[chapter] I In the Name of Duty

JANUARY 14, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, THE EAST

Eastern Command’s communication staff were being inundated. It was like being beset by a swarm of carrier pigeons. “We’ve lost contact with Third Division Command!” “It’s no good! We can’t get through!” “You’ve got the wrong line! Someone else is coordinating fire support!” “It’s not just radio, the cables are no good either!” “Shit, everything’s jammed! The Federation anthem is playing over every line! Those fucking bastards!” “We’re getting requests for emergency support from the Third Air Fleet…” “Wait, we’ve lost contact?!” “It’s not from the division, it’s from the Air Fleet!” “The generator is malfunctioning? At a time like this?! Get the backup battery! Now!” “Evacuate the forward positions, hurry! They’re gonna get cut off!” “Call up air control!” “Who’s coordinating with Air Fleet?!” “Urgent report from Second Air Wing base!” “It’s partisans!” “Wait! Stop firing! Those are friendlies, goddamnit!”

Everything starts with words.

On the battlefield, where chaos and confusion reign, a misunderstood word is unacceptable. When it comes to military communications, there is no room for error. Every word must be as clear and precise as possible. Reducing the chance of misunderstandings is crucial.

Therefore, combat communications are generally rigidly standardized. While most militaries tend not to be very candid when they are losing, it is otherwise rare to find anything else in life as clear and frank as military communication.

Of course, at the end of the day, communication is still carried out by humans. And in the press of battle, soldiers cry out. To warn of danger. To call for help. To save their friends.

An astounding tsunami of sound woven into words.

But every army knows this. Any major operation will stretch the capacity of its communication networks to the limit. Each individual report may be no more than a drop in the bucket, but together they form an overwhelming torrent.

As a result, armies have developed a tolerance for disorder.

On that fateful day, however, the unbridled flood that Eastern Command faced defied description.

The terrible news—that General Laudon, the head of Eastern Command, had been blown to bits—was only the beginning. The Federation Army had launched a full-scale attack, taking the eastern army completely by surprise, and everyone had something to say.

Eastern Command’s communication network was overwhelmed by the deluge of emergency reports arriving from every corner of the front.

It was unbridled chaos.

The sheer level of panic only made the gravity of the situation all the clearer.

Colonel Kramer, the officer in charge of Eastern Command’s communications, took a short, deep breath to calm his nerves. Precisely because of how busy they were, what he needed right now was a moment to breathe and compose himself. He had to become a bulwark that would not get swept away in the storm.

As a gold-star pupil of the Empire’s inordinately specialized officer training, Colonel Kramer knew there was only one right thing to do in a situation like this, and that was to take a deep breath. Then he addressed his men with a level of confidence that he was sure seemed as fake as it felt.

“Well, gentlemen!” he said, grinning and speaking at the top of his lungs. “It certainly is quiet out there today!”

Colonel Kramer casually produced a cigar and placed it between his teeth with a pretense of courage, smiling as if they had all the time in the world. He knew this made him look like a hopeless fool, but it did help alleviate the tension and mayhem that gripped the room.

Kramer always thought a cigar tasted best when it was accompanied by guffaws.

The atmosphere in the room changed. Although the air was still thick with the scent of the sweat-drenched officers, a chuckle suddenly escaped someone’s lips. People were strongest when they laughed. That was the real point of putting on a brave face.

Colonel Kramer’s approach to leadership was essentially supreme reliability. Even in the face of crisis, he remained unshakable. That steadiness was what helped his men to pick up on “strange” reports that might have otherwise slipped through the cracks.

For better or worse, this was only possible thanks to Colonel Kramer’s presence. He had a stomach for adversity that was second to none.

The intense jamming, likely the work of the Federation Army, was constant. Someone interrupted the line, warning them in terrible, broken Imperial, “Don’t be fooled by broken Imperial!”—only for another person, with perfectly fluent Imperial, to follow up immediately with an attempt at disinformation.

During all this bedlam, orders of a completely unexpected nature suddenly arrived, apparently addressed to the eastern chief inspector/Eastern Command.

There were only three clauses, and the order had been issued in Colonel Lergen’s name.

Lergen? The command staff were familiar with the name. He was well known as the General Staff’s head of operations. More importantly, he was famously one of General Zettour’s right-hand men.

As an army officer, Colonel Kramer was familiar with the name. And yet… As a man of common sense, his doubt was almost reflexive.

“No matter how important he is in the General Staff, he’s still just one officer. How can he give an order of such magnitude to the eastern army? Does Colonel Lergen even have the authority?” he muttered.

Under normal circumstances, Colonel Kramer would have answered his own question by simply saying, “Of course Lergen doesn’t have the authority,” and would have promptly concluded that the orders must be falsified.

However, the inclusion of General Zettour’s name was a compelling detail. Almost too compelling. The explicit mention of instructions from General Zettour, and the use of one-time encryption, were elements that could not be ignored.

In the end, Eastern Command decided to take a closer look at the message, which was written in an unknown code.

After much argument, the one-time pads were unearthed from the sealed safe. The blood drained from the face of the officer tasked with decoding the message almost as soon as he began his work.

Colonel Kramer stared at the officer, his face saying, Surely not.

The officer simply replied with a twitch and a nod.

“I…I was actually able to decode the suspicious message using the one-time pad,” the officer said. He failed to hide his shock as he handed over the shakily transcribed message.

Colonel Kramer, the top communications officer, glanced down at the paper in disbelief. This was too much.

He dispatched a messenger to Lieutenant General Hasenclever with all haste. Someone else could decide if this message was real or fake. The colonel washed his hands of it.

By all rights, the person at Eastern Command who should have been overseeing their response was the newly appointed, yet extremely industrious, General Johan von Laudon. He was a seasoned military man who would have been more than capable of rising to the challenge of Operation Rising Dawn.

While he had not foreseen Rising Dawn, General Zettour knew that the Federation would be coming eventually…and he had gone to great personal lengths to place Laudon in the East, as one of the best means to ensure the Empire was prepared.

When Zettour departed from the front, he had harbored some serious concerns over the lacking leadership and initiative shown by Eastern Army Command… That was why he had turned to the seasoned and intrepid Laudon in the hopes that the older officer might serve as a powerful buttress in the East.

Like Zettour, who had selected him, Laudon was an extremely capable man with a strong sense of duty.

Zettour had been a second lieutenant in Laudon’s regiment long, long ago. At the time, Laudon had been a major and, for all practical purposes, Zettour’s god. When Zettour had reappeared out of the blue to arrogantly suggest this new position to Laudon, Laudon agreed on the spot. Not only did he agree, but he immediately appointed an adjutant general and shortly departed for Eastern Command with a single officer’s trunk (his only accoutrements) in hand.

This was the stuff that old generals were made of. Ready for action at the drop of a hat. Salamander Kampfgruppe had already been deployed to the front, and now General Laudon had been sent to shore up Eastern Command.

Of course, it was going to take more than improvements to staff before General Zettour could rest easy. But at least one important piece was now in place, should the worst come to pass. “As long as Major Laudon is there, that’s one less thing to worry about.”

This wasn’t a matter of exaggeration. As Zettour’s mentor and his superior, and even as his subordinate, General Laudon was more than capable of accomplishing whatever needed to be done. Laudon didn’t waste so much as a second. He began working tirelessly to grasp the situation the moment he arrived at the front.

Upon taking a tour of Salamander Kampfgruppe’s location, the general found himself completely exasperated with the bureaucratic trappings of eastern staff officers. Frankly, he had complaints. “Improvements are needed,” he simply said, giving strict orders to reorganize communication channels before he went to inspect the front lines with an anxious look on his face and several high-ranking officers in tow. Their defensive posture could not be taken for granted. The entire front needed to be checked.

According to Laudon, a staff officer unfamiliar with the situation on the ground was worth less than garbage.

Officers tended to wear their staff badges with inordinate pride, but Laudon did not hesitate to rip off those badges—on the spot—if he determined someone was incapable of carrying out their duties.

“Do your job. You’re trying? Try is the excuse of liars. I expect results. If you can’t produce them, get your ass out of that seat right this minute and let someone else take your place. If you have time to get in my way like this, then you should spend it doing something useful, like digging your own grave,” he said.

The message was clear.

As a major, Laudon had once put the great General Zettour himself through the wringer, and the old officer was still as strong as a mule. Or, to be more accurate, he had been as strong as a mule until recently. That sterling mind, that estimable character, that robust constitution that had shrugged off a whole lifetime of hardship, even that tenacious spirit that had once laughed in the face of strife—they were no more.

All that remained of General Laudon were scraps of meat.

While doing his rounds on the front, General Laudon had learned of a humble memorial being held by some of the troops to honor their fallen comrades. Though it was held in a crumbling barn, there was a valiant attempt to have a banquet. The general immediately decided to join them. He was shown about by the site commander afterward. He toured the installations, clapping the sentries on the shoulder and greeting them individually as they huddled in the cold, putrid mud, staring across the field at the enemy. Before leaving, he visited the shabby barn that served as a field machine shop. He greeted the soldiers, working so hard to repair their vehicles and tanks, one by one to express his appreciation.

And then, at the precise moment that the Federation commenced Operation Rising Dawn, the air was shattered by a bomb that had been planted by partisans in that shabby barn.

The explosives ignited with a burst of light and smoke, and the results were dramatic. While it would have been of little comfort to the Imperial Army even if they knew, the truth was that the bombing wasn’t meant to be a decapitation strike. The Federation Army hadn’t been targeting imperial command structure, nor General Laudon.

Between the Imperial Army and the Council for Self-Government, it had seemed as if order was being restored to the rear. This synchronized bombing was merely meant to sow chaos. The Federation Army had inadvertently scored a major, unintended blow with their opening move.

Of course, the Imperial Army was a functional military. Systems were in place to ensure continuity of leadership. The Empire had seen so much fighting by this point that the death of high-ranking officers had long since stopped being a rare event.

Furthermore, General Laudon had been extremely diligent. Just in case, he had left a reliable chief of staff and other personnel to take charge during his absence. He had also made a point to travel separately from his second-in-command except in the most unusual of scenarios. He had taken ample precautions to ensure that the chain of command would not be wiped out in one fell swoop.

Anticipating the worst was part of General Laudon’s duty.

And he had been preparing for the worst as if it were second nature. Accomplishing so much so shortly after being appointed was an impressive feat. If it were only a matter of General Laudon himself being reduced to hunks of flesh, the remaining staff would have carried on with Laudon’s second solemnly assuming full command. It would have barely been a hiccup.

But the Empire was having an extremely unlucky day.

Laudon’s second-in-command was exceptionally diligent, just like the general. This wasn’t very surprising, especially given how essential General Zettour considered Laudon to be. The general’s second-in-command was the type to set up command near the front lines, rather than hide back where it was safe, so he could maintain battlefield awareness and quickly react to any changes.

The second-in-command had even prepared ample defenses—a concrete reinforced command center capable of withstanding a direct hit from a 250-kilogram bomb. He had shut himself inside these stifling quarters without complaint, considering it a part of his duty.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been more than enough for anything but the absolute worst-case scenario, but as long as the Federation Army already knew where their target was, they had plenty of firepower at their disposal.

Their fortifications can withstand a 250 kg bomb? Then we’ll just have to go bigger. The Federation knew they were dealing with a concrete bunker and had brought railway guns along for the ride.

The railway guns had fired as soon as the attack was underway, blasting the reinforced command bunker and swiftly taking out the second-in-command. Worst of all for the Empire, this strike was just another part of the Federation’s plan to sow chaos wherever possible, generally chipping away at the Imperial Army’s frontline command structure.

While attacking imperial command staff was a major part of Operation Rising Dawn, taking out senior officers was not especially important. Failure to do so had already been incorporated into their projections. Their main objective was disrupt communications.

And yet, their relentless opening salvo had left the Imperial Army’s chain of command completely shattered.

In the immediate carnage of the enemy’s attack, nearly all of Eastern Command’s area commanders had been eliminated. Multiple frontline commanders were unaccounted for as well. Add this to the second-in-command being lost beneath a pile of rubble, and it was a recipe for disaster.

As for Hasenclever, the chief of staff whom Commander Laudon had left in charge in his absence? Simply put, he had just drawn the short end of the stick.

From Hasenclever’s point of view, even deciding who was next in the chain of command was impossible. In theory, there was a predetermined order to follow, but with all this chaos, how was he supposed to determine who should be calling the shots now?

