thighs stopped all but the very tip of the blade, but the sharp steel was enough to wring a grunt out of the enemy soldier.

“Uggh!”

The soldier leapt back and tried to bring the two-handed sword down anyway, but without solid footing his swing came slower. Walm didn’t miss the opening. It was a notch slower than the strikes from moments before, slow enough that even Walm could read it. He stepped in one stride further than the retreating man to kill the distance and thrust upward from below, scraping the blade along the armor.

“U-aaah!?”

The blade went in under the jaw, pried the palate open, and reached the brain. All the strength left the soldier at once, and his own weight drove the point in deeper. There was no need to check. To clear the load on his sword, Walm shoved the body sideways and let it fall. Everyone was absorbed in their own fights, but one of the enemy noticed him.

“The platoon leader!?”

Walm could feel the unrest spread through the soldiers around them. Just as the assault around him surged to exploit it, a scream that sounded close to a wail went up.

“Magic user!!”

Magic swirled within a knot of enemy soldiers, and a 《Fireball》 left someone’s hand. Walm threw up his shield on reflex and ducked toward the ground to show as little of himself as possible. The fatal destruction he had dreaded never came. The blast landed a few meters away.

The shockwave whipped his hair, and a wave of heat washed over his skin. Walm had avoided a direct hit thanks to his shield and the bodies of his comrades, and he grimaced bitterly. The two who had taken it head-on were in a terrible state. Walm’s clouded eyes, long used to the battlefield, took in what had become of them. One man’s arm had been burned half away and hung by a thread. The other’s head was gone entirely. Raw scraps of flesh clung to his helmet, and charred blood lay baked onto the steel.

A few soldiers hurled spears at the damned magic user, but he slipped back into the ranks, shielded by the men around him. Must be nice, Walm thought bitterly, having your mages guarded like jewels. Even in a world where one in ten people had some aptitude for magic, he had been taught that magic users were rarer and worth more than ordinary soldiers.

Mages usually stayed at the flanks or rear of the infantry and supported them with spells, so the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa must have thrown them in once they sensed they were losing. Muffled explosions and the whistle of wind-attribute magic cut through the din of the crowd. An 《Ice Lance》 shot from behind the friendly lines and punched through an enemy mage’s shoulder, shield and all. The irritating barrage stopped, and Walm took his chance, slamming his longsword in a flat horizontal cut. It chewed through the arm raised to guard and tore out the man’s throat.

Blood gushed like water from a burst pipe. The enemy clamped a hand over his throat in desperation, but just as Walm had expected, it only bought him a few dozen more seconds. After Walm cut down three more, the voice he had been waiting for, the one that would decide the battle, boomed from far off.

“Our side’s broken through the flank!!”

While the infantry held at the front, light infantry had slipped past the enemy’s flank force and hit the main body from the side. Pressed hard, the Liberitoa commander had probably pulled his reserves or flank units, the very forces meant to block such a move, and sent them to the front. It was a blunder.

“Press the advantage! The enemy’s broken!!”

The squad leader’s voice rang out as he thrust his blood-soaked battle axe toward the sky, and the soldiers answered with roars of their own. Battered from the front and the side, the enemy scrambled to regroup, but their crumbling units began to flee, and the formation was torn to shreds. A single-flank breakthrough leading into a semi-encirclement, something Walm had been through many times, was taking shape. It was one of the Highserk Empire’s favorite tactics.

The enemy’s left half had lost its chain of command. Some soldiers kept fighting while others put running first, and as an army it ceased to function. With half its men gone, the unit routed, and the pursuit began. Arrows and thrown spears caught soldiers who had thrown away their weapons and shields to flee, and infantry who ran them down drove war hammers into the backs of their heads.

A few hardened veterans took some of the Imperial soldiers with them, but the resistance was far too weak to change the flow of the battle. They were beaten to death through their armor, or run through by a wall of five or six massed spears, and died in vain. In two hours of fighting, the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa lost sixty percent of its forces, and the contested border region tipped decisively in the Highserk Empire’s favor.

---

An hour after the brutal fighting, everyone still in one piece kept moving across the battlefield without rest. In the Highserk Empire, looting the enemy’s supplies and the belongings of the dead was permitted because it was thought to raise morale. Walm hated going through the pockets of men he had cut down himself, but if he held back, there would be nothing left. The body of the man they had called platoon leader was a rich haul: a small pouch of silver and copper coins, hard-baked biscuits, and the real prize, a pair of greaves to guard him from shin to knee. The breastplate was the wrong size for Walm to wear.

“Stay down and sleep quietly.”

He had no idea whether it did any good, but Walm pressed his palms together for the dead. This was, after all, a world where corpses literally walked. Better than doing nothing.

He pried open the hand that still gripped the two-handed sword even in death. It felt as though the dead man’s will was packed into it, but with a military chaplain present, the chance of the corpse turning into a monster through the taint of the battlefield was low. Walm prayed because he was timid at heart and couldn’t shake the sensibilities of his past life. Maybe his looks had simply followed his personality. He was thoroughly ordinary, so much so that when he blended into a formation, even his own squadmates sometimes failed to notice him.

It wasn’t a bad sword, but Walm already owned a longsword of better quality. After thinking it over for a while, he raised his voice.

“Anyone want a sword? It’s a fine piece. I’d like to trade it for something.”

Time for the great barter. With this much abandoned gear lying around, there had to be one or two people whose needs matched his. Walm would have carried off anything small, but a two-handed sword was bulky, and without a “magic bag” like some cat-shaped tanuki’s, it was dead weight. Before he could call out again, a soldier answered.

“That shield of yours is pretty beat up.”

Walm’s shield had taken blow after blow and was badly damaged, pierced clean through in places. Use it again and it would likely fall apart mid-fight. The man’s shield, by contrast, had no flashy decoration. It was plain and solidly built.

“Let me hold it.”

“Sure. I’d like a look at yours, too.”

