Chapter 103 - The Beginning of a Long Night (2)
The 2nd Corps headquarters was unexpectedly quiet and well-organized.
If they hadn't been dragged here because of a war, one might have simply assumed something routine was happening.
Along with the other newly commissioned officers, Ernest went through identity verification—his academy, name, and family—before receiving a room assignment.
"Phew..."
"Sigh…"
The new officers, all from the same academy, entered a large room where they would be sharing space in groups of eight.
Even though all they had done so far was get off a transport vehicle and be verified, they felt utterly drained.
"Isn't it too quiet for a war?"
Robert, once again in the same room as Ernest, gazed out the window without unpacking his belongings.
"If a corps headquarters was a mess just because a war started, that would be the problem. This isn't a frontline combat zone."
"Still, it's way too peaceful."
"I don't know if I'd go so far as to call it peaceful."
"Let me exaggerate a little."
"Sure."
Ernest gave a perfunctory reply and began unpacking. Tomorrow, the formal commissioning ceremony would be held, and he would receive his second lieutenant insignia.
Until then, technically speaking, they weren't even true "junior officers"—just in an in-between state.
His class would go down in history as the first to graduate early and then remain uncommissioned for several days.
That's because this war was the first one since the academy's founding.
This unprecedented situation might lead to changes in the structure of both the academy and the military.
Not that Ernest had the energy to care anymore.
If I really make it back alive and return to the academy, I wonder what that'll even feel like.
Ernest recalled Thomas with a bitter smile.
Thinking back, Thomas had always looked at Ernest like a starving wolf.
Since Ernest's first year, he'd tried to make him an assistant, and later, even tried to rope him in as a full instructor.
Thomas himself was so much like a ravenous beast that Ernest hadn't been able to easily see through his sly intentions.
"I honestly didn't think we'd actually... be going into battle."
Jonas muttered weakly, still standing by the window, watching the rain fall.
"Dear noble young master. Did you think even if war broke out, you'd be sipping wine at parties, untouched by the world?"
Robert joked in his usual tone.
But unlike usual, Jonas and the other "noble young masters" found the comment cutting rather than funny.
"...Hey, I'm joking. Come on, it's just a joke. Don't take it so seriously. You're making it scary to even speak."
Robert tried to smooth things over, but it didn't work this time.
"...Yeah. Maybe you're right."
Jonas collapsed onto his bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
"I really thought we wouldn't have to fight."
"..."
"Even if war did break out, I figured we'd get promoted before we ever had to go to the field. I mean, we're graduates of the Imperial Military Academy. Surely they'd fast-track us into comfortable positions, right? You can become a battalion staff officer as a first lieutenant. Whether in logistics or operations… I thought we'd never actually have to fight in the field."
He rubbed his face like a man confessing his sins.
"In hindsight, it's ridiculous. Maybe even laughable. None of us came to the academy to become soldiers. We came because we had nothing to inherit."
"My father forced me in to get some use out of his son being in the military."
"Damn. I'm sorry, Robert. You didn't even need to be here."
"Hey! It's a joke! I mean, it's true, but still!"
Robert tried once again to lighten the mood. But again, it only made things worse.
Everyone already knew Robert's story: he had loudly declared that he'd buy a hereditary title, retire early, and marry a blonde beauty.
He wasn't a noble, had no ties to the military, and was the sole heir to the fabulously wealthy Oliver Trading Company.
The only reason he was here was because of Oliver's ambition.
Had Robert not entered the academy, Oliver would've used his vast wealth to ensure his son never got drafted.
"Calm down. Yes, things look bad right now. But panicking won't change anything."
Ernest, sensing the gloom, calmly stepped in.
"…You're right. But Ernest, we're not like you. We're not as strong. I think we're allowed to be a little depressed right now."
"…Okay."
Ernest responded in a composed, almost adult-like tone as he met the weary gazes of his peers.
Even though he felt the same fear and anxiety, he couldn't show it. His peers looked up to him as someone exceptional.
He was just a slightly unusual cadet.
But he had led them well through many training exercises, and now, in this chaotic moment, Ernest was a quiet but solid pillar for them.
He couldn't let them see him shake. He had to stay calm—just like always.
Knock knock knock.
A knock broke the silence.
"Yes?"
Ernest quickly stood and opened the door.
Given the courteous knock, it was probably a soldier—but one couldn't be too careful.
"…Lieutenant Colonel Hartmann."
"It's alright. Be at ease."