Yes, something had obviously befallen General Laudon, but was it serious enough to merit transferring command? Initial reports suggested that the general had been killed. If he had been caught in an explosion, then he was most likely dead, but it still hadn’t been confirmed. While this was no time for optimism, Hasenclever didn’t know for sure.

Tentatively transferring command to Laudon’s second-in-command would have been the natural decision to make, but that person was missing as well, thanks to the absolute firepower of railway guns that could punch right through reinforced concrete. This was a true nightmare.

Combined with what happened to General Laudon, it was growing harder not to suspect that the Federation Army’s goal was to wipe out the Imperial Army’s chain of command.

The most pressing task for the eastern army now was to get back on its feet. The problem was that there didn’t seem to be any lieutenant generals available at the moment, let alone a general.

Meanwhile, their command centers were either being bombed from the air or sabotaged by partisans. Not to mention that communication lines had been disrupted by Federation shelling, making it all the more difficult to reestablish command and control as fighting broke out all along the front.

Should Hasenclever call up the third-in-command, who wasn’t even currently in the East? Normally, Hasenclever would have done so without hesitation. Procedurally speaking, it was the safest bet and, most importantly, this general was stationed far away from any front line. His qualifications were also spot-on. After all, until very recently, he had also been stationed on the Eastern Front.

Furthermore, the third-in-command worked closely with the higher-ups. This was someone who grasped the General Staff’s intentions better than anyone else in the world, and their leadership had already been battle-tested in the East.

The problem was that this person’s name was General Hans von Zettour.

Upon being assigned as deputy director of both the Service Corps and Operations, he had, of course, been released from his duties as eastern inspector, but in an unusual twist, he had not been formally dismissed from the position. This unusual arrangement had been concocted by the now-deceased General Rudersdorf. In other words, he was third-in-command in name only, a formality to preserve control over command succession.

But even if it was a position in name only…in organizational terms, General Zettour was still the third-in-command. No one could deny that.

To make matters even more complicated, they were in the middle of a massive crisis. This was a battle against time. Would it be acceptable to skip over the third-in-command under these circumstances?

If so, would the person who was selected as fourth-in-command—someone who happened to have seniority over Hasenclever but knew nothing of the Eastern Front—be able to rein in this mess? A mess so bad that Hasenclever himself wasn’t even sure who should be fourth in line?

Naturally, the problem could have been resolved by consulting with the General Staff and having them decide who to appoint to command, but the Federation Army’s offensive was already underway. He could hardly ask the Federation to wait a moment while he figured out who should take command, and until that question was answered, someone had to be in charge.

Why now? Right when Lieutenant General Hasenclever had finally decided to warm up to General Laudon, this had to happen.

It made him want to cradle his head.

Hasenclever doubted things would go smoothly no matter who he picked. And of course, there was another possibility to consider: What if the third-in-command decided he should personally take charge? Organizationally speaking, it would be suicide to try and get in his way.

If General Laudon was alive… If only he were alive.

For now, Hasenclever had to be realistic and assume that Laudon was dead. As Hasenclever was about to begin implementing whatever stopgap measures he could think of, something thrust them even deeper into chaos.

A telegram arrived.

It was delivered by a signal officer, who had rushed over in a great panic. Surprisingly, the messenger was Colonel Kramer. He should have been ensconced in the communications command post. Even more alarming was how he did not even bother to hide the agitation on his pale face. Hasenclever stared at him dubiously.

Once the shakily penned telegram was thrust into Hasenclever’s hands, however, he soon found himself in a similar state of shock.

To: The Eastern Army

From: Eastern Chief Inspector Zettour

In accordance with directives from the General Staff, based on September 10, UY 1927 orders by Generalfeldmarschall Rudersdorf and General Zettour, chief of staff of the eastern army are as follows below.

Needless to say, Hasenclever would never implement such suspicious orders without some serious thought. No senior officer with even a shred of sense would do such a thing with a straight face.

It was highly suspect for a telegram like this to arrive with such perfect timing, right when intense Federation jamming disrupted most communication. They could be falsified orders. In Hasenclever’s mind, the possibility demanded serious consideration.

“It’s most likely a fake telegram from the Federation Army. Very crafty of them, targeting our chain of command with such pinpoint accuracy…,” muttered Hasenclever, suppressing his resentment. But Colonel Kramer immediately contradicted this assertion.

“But, General, the codes were genuine.”

“Genuine? You’re saying it’s not a decoy?”

“Yes, sir,” continued Colonel Kramer, in a shaky voice. “As far as I… As far as it is possible for me to confirm…the orders appear to be valid.”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever was taken aback by the communication officer’s somewhat stiff response. He resisted the urge to reply that there were many ways to forge such things.

“General, these orders were decoded using a one-time pad. I understand your skepticism, but unless General Zettour’s own disposable ciphers were somehow leaked, it strongly suggests that the orders are genuine…”

General Zettour’s one-time pad—an unexpected piece of evidence that Hasenclever found hard to refute. A one-time key was, of course, only used once. Successfully breaking a code the very first time was essentially unthinkable, so unless a pad was leaked, forging a message using the correct encryption pattern was impossible.

Was there really any chance that a one-time pad, especially one of Zettour’s own, had been compromised? Putting the issue of encryption aside, however, there was still an obvious point to be made.

“Be that as it may, Colonel,” said Lieutenant General Hasenclever, “has anyone ever heard of this sealed defensive plan? This is a first for me. Would it not make more sense to assume that such plans do not exist?”

“But the codes were genuine General Staff codes. They were deciphered with Colonel Lergen’s and General Zettour’s one-time pads…”

Colonel Kramer insisted that they should at least confirm whether this sealed Defensive Plan No. 4 actually existed or not. Hasenclever had no real reason to refuse.

All the same, he found this all hard to believe. Lieutenant General Hasenclever had been directly involved in the creation of many of the defensive plans for the Eastern Front, but had never heard of any so-called Defensive Plan No. 4.

However, he also had his instincts as a military bureaucrat. He would rather be laughed at for nearly getting fooled than be strung up later for ignoring orders because he didn’t even check.

“Fine, fine. We’ll have the safe checked. Not that we’ll find anything…”

A few staff officers and gendarmerie were sent to poke around. They quickly found the safe, which had been sealed by General Zettour. All that was left now was for a senior ranking officer to unlock it—in this case, Hasenclever himself.

Inside were several bundles of documents, affixed with simple titles. General Zettour had not left many documents behind. For better or worse, the lieutenant general had a sharp eye. The item in question was found almost immediately.

Defensive Plan Drafts

That was all that was written on the parcel.

“Hrm?”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever found it difficult to immediately process that he had, in fact, found the thing they were looking for. He first had to turn the parcel over, with his shaking hands, remove the contents, and stare reality in its face.

Unbelievably, four sealed envelopes, carefully affixed with the titles Sealed Defensive Plan No. 1, Sealed Defensive Plan No. 2, Sealed Defensive Plan No. 3, and Sealed Defensive Plan No. 4, spilled out.

Hasenclever had been with Eastern Command for quite some time, but this was the first time he had ever seen these plans. But there they were, inside a tightly sealed safe in headquarters, just as the dubious telegram had suggested.

“What?! What is something like this doing here?!” the lieutenant general cried out, unable to stop himself from shouting. He quickly began making calculations in his head.

The orders had ostensibly come from the General Staff and included an encrypted message from General Zettour. It had also been successfully decoded with a one-time pad tied to the general. Additionally, Hasenclever had personally confirmed that the safe General Zettour left behind had been sealed tight up right until he had opened it himself.

How could such a thing be? Defensive Plan No. 4 existed after all, signed across the seal by its author, then-Eastern Chief Inspector Lieutenant General Hans von Zettour, in a hand that Hasenclever remembered.

“Bring me a chair. A sturdy one.”

After he settled into the seat someone had brought over for him, Lieutenant General Hasenclever unsealed the document with shaking hands. He quickly scanned its surprisingly short contents and groaned.

Defensive Plan No. 4 seemed to presume a total collapse of the front, and the gist was that they should use whatever space was available to blunt the enemy attack. In other words, prioritize and facilitate falling back to preserve the field army.

However, Hasenclever couldn’t help but wonder if these were just Zettour’s personal notes. No one in their right mind would call this a full-fledged plan. Too much was missing. Of course, if the front really was collapsing, then this contingency plan… It was little more than a theoretical outline, but even so… Directionally, it wasn’t bad.

“But this is far too vague. How am I supposed to issue something like this as an order…?”

The prospect was not appealing.

The implementation could be left to the frontline commanders and their troops, but these orders would undoubtedly cause pandemonium. A withdrawal…? That the plans didn’t explicitly state how far they were expected to retreat was the scariest part of all.

“The core principle of auftragstaktik is to convey what needs to be done and leave figuring out how to the discretion of those in the field. But with a goal this simple…”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever felt more conflicted than ever. This message had come by what could be called a convoluted route if one wanted to be charitable. As far as the orders went, too many things seemed off. But could he say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the orders were fake?

“Ugh, damn it all.”

Poor Lieutenant General Hasenclever could only groan softly. As much as he would have liked to dismiss the orders, when all was said and done, it was difficult for him to flat out do so. But he hesitated, as good sense demanded. This was all too unorthodox. Too outlandish. And far too suspicious.

Was someone trying to pull one over on him? After much back-and-forth, however, he still found himself back where he started.

That order, encrypted with a one-time key. And those sealed plans, written in General Zettour’s hand, found sitting inside a safe in command headquarters! How would the enemy be able to manage something like that? How would they even be aware that the plans existed, if not even Hasenclever himself knew that General Zettour had left them behind? One could argue that the enemy’s spies and informants might have penetrated that deep, but was it not far more probable that the orders were authentic?

Furthermore, as much as Lieutenant General Hasenclever wanted to lament this fact…he was the one in charge for now, but he was just an acting deputy. If the actual decision maker, General Laudon, were still present, it was entirely possible that he would have been aware of these plans…

“If only General Laudon were here…,” Hasenclever said, repeating himself helplessly.

The next report to arrive reached poor, unfortunate Lieutenant General Hasenclever’s ears without delay. Punishment, perhaps, for having tucked himself away in a corner of the command center to gripe. Colonel Kramer—whom Hasenclever had put in command while he momentarily vacated his post—had rushed over, deathly pale.

“S-sir! The mage units, the mage units…!”

“Calm down, Colonel. A signal officer must never panic!”

The young colonel, however, continued to breathlessly shout.

“I-it’s already started! The mages are acting on that suspicious telegram! They’re already on the move!”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever did a double take. This came as another hard blow.

“The 203rd under the General Staff’s direct command has begun siphoning up whatever mages they can find and adding them to their command. They say they’re forming a provisional regiment! They’ve already begun carrying out the orders!”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” someone shouted.

How were the mages acting so quickly? They had no way of confirming whether the pads or sealed plans even existed!

Something smelled off. As an organization man, Lieutenant General Hasenclever’s brain told him that something wasn’t adding up. And as a good organization man, he knew what call to make.

“Stop them!” he said, demanding the order be transmitted to the Kampfgruppe. No sooner had he spoken, however, than Colonel Kramer interjected.

“But, General! We can’t send them orders!”

“Why in the hell not?!”

“Why…?” Colonel Kramer spoke up once more, to remind the lieutenant general of a certain fact that he seemed to have forgotten amid all the chaos. “Units under the General Staff’s command have the authority to operate independently! And those orders just gave them command authority over all aerial mages…!”

The Kampfgruppe had just issued orders to the entire theater and mobilized their troops. And to make matters worse, the majority of the Eastern Front mages had answered their call! Lieutenant General Hasenclever shouted in open rage.

“H-how is this any different from a mutiny?!”

That was when he began to wonder… What if it was the 203rd who had falsified the orders? But that thought opened a whole new can of worms. The lieutenant general had been on the Eastern Front for a long time. He had learned firsthand that General Zettour considered the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion (and by extension, the Salamander Kampfgruppe) his pride and joy.

The 203rd. They were a keen instrument of violence, possessing unparalleled precision; a band of warriors who existed for the express purpose of waging war.

Zettour doted upon them like they were his hand-reared hounds, but they were a terrifying tool. No matter how reckless the task, one order was all they needed to rush into cold-blooded action.

And they never held back.

