Chapter 169 - Bringer of Light (4)
Ernest had to distinguish between civilians and surrendered enemies.
However, the enemy guerrilla unit wasn't completely foolish; they were dressed in the same shabby everyday clothes as the villagers.
"Those who originally lived in this village, stand up and step to the side."
At Ernest's command, people sprang to their feet and moved to the side in perfect unison.
Ernest quietly watched this scene, then turned around with an indifferent expression.
"Prepare to fire."
"Prepare to fire!"
Clack!
At Ernest's order, Robert shouted the command at the top of his lungs, and the soldiers pointed their muzzles at the bound captives.
Robert had no desire to actually shoot these people here. But if he hesitated now, the situation would only grow worse.
Robert trusted Ernest. If anyone could do something, it was Ernest.
"P-please, spare us!"
"Please! I beg you! I want to live!"
As they saw what was happening, people broke down in tears and fell to their knees.
Ernest stared down at them expressionlessly, his face devoid of all emotion.
"No, don't! Please, don't!"
A harsh, broken scream rang out from behind the soldiers who had their guns trained on the captives.
The soldiers didn't flinch, but Ernest slowly turned his head to look back.
An old man, dragged forward by a cavalryman who had dismounted, was gasping for breath and waving his hands frantically.
It was the old man they'd left outside the village at the start of the battle.
"Well done. Cavalry platoon, stay alert and rest while watching the perimeter."
"Yes, sir!"
After giving these orders to the cavalryman who'd brought the old man, Ernest grabbed the old man's narrow shoulders and brought him in front of the tied-up people.
"Sort them."
"P-pardon?"
"I mean, distinguish between the villagers and the enemy."
Everyone shuddered in terror at the word "enemy."
"Gering! Look at me! You haven't forgotten our family, have you?"
One of the men quickly called out to the old man. The old man—Gering—looked at him, then gave a slow nod.
"They live across from my home."
"Alright. Step aside."
"Gering! Gering!"
As Ernest pulled the man and his family out to the side, the others began to cry out in protest.
But at this point, calling out Gering's name was useless.
"They're my family."
"Good. All of you, come over here as well."
Gering then moved his entire family off to the side.
Among them was the middle-aged man who had gone into the village under Ernest's orders.
He looked a mess, as if he'd been beaten, but at least he was alive.
Old Gering, who had spent his whole life in this small rural village, had no trouble distinguishing neighbors from enemies.
"Gering! Please, spare me! It's me!"
"That bastard attacked our village."
"Drag him out."
"Aagh! Aaagh! This can't be happening! We're all Belliangians!"
"Don't talk nonsense! Did you see what you bastards did to our village!"
"It was the Imperials who killed people!"
"If you fools hadn't done something so stupid, none of this would've happened!"
Gering burst into tears as he hurled accusations at the guerrilla unit soldier who had been blaming him.
"What does it even mean to 'protect Belliang?' You lot stole our food and even raped our women! You're the real enemy here!"
At Gering's words, a woman among the villagers broke down in tears.
Even with their arms tied behind their backs, the villagers desperately tried to comfort and shield her.
During wartime, murder, looting, and rape against civilians are everyday occurrences.
This sort of thing doesn't only happen to the enemy nation—it often happens to one's own people as well.
It's a result of soldiers trying to cope with the stress of combat, and the feeling that they deserve some sort of reward for protecting their countrymen.
In that sense, the discipline of the Imperial Army was maintained at an almost unbelievable level.
Soldiers who broke the rules were executed on the spot or subjected to such harsh punishments they were left on the verge of death, making an example out of them.
But the authorities didn't only repress the troops; they also provided legal outlets to relieve stress—allowing soldiers to sleep with women through legitimate means, permitting alcohol in moderation, and granting them plenty of free time whenever they visited cities.
Cities and villages under Imperial occupation might have feared the Imperial Army, but they didn't necessarily hate them.
In fact, some even grew to like them.
