Chapter 111 - Like the Eyes of a Lost Child (7)
Ernest had been granted a day of rest, but he didn't know what he was supposed to do.
Maybe he should go meet the newly arrived recruits, at least show his face.
But honestly, he didn't see what the point would be and felt only weariness.
"Krieger."
Benzen found Ernest sitting alone in the dark tent, the lamps unlit.
"…Lieutenant Johannson."
Ernest addressed him formally, but Benzen only stared a moment before smiling gently.
Better to be called "senior" than Lieutenant Johannson or 1st Platoon Leader, he thought.
Benzen flicked something into Ernest's hand. Ernest caught it lightly and examined it.
"…Is this really okay?"
He turned over a smooth, shining silver mirror—only a thin silver layer over the reflective side, topped with glass. It must be valuable.
"I told you, I don't look in mirrors. And if someone's going to take it anyway, better that a fellow training instructor who suffered under Captain Kohler gets it."
Benzon had survived tenaciously since the war began, watched six other platoon leaders die, and had seen returning soldiers scavenging the fallen for supplies.
Though he was only eighteen, Benzen felt he'd already lived long enough—for surviving over twenty battles in just a month was nothing short of miraculous.
Anyone can die—right here.
Right now.
That's why Benzen had given this expensive mirror to Ernest: because Ernest Krieger was an extraordinary man.
Back at the Royal Military Academy, Ernest had looked like a wild animal in a manicured garden—he'd stood out. But here, in this inferno, he fit perfectly.
The real outsiders were the polished young nobles like Benzen or Robert.
Even those new for only two days. Benzen believed in Ernest's survival—everyone did.
"So, um… could you do me a favor in return?"
"..."
"Sorry. But I'm not sure who else to give it to."
"You have your company commander."
"He's… still too far away."
So Benzen handed him a letter he'd been too hesitant to give before. Major Kohler was a trusted superior, a fine man—but too distant.
"I'll keep it for now. But you'll regret this."
"Why?"
"If you ask for it back, I won't give it. And if you want it destroyed, you'll have to pay extra."
Ernest tucked the letter into the box of his mirror and spoke casually.
"You've definitely got a price on your head now."
"The more money, the better."
"You're not wrong. I wish we had more."
They smiled, just as they used to during academy days. But the shadow of war clung to them—they'd never laugh like before.
Not ever.
After Benzen left, Ernest closed his eyes, turned on a lamp, lathered soap, and began shaving with the mirror. A quick nick stung his chin and philtrum, but no blood.
He stared at his freshly shaven face; only a few days had passed, but he looked ten years older. That single battle had drained him entirely.
He'd slept poorly—bright muzzle flashes haunted his eyelids, while gunfire boomed in his ears.
He pictured the child soldiers who died crouched and defeated, the ones flinging themselves forward, guns raised but empty, their screams—then he aimed and pulled the trigger. He relived the wrenching agony in his chest and throat.
He paused, staring at his razor, fought for composure, and stepped outside.
"Lieutenant."
"Sergeant Gustav."
Gustav was leaning by the fire outside, hiding a cigarette in his hand, trying to look casual. Ernest waved him off, approaching. Gustav puffed cautiously.
"Phew…"
The rain and crackle of fire were the only sounds between them for a while.
"About yesterday…"
Gustav spoke hesitantly.
"You did… magnificently. I'm not in position to judge, but…"
"Thank you. You were magnificent too—I survived because of you."
"…Thanks."
An awkward warmth passed between them. Gustav scratched his unkempt beard.
"But it wasn't just me. Without you… we'd have broken and run. There was no escape—those men would've been trapped and killed."
He spoke of death so matter-of-factly, but his eyes still held unshakable terror.
"You've earned respect—from soldiers, comrades, and even superiors. Except those high-ups—they haven't faced real combat."
Gustav joked bitterly, cutting the cloud of command—officers with medals but no battlefield grit should be either broken or removed, he said. Ernest laughed so hard it shook his shoulders.
They had been taught harsh realism by senior instructor Kohler at the Academy.
Ernest thought sometimes—if only General Mannheim were supreme commander, and Kohler his regimental commander—so many things wouldn't be necessary.