As a man who had spent time in the East, Hasenclever was somewhat familiar with the monster known as Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff. A part of him even wondered if she was the source of this mutiny. But that was impossible—that was the one thing he could be sure of.

Hasenclever had ample faith in Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s achievements. If he were to one day hear that she had snapped and pumped her incompetent senior officers full of lead…well, that was something Hasenclever would have no trouble believing. But this particular monster, though ever ready to crush her enemies’ bones and feast upon their blood, was General Zettour’s faithful hound at the end of the day. Savage, yes, but still a hound of war.

Even Lieutenant General Hasenclever knew of the fearsome and legendary exploits of the Salamander Kampfgruppe and its young commander. When they were thrown into isolated positions like Soldim 528, they marched into the jaws of death without complaint and reveled in battle until they were satisfied.

In this world, it was said that an army could sometimes perish on a single order. That was true, of course. There was a limit to all things. Not even the Eastern Front was an exception. But when all was said and done, the 203rd was faithful to its orders. Outstanding soldiers on the one hand, and fully indoctrinated warmongers on the other.

Even the 203rd’s commander’s record was over the top. In fact, there was no need to consider her storied career. Even her very first achievement astounded Lieutenant General Hasenclever.

Why would a soldier fight so ferociously to delay the enemy when during their very first battle, they were up against a whole company of mages on their own—and why would they go so far as to self-destruct without hesitation once failure seemed imminent?

Take the enemy down with you… Who else could earn a Silver Wings Assault Badge and live to tell the tale? Or at least that was the impression Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had left on most of those in the Imperial Army who had met her in person. It was hard not to feel like something about her was broken.

If it had just been a spur-of-the-moment act, then there would have been something very human about it. But the 203rd warmongers repeated such exploits over and over again, with their commander always leading the charge.

But above all, she was always loyal to the mission.

To repeat, Hasenclever would not be surprised in the slightest if Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff were to one day kill a superior officer for their incompetence. But the question he asked himself at the moment was this: Would it be easier to believe that Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had mutinied, or that Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had died in battle?

Maybe his worries were unfounded. Would it not be more consistent to assume, in the end, that the 203rd’s commander was acting in accordance with legitimate orders, just like always?

Lieutenant General Hasenclever cradled his head. He was starting to think in circles. Meanwhile, the other officers of Eastern Command, who were by no means stupid, had reached similar conclusions.

They began to voice their doubts.

“They’ve mobilized, and they report directly to the General Staff. That must mean the orders are real, right?” “But…what if they’re abusing their unique position to better sell the lie?” “Isn’t that just being paranoid?” “But how can we be sure these orders are legitimate…?” “Can anyone confirm this came from the General Staff… Wait, with the state of the front right now…”

The officers wavered. Although intelligent, they were in no position to make decisions. If the general were here, he would have been able to take responsibility. Unfortunately, he had been reduced to hunks of flesh, leaving the remaining officers in a painful limbo.

“Should we order a general retreat?!”

“But if the orders turn out to be false, we’d just be tearing troops from the defensive line!!”

“Doesn’t anyone have more information?!”

The officers continued to delay their decision.

There was a sound argument that they should wait for confirmation first, but that required making contact. Everyone knew the risks of trying that. No one had the stomach to make such a serious inquiry over radio, which was sure to be intercepted. They had enough common sense to understand what would happen.

But it is difficult for humans to heed the dangers of inaction. They are far more likely to be held back by “what-ifs,” the perceived risks of action. Therefore, it wasn’t until the eastern army’s staff officers attempted to make contact via the relatively secure cable telephone that they finally realized something.

Despite General Laudon’s frustration at the sluggish pace, they were still very behind schedule in laying down cables, even in villages just a few kilometers away.

Their only option was for an officer to go in person.

The fastest route would have been to send a mage by air, but they could hardly task a lone junior officer with a job as important as confirming the validity of orders.

So what were they to do? Have a mage carry one of them all the way to the General Staff Office?

It took a young major—fresh out of war college and not yet colored by the relative timidity of the eastern army—to finally take action. Since seeing is believing, mused the intrepid young major, wouldn’t it be better to just go right now? Realizing that time was wasting, the major hopped onto a military motorbike and, with a quick word to his commanding officer, sped off toward Salamander Kampfgruppe’s camp.

The trip only took half an hour. Just thirty minutes, while the higher-ups continued to vacillate. But when it came to scrambling troops, thirty minutes may as well be an eternity.

Enough time to comfortably pass the point of no return.

Aerial Field Mage Division, Provisional Front Line Combat Operation Center.

A bombastic and powerful name—one that suggested the full, concentrated force of the Empire.

But the truth was this name was all for show.

The Kampfgruppe’s comms equipment had been installed atop a commandeered wooden fruit crate. Another spare crate was being used as a seat, as there were no proper chairs to be found.

At a stretch, one might say the place felt rustic and homely. Essentially, the only impressive thing about this place was the sign out front proclaiming PROVISIONAL FRONT LINE COMBAT OPERATION CENTER. Otherwise, it was just another ramshackle barn.

The scent of coffee wafting heavily through the air was the one thing that lent an atmosphere of civilization to the dilapidated scene. But packed tightly inside the barn were this generation’s premier instruments of violence.

The major addressing the room had a veteran’s air about him. The aerial mage officers gathered inside—officers deployed to the East and accustomed to combat—stared with a mixture of confusion and, yes, expectation.

“Everyone, a-attention!”

As soon as a young sub-lieutenant issued the command in a shaky voice, a myriad of eyes turned toward the major, demanding an explanation as he stepped onto one of the crates. He allowed their stares to wash over him as he began speaking in a calm tone.

“My name is Major Weiss. I am the provisional chief officer assigned to this aerial mage division, temporarily formed by order of the eastern inspector.”

“So you’re the ranking officer here?”

The doubt emanating from the gathered mages was evident, but Major Weiss’s response was firm and clear.

“Questions can wait until I am finished. Does anyone have a problem with that?” he said, staring sharply at them. No one objected.

It was easy for a Named mage such as Weiss to demand respect. Actions speak, as the saying goes. Soldiers who constantly got their hands dirty could respect heroes who had some mud on their trousers. That was enough for the Salamander Kampfgruppe and the 203rd to earn their trust for now. The mages simply nodded, waiting for Major Weiss to continue.

“As this division has been provisionally formed, commanders will still be expected to lead their respective battalions, with Kampfgruppe command providing only basic control. As a result, consider this operation center’s control over each battalion to be exercised via the respective battalion commanders.”

Some of them must have realized just how absurd this arrangement was. If they did, then they must have been too stunned to speak—a Kampfgruppe command element giving marching orders for an entire division? Even with most duties delegated to individual commanders, there was still a limit.

Major Weiss continued explaining calmly, without a hint of reluctance or hesitation.

“You must be wondering what sort of situation could require such a style of operation. You have the right to an explanation, and I plan to give you one.” Major Weiss paused, as if to command their attention, before continuing calmly. “Currently, the core of our forces on the Eastern Front are under a full-scale attack by the Federation. This offensive achieved strategic surprise. It is likely only a matter of time until the eastern army’s defensive line collapses…if it hasn’t done so already.”

Major Weiss’s poised face was like the lull in a storm. He was like a practiced boatman, steering them to shore. The striking gap between the blustering content of his words and the serene demeanor in which he delivered them filled many of the young magical officers with fear.

“As you are already aware…the first wave of the enemy’s offensive has struck along a broad section of the front. Additionally, due to fierce bombardment, our defensive line and reserves have been hit hard in all zones. The enemy’s planning seems to have been very elaborate.”

“Additionally,” explained Major Weiss, his demeanor as unperturbed as if listing items off a menu, “I am repeating myself, but…the rear has been suffering frequent attacks as well. Confirmation is still needed, but multiple members of command have gone missing. Gentlemen, I do not think this needs to be said, but the situation has fallen into total chaos.”

Weiss grinned, playing to the crowd in true veteran fashion.

“In other words, we are standing in the eye of the storm. Pandemonium awaits us on all sides. What a nostalgic feeling for a mage.”

“In fact,” said Weiss, thinking back to old times, “this reminds me of the François Army back on the Rhine with their head crushed, retreat cut off—like rats in a trap. But this time the shoe is on the other foot. And the view is not so nice from this side of things.”

Glorious total war in the East. There were many grizzled veterans among the magical officers lined up in the room—ones who had been in the thick of battle and survived. Many of their number had also participated in Operation Revolving Door, and couldn’t help but feel anxious to learn that their positions were now reversed.

Having briefly summarized this unprecedented situation, the 203rd’s representative got to the bottom line. He sounded like an on-site foreman announcing a change in plans.

“Thus, regarding future trajectories… Speaking broadly, a few minor adjustments will be required.”

Minor adjustments? Is this a joke?

The men were stunned. Weiss ignored their reaction and continued.

“Under the previously distributed initial response plans, the clear expectation would have been for us to support an imperial counterattack—either by proceeding with haste to whichever section of the front was under the most pressure or by cutting off the spearhead of the attack from the side.

“However,” he explained, “as you are all aware, the situation facing us differs in one important way from this theoretical scenario… The enemy’s offensive is not concentrated on a single point, but is formed of multiple thrusts. Meaning that, unfortunately, we are not dealing with a spearhead, but a solid line.”

When the enemy thrusts forward with a spear, the best course of action is to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. This was the Imperial Army’s standard operating procedure: Stay mobile and stab the enemy where their defenses were weakest. It was something they prided themselves on, even when options were limited, relying solely on their own strength and judgment.

But this time, the enemy was a wall. Not a spear, not even a massive war hammer, but a wall applying overwhelming pressure across a huge area.

Major Weiss waited for their attention to turn to the map, which showed the confirmed enemy positions, before smacking his hand down on it lightly.

“A quick look at this should make this clear: the enemy is coming at us in waves. Multiple tidal waves.”

Friendly forces on the front line were currently being hit by the first echelon, or wave.

The Imperial Army had long known that when the Federation counterattacked, they would come with a massive, multitudinous force and that the pressure on the focus of their offensive would be stupendous.

In other words, they had been prepared for a strategic point somewhere along the front to be temporarily inundated. However, they had not foreseen the possibility of the enemy coming in a massive tidal wave that would engulf the entire defensive line.

Naturally, if the defenders hunkered down in relatively fortified positions, each strongpoint would hold out for a time. And if the attack eventually petered out, that tactic might work.

However, Weiss knew that one of the Empire’s assumptions was wrong. This wave was not going to recede.

After the first magnificent tidal wave landed, another wave of identical scope would sweep in from behind. If imperial forces sat on some high ground and waited, anticipating that help would eventually come, they would only be swept away instead. And even if they weren’t swept away, they could not wait for help forever. With supply lines cut off, stores of water, food, and fuel would eventually run out.

If the Federation Army kept them encircled between waves, like an unsurpassable sea, their strongpoints would sink, eventually.

It was just like any other siege. No stronghold could produce an endless river of food and bullets. As more time passed, supplies would dwindle. While each position might be able to buy time and hold out until a friendly counterattack relieved them, what if that counterattack never came?

At some point, the soldiers in these positions would have to make a choice: surrender or die. Even if they tried to escape, by the time supplies ran out, it would already be too late.

There was only one possible conclusion. Almost all of the Imperial Army’s forces in the east were becoming increasingly bogged down. If these units failed to withdraw from their current positions, there would be only two options left for the mages: They could hunker down with them, get comfortable, and eventually die in battle together. Or, seeing as they could fly, they could shamelessly flee, leaving their brothers-in-arms behind.

Weiss quickly connected the dots for the soldiers.

“After this wave swallows up the strongpoints dotting the front, our strength will eventually run out. Even if we sent relief forces, they would likely only be swept away by the second wave.”

For the first time since he began speaking, a pained expression appeared on Weiss’s face. As the mages stared at him questioningly, he shared the same conclusion that his superior had reached.

“If that happens, it will all be over. It will mean a decisive loss from which we will likely never recover. Which is why, right now, we need to focus on one thing and one thing only. Nothing else matters.”

There was resistance, even hostility, in the eyes of the other officers as they stared at him, but the veteran major continued, undeterred.

“We cannot allow the Empire’s main force on the Eastern Front to be wiped out. This should go without saying, but our priority must be to avoid total annihilation.”

Weiss shrugged lightly and sighed.

“And let me make it clear, brothers—I do not mean annihilation in a strategic or figurative sense. We need to make sure our army doesn’t get wiped off the face of the earth. To do so, we must abandon all other concerns.”

