The twin moons enthroned in the night sky cast a pale bluish light over Orzelika Pass, as if day and night were nothing but a nuisance to them. Under the moonlight shadows stretched long, exposing the figures writhing across the ground. The ones moving busily from place to place were Mayard soldiers guarding the pass. Among the Deborah training company that was tasked with defending one of the six passes of Selta, Moiz strode across the open ground within the ramparts.

Just three days ago, the Crest army had suffered devastating losses after their grand offensive failed. The reserve forces stationed on the plains had immediately attempted to reorganize, but the training company exploited the confusion and terror of the retreating troops to make up for their lack of shock power, driving them all the way back across the flatlands. The sight of charred soldiers and the visual intimidation of Demon Fire had produced results beyond expectation.

Including reserves, the enemy had suffered around 400 casualties. Though the training company managed to buy a small amount of time as the Crest militia retreated significantly, they had no chance to rest. Filling in bypass routes, removing earthworks, repairing the ramparts… construction tasks were endless. In fact, it had taken three full days since the clash just to finally get a handle on processing the corpses. Bodies were scattered throughout the pass, some charred and shriveled from fire, others so intact it was hard to believe they were dead at all. The causes of death varied, and soldiers were running themselves ragged dealing with the aftermath.

“Hey, don’t just let go all of a sudden!”

“I didn’t let go! It just came off!”

One soldier bickered in frustration at his partner as they carried a corpse. The one being scolded grimaced and held up what he had been gripping. An arm torn clean off from the elbow down dangled limply. Moiz immediately understood what had happened. The ligaments and muscles holding the limbs together had been burned away in intense heat, so they couldn’t support the weight during transport.

“Hah, how long are you planning to keep shaking hands with that thing? Grab under the arms and move it already.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

The older soldier, who had been holding the legs, urged his partner impatiently. The arm was placed back on the corpse’s chest, and the younger soldier slid his hands under the corpse’s armpits. The unfortunate recruit, now forced even closer to the dead, muttered curses under his breath while trying to steady himself.

“Why the hell do we have to go through all this trouble? Couldn’t we just toss them off the cliff?”

“If we throw them off, the stench will ride the wind and choke us all day. Besides, I hear burying them along the enemy’s route kills their morale.”

“…Yeah? War’s a real pain in the ass.”

Grumbling all the while, they resumed carrying the corpse. It wasn’t anything worth reprimanding. Moiz stepped aside to avoid their unsteady path and headed toward the main stronghold. A ridge path ran straight through the earthen, mound-like fortifications, forming terrain that looked down upon any enemy who passed through the pass. This was the final checkpoint of the forward position, and at the same time it served as a gathering point for both troops and supplies.

In one corner of the permanent barracks, piles of confiscated weapons and armor were stacked high. These had been stripped from enemy soldiers, and the unlucky ones assigned to sort them were busy scrubbing away the stubbornly clinging blood and flesh with dirt and oil. Unlike the earlier pair, they worked in silent, desperate focus.

“Well… can’t blame them.”

Their unusually earnest attitude was likely because the forward command post was close by. If their complaints were overheard by the one stationed in the tent, Deborah, his mother and the chief instructor who commanded the training company, it would be a serious problem. She’d probably shout, “Don’t whine like a man!” and smack their backside hard enough to leave bruises. Moiz knew that from personal experience since childhood.

After straightening his uniform and gear and brushing off any visible dirt, Moiz stopped in front of one of the tents. At the entrance, a guard and a soldier on duty snapped to attention and saluted. Returning the salute, Moiz addressed the sentry.

“Is the company commander inside?”

“Yes, she’s inside with platoon leader Yogim.”

The duty soldier lifted the tent flap and ushered him in. Inside, the room was lit by a luminous moss lamp. Maps and orders were piled on a small desk, and behind it sat his parents, frowning as they examined them.

“Platoon leader Moiz reporting in.”

“Good, you’re here. What did the recon find?”