He thought, often in his mind, "If only it weren't for Emperor Walter Ulrich Mihahil…"
He dared not voice the blasphemy.
"Thanks to you, I survived another day. The whole battalion is talking."
Gustav cherished the last of his cigarette.
"I did nothing."
Ernest took pride in being withdrawn from combat for a day, but despised how his role in the previous battle had been inflated.
Gustav smiled knowingly.
"Once you hear how other platoons fared, you'll change your tune. I didn't mean our battalion."
He thought of how all 2nd company's platoon leaders were Academy grads now—just like the ones who'd made him distrustful before.
"Go face your men. Those who survived will be glad to see you. The fresh ones have heard stories."
"I will. But first… I need to see my friend. I feel restless."
Ernest took Gustav's advice seriously. He thought Robert would feel just as unsettled.
Gustav looked pained, as if wanting to say something more about Robert—but held back, finishing his last drag.
In Gustav's eyes, Robert didn't look like a fool—but he didn't look like he'd last long either. Gustav wanted to advise Ernest not to waste care on someone likely to die soon—but couldn't.
"See you later."
"…Yes."
Ernest sensed the rest of that unspoken advice, and silently went to 3rd Platoon.
Finding Robert wasn't hard—he was surrounded by NCOs and troopers, cheerfully chatting near their fire.
Robert's noble birth and academy background didn't prevent him from fitting in. He wasn't arrogant; he listened to his NCOs and led well.
"Second Platoon Leader."
"Just sit."
The soldiers snapped a salute when they saw Ernest. They'd fought alongside him yesterday and looked at him now with profound respect.
"Well, well, isn't this Krieger the Great?"
Robert greeted warmly.
His tone hinted he'd been spreading stories about Ernest.
They said Ernest's father was a war hero and he'd shone in his first battle.
Robert bristled with pride for his friend.
"Famous? Just another rookie lieutenant."
"Don't be modest. You outdid the staff officer's nephew and the duke's son. Then what about cute Ferdie or the Duke's boy?"
"…If I were Ferdinand, I'd shut that nonsense fast."
"Better force him to, maybe."
Ernest just nodded. Robert raised his brow, shook his butt, and rose.
"Just relax."
"I will, sir."
Robert waved to the men and led them to his tent. It was messy, lived-in. He swept debris aside for Ernest to sit.
"You graduated and didn't tidy up?"
"Am I your mother? You here to nag?"
"Since I met you you've nagged me nonstop—don't get all surprised."
"Right."
Robert scratched his greasy hair. He'd probably just washed his face this morning—and not shaved.
Ernest knew Robert could be messy—after three years sharing a room, he knew all his habits. Robert was sunk in fear, pretending bravado, talking to drown it out.
He'll be dead tomorrow, so why bother washing? Why bother tidying? What's the point? Ernest thought.
"Get a grip. You're dirtier than a pig in a sty."
"Not quite. And tomorrow we'll be crawling in the woods again—what's the point of washing?"
Robert waved the comment away, then froze at his own words.
"You're presumptuous, you know? Think you can marry someone like Major Kirchner?"
"…"
"Why would she want you? Wealth? Plenty of barons and counts would kill for that."
"You look like chewed-up jerky and still have delusions, huh?"
Robert snapped:
"Hey—I'm not chewed-up jerky!"
"You're clueless. Not seen a mirror?"
Ernest handed him the silver mirror from Benzen. Robert grabbed it, peered in—but the tent was dim.
He found the lamp, switched it on, and looked again.
"…This isn't me! I'm not chewed-up jerky!"
"You are—and that's a mirror. Think Major Kirchner's interested in you? You, chewed-up jerky?"
"Ahhh!"
He ripped at his sticky hair, raced out into the rain, yanking a face wash from his tent. He washed soap into his hair and face—even in clothes—underneath the deluge.
"Need to shave! Let me borrow that mirror!"
Ernest clicked his tongue, stepped away from Robert's tent, mirror in hand.
It wasn't much—but to lift someone from despair doesn't require a noble cause.