Major Weiss did not hide his distress as he emphasized the word “abandon,” yet the firmness in his tone urged the assembled soldiers to recognize the truth of his words.

“There is only one intelligent response to a tidal wave. Do you know what that is? It is to evacuate. Go somewhere safe, immediately, without delay. Our only option now is retreat.

“But at least this is war and not a literal earthquake that makes tidal waves. The ground will remain firm beneath our feet,” he added. “And, unlike the waves of an ocean, it is possible to delay an army’s progress. While we will certainly suffer heavy losses, it may still be possible for us to avoid the worst outcome,” said Weiss, offering a glimpse of despair—and hope.

“There is no need to panic. We are lucky… General Zettour had a plan in place for just such an eventuality. Defensive Plan Number Four.”

Weiss knew that what he was saying bordered on outright fraud. Although, according to his superior—the lieutenant colonel who had put together this whole yarn—it really amounted to nothing more than persuasive embellishment.

The things that came out of these shot-callers’ mouths! Not that Weiss could complain, since he was doing his best impression of such a bigwig at that very moment. It was a bizarre feeling.

“There is still one problem, however. Command has misread the enemy’s attack. Additionally, the chain of command is in disarray. As a result, they are still second-guessing whether or not to implement the plan.”

They were doing more than second-guessing, if Weiss was being honest. Yet, having chosen to believe in his superior, Major Weiss lied to his comrades-in-arms without so much as batting an eyelid.

“As a result, we must buy double the time—the time the brass need to get this confusion under control and the time friendly troops need to complete their evacuation. Time is what we will provide.”

Not “can,” but “will.” A trustworthy veteran who had seen battle after battle, Weiss made eye contact with every soldier present.

“In order to buy that time, we are going to counterattack with all our strength, in accordance with Defensive Plan Number Four. The only effective solution to our problems right now is to carry out air raids—that means deep strikes. As tactical aerial mages, that is our mission now, no matter the cost,” said Major Weiss, inviting the other officers to join him.

If they were wrong about this, he knew he was going to hell.

The time had come. To abandon their comrades en masse. To excise the few for the sake of the many. To consign themselves to the fires of total war.

“If you need something to resent, then resent the orders. But orders are still orders. And these are ours, delivered and received.”

Just then, Major Weiss thought of his own trusted superior officer and how she would behave in this situation. Not that he had any particular reason to think of her now—it was mostly a force of habit. He decided to add one last pièce de résistance in his best imitation thus far.

“But really, what is there to resent? We’ve got it easy!”

Weiss’s commanding officer always had a smile at the ready. He couldn’t conjure up an air of nonchalance quite like she could, but he could still land a good jab or two.

“For the first time in ages, we get to mount a full-strength counterattack with an entire aerial mage division!”

A battalion of mages would have already been mighty impressive, but now they had a whole division. Even in the heydays of the Rhine, they would have struggled to mobilize such numbers, and the Eastern Front was vast. Here, they were split up, limited to providing support along the front. Without pulling mages from their normal assignments, the idea of a comprehensive, division-level operation would have remained a pipe dream.

Only by abandoning all forms of dedicated support to the frontline units, leaving many of them at the mercy of the enemy, did they manage to gather together at such an unprecedented scale…

“Today, you and I become the main players on the stage! Is that not every mage’s dream?”

When Weiss returns from delivering instructions, I am already hard at work composing a mountain of orders.

I feel zero compunction about making full use of Colonel Lergen’s name. I’ve already prepared the necessary orders for Salamander Kampfgruppe in Tanya’s.

While we are doing what we can to maintain some semblance of organization, the reality is that we are acting arbitrarily outside the chain of command. This means that, despite the extensive workload, the administrative tasks required to implement division-scale deep air support with mages can now only be carried out by me and the other officers. To be honest, I’m starting to push the limits of human endurance.

A division usually has its own headquarters, with multiple officers assigned to it. This is not merely for the sake of ceremony, honor, or to maintain a certain number of posts in order to ensure stable employment.

Manpower.

What we need most right now is manpower.

With a mage battalion acting as the division’s core, there are simply not enough officers. Even when it was only a Kampfgruppe, I had to delegate decisions around camp to Captain Meybert, who was already responsible for his own artillery command. I’ve also had to overburden First Lieutenant Tospan, the on-site commander.

To manage the division, I have First Lieutenant Serebryakov running back and forth as a liaison nearly three times the normal amount, yet we are still nowhere near covering everything that needs to be done.

However—the mages take precedence. I lift my haggard face and ask my second-in-command a question.

“Well, Major Weiss? Do the mages seem motivated?”

“Reality seems to have sunk in. I think they understand the necessity of our approach.”

“Good,” I say with a nod. “Hopefully we can maintain command and control…”

Weiss’s report is a huge relief.

Not only is Tanya acting without authorization, she’s even falsified orders. But that is the only way to save the army. Imagine if, after coming this far…the others refused to cooperate.

I’m a little surprised I haven’t screamed yet, given how touch-and-go things are. In any case, we are past the first hurdle now, and the tension drains from my shoulders.

“It looks like our gamble has paid off,” says Weiss, offering congratulations. But we are only just getting started. I shake my head, tensing once more.

“It’s too early to say that. Let’s just hope Lieutenant Grantz manages things on his end.”

“What about our defenses here? Should we be taking those for granted?”

“I certainly hope we will prevail. But…if we fail, neither you nor I will survive this. So there isn’t much use in worrying.”

The logic is simple. Worrying won’t change things. Therefore, it’s better not to think. It would be a far more productive use of time to worry about what will happen if and when we do succeed. Tanya will save her focus for where it is needed.

“I don’t deny this will be a big job. We’re looking at deploying three regiments. Our primary goal is to hammer the enemy’s logistics, but we also need to hit their second echelon. In the event that we do fail, we can leave the next steps to General Zettour. We need to focus on our work here.”

“Speaking of which… About that work…”

“What is it, Major?”

Major Weiss seems slightly reluctant.

“Can we provide any support for friendly bases?”

This again? I furrow my brow slightly. I thought this issue had long since been laid to rest.

“Don’t bring up things we can’t do. You know we’re the only ones putting out fires right now, and even if we did have the personnel to answer calls for help, don’t you think they would be doing more by conducting additional deep air support missions?”

“I understand, but…the idea of leaving our comrades to die didn’t seem to go over very well.”

I cross my arms and think for a moment. From a purely military perspective, flying support missions is a luxury we can ill afford.

The front is on fire.

The Federation’s offensive isn’t just any old fire either; it’s a raging gas fire. Say we do give into the temptation and run to aid our allies. We commit precious resources and personnel, only to fail to contain the inferno. Where does that leave us?

Once we exhaust ourselves and can only watch as the flames spreads, everything will be lost.

“Right now, our job is to be firefighters. And the only way to put out a fire is to hit it at the source,” I say matter-of-factly. “We’re already shorthanded, as is. The worst thing we could do right now is split our attention.”

“You’re absolutely right, Colonel. Even so…”

“Even so, leaving your comrades to die doesn’t rest well with you.”

Weiss nods with a deeply troubled look on his face. “Every soldier can’t help but wonder if they’ll end up suffering the same fate tomorrow.”

Essentially, it’s a matter of trust.

From a strategic perspective, the idea seems illogical. But in terms of morale, the harm caused by abandoning fellow soldiers could be significant.

What would be the best course of action? I make a quick calculation in my head before deciding on a compromise.

“As long as it is purely pro forma, some support would be acceptable. Specifically, we can use friendly positions, isolated in enemy territory, as stepping stones during our deployment. The troops will not be prohibited from providing temporary assistance with base defense when the situation calls for it.”

This way, while they wouldn’t be going out of their way to save their fellow soldiers, they wouldn’t be abandoning them, either.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the most we can do.”

“Then…we absolutely cannot do extractions?”

Extractions? I cradle my head. The mere suggestion has just made my headache worse. What is he expecting us to do, stop the Federation Army’s entire first wave? Maybe if I had Cnut the Great come back to life to explain that isn’t possible, Major Weiss would finally get the picture. Or, like Cnut’s own vassals, maybe he has convinced himself that I really am all-knowing and all-powerful?

I’m not sure whether to feel pleased that my subordinate holds such a high opinion of me or to scold him for expecting the impossible. After some hesitation, I decide that this calls for a healthy dose of the truth.

“The enemy’s rear line and its logistics train—targeting just these two will require everything we can throw at them. We may be functioning as a substitute strategic air force, but you understand, I hope, that we cannot save that many soldiers?”

“But…we’re going to see the friendly troops along the way, whether we like it or not.”

“Then let me make myself clear. Providing support for any ground units outside of designated objectives will be strictly prohibited for the simple reason that we cannot afford to do so. We have to save the field army first. We have to do whatever it takes to prevent it from being wiped out. The troops have to understand that accomplishing that will save far more lives than any isolated extractions.”

“That makes sense…but to be honest, even for me, it’s a hard truth to stomach,” he says, looking down with a smile, as if urging me not to pay him any mind.

The twinge of conscience Tanya feels is acceptable; it shows she is a good person. However, the ones who should really be held responsible for this, I brood, are those who created this strategic environment in the first place—namely, the state.

“The Empire has not seen fit to afford us even the luxury of tears. We are just a single mage division; we are not in any position to abandon soldiers. Others have already abandoned them for us.”

The battlefield is no place for tears.

If neither the right nor the authority to evade responsibility exists at the ground, then the only logical conclusion is that such responsibility must lie above. If those on the ground do their best and the problem remains unresolved, then blame must lie higher up the chain. As someone who firmly believes in the necessity of management, I’ve developed a strong conviction that those on the ground are infallible—as long as they try their best.

“An aerial mage division can only do so much. Expecting us to accomplish more than what’s realistic is a failure on the part of the brass. As long as we are adequately fulfilling our duties, the blame lies with those above if they still demand more. We are simply the unfortunate sacrifices from whom added value is expected. There is no need to feel guilty about it.”

Appropriate compensation and evaluation for appropriate labor is an arrangement that should be a matter of course.

“This is not the Rhine. There will be no replacements, no reinforcements, no support units coming out of the woodwork to join us. And the situation, obviously, is far bleaker than it ever was back West.”

We can only continue to work so long as we remain alive.

“You are overthinking this, Major Weiss. It’s better to simplify things. Forget about subordinates who can’t do their job and higher-ups who won’t. Focus solely on what needs to be done. That’s the best way to live.”

I flash him a bold smirk.

“Now then, it’s time to get to work, Major Weiss.”

Operation Rising Dawn commenced according to plan.

Relief permeated every corner of the Federation’s military high command, the Stavka.

The Federation Army had been very careful with its preparations, claiming to know the Eastern Imperial Army’s disposition better than even the Empire itself. Despite this, however, some worries remained. Would this operation really succeed?

A historically unprecedented effort had been taken to ensure their offensive remained a secret. They held multiple parades of newly formed units in the capital, sending signals to the Empire via third countries that they were reorganizing whole formations, all so the Empire would miscalculate the Federation’s concentration of forces. But this was only the beginning.

Feeble units were placed on the front line for show, using the Empire’s own regular aerial scouting against them, while new equipment and newly formed units were trial-deployed to disguise troop training. These were all skillful measures designed to divert the Empire’s attention from the Federation’s actual purpose—the amassing of a great host.

The Federation intentionally bade the partisans behind enemy lines to pause their activities so that the Imperial Army would lower its guard. This even extended to overlooking the Empire’s steady rebuilding of transportation infrastructure in anticipation of the Federation Army’s offensive.

The Empire was doing an excellent job of refitting railways and roads in its territories. This not only improved the supply situation, but also greatly improved the very roads the Federation would use to advance! The Stavka was practically beside itself with glee.

Essentially, they would be commandeering the Empire’s own resources and labor to use against it.

However, memories of being repelled time after time by the Empire were still firmly embedded in the Federation Army’s mind. The despicable Imperial Army and its despicable General Staff—the cunning of the imperials knew no bounds! But this time, surely, it was the Federation that had the upper hand.

By God, by motherland, but most of all, by artillery!

“It’s finally time to begin…”

The words hung softly in the air. It was all that the moment required.

The artillery began suppressing the front, just as planned.

Their carefully coordinated planned fires were performing perfectly. Even better, the Federation’s air force had already secured air superiority. Everything was moving right on schedule.