They swapped for a moment, and Walm checked the material and the reinforcements. It was lighter than it looked and gave back a reassuring sound when tapped. The man seemed pleased with the two-handed sword as well. They looked at each other and nodded. No words were needed; both were happy with the deal. Walm ran a sling through the shield, slung it across his back, and went back to scavenging.

“Huh. This one’s still breathing.”

At the edge of Walm’s vision, a squadmate who had been picking through the spoils had found a Liberitoa soldier barely clinging to life. Survivors got bundled off as slaves, though nobles or the wealthy who could pay a ransom were released.

“P-please. Help me.”

The man’s belly had burst open, spilling blood and entrails, and a deep gash ran across his shoulder. Even with healing magic, he had lost too much blood to be saved. The thin voice begging for his life reached Walm’s ears again and again.

“Yeah, no saving this one.”

The soldier who had found him got to his feet as if the whole thing were a nuisance, drew the longsword at his hip, and drove it into the fallen man’s throat.

Walm could have stopped him. He didn’t. The Liberitoa soldier’s guts were spilling out of him, and keeping him alive would only prolong his suffering and waste resources. Walm understood that perfectly well in his head, yet he frowned without meaning to and watched it play out.

“Ah, uh… ugh.”

What a sloppy job, Walm thought, clicking his tongue inwardly. The blade had missed the vital spot, so the man couldn’t die instantly. He coughed up blood, groaned, and clutched the sword buried in him as if to check it.

“Amateur. Out of the way.”

The voice belonged to Walm’s squad leader, who probably couldn’t stand watching the enemy soldier suffer. He shoved his comrade aside, lifted the battle axe resting on his shoulder, and brought it down. A dull crack of splitting skull rang out. This time the soldier really did stop breathing. Walm looked away from the body. Squad Leader Duwei glanced at the corpse once, then snapped at the soldier standing beside him.

“Tibird, when it’s my turn to die, I won’t be asking you for the finishing blow.”

The scowling squad leader snorted. Duwei was Walm’s superior. The battle scars across his body testified to a long service record. He was of average height, only a little taller than Walm, but his log-thick arms and heavy chest were reassuring, and above all, he had the Skill 《Heavy Strike》.

Unlike in his previous world, the differences between individual humans here were vast. On top of ordinary personal traits, some people had abilities called “Magic” and “Skills” that could twist and warp even the laws governing the world. There were women who could snap a man’s arm, scouts quicker than animals, and warrior monks who could knock aside a sword strike with their bare hands. Squad Leader Duwei was one of them. His battle axe cut through enemies, armor and all. Walm’s honest opinion was that he was the kind of man you never wanted to face as an enemy.

Once the commotion died down, Walm glanced at the dead man and pressed his palms together. Whether the man had held any faith was unknown, but Walm prayed silently anyway. It was a hypocritical act meant to dull his guilt, just a little. His reason raised objections. Walm ignored them.

“What, Walm, at it again?”

“It’s just a habit, sir.”

“Hm. I see. Well, I don’t mind it.”

Duwei answered Walm’s reply in few words. Maybe he had lost interest, because the stern-faced officer dropped the subject. By the time the bodies had been stripped of anything worth taking, the squad was called to assemble.

“My squad’s been ordered to deal with the bodies in this area. Lucky for us, we’ve got plenty of prisoners this time. Use ’em however you like. Keep a proper eye on ’em.”

The prisoners had been gathered and made to sit beside the assembled squad. Walm ran his eyes along the line from one end to the other. Just under twenty. None had fatal wounds; anyone who had would already have been culled. Some had bruises or cuts on their heads and arms, but Walm judged they could work without trouble.

Ordered to watch four of them, Walm checked their condition. Escape was out of the question, but if they died or got hurt during the work, it would be nothing but a pointless waste of human assets. He saw no major injuries, only swollen faces and a few big lumps. They must have surrendered smartly, he figured.

The four had their necks roped together and carried nothing that could be a threat. Anyone with Skills or Magic would be dangerous, but a person skilled enough to break out bare-handed wouldn’t have ended up a prisoner. Troublesome people with special abilities always ended one of two ways: they got away, or they got killed. Walm had them strip the dead of their armor and clothing. Flies and birds drawn by the blood swarmed in, delighted. Disgusted, Walm drove them off with his spear or his hand.

Every time, the prisoners flinched and went on working. The fighting must have worn them out in body and mind, Walm thought with pity. Other squads had prisoners dig burial pits, and bodies were thrown in one after another. Carrying who-knew-which corpse, Walm froze.

“…Hugo. So you’re dead.”

What lay there was what had once been Hugo, a young man from the neighboring village who had served in the same squad. He and Walm were close in age and birthplace, and they used to talk about home and the people they both knew. His jaw was smashed in, teeth and all, and his tongue hung out of his mouth. His eyes were open, his face twisted in agony. He had stood on the battlefield beside Walm since their first battle in the border mountains. And now he lay here, a corpse in a distant land, gone just like that. What was the difference between him and Hugo? Was it the memories of a past life? Bad luck? A better aptitude for killing? Walm turned it over but found no answer. He didn’t know how long he stood staring down in silence before a prisoner, losing patience, shifted slightly. Walm’s eyes caught the movement at once. Without a word, he stared at them, expressionless.

“I-I didn’t do it.”

“Me neither. I was too scared to even stab with my spear.”

The prisoners spoke as if making excuses. Their behavior surprised Walm. They looked terrified, as if they thought he would kill them out of some personal grudge. Absurd. It would be a lie to say he felt nothing, but this was war. War. They had simply acted on the will of the community they belonged to.

They hadn’t killed because they enjoyed it. They had only beaten enemies in a war. The same went for Walm. If he brought personal feelings into it and killed these prisoners, he would stop being a soldier and job-change into nothing but a murderer. He would follow only a soldier’s work and duty. That was one line he would not cross. He was allowed to kill only as a soldier. Otherwise, as Raizou Takakura, as Walm, as a human being, the foundation of who he was would crumble.

