Chapter 107 - Like the Eyes of a Lost Child (3)
Ernest asked Gustav to bring the squad leaders over. It would be better to give Gustav some time to speak with them beforehand rather than Ernest showing up unannounced.
"..."
Inside the dark tent, Ernest looked around, then began to unpack and organize the few belongings he had brought. Most of it was inconsequential, but his heart medicine had to be handled with care.
'Father needs to send more before I run out.'
Ernest decided to ration what was left as best he could. But even cutting the tablets in half, it wouldn't last very long.
Click.
Opening a box, Ernest examined the contents. One pair of officer boots, and two neatly folded officer uniforms—that was it.
'Looks like they took anything useful.'
Ernest realized that the surviving members of the 2nd Company had rifled through the dead former platoon leader's belongings. The uniforms weren't usable, so they were left behind, but the boots—unless inspected closely—wouldn't reveal themselves as officer-issued, so those were probably taken.
The boots left behind were so small, even sixteen-year-old Ernest wouldn't have been able to wear them. Most likely, they had belonged to a young platoon leader recently appointed and now deceased.
'When I die, someone will probably take mine, too.'
He placed his spare boots inside the box with a touch of self-mockery.
After that, Ernest turned to the mess scattered across the table. Low-quality paper, an ink bottle, a quill, a Balt battery, a notebook—all jumbled together in disarray.
It was likely left that way after being ransacked by soldiers.
'Now that I think about it, I wasn't even issued a weapon or armor.'
He realized that the only weapon he had at the moment was a nail clipper knife. Everything had been so chaotic that it hadn't even occurred to him before.
He began straightening the messy table while sorting through various thoughts in his head. That wasn't enough for him—he took in the entire interior of the tent and meticulously rearranged the table, chairs, boxes, and bed with obsessive thoroughness.
Gustav arrived rather late. Ernest had already finished organizing everything and was arranging the table for the fourth time.
"Platoon Leader."
"Come in."
Ernest replied without pausing in his movements. Gustav entered first, followed by three men.
"..."
Ernest finished organizing the table with a blank expression. It took less than ten seconds.
But even in that short time, it was enough for him to observe—with his wide field of vision—who was fidgeting from impatience or casting annoyed glances.
Tap.
After placing the ink bottle down, Ernest slowly raised his head to look at Gustav.
"Thank you for your effort, Sergeant Gustav. Please wait outside for a moment."
"…Yes, sir."
Gustav flinched.
Just moments ago, Ernest had seemed like a polite and modest young man, but now he spoke like a dried-up old tree, lips barely moving, his tone flat and dry.
"..."
Seated in a perfectly composed posture, Ernest stared at the squad leaders without even blinking. Outside, the sound of rain and gunfire swirled around the tent, but it seemed unable to penetrate the darkness within.
Step.
In the suffocating silence, a relatively young man looked around and saluted with precise form.
Next, a man of average build followed suit.
However, the last one simply glared at Ernest.
A moment later, the burly man finally offered a half-hearted salute.
Only then did Ernest rise slowly from his seat and return the salute.
Once Ernest lowered his hand, the squad leaders followed.
They realized that this young platoon leader was surprisingly tall and had rough, scarred hands.
"Ernest Krieger."
He spoke calmly, in the same tone his father had once used.
The squad leaders, and even Gustav, shifted their eyes toward one man—the one who had been last to salute.
"You seem to have a lot on your mind, Sergeant Ralf."
Ernest, taller than Ralf, slightly tilted his chin downward and spoke.
"Sergeant Gustav, how long has it been since he was promoted?"
"Four days, sir."
"I will demote him to private. Sergeant Kol of the 2nd squad will be transferred to lead the 1st squad. Select a new 2nd squad leader. Sergeant Kol, Ralf is your subordinate now—make sure you manage him properly."
"…Platoon Leader."
Gustav called out in a calm voice, but Ernest didn't give him the chance to speak further.
"Ralf, any complaints?"
Ernest tilted his head slightly, asking.
Ralf's face flushed with rage, trembling.
"You threw a fit without saluting or introducing yourself just because a young, green platoon leader arrived and announced plans to redistribute Bellian-born soldiers from the 3rd squad."
Ernest didn't raise his voice.
He spoke quietly, like his father had.
Yet his presence was overwhelming—so much so that even seasoned soldiers in their 30s, hardened by war, wouldn't dare oppose him.
"That…!"
"Ralf, do you wish for me to disobey the company commander's orders and send you all charging into enemy lines to your deaths?"
The expression on everyone's faces tightened.
They all respected and trusted their brilliant commander, Yuergen.