Now all that was left was the first echelon’s ferocious charge…

“…and victory will be ours.”

“At last.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“But we need to be wary of decapitation strikes. It is paramount that we remain vigilant against mages and other airborne forces.”

“Understood. But do you think the Imperial Army will really come?”

“They came all the way to Moskva once before, remember?”

This congregation of believers in absolute pragmatism, known as the Federation Army, had already envisaged the worst possible counterattacks—including that some group like the dreaded Salamander Kampfgruppe might try to storm Stavka headquarters. For this reason, they had reserved their own division of mages, with experienced soldiers at its core, for interception purposes.

And while there were concerns over the quality of the unit, it would surely be strong enough to serve as cannon fodder against any battalion of enemy mages—at least until command could regain its defensive posture.

The Federation was certain this time. Certain of their superiority. Certain that their highly polished operation was going to secure victory.

Around the same time, another group present was capable of witnessing the Federation’s absolute certainty from an outside perspective: the attachés from the Commonwealth.

Once the gist of Operation Rising Dawn was revealed to them, the attachés were left astonished. To be honest, the Federation’s plans had horrified them—it was an unyielding charge that would place the entire world beneath the Federation’s thumb.

Officially speaking, of course, the Commonwealth and the Federation were allies fighting this war together.

Regardless of the truth of the matter, as a point of contact with the Federation, the attachés knew that what was expected of them in their official position was to offer their congratulations upon being informed of this massive counteroffensive. They understood the game of diplomacy well enough to express their most heartfelt prayers for a successful operation.

Internally, however, they were deeply concerned about the prospect of the Federation reaping victory solely for itself.

In their professional assessment, the likelihood of success from Rising Dawn seemed exceedingly high. This operation was the crystallization of diligent preparation. The attachés were veterans who had seen action on the Rhine. “Compared to this,” they groaned, “even the Rhine was child’s play…”

The scope of the operation, the sheer amount of munitions being expended—it was mind-boggling.

As good soldiers of the Commonwealth, they immediately dispatched a warning to their home nation. It was time to spare a thought for what would come after the war.

At that point, the entirety of Commonwealth command believed that the Imperial Army was facing imminent defeat. The outlook presented by the Federation Army was strong. According to them, “The Imperial Army is completely unprepared and once strategic surprise is achieved, they will be thrown into chaos. However, the imperial units deployed in the East will choose to dig in and create strongpoints to meet the first echelon’s charge.”

And what would the outcome be? the Commonwealth commanders asked themselves. Answer: The Empire’s main field army would be completely bogged down.

And what would happen next? Answer: Once supplies ran out, the isolated imperial units would be left surrounded, cut off from support, and unable to retreat.

Was there anything the Empire could do to escape this situation? Their only option now, perhaps, was to begin retreating as soon as the initial attack hit. Anything less than that, and by the time the Empire fully grasped what was happening, it would already be too late.

And once it was too late, the Federation would be able to advance at its own leisure. An extended charge, mowing down imperial field units as they went, much like the Imperial Army itself had done after eliminating the François Army’s main force.

The men of the Commonwealth were forced to groan in despair. A bright, glittering future seemed to await them beneath the Rising Dawn.

However.

As unfair as it may be, the Empire had a cheat on its side, someone who already knew all the answers. Well-orchestrated cogs slipped ever so slightly out of place.

A small difference, the beating of a butterfly’s wings, can change the entire world.

This is not an inspiring sentiment, however. War is hell, and the battlefield the fires of purgatory. It goes without saying, but God is nowhere to be found on the front line, despite what people might wish.

Trembling on the front lines, the soldiers of the Imperial Army were now learning that lesson all too well.

“Retreat?!” “N-now?! In the face of the enemy?!” “They want us to abandon our position?!” “Leave behind any heavy equipment that isn’t ready to move?!” “Move immediately?!”

Retreating? While under enemy attack? Obviously, no officer worth their salt could help but question such a decision.

“That’s madness!!”

The Imperial Army had already laid out how to respond in advance, hadn’t they?! Obviously, something about this smelled off. The Imperial Army and every one of its officers followed the same playbook. They all lived by the mantra of “When the enemy attacks, we hold fast.” The strongpoints receiving the brunt of the enemy’s offensive should focus on hunkering down, while friendly forces move in to flank the enemy from the rear.

It was how they had always achieved victory up until now, wasn’t it? What they had been preparing to do again. For most soldiers, it was common knowledge.

And now, to turn all that upside down just as they found their heads on the chopping block? The term “ad hoc orders” might have an appealing ring to it, but troops have good reason to detest fickle behavior—even if, for instance, such orders happen to be the only correct choice when seen from a bird’s-eye view.

At that moment on the ground, there was only one word on everyone’s lips.

“This is insane! What are the higher-ups thinking?!”

Even commanders who had been around the block once or twice couldn’t help but show surprise. After all, they were still clinging to the three-stage dream of static defense, waiting for a relief force to break through, and a final counterattack.

Everything was already in motion according to these long-held assumptions. Troops were already being withdrawn from forward outposts and moved to secondary defensive positions. They had started to hunker down to wait for relief, just as they had been taught.

Retreating now meant reversing that flow and wasting all the preparation they had put in place. It meant abandoning their safe strongholds.

Telling them to flee immediately was easy to say and hard to do. Did the higher-ups really think it was that easy? This was madness.

But there was no need to spit at heaven when the sky above their heads was already so foul. On the ground, they were surrounded, while up above, enemy aircraft filled the skies like extra cloud cover.

To make matters worse, Federation mages had begun appearing on the front. Screams of warning rose into the air as Federal mages ran roughshod over the troops, relying on their durable defensive shells to win the day. And the Imperial Army was expected to retreat…?

“Under these conditions?!”

At the moment, a soldier could likely tell the higher-ups to go shove it and not even face a court-martial.

Meanwhile, the front line was growing increasingly overrun. Routes of escape were closing off. The officers groaned in frustration, yet some accepted their orders and resigned themselves to becoming mere cogs in the machine. They began forcing the soldiers to move out, kicking and screaming, from what they had convinced themselves was safety. They began to withdraw.

And how were they thanked for such decisive action? With utter despair.

“Oh, dear God! Damn it! Why—why would you do this to us?!”

Shivering in cold and fear, the retreating frontline soldiers turned their eyes toward the sky as they continued to march, far from anything resembling a road.

“We should be holing up in a nice, warm base right about now!”

All it took was a single order for them to be kicked out into the bitter cold, trudging through deep snow in retreat. It was not the muddy season yet. The ground was frozen solid, their stockpiles were meager, and, worst of all, they were terrifyingly isolated.

It was always unpleasant for infantry to be out in the open. Retreating under such conditions was like attempting to wade through a blowout sale. Enemy aircraft filled the air above while enemy mages launched air strikes. Meanwhile, where were the friendly mages who were supposed to be providing air cover?

“Where have all the mages gone?” muttered one retreating soldier, the complaint leaving his lips as naturally as winter turns into spring, as day turns into night.

Not a trace of friendly mages—or aircraft—was to be found. All the while, the enemy continued to linger audaciously overhead! Who wouldn’t cry out? There had to be some mistake.

“Those Air Fleet imbeciles! Those dipshits in the sky! How can they just sit on their asses at a time like this?!”

The more experienced the soldier, the angrier they became as they stared up at the sky. As veterans, they were fully aware of how dangerous the situation could become when the enemy had a monopoly on the sky. In some ways, it would have been better to just be surrounded.

As long as air superiority was maintained, a position under siege could hold out. Once the skies were closed off, however—

If they had spotted anything friendly up there… If just one allied aircraft or aerial mage could break through, it would be enough to lend courage to the fleeing troops. Enough to convince them they had not been abandoned, at least not yet.

But though they glared accusingly at the sky, no imperial wings appeared. At this point, they would have even settled for seeing them in their dreams, but even that was apparently too much to ask.

“Curse them, curse them all!”

Their cries, and therefore their curses, went unheard.

Thus, even those imperial troops fortunate enough to choose retreat remained hounded by pursuit. Their nerves, frazzled by constant aerial harassment, could do nothing but run and hurl complaints.

This was the condition in which the Imperial Army currently found itself.

However, one thing had been achieved thanks to all these tears spilled upon the battlefield: Local air superiority had been secured.

The missing aerial mages—though the soldiers on the front line longed to see them again, even cursing their absence—were now flying across the eastern skies in pursuit of a single, indispensable goal.

A full division of mages.

These demons, flying at maximum combat speed, small yet singularly brutal specks in the eastern sky, are instruments of pure violence beyond compare. After being reduced to a purely theoretical force for so long, an aerial mage division has once again taken flight and bared its fearsome fangs.

The hastily assembled division is being deployed in three regiments to conduct air strikes in multiple locations at once. They carve a path through the sky, deep into enemy territory, intent on fulfilling their vital role as a makeshift strategic air force—a raiding unit operating on a scale not seen in the Imperial Army for some time.

The three regiments face their own issues. Although they are veterans, they have only been put together on the spot.

Their situation is uncertain, and perhaps because the front has been pushed back so far, they know little about the territory beyond its basic topography. It is shocking to think that they are only there to hit previously abandoned key supply points.

“Salamander 01…! Salamander 01, can you hear me?! Please respond! Please!”

I frown slightly as I hear someone shouting my call sign.

We are maintaining strict radio silence at the moment, so the best I can do is try to raise my voice or give a hand signal. It’s a nightmare trying to control an entire regiment with only direct speech and hand signs.

I glance around, but fail to immediately identify who has called out. This makes sense. Our current altitude…is far too low to take a leisurely gander. With a whole regiment engaged in contour flight, we cannot afford to become distracted even for a moment—especially as we hurtle forward in formation, at full speed, with the expectation that combat could begin at any second. There’s barely enough time to breathe.

All of this is to prevent the enemy from picking up on our signal, which could easily happen if we climbed higher. But this caution comes with its own significant price.

“Did more just go down?! How many this time?!” I say, sucking on my teeth mid-flight as I purposely climb higher to confirm.

A chunk of the rear guard must have fallen. There are gaping holes in our ranks and shadows on the ground below, suggesting a crash. An accident has clearly occurred.

“Damnit, we haven’t even encountered enemies yet!” I mutter, executing a combat maneuver as I turn back toward the head of the formation. Just then, I notice my own wingman approaching from the side.

“Lieutenant Serebryakov?”

“Colonel, it seems like this is too much for them after all!” says First Lieutenant Serebryakov, her face serious and her voice hushed.

I barely have time to appreciate her discretion before answering softly, “I know, but it has to be done!”

Contour flight is incredibly challenging. Doing it with a full regiment of mages at combat speed, without prior coordination training…I might as well tell them to fly the trapeze.

Even I am not finding it easy, I have to admit.

However, it is necessary—even if I do know that flying nap-of-the-earth, hugging the contours and folds of the terrain while hurtling through the night sky toward our destination at top combat speed, and without the aid of GPS, is just asking for collisions.

“Ah! Not again?! Another crash?!” shouts First Lieutenant Serebryakov.

I click my tongue in frustration. A split-second mistake has resulted in another mage maneuvering poorly and clipping the ground, though at least their defensive shell was up.

It looks like they’re still moving, at least for a moment. It’s impossible to tell whether they are alive or dead.

“We haven’t even entered enemy territory yet! Make sure that everyone who crashed maintains strict radio silence! If they can’t make their way back, have them wait until our scheduled time of attack before unsealing their magic and returning to base!” I say, shouting orders as I fly.

I scratch my head briefly in frustration.

“Almost there, almost there…”

A quick calculation in my head confirms the unit’s position based on charted flight time and astronomical observations. If we continue on heading at this speed, we should cross paths with enemy lines of communication before long. Then, all we need to do is attack.

If the Federation has large truck convoys coming to replenish its first echelon and bring fuel to the front for its second echelon, they must be relying quite a bit on decent roads.

Thankfully, it shouldn’t be long before we find the enemy.

I search the area desperately, poring over the terrain with eagle eyes as I turn the situation over in my head. We are looking for enemy supply units. If we can just hit those, the Federation Army’s size will be their downfall.

“That’s why we have to attack their rear. But still…”

I know I am asking the impossible of the mages.

Of course, no one from Tanya’s own 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion has crashed, but two pairs from another battalion—and half of another company, practically new recruits—have already gone down. The number of near misses, meanwhile, is staggering. Is this really worth so much sacrifice and risk?