“The majority of the enemy has withdrawn from the slopes of Orzelika Pass and is attempting to reorganize. On the way there and back, we engaged several small groups, and two of ours got wounded. Aside from one with a broken arm, the rest are fit to return to the line.”

It was a satisfactory outcome. There were injuries, but no deaths.

“So they pulled back after all. If they stay cautious like this, it’ll make things easier for us.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too much. Moiz, you did well.”

It felt like he was being praised the same way one would praise a toddler taking their first unsteady steps. The disproportionate praise left Moiz feeling awkward, and he shook his head.

“It’s thanks to Guardian Chief Walm. If he hadn’t accompanied us, we would’ve lost several men.”

Despite some experience, neither Moiz nor his troops were anything more than novices. On a battlefield where anything could happen, the only reason they had all made it back alive was because they had relied entirely on Walm’s skill and experience.

“Too much humility turns into arrogance, you know. Just accept it. Though I suppose it’s better than overconfidence. A commander has to stand firm and smile, even in the face of death.”

“I… understand.”

If only it were that easy. Compared to his parents, whose courage was like solid rock, he couldn’t help but feel cowardly. He was grateful for their advice both as commanders and as parents, but at the same time he felt suffocated. After receiving instructions for future plans amid light conversation, Moiz prepared to leave.

“Then, I’ll return to my post.”

“Hold on, Moiz. Take the barrel outside with you on your way.”

Searching his memory, he guessed its contents.

“…Water?”

“Hah, no, it’s wine. A reward from the Grand Duchess in recognition of our achievements. Share it with your men and enjoy it.”

“Don’t drink too much. You can’t fight if you’re stumbling around.”

His parents, who had been frowning constantly these days, now spoke with faint smiles.

“Thank you. I’ll accept it gratefully.”

Stepping out of the tent, Moiz took a small breath. The cool night air felt pleasant against his flushed body. Superior and subordinate… what a strangely complicated parent-child relationship it was. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike it.

“The barrel’s over here. Should I arrange a cart for you?”

Guided by the duty soldier, Moiz examined the wine barrel. He tapped it lightly a few times, and the contents sloshed audibly from inside.

“This much? I can carry it myself.”

“As expected of the chief instructor’s son. My apologies.”

The soldier likely meant no harm. After all, his mother was known for doing everything with bold, brute force, so surely it was meant as praise. But in his current state, Moiz couldn’t take it at face value, and the words pricked at him. Don’t overthink it, he told himself, shaking off the unnecessary suspicion.

As he reached out to lift the barrel, two of his subordinates came into view.

“Gaston, Evlark.”

Called by their superior, the two froze. Being summoned near the forward command post never meant anything good. They likely feared a reprimand or a dangerous mission. After days of continuous fighting, their gear was filthy and their uniforms disheveled. Fatigue was evident on their faces, yet their eyes still burned with intensity. Compared to how they used to be, Moiz found them reliable despite their worn appearance.

“Platoon leader, you called?”

“Another harassment mission with a small group?”

They braced themselves, expecting some unreasonable order. Such was the unfortunate nature of infantry. Watching them, Moiz felt a mischievous urge stir. Perhaps a little surprise wouldn’t be so bad.

“We’re transporting a barrel to our position.”

“That heavy-looking barrel?”

“Yeah, no way just the two of us can manage that…”

They complained immediately. Moiz didn’t press them further.

“I see. That’s unfortunate.”

His tone made Evlark suspicious, so he stared at the barrel.

“Wait… is this wine?!”

“Wine?!”

Catching the faint scent like hunting dogs, their eyes lit up as they clung to the barrel.

“Hehe, it’s packed full!”

“We can drink this back at the position, right?!”

“Of course. It’s ours.”

Gaston and Evlark clung to the barrel like it was treasure, lifting it together despite staggering. The strength they showed now far surpassed anything they had displayed during labor duty. Suppressing a laugh at their sudden change of attitude, Moiz stepped ahead of them and called out to the soldiers gathered at their position. With a vanguard like this, things didn’t seem so bad.

“Platoon, assemble! Wine from Grand Duchess Rita Mayard has arrived!”