No matter how capable this young platoon leader seemed or what brilliant ideas he had, anyone who disobeyed Yuergen's orders was already as good as dead.
"You want me to follow the company commander's orders properly, don't you?"
Ernest walked around the table and approached Ralf, stopping in front of him.
Looking down, he continued in a low voice.
"You won't even salute your superior?"
"...."
"Or do you think Sergeant Gustav has gone blind and can no longer judge right from wrong? Do you think something he approved is just a baseless whim of a new officer?"
"...."
"Why should I trust someone like you—who lacks a single redeeming trait—as a squad leader?"
Ralf had no retort.
Ernest's words were all true.
Ralf had hoped Ernest would simply obey Yuergen's orders and keep quiet—while he himself had the gall not to salute.
He was fuming because of Ernest's decision, made in consultation with Gustav, to reassign Belian-born soldiers.
How could anyone trust a man like that to lead nine soldiers?
"At the very least, you could've voiced your concerns. At your age, can't even express your thoughts properly, just scowling and hoping someone understands?"
Ernest crushed Ralf's pride thoroughly, speaking without a hint of emotion.
"I don't care how experienced a soldier you are. You can't even fulfill the minimum responsibilities of a squad leader. I have zero expectations of you. Leaving the position vacant would be better. Even a conscript with only basic training would be preferable—they'd at least know they're weak and unskilled and wouldn't act like they know everything."
That cut deeply.
Ernest had just done exactly what Ralf feared most from a new platoon leader.
"…I'm sorry."
Ralf gritted his teeth and squeezed out an apology.
Had Ernest relied solely on rank and status to pressure him, Ralf would've scoffed and dismissed him.
But Ernest had used intellect and logic to convincingly get his point across—not only to Ralf but to everyone else.
Once Ralf apologized, Ernest didn't press further—he merely watched in silence.
Gustav, understanding what that silence meant, quickly began to speak in a careful tone.
"Platoon Leader, Sergeant Ralf may have overstepped, but his skills are reliable. He's worn out after repeated mistakes by previous leaders that cost many lives in the company. Now that he's admitted his error, might you consider giving him one more chance?"
After Gustav finished, Ernest slowly exhaled and appeared to think for a moment.
"You make a strong case, Sergeant Gustav. But there will be no next time."
"Understood. If anything like this happens again, I'll be the first to report it."
That feeling of perfect coordination.
Ernest already knew that Gustav—who had fought in the 1st Conquest War and was in his forties—was cautious and perceptive.
So, Ernest acted just as he would when dealing with Robert or Wilfried—people who were always in sync with him—and Gustav, having read Ernest's intent, played along perfectly.
Ernest stepped back, and Ralf was finally able to breathe.
"Sergeant Sven."
"Yes, sir."
The 3rd squad leader, who had saluted first, answered quickly.
"Assess the squad members' relationships and organize them into groups of three. Report your findings to Sergeant Gustav."
"Yes, understood!"
Sven, tense, shouted his response.
"Sergeants Ralf and Kol—select the personnel who will be transferred into the 3rd squad."
"Yes, sir."
This time, both Ralf and Kol replied swiftly.
No one had complaints anymore about the redistribution of Bellian-born soldiers Ernest had packed into the 3rd squad.
"Once your tasks are done, take some rest and stand by."
"Yes, sir."
Ernest dismissed the squad leaders but signaled for Gustav to stay.
"I'll head over to receive my equipment. Come find me again once assignments are finalized. I need to inspect the squad."
"Understood."
Gustav responded with a more respectful tone than before. After Gustav exited the tent, Ernest leaned against the table, clutched his throbbing head, and closed his eyes.
'Damn it. I'll go mad from the people before I ever see combat.'
Ernest had encountered only a few types of people in his life—most of them well-educated noble youths or instructors.
The thought of how many more colorful idiots he'd meet from now on filled him with dread, making it hard to even step outside the tent.
Ernest left the tent.
The rain hadn't stopped yet.
He pulled on his raincoat again and headed to the supply tent.
Upon checking the documents he had received upon reassignment, the clerk quickly began handing out his assigned items.
"You haven't been issued your gear yet, huh?"
"Something like that."
Ernest gave a half-hearted reply.
Even the quartermaster was surprised.
At least in the Royal Capital, even emergency deployments provided basic equipment.
But apparently, here, if no one told you to get it, you simply didn't get it.
Ernest received the issued rifle, saber, and sidearm and returned to the tent.
The sword wasn't even a proper officer's blade but an outdated standard military saber.
"…"
He opened the case containing the rifle and checked it carefully.
It was old.