Every time the soldiers passed through, they would spend money like mad.
Gering divided the people into two groups, as if he were a strict judge.
He felt not a shred of sympathy for the guerrilla unit that had occupied the village.
In fact, not only did he not hate the Imperial Army soldiers who had shot the villagers, he actually felt grateful to them.
Maybe that was partly because he hadn't witnessed the battle firsthand, but mostly, his hatred for the guerrilla unit had risen to the boiling point—and Ernest had granted him 'authority.'
Ernest had given Gering the power of life and death over the people.
In this moment, an old man from a powerless, remote country village could decide the fate of dozens with a single word.
Commoners could go their whole lives without ever giving an order to anyone outside their own children or grandchildren.
Simply rising to a higher status than others was almost unheard of.
So now, to be able to move dozens of people with a word—and even decide who would live or die—Gering savored the feeling, as if judging sinful men in the name of a god.
This was exactly what Ernest intended.
The moment Ernest told Gering, "Sort them," not only Gering, but this entire situation had begun moving within Ernest's grasp.
It looked as though everything had been resolved.
The guerrilla soldiers who had hidden among the villagers were now sobbing in despair, having given up all hope, while the villagers waited anxiously for Ernest to relieve the tension.
"..."
But Ernest did not utter the words everyone was waiting for. He simply gazed quietly at the gathered villagers, his eyes dark and sunken.
Ernest was torn.
He was thinking, deeply and painfully.
Ernest had always been someone who could think several times faster than others.
Now, it was as if a dam blocking his mind had burst—ever since the incident in the forest in front of Lanosel, his thought process had become even more powerful.
And yet, Ernest spent over a full minute in silent contemplation. In this moment, he was struggling with a depth of deliberation that others couldn't even imagine.
No one dared to speak.
Before they knew it, the village had fallen into utter silence. The hush that followed this seventeen-year-old's waiting was heavy—almost suffocating with fear.
With a single word from him, the fate of all thirty-nine gathered people would be decided. And not only that—on Ernest's face was an agonizing weight, one that his age could not possibly diminish or excuse.
At last, after a long, fraught silence, Ernest finally spoke.
"Point out the collaborators."
"…What?"
Startled, Gering looked at him in confusion. But Ernest hadn't been speaking to Gering. He turned, sternly facing the kneeling, weeping guerrilla unit soldiers, and repeated his order.
"Point out those who sided with you."
"M-My lord!"
Gering, horrified, tried to rush toward Ernest.
The 2nd Company members moved to restrain him, but it wasn't even necessary.
When Ernest glanced back at him with indifferent eyes, Gering's legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground.
Ernest strode over and grabbed one of the kneeling guerrilla unit soldiers, yanking him up with tremendous force and dragging him in front of the villagers.
"Point them out."
Ernest had chosen this particular soldier because he'd shown the most intense hatred toward Gering and the villagers.
This man saw himself as a fighter and savior for Belliang. He was utterly convinced he deserved a just reward for his hardships. That's why—even after looting the village and raping women—he felt not the slightest guilt.
He believed whatever he took was nothing more than compensation for his suffering, so he thought the villagers' hatred toward him was sheer ingratitude and that Gering's act of turning him in was an unforgivable betrayal of the nation.
Ernest saw all the hatred and resentment in him, understood the soldier's mindset, and found a way to make use of it.
"Joel! Little Joel!"
As soon as Ernest gave the order, the soldier screamed out a name at the top of his lungs.
"No! That's not true!"
A woman collapsed in terror, shouting back.
Ernest gazed impassively at her, then quietly observed the boy trembling behind her, desperately trying to hide even though his hands were bound.
"You said you wanted to drive out the invaders with us and protect Belliang, right? You learned how to fire a gun from us! You said you'd fight with us, and when the time came, we put a gun in your hands!"
"I saw you clearly aiming your gun at the Imperial Army and pulling the trigger! That's right! Just like you said, you're not a little kid—you're a proud soldier of Belliang!"