A small spark that tomorrow will come is enough.
In a war's inferno, forget blond beauties. He couldn't recall Major Kirchner's face after yesterday. But Robert understood Ernest was helping—so he clung to that small spark, rather than let it go.
He scrubbed and scrubbed until his eyes burned from soap in the rain.
Troopers murmured, but he didn't care. He persisted, red eyes streaming tears and snot.
Ernest didn't look back—that's what friends do. Especially men, he thought.
Then he went back to 2nd Platoon, talking briefly to each soldier.
True to Gustav's words, survivors snapped to salute and felt pride. New men, too, glowed with hope at his presence.
He turned to his squad leaders.
"Check who among the troops wants to learn reading and writing."
"…Yes?"
He laughed at their stunned faces.
"I'll teach them. There's more to life than fighting. Knowing to read and write changes lives. It'll help them after the war."
Half the platoon stepped forward, eager to learn. Even NCOs and Gustav volunteered.
For poor commoners, such opportunity was rare—they'd barely scrape enough to learn letters, much less grammar.
"Is there anyone who knows Bellian? Even speaking and listening would help."
One soldier spoke up.
"I...I know some."
"Lucky. You'll be my teacher going forward."
"Wh—No!"
"Since I'm their teacher, you're mine too."
Ernest decided to learn Bellian from that soldier—he'd needed it yesterday, when he couldn't understand the enemy officer's orders. He needed to learn.
Raised strictly by his father, he'd studied hard at the Academy—learning and growth defined him. He couldn't just sit idle.
He wrote clean text in the Empire's common language on paper and distributed copies around.
The soldiers sat by the fire, studying pronunciation and practicing on the ground. Ernest mimicked Bellian letters on the dirt—within ten minutes, he could read them aloud, haltingly but clearly.
His accent might have struck a native Bellian as comical, and the soldier teaching him knew only rudimentary words—still, being able to read was something.
Naturally, the display drew others from the other platoons and battalions.
"What are you all doing?"
Commander Yurgen squinted at the group scribbling on the ground, then chuckled.
"Afternoon classes?"
"Education, sir."
"Ha."
Yurgen laughed.
Then added:
"Don't limit it to yourselves. Invite the others; this is good for everyone."
"That's not up to me."
"Fine, I'll clear the way."
Yurgen, as company commander, would officially support Ernest's classes.
"I want to learn proper Bellian. Can you find me a teacher?"
"Are you academy brats always so demanding? Asking for one thing after another?"
"Is that so wrong?"
"If you can learn, then learn."
Yurgen grudgingly promised to find teachers.
"What brings you here, Yurgen?"
Partly recalling his earlier purpose, Yurgen corrected:
"The battalion commander said he'd give you a medal. Said you should freshen up—look at you, you're fine already. Let's go."
"I don't deserve any medal."
"If they're giving it, what are you gonna do? Don't like it? You can become a battalion commander."
Ernest frowned but couldn't refuse—it was ordered from above.
He was his own harshest critic.
The 2nd company's breakthrough into enemy rear lines wasn't solely him, yet it was a decisive victory. Jürgen hadn't expected him to perform that well.
They had repelled the enemy with minimal losses. Though 2nd Platoon faltered briefly, they held. Without them, other units may have collapsed. 3rd Company might have suffered greatly, too.
For a seventeen-year-old rookie platoon leader, it was a stunning feat—and worthy of at least one medal.
Normally, medals go to the company commander, not platoon leaders.
Yurgen had led tactical decisions, after all.
So this medal should have been his.
Still, he didn't protest.
The medal Ernest received was the Order of Merit—the second-lowest excluding the Valor Cross.
It recognized real contribution, yet spared him the indignity of a bravery cross.
He was relieved not to have gotten the highest bravery award.
He felt disgusted having a company commander pin a medal on him in the middle of a battle. Word of it spread quickly, and more attention came his way—but he couldn't stand it. Felt like livestock being fattened up before slaughter.
He immediately took off the medal, shoved it in a box with its ribbon, and resolved never to wear it again.
To distract himself, he threw himself into teaching.
"I want to teach math, science, rhetoric—military studies might be too much. How about economics together?"