“Wine?! Hey, did he say wine?!”

“Real wine?! You’re not joking, right?!”

Though it wasn’t a particularly loud voice, there wasn’t a single man who missed it. Sleeping soldiers sprang up in excitement, some even putting on the wrong boots. The platoon quickly gathered, almost as if worshipping Moiz and the barrel of liquor. Or rather, it was like a pack of dogs before their feed. They fidgeted impatiently, barely able to contain themselves, and it was clear that restraint wouldn’t last long. Every one of them already had a cup in hand.

“Alright, everyone’s here. Two cups per person. Don’t try to sneak extra. Anyone caught drinking a third gets put on heavy labor.”

A chorus of lively acknowledgments rang out. By the time they were done drinking, it was certain a round of tattling would begin: “Hey, that guy had a third cup!”

“Lady Rita sure is generous!”

“Where’s the tap?”

“Idiot, we’ll be here till morning. Just take the lid off and stick your cup in, there won’t be any left anyway in the end.”

“Hurry up and open it!”

“Relax, will you?”

Gaston drove his knife into the lid and forced it open. The strong scent of alcohol spread instantly, met with cheers and clanging armor. Cups were thrust in chaotically.

“Idiot, don’t spill it!”

“Then stop pushing!”

“The booze isn’t going anywhere!”

Seeing how out of control they were getting, Moiz tried to rein them in, but a soldier shot back while gulping down wine in one go.

“Platoon leader, the booze might not run away, but it will run out!”

With whatever scraps of food they had, the soldiers sat down and began a feast. Clumsy dancing and off-key singing filled the air. They were doing their duty in the madness of war. But what about himself? Could he really say he was doing everything he could Was he deceiving those who fought beside him?

Moiz drowned the shame welling up inside him with another gulp of alcohol. The emotions he had been holding back began to surface. His limbs felt unbearably heavy, and fatigue and lack of sleep stripped away his fragile sense of reason. He couldn’t fully process the disconnect between the ease of killing and the revulsion that should have come with it.

“You get used to it eventually.”

The words Guardian Chief had spoken were likely true. In fact, the soldiers, who once turned their eyes away from handling corpses, now carried out the task while grumbling about it. They were growing accustomed to death, their senses numbing. Was that good or bad? He didn’t know.

“That thing three days ago… it really got to me.”

“No kidding. Over a hundred burned to death.”

“I almost got caught up in it. If the Guardian Chief hadn’t been there, I’d be dead too.”

The soldiers naturally shifted their talk toward the war so close at hand.

“He’s scary… but damn if he isn’t reliable. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even the same person we’ve talked with when he’s fighting.”

At Evlark’s slightly tipsy remark, the soldiers gathered around the barrel nodded in agreement.

“I get it. During today’s recon, he killed three guys in the blink of an eye.”

“A head rolled right up to my feet… I nearly pissed myself.”

Moiz agreed as well. That ruthless side of him felt like a completely different person. The imperial knight, both respected and feared, was nothing like the man who worked alongside them or shared their meals.

“Still, the Crest guys haven’t launched a proper attack since then.”

“Well yeah. Five of their 100-man units are basically wiped out. The replacements are bound to hesitate. They can’t even form tight formations anymore.”

“We’ve got the Guardian Chief and the chief instructor. Hell, even platoon leader Moiz can send a few men flying with a single swing.”

“Damn right.”

Gaston beamed with a full, open smile as he praised him. There was not a shred of doubt in it, only pure trust. Moiz felt his throat tighten, as if rejecting the words, but he forced a smile in return. It was nothing more than bravado. And yet, his parents seemed to see right through him. Back at Dandurg, things had been easier. Now, burdened with responsibility, he still couldn’t bring himself to kill with clear intent. He put on a brave front masking it with wide, forceful swings, but he knew it couldn’t go on forever. He had killed monsters that ravaged crops without hesitation. But when the target became human, his hands faltered. No matter how he tried to justify it, it was a betrayal of the men who fought with their lives on the line.