The thought crossed his mind: was he the abnormal one, killing people with barely a flicker of hesitation, all for the sake of self-preservation? Maybe the prisoners, who insisted they couldn’t kill, were far more cultured and human. Walm surfaced from his thoughts, closed his former comrade’s eyelids with his fingers, and pushed the tongue back into his mouth.

“Carry him.”

The four understood his meaning from those two words and began carrying as before, but they handled the body more gently now, as if it were something volatile or explosive. The bodies were piled together, enemy and ally alike. The military chaplain sprinkled holy water and kept murmuring prayers to keep away the ghouls, skeletons, and other monsters that tended to appear on battlefields. Corpses alone numbered over fifteen hundred. The thought that many of the badly wounded wouldn’t last the night made Walm gloomy.

Imperial casualties were said to be about three hundred, which showed how heavy the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa’s losses had been. By the time the disposal was finished, the sun was setting and cooking smoke had begun rising everywhere. Everyone carried personal rations, but those were strictly for emergencies, and as long as supplies were being issued, Walm didn’t want to touch his. Besides, there was plenty of loot today.

Cooking was done by squad. Duwei’s squad had lost two men but was credited with excellent results, so on top of their food they were issued wine and ale. Liquor could run out, but it never suddenly multiplied. Walm guessed it was part of the vast stores left behind in the enemy command camp.

The Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa had plenty of weak soldiers but superior economic power. Its land faced the sea, held mines and labyrinths, and was crossed by a river that flowed out of a giant lake called Lake Celta, a vital artery for logistics. For his homeland Highserk, poor in underground resources and short on food even at home, they were a hopelessly unfair opponent, Walm sighed. He turned away from the pointless thoughts and focused on the meal in front of him.

Today’s meal was two hard-baked loaves, salted herring and cod, and even sauerkraut. The crowning touch was fresh horse meat, clean and uncontaminated, bled by hanging the carcasses of horses and lame war horses with broken legs from trees. It was muscular, but it was the best protein to be had at the front, and no soldier, Walm included, turned his nose up at it.

A big pot held horse meat and potatoes stewed together, along with wild herbs gathered from who knew where. Flavor poured out of the meat, and its toughness gave every bite a satisfying chew. The potatoes held their shape and were filling. Walm shoveled it in without a thought.

Some of the soldiers, unused to the stench of death and battle, covered their mouths and couldn’t eat. Understandable for a first battle. Walm’s own bitter memories flashed through his mind. He had walked that road too. He had felt revulsion at eating meat while the smell of death hung in the air, but the more battles he fought, the more he had noticed his senses dulling. Whether that was a blessing for a human being, he couldn’t say, but for now, being able to focus on the food in front of him was enough.

“Walm. I hear you took down nine enemy soldiers. I got fifteen, so I win, but you’ve got promise.”

Walm knew the source of the alcohol smell without turning around. Squad Leader Duwei, two wine bottles in his arms, had slung an arm around Walm’s neck.

“No, I could never beat you, Squad Leader Duwei.”

He meant it. Walm was reluctantly becoming known among his comrades as someone with a talent for war and killing, but Duwei was in another class entirely.

“Come on, drink.”

The cheerful middle-aged officer filled the cup to the brim. Walm raised it with a wry smile, and Duwei clinked his half-empty bottle against it and drained the rest in one go. Walm was impressed by the ferocious drinking, but he worried there wouldn’t be enough left for the others. He looked around to gauge the total supply and found the rest of the squad hugging bottles of their own.

“Walm, you look puzzled.”

The man seated on his right, hugging an ale cask, smiled. It was Jose, who had been Walm’s partner since the day he enlisted. His skin was dark, so in shadow you had to squint to make out his face. He was well informed, good at securing supplies, and dependable. His hair had a natural curl, and despite his cheerful look, he had a fairly cutting side.

“I was just wondering where all this liquor came from.”

“They say when we captured one of the enemy commanders, we got his ‘magic bag’ too. Turns out it was stuffed with victory-celebration liquor.”

Magic bags were the backbone of logistics in this world, the key to keeping the military supplied. Some were no bigger than a waist pouch yet held anything from a large backpack’s worth to a whole warehouse of goods. Mechanization had barely progressed, and yet armies could mobilize huge numbers of troops, largely thanks to magic tools and magic that hadn’t existed in his former world.

Walm would have loved to get his hands on one, but they were far too hard to come by. There were two main sources: magic bags excavated as relics from labyrinths and ruins, and the small number made by the Aleinard Forest Alliance, which possessed the World Tree.

Because Aleinard kept its production method secret, only the military, nobles, and major merchants owned them. According to Jose, the exception was adventurers, who had more chances to find them in labyrinths and ruins. The naturally occurring ones dug up from those places were said to have greater capacity.

“So that’s how we ended up toasting in style. We owe those Liberitoa moneybags our thanks.”

The wine he had just drained was replaced by ale. With no ice and no icebox, it was served at room temperature, but its distinctive sweetness and tang, with the bitterness arriving last, weren’t bad, and Walm kept drinking. Between swallows he ate the salted herring. It was heavily cured and very salty, but after all the sweat he had lost in battle it didn’t taste too salty. Paired with the ale, it was actually just right.

He had killed men, and now he was raising a toast with the comrades who had survived, right beside where the dead lay sleeping. Walm kept his aimless emotions locked down so no one around him could read them, and looked up at the sky. The twin moons were driving the sun out and getting ready to race across the night. Two moons, the symbol of a different world. A world where even values and natural laws were different, one he had to adapt to while bewildered and tormented. For Walm to go on living, there was no other way.

“Can’t be helped, huh.”

---

The Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa, having suffered a crushing defeat, fell back well behind the border it claimed and rebuilt its defenses along a river well suited to the purpose. Earth-attribute magic raised dry moats and earthworks, and magic bags and wagons hauled in materials, producing a fortress that could only be called an overnight castle. The Federation had no decisive move left, and the Highserk Empire preferred the status quo, so the war dragged on, half-hearted.