Seeing Ferdinand's father, Mark Hartmann, at the door, Ernest momentarily froze but quickly saluted.
The others also jumped up to salute, but Mark waved them off with a tired smile.
Even in this tense situation, he was trying to be gentle with his son's friends.
"Krieger. I need to speak with you for a moment. Is that alright?"
"Yes."
The bitter note in Mark's voice made Ernest's hair stand on end.
Still, he calmly followed him out.
Mark didn't say a word as they walked. His narrow shoulders looked too burdened for Ernest to speak.
Click.
Mark brought him to his office and closed the door.
"Sit. Do you like tea?"
"Ah, I…"
"Don't worry. Just sit."
Ernest awkwardly hesitated, then realized Mark was treating him not as a soldier but as his son's friend.
He obediently took a seat.
The room was plain, clean, and without a single decoration. Mark began brewing tea with practiced ease.
Neither spoke, and the silence only amplified the sense of despair.
"I deeply regret not persuading Ferdi."
Mark's quiet voice made Ernest flinch.
Though he knew it wasn't his fault, he felt like he was being blamed.
"I just saw him. He's stubborn, just like his grandfather. I wish he'd been more like me, obedient to his father..."
It seemed Ferdinand had insisted on going to the front.
And because it wasn't for glory, Heinz and Mark couldn't stop him.
Ferdinand did it because he felt he had to—because he chose to.
Forcing him otherwise would mean breaking the person that was Ferdinand Hartmann.
A silence passed.
Mark poured tea into a cup and placed it before Ernest.
"Thank you."
"..."
Ernest offered thanks out of politeness, but Mark looked even more pained.
So Ernest already knew what this was about.
Having failed to stop his son, Mark now faced his son's friend, pale and weary.
"Krieger, as the sole heir to your family, you should never have been considered for deployment to the front."
Traditionally.
Ernest understood what that word meant.
"But many people… they…"
Mark struggled.
But when he saw Ernest's firm expression, he finally forced the words out.
"…many are hoping you'll volunteer for the front."
Ernest was a graduate of the Empire's top academy.
Its most outstanding cadet in recent history.
And above all, he was the son of Haires Krieger—a living hero awarded the Noble Heart Medal.
He had enlisted voluntarily, arrived at the 2nd Corps HQ where live combat was happening, and now—if he declared he would also go to the front—it would seem like a heroic act.
It would be an inspiration.
Just like Ferdinand Hartmann.
Ernest wanted to run away.
He'd been trained rigorously by his father and the senior instructors.
Even though he'd never been in war, he understood its horror.
But he couldn't say he wanted out.
Not because of his father's honor.
Not because of his friends.
Or not only because.
Haires would want his son to come home alive. His friends wouldn't blame him if he stayed safe.
But those in power had no intention of letting that happen.
This war was disgusting and cowardly.
It had a flimsy justification.
If anyone began to question it, the military would come under fire—not just from the public, but from soldiers too.
So they needed banners.
Symbols.
Ferdinand Hartmann, who truly volunteered.
And Ernest Krüger, who could be made to.
No matter what he said, he would not escape the frontlines.
If he even slightly performed well, they'd trumpet it as the heroic deeds of a decorated soldier's son.
They might even want him to die tragically.
A noble death in battle—an ideal propaganda piece.
Criticism would come too late.
By then, few would remember him.
"..."
"..."
Ernest stared at Mark, who averted his gaze in guilt.
Mark had no reason to be here.
He was the operations officer under the chief of staff and probably the busiest person in the HQ.
He'd been sent here to "persuade nicely."
If that failed, less kind methods might follow.
Following orders with a smile was probably the best Ernest could hope for.
His father was a hero—but their family had nothing but a bit of wealth.
No real power.
Mark saw that Ernest had already realized everything.
His eyes said it all—clear, but trembling.
"…I'll… I'll try to delay your deployment as long as I can."
He spoke with a voice distorted by guilt.
New officers wouldn't be sent straight into battle.
They needed at least basic training, and reinforcements would be used to replace fallen officers, not form new units.
The best Mark could do was delay Ernest's deployment.
"If you promise to do the same for my friends," Ernest said, voice shaking slightly but without hesitation, "I'll do as you ask."
Ernest's bravery paled compared to the fear Mark felt—having persuaded his son's friend to walk into death.
Mark couldn't raise his head.
His clenched hands trembled.
As if someone had stretched the sound of the rain across time, the downpour echoed endlessly through the room.
"…Alright."
Mark finally squeezed the word out.