The soldier Ernest dragged over screamed at Joel's small back, the young boy's body shaking with terror. Joel broke down, overcome by fear, broke into tears, and collapsed to the ground, wetting himself and trembling uncontrollably.
"Please! Please, sir! Please spare us! I'm begging you!"
Joel's mother, her face drained so pale she barely looked human, stumbled toward Ernest before losing her balance and falling.
She crawled forward on her knees, pressing her forehead to the ground as she pleaded.
Blood trickled from cuts on her forehead and knees, mixing with the dirt until it stained her skin black.
"Joel is only twelve! He's just a child—he has no idea what he's done! Those bastards dragged him away and tricked him!"
"Tricked him? Don't make me laugh! That kid Joel knew exactly what he was doing! He said again and again he wanted to shoot every last Imperial bastard dead!"
"You cowards who didn't even have the guts to fight the Empire and just tormented us—you're the ones who tricked my son!"
"They said the Imperial Army is nothing but a bunch of scarecrows, and that they could kill every last one of them!"
"What…! You crazy bitch!"
The woman, ready to do anything to protect her son, raised her face—now smeared with a mix of blood and dirt—and, as if coughing up blood, spat her rage at the guerrilla unit soldiers. Ignoring whatever they shouted back, she crawled all the way to Ernest, then pressed her torn forehead to the ground at his feet.
"Sir! Joel is just a child—he knows nothing! Please, I beg you, spare Joel! It's my fault he's like this—I raised him wrong! This is all my fault! Please, kill me instead!"
Ernest silently looked down at the desperate woman. He exhaled slowly, blinked, then knelt on one knee before her.
"Aaagh!"
Ernest grabbed her by the nape and hoisted her up in one swift move. Then, with force, he shoved her toward the villagers and threw her among them.
"Take him away."
"No!"
At Ernest's command, the soldiers dragged Joel—still lying on the ground, sobbing—out of the house. Joel's mother cries out.
"Load those bastards onto the vehicle."
"Yes, Company Commander."
Ernest first ordered the guerrilla unit soldiers to be loaded onto the vehicle.
Then he approached Joel, who was so terrified he couldn't even stand properly.
Grabbing the body of the small, frail village boy, Ernest dragged him across the street strewn with corpses.
"Aaah! Aaahhhh!"
Joel's mother howled like a beast and tried to run to her son.
Barely able to stand, she clawed her way across the ground in desperation.
The 2nd Company members held her back, bitter expressions on their faces.
"Joel. Look."
Ernest gripped the boy—five years younger than himself—holding him tightly and practically hauling him upright, making sure Joel could see the bodies lying everywhere as he spoke.
"This is what a battle is. This is war."
"Huuu... Huuu..."
As Joel sobbed, Ernest's indifferent voice thundered in his ears.
"Do you hear your mother crying?"
"Joel! Jooeeel! Please! Please, have mercy! Joel is everything to me!"
"Now do you understand what you've done?"
Ernest shoved Joel, tossing him among the corpses.
"Aaah! Aaahhh!"
Joel screamed as he tumbled across the bodies.
Paralyzed by terror, he couldn't even get up and run away.
All he could do was thrash his legs, desperately trying to crawl away from the bodies sprawled around him.
Blood from the corpses stained the young boy red.
Ernest braced the gun he'd been carrying on his shoulder and aimed the muzzle at Joel, who was writhing atop the corpses.
Bang!
He fired in the blink of an eye.
There was no chance for anyone to react.
"Aaagh!"
Joel's piercing scream overlapped with the anguished cries of his mother.
"Release the villagers."
As Ernest slung his gun back over his shoulder, he gave the command.
The soldiers, swallowing nervously, began to untie the villagers.
"Jo, Joel! Joel!"
Before the soldiers could even finish untying her, Joel's mother crawled across the ground, wailing.
Ernest strode over, firmly pressed down on her back to stop her, and then personally untied the rope around her wrists.
he didn't seem to notice or care what Ernest was doing.