On that deadlocked front, the Liberitoa side initiated a ransom exchange of prisoners. Nobles and high-ranking officers were released, just as Walm had expected, but the Federation bought back even the commoner soldiers. In a show of generosity, a great noble who owned a labyrinth paid for the lot in large magic silver coins. And so Walm, along with the rest of Duwei’s squad, was assigned to guard the exchange site.

“Guess I was born in the wrong country.”

Walm muttered it under his breath and got an elbow in the ribs. It was his comrade Jose.

“Hey, hey. Squad Leader Duwei wouldn’t care, but if any other officer hears you, you’ll end up at the bottom of the river.”

Ferries shuttled back and forth across the river, carrying prisoners to the far side. Expecting a surprise attack, the Federation had posted plenty of archers and mages on the opposite bank.

They had even set up a large ballista there, and Walm could only gape at it, wondering where on earth they had gotten it. The Empire had stationed its own ranged troops on its bank so as not to be outdone, but if the other side was a regular army, his side looked like bandits wearing a regular army’s stolen gear.

As a soldier fighting a war, he would pick the Highserk Empire. As an ordinary citizen, though, the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa might be the better place to live. Then again, he knew nothing about how people lived in other countries, so there was no way to compare. Prisoners filed past Walm. From their neat clothes and healthy skin, they had to be people of high standing who could pay their own ransoms.

Over on the far bank, a whole human drama was playing out, with some people getting scolded and others embracing. Forced to sit through a dull, cheap melodrama that went on and on, Walm felt faintly sick of it. Beside him, Jose was fighting hard to bite back a yawn. Walm couldn’t look away and abandon his post, so he turned his eyes back to the line. Next came the lower-ranking prisoners. There were two hundred of them in all, and the queue for the ferry stretched on and on.

As he followed them with his eyes, the prisoners he had had dig graves the other day went by. Their eyes met for an instant, and the man looked away in a hurry. This time there was no blood spattered on Walm’s armor, and the spear and sword he had used were clean, yet they were still afraid of him. He had even gone to the trouble of cooking something easy to digest, but the prisoners had been too frightened to eat. Apparently they had thought it was poisoned.

Why would anyone bother with such a roundabout, laborious method? Walm spat. Poison was hard to store and hard to use. Stabbing them with a sword, which worked instantly, would settle things with no fuss at all.

True, the pits they had dug had been left unfilled, but that was for the badly wounded who hadn’t been saved in time and for anyone who died suddenly, not for the prisoners. Explaining that wouldn’t convince them. The battalion commander had made them dig extra to wear them out and snuff out any thoughts of resisting, and it had backfired. The last prisoner was seen off, and the exchange ended without incident.

At long last, the farewell party was over. Walm hoped this mild stalemate would last. The Empire, which wanted to hold the territory across the river, and the Federation, which wanted to push back to the border it claimed, looked set to keep on fighting.

---

As work on the permanent fortifications progressed, units were pulled out one after another. Walm’s battalion was in the first wave. Moving some two thousand men would strain logistics, so each platoon and company would apparently take a different route to the assembly point. On the way from the southeastern front against the Commercial Trade Federation of Liberitoa, where the territorial dispute continued, to the annexed northwestern lands of the former Kingdom of Kanoa, several platoons and squads were given assignments along the way. Duwei’s squad was one of them.

The squad was ordered to wipe out a goblin nest near a water source. Walm hadn’t killed as many monsters as people, but he had gotten used to killing them too. Battlefields were full of the corpses monsters loved, an all-you-can-eat buffet as far as they were concerned. Driving off those persistent, unwelcome guests again and again was familiar work for Walm.

Besides, corpses left lying around turned into ghouls and undead. More than once, he had been jumped in his sleep by the dead. Having to kill the same man twice was enough to make anyone jumpy.

In most countries, hunting monsters and exploring labyrinths was usually the work of adventurers, but a few nations, the Highserk Empire among them, rejected the adventurer system outright. Maintaining an army bigger than its national strength warranted, the Empire couldn’t afford to leave its soldiers idle. Thanks to that, Walm was being made to do work that was more or less an adventurer’s. It was like sending the army out for pest control just because it had free hands.

Specialized units were apparently dispatched against high-ranking monsters, but for a pack of low-threat goblins, nearby squads and platoons handled it. Sometimes even untrained villagers killed a few goblins or even orcs. Walm himself had spent a fair share of his youth in the village driving off goblins and orcs, sweating over it.

According to what the village had reported, there were more than fifty goblins. At first only a few had been sighted and the villagers had culled them, but one day a man and a woman working by the river were attacked and carried off. After that, the goblins, having gotten a taste for it, began showing up around the village, and the livestock losses grew. As their numbers increased, further damage was expected, and so the army had decided to send a force.

The squad left the village and advanced through the forest, Squad Leader Duwei at the head. The ground rose and fell slightly, but it was mostly flat. Unlike the demon territory, the powerful monsters here had been wiped out, and only low-ranking ones like these wandered in. Walm kept trudging along until the squad leader halted, and everyone stopped with him.

“Listen up. Another half hour and we’re at their nest. The tracks and game trails are getting thicker. Don’t get careless.”

Duwei was good at watching out for his men in a fight, and it was said his combat Skill surpassed even a platoon leader’s. Why a veteran like that had never been made platoon leader was simple enough. He was an optimist at heart, which, put kindly, meant he was relaxed about everything, and put badly, meant he was sloppy. His speech was rough, too. Walm figured his real strengths wouldn’t show in a post of platoon leader or above, which had a managerial side. On top of that, Duwei himself hated the tedious, time-consuming work of being a platoon leader.

The squad stepped carefully where the man ahead had stepped and slowly pushed aside branches that snagged on the swords and armor at their hips. Anywhere metal might scrape was wrapped in cloth. Walm was no exception. His cloth had come from a soldier who no longer needed clothes after the recent battle. He had balked at stripping the dead, but by now Walm had accepted that it was necessary.