“Speaking of which, where’s the Guardian Chief?”

“Think I saw him near the cliff.”

“Keep drinking. I’ll take some to him.”

With two cups in hand, Moiz left the group. At the cliff opposite the pass, the imperial knight stood alone, smoke drifting around him.

“Guardian Chief, there you are. This is wine from Grand Duchess Rita.”

“You went out of your way to bring it. Thanks.”

His expression was gentle, nothing like the knight who calmly cut down enemy soldiers. Watching Walm bring the cup to his lips, Moiz raised his own as well. Sweetness spread across his mouth, followed by a rough bitterness. He could feel the hot liquid run down his throat into his stomach. They exchanged idle conversation, drinking several times. Then, borrowing the courage of alcohol, Moiz asked something that could only be described as letting his tongue slip.

“…How can I kill enemies like you do?”

The conversation stopped, and regret hit him immediately. When Moiz cautiously glanced at the imperial knight’s face, he saw eyes clouded like darkness itself, fixed on empty space.

“…Sorry. That was out of line.”

“No… it’s fine. You’re troubled, aren’t you? When I first stepped onto the battlefield, my superior at the time gave me advice… taught me what it meant to be a soldier.”

It was hard to even imagine this knight as a recruit, but he was still human. Perhaps he too had struggles and fears he never showed. The Guardian Chief paused for a moment before continuing slowly, as if recalling the past, maybe even reminding himself.

“More people than you’d think can’t bring themselves to kill their own kind. But if you can’t, that enemy will kill you, your comrades, your unit, and eventually your homeland. Even if you hesitate while weighing your own life against it, remember that. That’s what I was told.”

He let out a quiet breath. The words echoed in Moiz’s mind. They struck directly at his current turmoil, and at the same time, conveyed the concern his superior must have once felt for Walm.

“Well, I’m just repeating someone else’s words. Is there something specific throwing off your focus?”

“…I don’t know.”

No matter how much he tried to think, his alcohol-clouded mind couldn’t produce an answer. As Moiz lowered his gaze and sank into thought, the knight offered words, as if guiding him.

“Something you were born with… someone’s influence… a childhood experience?”

Though they both came from farming backgrounds, the Guardian Chief was remarkably knowledgeable. Like someone feverish, Moiz repeated the words, grasping at them. The answer was within memories he had sealed away long time ago.

““Ah… that’s it. When I was little, I used to roughhouse with the neighborhood kids. I don’t remember if it was with sticks or bare hands… but I thought I was holding back. Still… the kid I was playing with had his arm snapped clean at the elbow. I can still clearly remember the scream and the bone sticking out.”

After that, Moiz had never played with others his age again.

“Just like the body, the mind can be wounded too. If it’s deep enough, it never fully heals. A kind of trauma, you could say.”

“Guardian Chief, you sound like a poet. So… is there a way to fix it?”

Clinging to hope, Moiz asked. But for the first time that day, the imperial knight scratched his head with a genuinely troubled expression.

“That’s the thing… I don’t know either. Sometimes time solves it, and sometimes circumstances force you to overcome it. Are you disappointed?”

“If that trauma of mine had been cured just like that, I would’ve worshipped you for life, Guardian Chief.”

“Too bad then. Anyway, enough of this gloomy talk. You smoke? Consider it thanks for the drink.”

He offered a cigarette. Taking it, Moiz lifted it toward the moonlight and spoke in admiration.

“This is high quality.”

The leaves were tightly and carefully rolled. Even without a smoking habit, Moiz could tell it wasn’t the cheap soldier’s tobacco.

“I extorted it from a cavalry battalion commander in the capital.”

The seriousness of his tone only made it more amusing. Unable to hold it in, Moiz let out a laugh, and spoke the words Mayard people often threw at those of the neighboring empire.

“Haha… that’s exactly what you’d expect from a Highserk man.”

Despite the somewhat impolite remark, the knight only grinned, clearly entertained. Moiz’s worries hadn’t been resolved, but somehow he felt lighter.

Translator – Lyxxna