Ernest drank the now-cold tea silently, while Mark sat there trying to bury his despair in the flow of time.
"May I be excused now?"
Ernest asked after finishing his tea.
Mark nodded slowly.
Ernest stood, saluted, and turned to leave.
"..."
Mark simply stared at his empty cup, never having poured a drop for himself.
Ernest lowered his hand, stepped away, and left the room.
"…Why are we doing this…?"
Alone now, Mark whispered hoarsely.
Why did Emperor Walter do this?
Mark knew the answer.
Even cadets could see it—of course he did.
That question was nothing more than an expression of helpless guilt.
***
"Ernest. What was that about?"
"Did they say they'd reassign you to the rear?"
The moment he returned, the others pounced on him with questions. Ernest met their desperate eyes and gave a small smile.
"Not exactly. But Lieutenant Colonel Hartmann promised he'd do his best to delay our deployment."
"..."
A flood of emotion washed over everyone's faces.
Anger that a friend destined to inherit a noble house had to go to the front.
Relief that they themselves might survive a little longer.
Guilt that they felt relief about Ernest not escaping.
Fear of the war.
"For now, let's just rest. We've been in transport all day, and my back is killing me. Wouldn't want to collapse at tomorrow's ceremony, so I'm going to sleep."
"Ah… yeah… okay."
Ernest's composure helped the others calm down and start getting into bed.
Though Ernest closed his eyes, he couldn't sleep either.
But there was nothing else to do.
Worrying would only waste energy.
***
The next day, the commissioning ceremony was held for new officers from across the nation.
Even during wartime, the ceremony was grand. Lieutenant General Olaf Cohen, commander of the 2nd Corps, attended in person.
Due to the rain, it was held indoors.
Some steps were skipped due to wartime urgency.
Olaf Cohen was an elderly man with white hair and deep facial lines, exuding warmth—but his booming voice and solid frame showed vitality.
His green eyes, however, were cold as a snake's.
The ceremony went smoothly.
After oaths and assignments, Olaf gave a short speech, the new officers received their insignias, and it ended.
But by that evening, everyone knew: Ferdinand Hartmann and Ernest Krieger had "volunteered" for the frontlines.
Since it would've been too obvious if Olaf announced it during the ceremony, they spread it afterward as a rumor.
"Ernest, what is this?"
"Is it true? Did you really say that?"
Their fellow Imperial Academy cadets rushed to ask. They didn't believe it.
Ernest wasn't the kind to chase war.
They knew this.
He was the madman who abandoned a winnable mock battle because of a slim risk.
…Looking back, maybe he was the only sane one.
Now that they were here, they realized—war itself is madness.
"I did say it, technically."
Even with a bitter smile, Ernest admitted it.
The noble-born cadets understood.
But none could speak out.
None had the power or courage to take responsibility.
"..."
Ferdinand frowned, visibly displeased.
He knew it was wrong, but also knew he couldn't speak up—not as a brand-new second lieutenant.
"I miss Wilfried…"
They all wished Wilfried were here.
He would've brought clarity and comfort.
"He's a duke's son. This place isn't for him."
"Yeah… the young lord should be sipping wine back in Grimarn."
And no one wanted the kind, soft-hearted, beautiful Wilfried to get dragged into this.
He was golden—too gentle for war.
"Ah, I need to write him."
"Yeah. Totally forgot."
Everyone began writing letters—initially meant for family or lovers—but ended up writing to Wilfried first.
"Can I still call him 'young lord'?"
"Why not? It's a letter. What's he gonna do, yell from Grimarn?"
"Fair. …Damn. I've been corrupted by you."
"Don't speak that way about the Academy's paragon of virtue—me, Robert Jimman!"
"Click your tongue all you want."
They addressed him as "young lord."
Wilfried had once disliked it—but now, it was a nickname from friends, and he seemed to accept it.
Ernest also wrote to Wilfried—mostly teasing him.
Aside from that, he jokingly reminded Wilfried of a "debt" and threatened to collect it.
Anyone reading it might think Wilfried owed him money.
Only after that did they write to their families.
Then the tears came.
They all knew: this might be their final letter.
Ernest wrote his father, Haires.
He told him not to worry, that he'd be okay, that he'd survive using the lessons he'd been taught.
He remembered saying he wanted to be a Beowatcher, when he hadn't known a thing.
He remembered the training, the happy moments spent with his father.
Those memories felt blinding now.
And like his father, Ernest smiled faintly—despite the darkness around him.