As they advanced, the thick growth began to thin out. The squad was already crawling along the ground, and every eye was fixed on a single point.

Humanoid, short, no taller than a child. Prominent canines, ears more pointed than a human’s. Skin pocked and bumpy, and above all, green. There was no mistaking the goblins Walm knew so well. In their hands were crude stone spears and clubs, mixed with farm tools they had probably stolen. Experience had taught Walm that intelligent monsters became a real problem once enough of them gathered. While he hesitated over how to handle them, Duwei singled him out.

He was ordered to kill, by gesture. Walm nodded slowly and slipped out of the formation at a half-crouch, circling around to the flank of the nearest goblin. He chose each footfall, careful not to crack a twig or crunch a dry leaf. As the distance closed, his breathing grew thinner and thinner. He wet his dry lips lightly, and once he had stepped into killing range, he gripped the very end of his spear’s shaft and drove it straight through the goblin’s throat in one thrust. The goblin died on the spot without a sound. Walm used the spear to hold up the collapsing body, lowered it to the ground, and dragged it off by the legs. Squadmates left the line to help, and they hid the corpse in the shade of a tree. The squad leader gave Walm’s shoulder a light tap.

“Good work. Nice and clean.”

After that, the squad met no more goblins and made it to their destination. The goblins’ den lay a few dozen meters past the lookout. A small cliff served as their home, with shelters of branches and earth built against it and nests continuing into caves in the rock. It was hard to believe the caves had formed naturally. They were almost certainly man-made.

Keeping low, Walm slowly raised his eyes through a gap in the vegetation. He could count thirty goblins in sight. Bones lay scattered near a fire: the remains of water buffalo and goats, livestock, and of wild boars, a kind of monster. Mixed in among them were human skulls. They had to belong to the abducted villagers. Walm wasn’t surprised. It was one of the ends that awaited people taken by monsters. Kill, rape, eat: that was how they lived.

“Willart, do it.”

The squad leader gave the order to one of his men. Nothing had been discussed beforehand, but everyone, Walm included, understood what was about to happen. Willart stepped forward without a word. He was a man of few words whose hobby was shaving every hair off his body whenever he had a spare moment, but within the squad, one talent of his earned him respect.

Willart gathered magic in his hand and brought forth a 《Fireball》. As the squad’s only magic user, he was relied on for everything from combat to cooking. The 《Fireball》 slammed into the center of the nest and exploded. The blast scattered the bones and blew apart the goblins at the center. Even the ones around it were left with severe burns.

The sudden attack left the goblins frozen in place. Squad Leader Duwei’s unit, on the other hand, understood exactly what needed to be done. For Walm, it was nothing less than fireworks kicking off a banquet. His squadmates closed the distance in one rush without a single word being said and started swinging. Walm was no exception. He drove his spear into a dazed goblin’s belly twice, then stamped its collapsing head flat under his foot.

Fight or flee? One goblin dithered, then turned its back, wide open. The spear went in through its back and came out through its belly in a clean line. It had plenty of ventilation now, but even the lowest rung of goblins was a hardy monster. A wound that would have pinned a human in place only set it crawling away on its belly. If it got out, it would grow cunning and become a real nuisance. Walm had no intention of letting that happen. He flipped the spear into a reverse grip and drove it down at the creature’s neck. After a brief convulsion, the creature stopped moving.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Walm leaped aside, just as a club-wielding goblin, carried forward by its own momentum, smashed the corpse of one of its own kind. On reflex, he swept his spear sideways at its head. The blade at the tip of his spear sliced through both eyes, and the goblin began writhing in pain on the ground.

Another goblin swung its club wildly in a last, desperate struggle. Walm stabbed it to death from beyond its reach. While he was busy, the rest of the squad had cut down about the same number each. Squad Leader Duwei used his specialty, the Skill 《Heavy Strike》, blasting three goblins away at once.

The ones caught in it were split in half at the waist. Some had their heads blown clean off. The rest of the goblins came pouring out of the cave, only to be cut down by blade and club the moment they showed themselves. By then, there wasn’t a goblin left in front of Walm.

“Reinus, Tibird, Danfan, take half the men and clean up out here. The rest of you, with me. Spears are useless in there, so we go in with swords. Willart, give us some light.”

Walm, to his dubious good fortune, was picked for the team going into the cave. Command outside was left to the three combat veterans, better known as the Three Idiots. Before entering the cave, Walm planted his spear in the ground outside, took up a longsword and a round shield, and advanced inside.

“《Torch》.”

Squad Leader Duwei strode into the depths of the cave without a moment’s hesitation. Willart, second in line behind him, cast the 《Torch》 spell, and the flame lit up the cavern. It was the goblins who were thrown off. Used to the dark, they swung their weapons unsteadily, and all that awaited them was the iron storm that was Squad Leader Duwei. In the end, all Walm did was treat the goblin hiding in a hollow to a taste of his longsword, along with another one playing dead, though that one was already half dead anyway. The cave opened up at the back into a space about the size of a classroom.

The air was so stale that Walm’s nose nearly gave out on him right then and there. There was no time to complain. Besides the goblins, there was still a leader-type left. A goblin as big as a man, a hobgoblin, proudly raised a rusty sword it must have picked up somewhere. However gallant it looked, Walm felt sorry for the monster.

Its opponent was Squad Leader Duwei, after all. The hobgoblin charged in with a slash, but it took no longer to be cut to pieces than any other goblin had. Walm stabbed the goblins lying in the pools of blood, just to be safe, and sure enough, one of them had been faking. While he searched carefully for anything else they might have missed, he spotted a shape in the back, behind the straw that seemed to serve as a bed.

It wasn’t a goblin. It was a woman. Her whole body was covered in scratches, her shoulders and back worst of all. A man had been eaten, yet she was still alive, and Walm could guess why. Goblins could breed using the bellies of other creatures.