All she could do was stare at her son, sprawled out and shuddering on the ground.
Even if God Himself were to descend to earth at that very moment, she wouldn't have seen anything else.
As soon as Ernest finished untying her and stepped back, the woman scrambled to her feet and tried to run, but tripped over a corpse. Her shoe slipped off. She crawled over the bodies to gather her son into her arms, hugging him as tightly as she could.
"Jo, Joel, Joel..."
"M-Mother..."
With trembling hands, she fumbled over her son's body, caressing his tear-streaked face.
She pulled back his blood-soaked clothes, desperately searching for wounds.
"Hah! Hah! Hah...!"
Then she realized something was wrong.
She lifted Joel's shirt, which was stained dark with blood, only to find unblemished, pale skin underneath—not a single wound.
Even though he seemed to be gasping for air, he was breathing just fine.
As she frantically searched her son's body for wounds, Joel's mother suddenly recoiled, then pulled him tightly into her arms and collapsed over him, covering him completely.
"AAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAH!"
With every ounce of her strength, Joel's mother let out an anguished cry.
Anyone who saw her—or heard her—would have thought they were witnessing a mother mourning her entire world, lost with her young son.
"I really thought you were going to kill him, you bastard," Robert whispered, jabbing Ernest in the side under his cuirass.
"I did kill him," Ernest replied firmly, pushing Robert's shoulder away with his hand.
"Oh, of course. You're Captain Fox, after all—the one who can put a bullet clean through the eyeball of an enemy hiding a hundred paces deep in the dense forest, right?"
"Second Lieutenant Jitman, that's insubordination. 1st Platoon, full packs, ten laps around the village."
"Let's wrap it up!"
The operation was over.
Now it was time to clean up.
Standing amidst the bustle of busy soldiers, Ernest glanced back at Joel and his mother.
After whispering something softly to her son, she somehow summoned enormous strength from her battered, petite body to lift him up—her son was nearly as tall as she was.
Clutching him tightly, she carefully wove her way through the field of corpses without falling, then, barefoot and in a panic, she dashed inside one of the buildings.
He heard the sound of someone sobbing. But there was no sorrow in it.
"...."
Ernest gazed at the fifty-odd corpses scattered across the street. The feeling of devastation just wouldn't fade.
The 2nd Company had taken the village without suffering any casualties, eliminated the enemy guerrilla unit, and sorted the situation.
The 3rd Company likewise finished the operation successfully.
But unlike the 2nd Company, they did have a casualty.
"What a damn fool…"
"My grandmother could walk better than you."
"My three-year-old daughter could walk better than you."
"Even if I only had one leg, I'd still walk better than you."
"Even a gelded colt could walk better than you."
"That's enough! You bastards!"
No one had died or been injured by enemy fire.
The only casualty was someone who'd gotten so worked up that, when rushing into a building and running up the stairs, he tripped and twisted his ankle.
But a casualty was a casualty all the same.
The entire 3rd Company crowded around the damn fool, each one taking a jab at him.
With over a hundred people carrying on like that, the only casualty in the entire 1st Battalion felt not only wronged by the injury itself, but was so overwhelmed with frustration, it seemed his head might just explode.
"We'll all stay put until we receive further orders from the Regimental Commander."
"Yes, sir."
Upon hearing the report that the operation was over, Soren, the 1st Battalion Commander, immediately put the "do nothing" plan into effect.
The 1st Battalion had carried out their mission in the field to the best of their ability and achieved the best possible outcome. They had even interrogated captured enemies and gathered information on enemy numbers, supplies, and armament to include in their report. They had truly done everything they could.
All that remained now was to sit tight and do nothing, so as not to mess things up by acting unnecessarily. Until Levin issued a new order, making it clear where responsibility lay, Soren would make sure not to budge an inch.
Unfortunately, Levin, being both prudent and highly capable, had no intention of leaving Soren alone.