"Are you crazy? Most of those guys can't even write their names."
Robert stepped in—they'd scare everyone off if he tried too much.
Ernest accepted his advice—he'd go step by step.
Maybe he'd die next battle—but he'd put that aside.
This was his escape—his way to cope with the war's horror.
And teaching wasn't a crime.
Watching the platoon write their names lazily but smiling reminded him of Marie.
Probably reminded Robert, too.
He couldn't know if Marie was safe. Fellow classmates… lucky to survive first battle. But he knew nothing of others.
If only he could send letters. But a simple platoon leader asking for other officers' assignments would be brushed off.
Then—"Wilfried!"
An inspiration.
He'd ask Wilfried to get info on classmates; they'd surely written to him about their units.
Wilfried, the duke's son, cared about Marie too. He'd feel obligated to help.
Wilfried genuinely admired Marie—"the white monkey," an Aeblon child—who thrived even amid cold stares, inspired by Ernest's lessons.
Wilfried was gentle, kind, unusual for a noble—free of classism or ethnocentrism.
To him, Marie was proof he'd been right—and he wouldn't refuse Ernest's request.
Even if he hadn't recognized that he cared for her.
When he realized—he'd be both enraged and unsettled.
Ernest understood him better than himself.
So Ernest would ask gently—without stirring Wilfried's delicate feelings.
At least he himself had matured enough not to hurt him more.
***
Martin Krueger—struggled, unshaven and briefly disheveled, pressing his forehead, gasping.
"…So you just turned back?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. There was nothing more I could do."
"That's not an answer…"
His golden hair soaked, his eyes blazing, he glared at the Special Security Bureau agent.
But he knew that no more could've been done.
So 'Martin Krueger'—spared the agent's life.
Major General Olaf Cohen of the 2nd Corps had arranged Ernest's "voluntary transfer" to the front lines.
Despite the Bureau's plans to sneak him out, heavy rain delayed orders—by just one day.
Haires' escape shouldn't have happened—Ernest, the heir of a hero, shouldn't have been sent to the front.
So why did a general push a seventeen-year-old heir into battle?
Because the 2nd Corps' situation was dire—and maybe they needed morale.
Enemy Bellian forces weren't weak.
Was Corps infantry in bad shape?
Did faulty intel lead to this mess?
Or was it a fluke?
"Where is Ernest Krieger now?"
"Unknown, sir. We have agents on him…"
"…"
"Reports say he asked that all academy-trained officers be sent in last. Cohen approved it—so he likely assumed his platoon leader role."
"Damn…"
Martin ran a hand across his face, cursing.
With weather chaos, Bureau coordination suffered.
If Ernest died—after such a public display—his father Haires would find out instantly.
They couldn't extract him now—too many eyes were on him. An attempt would draw suspicion.
The Empire was on edge.
A small misstep, and the Bureau's existence would be exposed.
"Status on tracking?"
"We're narrowing down… should find him soon."
"Soon… sigh"
Martin rubbed his forehead.
"If only we could buy one more day."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who he is."
"Oh, that's right…"
He remembered the day the chase began—and how Haires escaped their grasp, despite overwhelming numbers.
He'd made a mistake—they should have subdued him alive. But they hesitated—and lost three agents who tried to effect assassination or capture.
Even the Baltarcher failed—Haires shot at his head, and did it again even after being knocked off by telekinesis. He escaped through the sewers of Grimman.
Agents operating in the city gave up—they didn't know the sewer maps.
Only Haires did.
But now he was wounded, older, weaker.
They were putting everything into the chase—they'd catch him soon.
If he just avoided towns—still, they held control.
If Haires mingled among crowds—he'd disappear.
But he might have set traps—to collapse the Empire.
Haires, the founder of the Bureau, carried every secret in his head—they must prevent him from contacting anyone.
If he dies, bombs might still blow. He likely set death-warrants as failsafes—including death that kills them.
At least Ernest lived—so far.
Martin exhaled heavily, feeling overwhelmed.
"This is a mess."
Even he, at the heart of the Bureau, didn't know which way the Empire was headed.