“Are you alive? We came to help.”

Walm called out to her, but she lay crumpled and motionless. Her reply was short.

“K-kill… me.”

It took Walm a while to chew on the words she had thrown at him. He called out again and shook her shoulder, but the answer was the same. He looked around. No one spoke a word.

“P-please… kill me.”

Only Squad Leader Duwei gave a slow nod. Did she really have to be killed? His instincts and his heart fought desperately to avoid killing one of his own kind, but at the same time, his reason was working just as hard. He couldn’t help noticing her limbs, ruined from being used as a goblin’s breeding sack.

She wouldn’t heal on her own, and ordinary healing magic couldn’t fix this. The wounds carved into her body would never close, in flesh or in spirit. Could she go back to her village and live a normal life? He wished someone else would do it in his place, but either way, someone had to. If Walm didn’t, someone else in the squad would have to carry the burden instead.

Resolved, Walm set the tip of his sword against her heart, between her ribs. She murmured something softly. The blade slid through the gap in her ribs and reached her heart in one thrust. He stared at her, now completely still.

Ironically, her face stayed peaceful. It was the first time he had killed a civilian woman. And to be thanked for it at the moment of her death… Walm looked down at his bloodied sword, then at her, gone now. At some point, Squad Leader Duwei had come to stand beside him.

“Here. You’re in the way just standing there. Go outside, drink, and rest.”

He was holding out a flask of expensive distilled liquor.

“Took it off those Liberitoa bastards. Doesn’t suit me.”

It didn’t sound like something Squad Leader Duwei would say, a man who drank any liquor like water. Walm staggered outside and sat with his back against the roots of a big tree. Even the crude, battle-loving Three Idiots seemed to sense that something was wrong, as they said nothing to him.

He unfastened the chin strap, pulled off his helmet, and let it roll on the ground. The aventail jingled as if in protest. He didn’t care.

The open air felt good on his bare scalp. He rubbed his head, itchy from the sweat, then opened the flask in his hand and knocked it back. The alcohol burned out through his nose, and his throat and stomach flared hot all at once. A faint sweetness lingered before the taste faded. They had set out before dawn, so it was still early morning. In contrast to his heart, muddied once again, the patch of sky cut out by the trees was a clear blue without a single cloud. He spat a curse and drank again.

---

Six days after the goblin extermination at the village, the squad reached the annexed lands of the former Kanoa Kingdom. The villages there bore almost no scars from the war five years earlier. Pressing on to the northwest, they arrived at Sarria, a city bordering Myard territory. A fortress of the Highserk Empire had been built onto the city, which was walled on one half and ringed by river and moat on the other.

Connected to Highserk territory by a tributary, Sarria was perfectly placed as a supply depot and troop staging ground against Myard, and at least one full battalion was always stationed there. For this invasion, battalions had been drawn from every front. Nine battalions, eighteen thousand men, were gathering for the annexation of Myard. Of all the cities of the former Kanoa Kingdom, Sarria had been the last to surrender, and even after five years, the walls and stone bridges still showed the marks of magic and catapulted stones.

Walm passed through the gate and into the city. Shops and houses crowded the main avenue shoulder to shoulder. Most of the goods at the stalls cost more than they did in the Highserk heartland, and food in particular was something Walm, back in his farming days, could never have afforded. Even being generous, the townspeople were thin. Not one of them was well fed, and none even had an average build. The exceptions were the friendly Highserk soldiers. He reached Sarria Fortress and waited on the drill ground, where some unexpected words greeted him.

“Not every unit’s made it here on schedule. Cheer up, you’ve got free time today.”

“Yeah! Freedom’s the best!”

“Drinks first? Or women?”

“Why not both?”

The Three Idiots, Reinus, Tibird, and Danfan, vanished into the back alleys like a gust of wind. Squad Leader Duwei pressed a hand to his temple and grumbled.

“Hey, I’m not done talking! Damn it. Well, those three’ll be fine on their own.”

Loyal to their own desires. Considering how little time they had, maybe they were the ones who had it right. This was a country that fought one clash after another, big and small, with several nations at once. The word “peacetime” had been forgotten inside Walm for a long time. Since his conscription, he had been passed from battlefield to battlefield, fighting life-or-death battles, and spent whatever time was left between them on drills and marching. That an army like that would hand out free time was hard to believe. He couldn’t help suspecting it was some new kind of training.

“F-free time, sir?”

Humans fear what they can’t understand. Walm asked hesitantly, and the squad leader answered with a look like he had found something strange.

“Yeah. You don’t like free time?”

“N-no, it’s not that, but…”

“Right? Do whatever you want, like those three. Booze, tobacco, women, anything. A big fight’s coming, so live with no regrets. Just be on time for assembly, no excuses. Be in formation by sunrise. Anyone late gets the whip.”

The squad leader clapped his hands as if to dismiss them, and the rest of the soldiers scattered into the city like baby spiders. That left the squad leader, Jose, and Walm.

“So, Walm, what are you going to do?”

“Uh, um… what should I do?”

Jose’s question left Walm lost. After so long without free time, he had no idea what to do with it. Before conscription, he had never even left his village. Even in his farming days, aside from working the soil, he had gathered wild vegetables in the forest and hunted monsters. The chance to do something freely had been gone for a long time. Told suddenly to do as he pleased, Walm was just confused.

“You really don’t want anything, do you?”

“I’m going drinking with Squad Leader Duwei. He’s been here once before, so we’ve got a tavern locked in. And it has rooms. Want to come, Walm?”

A lifeline like that was worth grabbing. Without thinking it over, Walm followed the two of them. They left the main avenue and turned into the back alleys, passing all sorts of people: soldiers asking locals for directions to the places they wanted, beggars. In one corner of the alley stood a woman.

“How about tonight?”

She was a girl in her teens, thin as a rail. A body that should have had a woman’s soft curves showed nothing but bone under taut skin. She was calling out to every soldier who passed. No one took her up on it, and she came over to Walm as well.