The balance was off, the recoil pad was too thin, and the trigger was loose.
But it wasn't unusable.
He adjusted the sights slightly and checked the chamber and bolt assembly.
He inserted the Balt battery, pulled the charging handle, and confirmed that it hummed faintly—the barrel slightly glowed.
'It's working at least.'
Still, he couldn't afford to trust it fully.
Ernest immediately pulled out his maintenance tools and disassembled the rifle on the table, beginning thorough maintenance.
This took more than thirty minutes.
By the time he finished reassembling and adjusting the internal resistance of the Balt flow system, Gustav returned with a slightly complex expression.
"Platoon Leader."
"Has it been sorted?"
"Yes. For now, only one soldier refused the transfer, and Sergeant Kol persuaded him. There shouldn't be a problem."
"Good."
Ernest placed the rifle on the table and stood up.
"Let's go inspect the platoon."
"Yes, sir."
The rain had eased a bit.
Ernest walked with Gustav through the rain, the sound of scattered gunfire still coming from the distance, now like the backdrop of an eternal storm.
"Sergeant Gustav."
"Yes?"
"Do you think I'm young?"
"…Yes. You are."
There was a pause, and then Gustav answered honestly.
Ernest smiled faintly.
"It's fine. I'm asking because I want to know."
"Platoon Leader, in the eyes of most of the soldiers here, you are very, very young. Too young. The battlefield does not forgive that."
"Even if I'm not young in terms of mindset or ability?"
"Even more so."
"Why?"
"Because their leaders have all been young."
"…"
Ernest gave no reply.
Gustav glanced at him before continuing.
"They can't believe in you because they've seen too many like you die. They've survived by not getting attached. The moment they start to trust you or like you, you die—and they die with you. That's how they've lived."
"So I have to endure their lack of trust, their refusal to be close, and their thinly veiled scorn."
"Yes. And still, you must protect them."
"Even if they don't follow me?"
"Yes."
"Even if I hate them?"
"Yes."
"…"
Ernest continued walking silently. Gustav followed him, never once stopping.
"That's the officer's role, Platoon Leader. No one will recognize you at first. They'll call you names behind your back. They'll test you and provoke you. But if you endure, survive, and protect them—then they will trust you. Because no soldier hates a leader who survives with them."
They had arrived in front of a cluster of tents.
The squad leaders were already waiting, their soldiers roughly lined up. Gustav had made them gather with the excuse of a rain gear inspection to avoid unnecessary tension.
There were some who looked confused, others irritated—but most simply looked lost. Just as Gustav had said, most of them were new recruits.
And then they saw him.
The rumors had already spread.
A seventeen-year-old second lieutenant.
A graduate of the Royal Military Academy.
A training instructor.
Top of his class three years in a row.
The hero's son.
'Hero's son.'
Ernest detested that title more than anything else.
He stepped forward slowly.
His expression was calm, as if nothing mattered.
He wasn't smiling, but neither did he scowl.
He looked over the platoon with cool eyes.
Some avoided his gaze.
Others stared back defiantly.
Many looked tired, anxious, or just plain indifferent.
He opened his mouth.
"I'm your new platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Ernest Krieger."
He kept it short and formal.
He didn't add unnecessary bluster.
No long-winded speeches about victory, loyalty, or courage.
Nothing about noble causes or high ideals.
He paused, looking at the thirty-five soldiers before him.
"I won't say much. I'm not here to inspire you. I'm not here to win your affection. I'm here to lead you. I will give you orders, and I expect them to be followed."
"..."
Silence fell like a weight across the wet, soggy camp.
Ernest walked forward slowly, passing by each squad one by one.
He didn't inspect them in the traditional way—instead, he looked at their eyes, their posture, their hands, their boots.
Who had cleaned their weapon.
Who still had bloodstains on their uniform.
Who looked down.
Who looked empty.
When he was done, he turned around and said,
"We'll be moving out tomorrow morning. Prepare yourselves."
Then he walked away.
That was all.
It wasn't motivational.
It wasn't charismatic.
It wasn't even kind.
But somehow, it made an impression.
"..."
After Ernest disappeared into the rain, the soldiers exchanged looks.
"…He's better than I expected."
One muttered.
"Still too young."
"Yeah, but… I've seen worse."
Sergeant Kol nodded slowly.
"He's not a fool."
Gustav watched his new platoon leader retreat into the rain and thought to himself.
'No. Not a fool at all. Maybe… he's exactly what we need.'
And for the first time since the war had begun, Gustav felt a sliver of hope—small and fragile, like a candle flickering in the storm.
But hope nonetheless.