That’s up to the laws of war to decide.

JANUARY 15, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, SKY ABOVE THE IMPERIAL CAPITAL

War is wasteful, war is illogical.

And yet.

If anyone were to ask Lieutenant Grantz whether the soldiers stationed in the rear were governed by logic, the exasperated First Lieutenant Grantz was quite certain of how he would answer.

“What is wrong with these people?! Did they forget their brains somewhere?!”

Grantz was running out of patience. He needed to deliver this message!

Grantz had just carried out a madcap flight all the way from the East, only to collide headfirst with a preposterous wall of bureaucratic stupidity upon entering the capital’s air defense identification zone.

“Unidentified traffic, this is Capital Air Defense Control. Lower your altitude immediately and de-arm. I say again, lower your altitude immediately and de-arm.”

If this repeated warning was supposed to be a joke, First Lieutenant Grantz was not laughing. He frowned, feeling as if he were stuck in a bad dream.

“This is Mage First Lieutenant Warren Grantz with the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion reporting directly to the General Staff. I am currently en route to the capital from the East, with strict orders to deliver a message.”

First Lieutenant Grantz’s response showed remarkable restraint for an officer returning from the front—one who was not only being intercepted by a friendly patrol but was also being subjected to painful amounts of red tape. Grantz’s patience, however, was not rewarded.

“We are unable to confirm any such eastern army call sign, unidentified traffic. I say again, we are unable to confirm an eastern army call sign.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Grantz shouted back. “That’s because my battalion is under the General Staff!! Why in the hell would I have an eastern army call sign?!”

“We are unable to confirm. Unidentified traffic, I say again, this is Capital Air Defense Control. Please comply with directions from intercepting personnel, lower your altitude, and de-arm. Control will confirm your identity.”

“Confirm whatever you want, just hurry up and approve my flight path…!”

“Unidentified traffic, I say again, immediately lower your altitude as directed and de-arm.”

“I’m on a top-priority mission!!”

They weren’t listening. Grantz didn’t like it, but it looked as though he had no choice.

“Unidentified unit identifying as First Lieutenant Grantz, this is Capital Air Defense Control. This is your final warning. Lower your altitude immediately and de-arm within the specified perimeter. I say again, lower your altitude immediately, or you will be intercepted as a bogey.”

“And I say again, this is a priority mission! I’m carrying a message for the General Staff!!”

“Allow us to check your orders. For all we know, you could be a deserter.”

“Are you serious?!”

Now they were accusing him of desertion?! Ridiculous! First Lieutenant Grantz was starting to lose his temper. He struggled to keep his tone in check as he shouted back, “You morons! Who the hell is running things over there?!”

He quickly raised his altitude to buy some time. It looked like his choices were to either surrender or force his way through. This was unbelievable. What should he do? Was it even up to him at this point?

Grantz wished he could just have a moment to figure things out, but the patrolling unit was already heading his way.

Grantz climbed higher—a habit acquired on the front line—but that probably only confirmed the patrol unit’s suspicions, making it appear as if he was preparing to fight, or was a deserter after all.

Maybe he should just go with them so the situation didn’t get any worse, but Grantz wasn’t sure. Getting bogged down in bureaucratism right now could prove disastrous.

There was always the chance that some magic officer worth their salt at Capital Air Defense Control would help smooth things over, but how many solid, reliable officers were left these days? First Lieutenant Grantz fretted over what to do. Should he gamble on that possibility, or… Until, eventually, he realized he was still worried despite how much time had passed.

“You’re kidding me…”

Apparently no one from the intercepting unit had climbed to 8,000 along with him. In fact…weren’t they flying too low, even for a patrol? Glancing down, Grantz spotted the amateurs still awkwardly treading air far below.

“This is what passes for Capital Air Defense these days?!”

Capital Air Defense—a bombastic name that clashed with the sad reality.

As for flight speed…the patrol’s current pace would have been sluggish, even for cruising. At first, First Lieutenant Grantz had assumed their low speed and lackluster altitude were due to their patrol assignment, but he now saw that wasn’t the case.

“This can’t be…”

Was this the best they could do? These were supposed to be imperial aerial mages, the staunch defenders of capital airspace?!

“This has got to be a joke!” Grantz shouted reflexively.

As Grantz observed the patrol more calmly, he began to realize that his fears were likely founded. However, that did not make it any easier to believe.

“This is the squad meant to intercept me? Look at them, flopping around like fish in the air.” First Lieutenant Grantz sighed with the weariness of a veteran. “Are they sending troops like this into battle?”

They might as well be sending up target dummies, free notches for the enemy’s kills. Even Federation mages would probably be more useful. At least Federation orbs, with their tough defensive shells, had better survivability.

Grantz realized that these soldiers were likely not going to listen to reason. And while he might not have been fully aware of it himself, Grantz was still, for what it was worth, a good person.

A dedicated military man, or even a skilled rationalizer, would likely not have hesitated to shoot these rookies down in the name of necessity, perhaps even telling himself that they had it coming for getting in the way of an urgent message without proper authority. If he did go through with it, he was certain that he would have done nothing wrong as far as military law was concerned.

However, Grantz still had too much humanity left to do such a thing. Loyalty to the mission vied with common sense and decency. He understood how important his mission was, but that didn’t mean he had to feel good about it.

Please, God— But just as Grantz began praying to providence, it seemed providence intervened.

“Hello? Come in?! Come in?! Can you hear me?”

IN THE HISTORY BOOKS…

There are two histories.

The history of the West, and the history of the East.

Both begin from the same point. Once upon a time, during the great war, when threatened by the powerful and nefarious Empire, a great alliance came together to overcome their differences in the name of universality and to face the Empire with a united front.

The conclusions of these two histories are also much the same. Good worked together to triumph over evil, leading to a happy ending.

The episodes that occur along the way, however, bear only surface similarities.

An impartial historian must forever strive to discern which of these two opinions is most factual. The mountain of documents and testimonials available to a reader contains countless lies, biases, and mistaken perceptions, along with the tiniest slivers of truth.

Even when dealing with contemporary testimonials, one can never be certain whether the witnesses in question were reliable narrators. There is no shortage of liars in this world, but the truth of the matter (shocking to the layman but a common tragedy to the dedicated researcher) is that it is extremely rare for even a truthful narrator’s testimony to be entirely accurate.

The reason is quite simple: human memory is astonishingly unreliable. Very few people are capable of remembering the past as it happened.

Do you imagine yourself any different? Then try it for yourself. Remember: What did you have for dinner one week ago? One month ago? Three months ago? Assuming you can easily remember what you had for dinner—perhaps because you eat the same things at the same time every day—can you recall how many times you chewed at each meal? What the weather was like, including the temperature and humidity?

If you can fully recall such details outside of a controlled environment, then you are the perfect witness—a prosecutor’s wet dream.

Unfortunately, the majority of humans are not capable of such a feat. It’s already quite uncommon for most to even remember the meal itself.

Yes, I can hear the objection. What about less mundane events? Dinner may be forgettable, but what if it was a birthday cake? What if it was something unusual that the person was eating for the first time?

Even then, however, the details would likely remain shaky. Even when the gist of a testimonial is correct, it is difficult to entirely eliminate any discrepancies.

But even given this proviso, the differences between the histories of the West and the East…go far beyond reasonable discrepancy and lapses of memory.

A prime example is the difference between the Western and Eastern interpretations of events that unfolded from the end of 1927 to early 1928.

On October 16, 1927, Ildoa and the Unified States formed an “armed neutrality alliance” to establish “a guarantee of security in light of their mutual duty of neutrality, as regards maintaining world peace and the safety of neutral countries in the face of the current war.”

The Imperial Army’s response to this alliance was clear. One month later, on November 11, 1927, the Empire’s forces marshaled on the Ildoan peninsula and began advancing southward at lightning speed. The Ildoan Army was almost completely demolished by the Empire’s strategic surprise attack, and by November 22, both armies had agreed to a ceasefire. For one week, a strange calm ensued until, in an unusual development, fighting recommenced and the Ildoan capital was temporarily occupied in an event dubbed “Zettour’s Champagne Fete.”

Another unexpected turn of events came that Christmas.

The capital was suddenly liberated on Christmas Day, thanks to an electrifying counterattack by the Alliance armies. The battle for the Ildoan capital, which shocked the world, ended just a month later with the Imperial Army exhausting its offensive capabilities and retreating toward northern Ildoa.

Both the West and the East agree, thus far, on the facts. Their disagreement is over what follows.

Just as the Alliance armies were planning a further counterattack—tying up the Imperial Army’s strategic reserves in northern Ildoa—the Federation Army launched its awe-inspiring January 1928 offensive known as Operation Rising Dawn.

The Imperial Army was a master of interior line strategies and boasted tactical superiority on all fronts. The Alliance armies had to fight while contending with exterior lines, which more than adequately displayed their own strategic prowess as well as their high degree of coordination. It seemed like the Empire was sure to fall.

In the end, however, the Federation Army’s Rising Dawn failed to achieve results.

From where did the division among the allies ensue?

Was it the Federation’s request for the opening of a second front? The Western historical perspective on this matter is brusque. Alliance forces fulfilled the Federation’s request with faith and alacrity. Sixty imperial divisions were drawn to Ildoa, locking down the all-important armored divisions in the north of Ildoa. Additionally, despite being already engaged in fierce fighting on the Ildoan front, a large number of weapons and munitions—resources that their own forces could have used—were lend-leased to the Federation at its request. According to the West, full and total logistic support was provided for what should have been a decisive strike against the Empire’s deserted Eastern Front.

There is even a vein in Western thinking that, had Rising Dawn not failed due to tactical ineptitude on the part of Federation Army, the war would have been decided in a single stroke.

But even those who do not place as much emphasis on the Federation’s failures generally agree that even though the Federation Army had the perfect opportunity to attack when the Imperial Army transferred much of its main force to Ildoa, the New Year’s offensive still failed to achieve its goals due to “Zettour’s sorcery.” As a result, the efforts of Alliance armies in Ildoa, who had been holding down a great portion of the Imperial Army’s main force in Ildoa, came to naught…or so the common interpretation goes.

The Eastern historical perspective, while similar in many ways, could not be more different in others.

For starters, the Federation Army’s Stavka did not agree that Alliance forces in Ildoa did enough to open a second front. Secondly, although the Federation was cooperating, it was the West that needed to be rescued.

According to the history books of the East, Ildoa found itself in the Empire’s jaws, and the Western powers, including the Commonwealth and the Unified States, were unable to provide adequate support. Thus, in order to save their allies from this predicament, the Federation moved the starting date of Rising Dawn forward despite knowing that doing so was disadvantageous for them.

According to Eastern history books, by taking Ildoa hostage, the Empire created a situation in which the Federation Army was forced to act before conditions were favorable. The Federation did what needed to be done, but was undermined by its allies.

In this way, both the West and the East have used sophisticated rhetoric to tell a tale of their choosing. However, in comparing what each side has chosen to emphasize, many common facts can still be found.

For instance, as of November 1927, the Imperial Army’s powerful armored divisions were primarily deployed in Ildoa, and the concentrated first-class divisions injected into Ildoa had largely been pulled from the Eastern Front.

The fact that this force was drawn away from the East must have been due to the powerful initiative and daring command of General Zettour, who boasted impressive influence in the Empire at that time.

However, opinion is divided on the exact number that was withdrawn.

According to the West, the number was absolute, accounting for nearly all of the Empire’s strategic reserves, including their armored divisions. The East, meanwhile, highly underestimates the number withdrawn, insisting that only a few armored units were drawn away from the Eastern Front.

Even now, the true figure remains a point of contention. In recent years, it has been pointed out that, according to public documents, there is a possibility that the true number of divisions the Imperial Army deployed in Ildoa may have been fewer than thirty…however this, too, has sparked heated debate.

The question, of course, is whether a mere thirty imperial divisions could have really held out against Ildoan forces, which had mobilized as many as 140 divisions—not to mention the Unified States, which deployed more than twenty divisions in Ildoa. This is in addition to reinforcements from the Commonwealth and Free Republic.

Regardless of the fact that the Alliance armies managed to recapture the royal Ildoan capital, the Empire still had a firm grasp upon—that is to say, had invaded and were firmly encamped within—northern Ildoa.