“How about tonight?”

“No, I don’t need that.”

The other two weren’t interested either. Turned down by every soldier there, Walm included, she bit her lip and dropped her eyes to the ground.

“Here. Get something to eat.”

He knew it was a hypocritical gesture that fixed nothing at the root, but he handed her a few copper coins anyway. The shadow over her face lifted a little, and she gave Walm a faint smile and thanked him. The money had been taken from corpses anyway. Better for the coins to vanish into her stomach than into some soldier’s liquor and tobacco. She showed no outward sign of joy and slipped away down another alley.

“Walm, don’t go overboard feeding strays.”

“Hey, feeding strays? Come on.”

It was Jose, behind him, who had spoken up. Walm frowned at the crude phrasing.

“She was smart about it, so it’s fine. If she’d looked happy about it, you’d have been surrounded by beggars.”

He looked around and saw war-wounded men missing arms and legs, and child beggars. Walm couldn’t give to all of them the same way.

“…You’re right. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Satisfied with the answer, Jose nodded.

“I’m not saying it’s pointless. But if you want to help, you could always pay her for a night. Easier on both of you. Though I wouldn’t want to do it in an alley, or in front of other people.”

Walm followed Jose’s gaze and saw soldiers from other squads disappearing into the alleys. Listening closely, he could hear sweet voices leaking out of the darkness and the gaps between houses. Maybe it was his imagination, but the Three Idiots’ goofy voices seemed to be mixed in too.

“Those aren’t real prostitutes,” Duwei said. “The brothel district’s far from here. With all these soldiers gathered for the war, amateurs are playing at being prostitutes for living expenses. If they get caught, it’s trouble.”

The brothel district ran on a tangle of vested interests. In any world, plenty of people would take extreme measures to protect their profits. The squad leader kept walking down the alley, ignoring the touts. Given his fearsome looks, it was always Walm who got called out to.

“Still, after all the killing you do on the battlefield, you’re weirdly soft, Walm. You’re not a priest or some knight who cares about chivalry. Charity’s pointless. We’re just soldiers, no matter how far we go.”

Jose was a conscript like Walm, but a rare one: the fourth son of a merchant. He could have lived as another merchant’s employee, but by his own account, earning a fortune on the battlefield was the surest way for a merchant to get a cart or a shop of his own. Jose had adapted to surviving on the battlefield and made his peace with it. Walm, on the other hand, couldn’t shake the sensibilities of his previous life, nor could he throw them away. He listened without agreeing or disagreeing, and the squad leader muttered wistfully.

“Kanoa used to be fertile land, you know. The war turned it into this.”

“Oh, it wasn’t always like this?”

Jose, apparently curious, asked the squad leader.

“Five years ago, Kanoa started picking fights along the border while the Highserk Empire kept building up its strength. We won, somehow, and when we took our first village, we were stunned. They were feeding the beans we live on to their livestock.”

With that, the squad leader pulled a small pouch out of his pack. Inside were the beans Walm had eaten again and again on the march, which also did well as a stew ingredient.

“And now look at it. The great lord of old Kanoa, Grand Duke Myard, abandoned the kingdom and switched sides to its neighbor Ferrius. Then the army Ferrius sent from home, plus his own domain troops, who ran wild, drove off livestock from the other Kanoa territories, cut down the rice paddies while the crops were still green, and burned the fields. Because of that, the Empire ran short on provisions too, and the invasion got put off until now.”

“Ugh, that’s disgusting. Brutal.”

Jose shook his head, thoroughly fed up. Scorched earth was effective against an army that relied on enemy land for food. Magic bags and horses and magical beasts stronger than the ones in Walm’s old world had improved logistics, but not enough to support the whole Highserk Empire.

“So we set aside the invasion of Myard for the time being, gave the locals just enough food aid to keep them from starving, and pulled old Kanoa back from the brink. Their grudge against Myard and Ferrius runs deeper than anything they hold against the Empire. Anyone would be angry if an ally stabbed them in the back.”

“I heard a battalion from the former Kanoa Kingdom is joining this campaign too, so I was worried, but if that’s how it is, it won’t be a problem.”

They kept up the small talk after that, and Walm learned more about old Kanoa along the way until they reached the tavern. It was a two-story building, tavern on the ground floor and rooms upstairs. The outer walls were stained with soot from the kitchen, and the front door was covered in fine scratches from years of rough knocking. When they pushed it open, a brass bell announced them with a muted ring.

At a table by the counter sat five Highserk soldiers from their own army. Farther in were men in neatly arranged jewelry and well-tailored clothes, probably regular patrons. Judging by their dress, Walm took them for city merchants. At Squad Leader Duwei’s invitation, the three of them sat at a table well away from both groups.

“Today’s on me. First time in a long while that two rookies besides Walm have made it through.”

A grin slipped out of Squad Leader Duwei. Barito, whose red hair stuck up like a rooster’s comb, and Noor, curious to a dangerous degree, were from the same village, and they had been a worry for the whole squad. That they had gotten through their first battle in one piece was no small thing. It was no wonder that even the usually strict squad leader was openly delighted.

Walm matched Jose, who was whistling cheerfully at the unexpected treat, with a wide grin of his own. When the squad leader raised a hand and looked over, the tavern keeper came out from behind the counter to take their order.

“Three ales and a bottle of wine. What can you get out fast?”

The tavern keeper paused to think, then answered.

“Hard bread, and a soup of water buffalo, onion, and beans that’ll be ready as soon as it’s heated. We’ve also got catfish, enough for all of you.”

“Bring both, enough for everyone. Fry the catfish.”

The tavern keeper nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. The other customers must have been served already, because the soup and bread arrived with the ale sooner than Walm had expected.

“To the Liberitoa border war, and may the luck of war follow us to Myard too.”