"He wants us to do all that ourselves?"
"Uh… yes… sir."
"..."
Levin's competence was such that the additional orders were handed down immediately.
Already outside Avril Castle, he was leading operations and decided to actively employ the 1st Battalion and the Cavalry Battalion, both of which had carried out their missions successfully, to root out every remaining threat lurking across the whole Avril territory.
Now, the 1st Battalion would have to secure the villages located in the northeast of Avril as well. On top of that, they had to block the main force of the enemy guerrilla unit, which was almost certainly hiding somewhere in the forest. It was certainly a demanding set of orders. But to be perfectly honest, given the enemy's capability, it wasn't impossible.
One infantry battalion and one cavalry battalion.
It was a slim margin, but just enough manpower to seize control of a territory that had lost almost all ability to fight.
However, if the troops were managed carelessly or without thought, everything could fall apart.
This was a time that demanded sharp insight and careful leadership.
And, much to the misfortune of Lieutenant Colonel Soren Kaufmann, he had precisely the ability needed to carry out such a difficult order—and Colonel Levin Ort knew it.
Levin was not only talented himself, but also knew exactly how to make the most of resourceful yet passive subordinates.
The best way was to assign them hard, essential missions without providing detailed instructions.
Then, they would figure out how to handle things themselves.
Tasked with this heavy burden, Soren glared fiercely at the Avril map with eyes like steel.
'Why on earth is he doing this to me!'
Complacent Officer Soren Kaufmann screamed inwardly.
"I'll deploy the 2nd Company here to prevent the enemy from retaking the village. To allow for flexible responses, I'd appreciate it if you could also leave one company of the cavalry battalion here."
Despite his internal screaming, Soren spoke politely and firmly to the Cavalry Battalion Commander, his expression composed.
"Of course. Then the rest of us should move to occupy the northeastern village near Avril Castle."
"I'm not planning on going so far as to occupy it."
"But wasn't the regimental commander's order to seize control?"
"He told us to take control, not to occupy. We'll attack the northeastern village to eliminate the enemy soldiers and neutralize any threat, then withdraw to the vicinity of Avril Castle, where we'll stand by. If anything happens, we'll support our allies inside the castle from outside."
While control and occupation may seem similar, strictly speaking, control is a broader concept that encompasses occupation.
In these small rural villages within the territory, once you eliminate the enemy guerrilla unit soldiers, the villagers themselves have no ability to resist. So after removing the enemy fighters, there's no need to continue stationing troops inside the village—simply neutralizing any threats is enough to secure control.
"There are no forests or mountains in the northern region, so there's nowhere for the enemy to hide. Once we attack the northeastern village and eliminate any threats, I'd like the cavalry battalion to take full charge of defending the northern area. We'll split our forces to guard the front of the forest, and at the same time, we'll stand by outside Avril Castle to support our allies inside if a battle breaks out."
"Hmm, very well. Let's do that."
With sharp insight, Soren quickly laid out exactly what the 1st Battalion and Cavalry Battalion needed to do.
They would block the main road in front of the forest where the enemy's main force was located, secure the northeastern village to cut off any surprises with the cavalry, then pull the 1st Battalion troops north to stand by, ready to support their allies within Avril Castle if fighting erupted there.
The 1st Battalion would be on the move almost constantly, but the plan was flawless. Even the Cavalry Battalion Commander agreed to follow it without a single objection.
Soren would carry out the duties assigned to him perfectly—but nothing beyond that.
So now, only one issue remained.
Even inside Avril Castle, where a false surrender had lured the 13th Regiment into a trap and where guerrilla tactics had been used, there were surely enemies hiding, their muzzles trained and waiting.
And Levin, ever cautious, had already made preparations against this very scenario.
If he wanted, Levin could eliminate every living soul in Avril Castle to prevent any future trouble, or burn the whole place to the ground.
On the other hand, he could also choose a more troublesome but comparatively peaceful solution to resolve the situation.
What decision will Levin make?