Which begs a very logical question: As great as General Zettour may have been, could such a feat have truly been accomplished with just thirty divisions? And yet…several pieces of corroborating evidence have surfaced in recent years suggesting that the Imperial Army could not have had more than twenty-five divisions, only further inflaming this debate.

If the twenty-five-division theory is true, that would mean that the Imperial Army managed to hold the Ildoan line at a force ratio of 1:6. It would also indicate that the supposed interior lines strategy of transferring sixty divisions from the East never happened, which in turn makes it impossible to refute the Federation’s official historical account that they fought the Empire’s eastern army at almost full strength and still managed to seriously wear down the Empire’s field army.

However, there is also contradicting documentation that flies in the face of all such assertions: a surviving record indicating that, at the time, Imperial Eastern Army Command made repeated requests to the Imperial General Staff Office—pleas that, unless strategic reserves were returned to the East, the current defensive line would collapse.

[chapter] II Untimely AirLand Battle Doctrine

JANUARY 14, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, SKY ABOVE THE EASTERN FRONT

The front of a flight formation is, without doubt, the best position for anyone who wishes to savor a sweet blend of apprehension and tranquility.

So long as one does not forget the proviso that this applies only in war.

While mages may have little to do with the loud commotion of engines, mage flight is far from silent. How best to describe it? A whoosh, a rumble, a roar? Perhaps some other ineffable term?

While the words may differ from language to language, one fact remains constant: You cannot escape noise until you reach the speed of sound. Regardless of how it may seem at times, reality is governed by the laws of physics.

If that applies equally to this world that Tanya knows—where I have been dumped by Being X—then it would seem the same template is being reused.

If Being X created this world, then he must be a rather banal (one might even say haphazard) creator. Quite rough around the edges for someone who supposedly possesses the knowledge of all creation.

Perhaps these similarities, in the end, are less the work of a creator and more the incidental product of chance.

Having observed multiple worlds, I am convinced that even the miraculous creation of a world is ultimately just a matter of coincidence.

Which would mean there is no such thing as fate. Nothing is decided in advance. And so…

The argument that the Empire’s inevitable, fast-approaching defeat—a cataclysm certain to come sooner or later, unfair though that might be—should be accepted with calmness and grace is ultimately baseless.

The future is created by human toil and determination. As long as a single foothold remains, Tanya will continue to struggle. But how much can I actually do? A quick glance at the ground below makes the intractability of our situation painfully clear.

The destroyed bases are still in flames. The remains of former defensive strongholds have become a common sight. As an unexpected benefit, however, they serve as beacons for the mages, who now find themselves flying by night.

These are the ruins of a dream—the defensive line upon which the Empire was meant to fight, painstakingly built by General Zettour and to be commanded by General Laudon—now reduced to piles of debris and armchair abstraction.

Hmph. I can only shrug.

I could try to play it tough, but there is no disguising the gravity of this situation. In the end, however, it was not ideology that led to this state but ordinary, everyday people. And human strength can only be countered with human strength.

Decisive action must be taken, I decide, clutching a solitary fist in the sky. Now is the time for decisive action and self-reliance, not mysterious fate.

Fortunately, I have a small but organized force on my side. This division’s worth of mages I have scraped together to serve as Tanya’s fist are more than capable of generating the power needed to turn things around.

“I have provided the fulcrum, and I shall move the world.”

Aerial mages truly can do almost anything. It’s borderline ridiculous. They’re particularly skilled at close air support. As flying infantry, they understand the support that their earthbound comrades need. Yet they are also ideal for long-range interdiction.

And airborne drops? Why of course. When necessary, mages can execute everything from airborne assaults to seizing and holding ground, all at the drop of a hat.

Mages even have a few tricks up their sleeves. Want to cut off the enemy’s head? That’s right in their wheelhouse! Aerial mages offer precisely the decapitation tactics you seek. Targeting the chain of command is a perennial favorite, the Empire’s chef d’oeuvre.

Use them skillfully and they shall undoubtedly move the world. Even a substance as heavy as fate can be shifted by the strength of human hands.

I smile cheerfully, pleased as punch while flying in the front ranks of the mage regiment under my direct command.

“Colonel, you seem happy about something.”

“Right you are, Visha. At this moment, we are on the cusp of moving the world.”

Any task, big or small—just give your neighborhood mages a call! I shudder. Fortunately, magical aptitude is rare; otherwise, the entire world would have likely become one big mage sweatshop by now.

A caveat must be made, however. Mages may be flexible tools capable of almost everything, but that does not mean they can do it all at once.

That is versatility’s greatest weakness: one must always choose.

Specialization and focus are virtues, but the problem with specialty is that it is limited to just one choice. At least this time it is obvious what that choice should be.

Tanya’s priority is preempting strategic victory for the Reds. The only solution now is to hinder the enemy’s advance. And the necessary—nay, the only—approach is the concentrated deployment of all available air and mage forces into the enemy’s rear.

Our targets, like our approach, are simple.

Target 1: Enemy logistics.

Target 2: Enemy logistics.

Target 3: Enemy logistics.

Artillery observation? Frontline support? Friendly air defense? Countering enemy breakthroughs? None of that matters right now. We can only focus on one item at a time.

Hence, in the brief moment available before deployment, I drilled into the other commanders the need to “focus all of our efforts on attacking enemy logistics.”

Tanya has learned firsthand that, on the Eastern Front, such single-minded behavior is necessary to prevent control from crumbling. The troops will not be able to focus their full combat strength on attacking enemy logistics unless they completely ignore the enemy’s first echelon—that is, unless they ignore calls for help from friendly forces on the front line.

Although I can’t say it out loud, the fact remains that these disparate units that were unable to retreat in time are mounting hopeless defenses that will help maximize the effectiveness of our attacks on enemy logistics by draining their ammunition and fuel stores, even if only slightly. Such calculations are an integral part of war.

To elaborate, though it may not be much, it will take time for the Federation to overwhelm those strongpoints. As heartless as it sounds, these units are buying us more time, and I have no qualms about taking advantage of a few extra hours of leeway.

After all, without this extra time, our entire endeavor would be hopeless.

All the worse, then, that some of the men are clamoring for us to aid our beleaguered comrades. The truth is, even all of our available air assets may still not be enough to disrupt the enemy’s supply train.

And if we fail to do that, it’s curtains for us…

Right now there is a thin ray of light. But that light is thin and weak. Our only option is to sprint forward as fast as we can before the aperture closes—no matter how ruthless or cruel that might seem.

The reasoning is purely logical—but what kind of reason is that? Who can stomach naked logic? For better or for worse, the veterans I have scraped together are all officers whose minds have been tempered by war in the East.

The battlefield may foster deep superstition in people, yet it also paradoxically grants a levelheaded view. Could even the most conscientious of individuals swallow whatever logic war demands when thrust into such a situation? The answer is yes. The officers genuinely wish they didn’t have to abandon their fellow soldiers, but they also understand that this is what must be done.

If there is any catalyst capable of properly sublimating such contradictory feelings, it is the delicate commixture of strategy and valor represented by the knowledge that only orders like these will lead to victory.

This is likely how the mages have convinced themselves. We are a division strong, and I am already leading the mages into enemy territory to attack Federation Army supply lines. I’ve even falsified orders to accomplish this. I will go as far as it takes and make whatever sacrifices are necessary.

Even if this all turns out to be a pathological obsession with sunk costs, as long as I can produce results, it should not end in my ruin.

I desperately search for signs of a Federation Army supply convoy below for the sake of both the army and myself. It has to be there. I need this: a column of vehicles. The mages are itching for battle. Just let a column of vehicles show up in our sights.

“Ah! Yes, yes, yes!!”

Strategic conviction and a shout of joy. Our gamble has paid off.

“I see it!”

Countless gray specks splayed across a silvery white world. Trucks! How badly I have yearned for that sight. Just what I’ve been looking for.

This is an enemy supply unit, no doubt about it. These are Federation trucks.

They are traveling by night, with a strict blackout to stay concealed. At this low altitude, however, they are impossible to miss.

My throat constricts at the thought of battle. The feeling, however, only lasts a moment. It’s quickly banished by joyful anticipation as I drool in excitement over what we are about to achieve.

“Finally…we’ve found them!”

I glance over the convoy, turning my attention toward the sky as a whole…before shouting in pure and utter surprise.

This convoy is big game. From what I can see, it’s even bigger than what I had hoped for. Bigger than anything I imagined.

Certain now that what I am looking at is in fact a dedicated supply unit, likely a lifeline for the Federation Army’s frontline troops, we’re even luckier than I thought. As far as I can tell, there are no mana signatures in the sky overhead!

Hope bubbles inside me. Festival bells begin ringing in my head. Yet my sense of duty demands I tamp it down and stay calm. A corner of my mind—the part responsible for guarding the punchbowl—raises a small but insistent hand in warning. What if this is a ruse? The enemy might simply be suppressing their signatures…

That is the worst-case scenario. Under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve been more cautious. Right now, though, I just laugh them off as phantom shadows projected by fear.

See how close we are? Already within ideal distance. Considering my unit’s level of training, the absence of detected mages can only mean that none are present.

A reasonable assumption. But can you be certain? What if there is something unique about their computation orbs that allows them to camouflage themselves? You’ve seen quite recently that such things are possible, right? During training exercises at the beginning of the year, perhaps? The voice of caution whispers, still insistent.

The voice is right, of course. Such tactical miracles now exist in the world. But I choose to jettison those unnecessary concerns.

If the Federation Army wanted to deploy mages to guard such a massive logistics train, they would be area denial troops. If they intended to intercept mages they weren’t even sure would come, it would make far more sense to send a traditional-force escort rather than to have mages lying in ambush.

Besides, if that were the case—if some monomaniacal lunatic managed to prepare the kind of ambush I imagine—wouldn’t it have made more sense to have those troops slip through the imperial defensive line at the start of the offensive and strike the Empire’s aerial mages while they slept?

In other words, there is no way enemy mages are present right now.

What we need to do is obvious: hit the convoy with overwhelming force! With calculations finished, I sigh in relief.

“All units, this is your commander speaking! All units, this is your commander! Descend upon the prey!”

Now! Now is the time! Blow the whistle! Release the hounds!

As the famous poem goes—now is the time the rain falls, now is the time to rule the world, the first month. And a full four months earlier than even Mitsuhide Akechi expected. Maybe we should have thrown a pair of strawberry panties at the enemy, for good measure, although I doubt they’d recognize what that mnemonic means!

Instead, I settle for a roar.

“Attack! Attack! All units, fire at will!”

I urge them forward, shouting, “Punch through! Wipe them out!”

The message is clear. They burst into action as one, each understanding their role. At my order, the regiment breaks rank, reforming a moment later into an assault formation.

The mages’ uniforms are covered in the dust of the battlefield, but they grip their orbs and rifles firmly. They are an organized and seasoned shock force.

No matter how many times I see it, the elegance of their maneuvers impresses me. A revelation of functional beauty. Tattered and dazzling, writhing with violence. It doesn’t take a poet to tell…

“…An absolute work of art.”

What a joy to see.

I break into a smile that contains all my elation as I nod with utmost satisfaction.

We are professionals, doing professional work.

We do our duty with sincerity and professionalism.

I never tire of seeing this. As a good citizen, it fills Tanya with pride. The sight of them toiling so diligently should make Tanya want to work harder herself. What a glorious example of external economy!

With renewed energy and eagerness, I wave slightly at my adjutant and wingman, First Lieutenant Serebryakov.

“What do you say? It will mean leading the charge, but how about we give the regiment and those Feds a real show?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll accompany you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Let’s get to work.”

It’s time to put the “assault” in our Type 97 Assault Orbs.

As a twin, dual-core orb, the 97 is capable of simultaneous activation of multiple formulas. Its most striking distinction, however, is its speed. Whatever one might say about its chief designer, the blistering speed of these Elinium Arms masterpieces is a work of art.

With such a fast orb, just how fast could you go? Assuming you were focusing entirely on flight—lowering not just the protective film but even the defensive shell as far as possible?

Answer: Fast enough to ensure that no other aerial mage, however skilled, can keep up. The 97 also boasts excellent acceleration, can turn on a dime, and even has superior formula manifestation speeds, securing its place at the pinnacle of orb design.

Hence, according to military administration, the orb’s only drawback is that, unfortunately, very few mages can use it effectively. Although, in my view, this too is a mark in the orb’s favor.