The squad leader raised his mug. Walm held nothing back and slammed his against it. After a bright clunk, he drained it in one go. It was practically a custom, but for soldiers who made war their trade, a toast had to be big enough to slosh the drink over the rim. A soldier who toasted politely couldn’t be counted on. That was what Walm had been taught. The attentive tavern keeper checked if they wanted more, and ale filled their mugs again.

Walm tore his bread into bite-sized pieces, dunked them in the soup, and popped them into his mouth. The savory richness that had seeped out of the water buffalo meat spread across his tongue, along with the depth of the onions and beans. He speared the chunks sunk in the soup with his fork and took a bite. Even the tough buffalo meat had stewed down until it was tender. The beans had cooked just enough to break apart at a light bite, a nice accent.

“I figured I was sick of bean soup after the march, but the right ingredients and a good cook make all the difference.”

Walm let slip a word of admiration for such a civilized meal. Jose nodded along.

“Yeah, most of what we got on the road was half-raw.”

Squad Leader Duwei reproved him.

“That’s enough. Warm food beats the alternative. If Willart, our cook-fire, gets sulky, you’ll be eating cold meals. Literally.”

The mage-soldier Willart’s fire magic was a lifeline for the squad’s meals, too. If he went on strike or started slacking, Walm’s already miserable diet would collapse completely. Walm and Jose answered with a shrug and went back to savoring their soup.

By the time they finished the soup, fried catfish had arrived at the table. It had been filleted and cut into portions, but with one whole fish per person, it looked plenty filling, and Walm reached for it. He speared a piece with his fork and sent it into his mouth. The satisfying crunch of the batter came first, then the catfish’s flavor spread across his tongue. The white flesh was mild, so even with the coating it wasn’t heavy, and he felt he could keep eating it forever.

“Fried fish is the best.”

Living on nothing but grilled or boiled food was rough on Walm, who had grown up amid the rich food culture of his old world. And here he was tasting this without having to think about night raids or dawn attacks.

“The last time we had it was before we shipped out to Liberitoa, wasn’t it? That was river fish too, but catfish tastes better.”

The squad leader, in a fine mood, downed his ale in one go and started in on the wine.

“Come on, eat and drink.”

Urged on, Walm finished off the ale he had left, and wine was poured into his empty mug. It was sharply sour, but it was just right for cutting the grease of the fry. The sun hadn’t even set yet, but nobody was going to stop the drinking. Forgetting everything else, they went on smacking their lips over the food and drink in front of them.

---

“Lord Youth, it appears the Highserk Imperial Army gathered at the city of Sarria has begun to move.”

“Ah. So they’ve moved.”

Grand Duke Youth Myard, called out to by one of his retainers, gave a slow nod. People were rushing in and out of the room, and pieces were being laid out one after another on the map spread before him. Youth had already used a magic tool to request reinforcements from Ferrius, their suzerain. He had also sent fast riders to the villages and cities in the provinces and begun gathering militia.

“As for the Kingdom of Ferrius, it seems Lord Winston will lead the troops himself.”

“They mean business, then. Ferrius too.”

Winston Ferrius was the Ferrius king’s own younger brother, a man with real combat experience who enjoyed the king’s deep trust. And Winston would be serving as commander. Ferrius had no intention of letting go of Myard.

What’s more, Youth was certain they meant to settle things once and for all with the pesky Highserk army. When he looked out the window, a fast rider was just passing through the gate, his horse whinnying.

“Five years since the last war. It felt long, but it’s turned out to be shorter than I thought.”

Youth had carried out a scorched-earth strategy in the face of stubborn opposition and broken away from the former Kingdom of Kanoa. People said he had sold his heart to monsters, or lost his mind. Keeping his distance from the compatriots he had written off as beyond saving, he had reinforced the border fortresses and trained soldiers. Ferrius, now their suzerain, had subjected him to humiliating treatment more times than he could count.

All of it had been for this moment. Even so, Youth understood that at the border the best they could manage was to buy time. The Highserk Empire, which had survived the crucible of war, was a state built for fighting, and even its farmers were often battle-hardened. Youth, who had been directly involved, was one of those who had badly misjudged it. The mainstream faction had looked down on it as a country worn down to nothing by one war after another.

The reality was a starving wolf: its body gaunt, but its fangs and claws honed sharp. He had paid for that mistake, quite literally, in pain. That was exactly why Youth had wielded his authority and spent five years preparing.

“Shouldn’t we move the unit at Lake Celta?”

The retainer pointed at a piece sitting on the lake on the map. Celta was a giant lake where Myard shared borders with all three neighboring countries other than Highserk, and its navy was well established. In numbers alone it was nearly seven hundred men, but putting sailors on land would only throw away veterans for nothing, and Youth had no intention of moving them.

“Sailors can’t do even half as much in a land battle. No need to move them.”

Besides, that giant lake needed to be guarded. It connected to Craist and Liberitoa, and above all, that thing was in it. The first time Youth saw it, he had been mortified to find his knees nearly giving out. At the mention of Celta, one of the reports he had pushed to the back of his mind came back to him.

“If I remember right, the Kingdom of Craist asked Celta’s navy for help with that thing.”

“Yes. They apparently need pilots. They picked a terrible time to ask.”

An ordinary navy couldn’t even outrun that thing. Youth understood why the Kingdom of Craist would ask for help from Myard, which had the largest navy on the great lake. With the international situation what it was, there was no harm in putting them in our debt. That was what Youth decided.

“Help them, within reason.”

Youth switched gears and listened to the reports pouring in. No matter how optimistically he looked at it, there was little hope of stopping them at the border. If he sent troops out now, they would likely be picked off one unit at a time before the forces from the various regions could assemble, and Ferrius’s reinforcements wouldn’t arrive in time.

That left only a few places where the decisive battle could be fought. Weighing supply lines and the burden on the troops, Youth glared at the ground best suited to defense on the map. It was the Relef Plain, the plain that lay before the capital, Aidenberg. He pointed at the two highest hills on it.

“Prepare the venue. We’re going to throw a grand ball for the Devil of Highserk and his lackeys.”