Even by Imperial mage standards, Tanya and Visha—who have handled these orbs from the very start—are unbelievably fast.

Two small shadows.

There is no other way to describe how we must appear from the ground, as we accelerate faster and faster, ahead of the rest of the formation, which is already flying at combat speed, tracing a path of destruction that is as beautiful as it is violent.

We pierce the wind, eyes fixed on our quarry and fangs bared as we hurtle forward like beasts of prey, but with a level of precision that makes our fangs sharper than any beast’s.

Our coordination must seem rehearsed, each movement of one mage perfectly complemented by the other.

As commander, I fly at the regiment’s front, letting the troops see my back, never turning around as I barrel toward the enemy ranks. I trust that First Lieutenant Serebryakov will cover me and keep my eyes focused solely on what lies ahead. My adjutant, tasked with guarding my flank, knows without a doubt that I will break through. That certainty allows her to focus on simply providing cover.

Our coordination is based on mutual trust in our respective roles and abilities, resulting in a synergy of small refinements that, over time, has built a tower of greatness. This is the most sophisticated instrument of violence available to the Empire.

Naturally, the intended target of this spearpoint does not stand idly by. The Federation Army’s formation is substantial and deep—the embodiment of military pragmatism.

I growl a warning to the troops as I see the force coming to greet us.

“Don’t underestimate them just because they’re a field train! They’ve got plenty of armor—and AA guns!” I shout, half exasperated, half shocked. “Watch out for enemy anti-air fire! Even the trucks have guns strapped to them!”

Federation Army supply units are usually relatively vulnerable. This time, however, it looks as though the Federation Army has prepared a welcome party.

“Those commies have got some fucking nerve!” I mutter, clicking my tongue as I get a better look at the enemy.

It is not just the trucks. There are plenty of armored units as well. More than enough to easily take out any lightly equipped airborne force or mop up any troops that might have escaped from imperial strongpoints.

To be blunt, by the standards of the now emaciated Imperial eastern army, this logistics convoy would be better described as a top-grade tactical unit.

It is shocking to think that the best combat units our own army can muster are no better than the enemy’s back-line security. As a commander on the inferior side, the thought makes me sick.

I barely manage to hold in a sigh. The anti-aircraft equipment on the trucks even includes autocannons. The Federation is well prepared.

“This is what they do with their trucks and tanks? What are they made of, money?!”

As an officer in what is now an impoverished army, I find myself growing jealous. Tanks?! In the rear! And not just tanks—what about the trucks?! Trucks are always in high demand. The audacity of using them as anti-aircraft platforms!

Regardless of how much surplus they might have, how could such extravagance be allowed? Just think of the cost-benefit analysis!

Lend-lease must have been generous indeed. Don’t the coffers ever run out? Or does the Federation Army have its very own magic hat?

Then a new possibility dawns on me.

“What if the cargo units double as part of the second echelon?”

If so, the idea of a unit in the rear equipped with so much fighting power—enough to almost be mistaken for a Kampfgruppe—becomes easier to understand.

In any case, worrying won’t change what needs to be done right now, namely the delivery of a paired explosion and penetration formula straight into the panicking enemy convoy. And the Empire’s unique brand of love.

I ready the formula, set my sights, and pull the trigger.

It’s simple.

Explosion, flames, shouts, screams.

As expected, the enemy repays the favor with a furious volley of steel and flames.

Flares rise brilliantly into the night sky, shattering the hushed curtain of darkness. That is just the beginning. A legion of glaring searchlights, blindingly bright, is pointed toward the sky.

“Colonel! It’s a flak barrage!”

“Tsk! So it’s not a fluke after all. Looks like their air defense units were already deployed!”

Agreeing with Visha’s warning, we both fire off formulas at the light sources. The enemy cargo vehicles act with decisive speed, beginning to retreat. That response time shouldn’t be possible unless it was decided upon in advance.

Their haste also sets a time limit for me and the others. While we are under the cover of this infernal darkness, if the trucks manage to slip away, any hope of hunting them down later will be lost.

It is a clever way to buy time…however, I barely have a moment to feel impressed before a deluge of lead begins to pepper the sky, aimed at me and the other Imperial mages.

Steel, open air, steel.

The Federation Army unleashes a steady, carefully composed curtain of defensive fire into the air. It’s almost as if this space belongs to Federation fire, with the sky coming in a distant second.

“This isn’t even an actual base, just vehicles. How are they putting up such a fight?!” my adjutant practically shouts. I expect the other Imperial mages feel the same.

The mages strike in formation, hitting their targets like an iron hammer. But usually, when a hammer strikes the crux of a target, that target should collapse. I don’t think we are targeting the wrong points, so why hasn’t their resistance buckled?

Even I’m taken aback. Back in Dacia, Tanya once shouted at her troops not to flinch at a little AA fire, but I am not so quick to berate them this time. Not in the face of such a warm welcome party.

The density of the fire is extraordinary—a net tight enough to catch even mages equipped with the Type 97. And not just with stray bullets; there is a real risk of repeated hits. Their defensive fire is fearsome. We continue to take hits to our defensive shells, yet frustratingly, we have not managed to breach their defensive screen, even when firing back with optical sniping formulas.

However.

Human history is full of things far from ordinary. This anti-air fire may be intimidating, but Tanya can rest easy on at least one account. As daunting as it is by this war’s standards, we are fortunate that guided missiles and short-range radar-guided air defense weapons haven’t been invented in this world.

“I still can’t believe a supply convoy can produce enough AA fire to give our unit trouble…”

“You’ve got it the wrong way around,” I say, responding to my adjutant’s shock with a deeply rooted smile of relief. Things could have turned out much worse. “Thankfully, we’re in the enemy’s rear, and this is all we have to deal with.”

“Huh?”

“Compared to what we could have expected, this is positively tepid. Sure, the water is warm, but let’s count our blessings that it isn’t hotter.”

With a grunt, I adjust my trajectory, climb a little higher, and begin accelerating, ready to dive without hesitation for another pass.

“Maybe I shouldn’t say it, but this is just like a nice bath. Come on in, Visha! The water’s perfect!”

Imagine, instead, some Red Army armor accidentally stumbling into NATO territory. This amount of firepower is mild compared to what they might face under NATO air superiority. In fact, compared to the air-defense networks consisting of a mass of MANPADS¹ and self-propelled anti-aircraft guns, it’s downright cute.

This is far more preferable than stumbling into some American hedgehog unit.

Not that the others in the sky can share Tanya’s relief. Not even First Lieutenant Serebryakov, who has been with Tanya for some time. The look on my adjutant’s face is naturally one of astonishment.

However, understanding and resignation soon appear on her face. If I could translate that expression, I think it would say, Of course. If anyone would say something like that, it would be the Colonel.

With that said, First Lieutenant Serebryakov and I maintain exquisite coordination as we dive into the sea of waiting anti-air fire. We mostly stick to explosion formulas. The trucks make for soft targets.

As we lay down fire, we focus on blast radius, spraying the area with magic rounds while unleashing occasional optical sniping formulas at the tanks whenever an opportunity arises. It is a prime display of a ground attack mission conducted by mages, reified to textbook levels.

We are a relentless and thorough threat, one that cannot be denied even by the stiffest Federation Army defensive fire, and a testament to the sheer ferocity of the Empire’s aerial mages.

By the fifth pass, however, I must admit that our forces are beginning to reach their limit.

“My battalion may be fine, but the regiment as a whole is becoming…sluggish.”

“Even with our defensive shells, it’s hard work sticking our heads into the hornets’ nest like this.”

I nod in agreement with my adjutant. Of course, now that I think of it, sending air assets into AA that’s ready and waiting is asking for a lot, nothing to scoff at.

The job is both dangerous and difficult. Now is the time to display leadership.

“We’ve got no choice, Lieutenant. We need to take point one more time. We’ll fly headfirst into where the AA fire is thickest and show the others that they’ll be fine if they’re careful.”

“Headfirst? Into that…?” my adjutant asks, pointing toward the net of enemy defensive fire with a mixture of exasperation and unease. I grimace. Her reaction is understandable.

Sometimes, it takes insight to realize that something is not as impossible as it appears. Adopting a lighthearted tone to dispel her fears, I say, “It’s a simple choice, Visha—to be or not to be. And when it comes to not being, there are plenty of holes in the enemy’s AA. We can manage, can’t we?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“That’s the spirit,” I say with a laugh.

The anti-aircraft fire is dense enough to give American imperialism a run for its money. But blitzkrieg pilots would dive into fire from blitzkrieg altitudes without defensive shells—even if their survival chances were almost nil.

By comparison, mages are relatively blessed. After all, the Type 97’s defensive shell can repel a direct hit from even a 40 mm round—a veritable mobile assault computation orb.

As long as we have our Type 97s, the likelihood of pulling out safely after trading somewhat explosive unpleasantries is actually quite good. Of course, the risk is still not zero. Safety and peace of mind are not identical, but the risk is within acceptable margins. I’ll take those odds.

As for cumulative risk from repeated passes, that all depends on where you set your time variable. I wave my hand lightly, ignoring the shock on my adjutant’s face as she stares at me. “It’s time to get this over with,” I say.

“All units, now’s our chance to hit the enemy! What are you all so worried about?! This is just some supply unit! Dive straight in! This amount of flak is a joke!!”

In fact…

“Follow me!!” I shout.

Waving my hand, I raise my defensive shell and lead the charge, purposely diving toward the area where the fire rising from the ground is thickest.

“Here I come, you commie pieces of shit! Come on out and say hello!”

“Colonel! Wait for me!!” shouts First Lieutenant Serebryakov. Though flustered, she manages to keep up. With her covering my back, I become an unparalleled aerial threat.

Now, the two of us plunge in headfirst, commander and adjutant. A glance upward shows that none of the troops have hesitated. We execute our sixth pass, targeting the heavy defenses below. Reckless or not…with the commander and her wingman leading the charge, the others have no choice but to persist.

And persistence always pays off.

Regardless of how well-equipped these ground units might be, after six passes we have obviously knocked out more than a few of their anti-aircraft vehicles. Gaps in their flak wall are beginning to show.

Our attacks have also resulted in a happy tactical side effect: we can see better now. Our strikes have left several ground targets in flames, improving visibility.

Of course, this is just my opinion. Some of the other mages don’t seem as satisfied as Tanya.

“Our battalion is doing fine…but the other soldiers are looking sluggish.”

“They’re probably tired. Much more of this, and I think it will just be a matter of time…”

“True,” I say with a nod.

The rest of the division isn’t used to being run so ragged. It must be tough for them. They need a shot of bravery to maintain momentum, even knowing how foolish it is. I decide to set an example by leading from the front once again.

I cut through the flak, waiting until I am fully in range before releasing a hail of magic bullets.

“Enjoy this welcome gift of bombs and bullets, from the Empire with love! You better enjoy it!!”

The magic bullets fly forward with unerring accuracy, as expected for such finely machined munitions. As they reach a point above the enemy column, a massive explosion formula manifests in a vortex of destruction, far beyond what a truck’s thin skin could possibly defend against, raking the ground below.

Meanwhile, a magic bullet from First Lieutenant Serebryakov rips through the same area. Although she was slightly late off the starting block, the rest of the regiment follows close behind with their own attack runs.

I nod in satisfaction and begin shouting what passes for encouragement in a loud, booming voice.

“You call yourselves Imperial mages? Heroes?! Then what’s the problem? A fresh recruit could do this! Or do you just find it beneath you?!”

This is pure provocation, plain and simple—but humans are creatures of pride. As a commander, I know that troops are far more worried about being laughed at for feeling scared than anything else. Although I have my fair share of biases when it comes to understanding others, I know that a straightforward, critical kick in the pants is exactly what exhausted men need to keep them going.

“Shake them up, burn them, blast them to pieces—it doesn’t matter. We are violence! We are tyranny!”

At this point, what I’m saying barely make any sense. As long as it gets the troops fired up. But I understand my purpose and act accordingly.

“Destroy! Burn! Smash! They want savage? Then we’ll give them savage! We’ll march the enemy right into their neat little graves! This will be the battle to end all battles!”

How would this appear to an outside observer? They would see Tanya bellowing, dutifully playing her part while making the very human mistake of believing she is being objective when she is anything but.

“Your courage, your savagery, your honor, your duty, your hatred, your fear—unleash it all upon the cold ground of the East! We are aerial mages! We, alone!”

War is the epitome of unproductive behavior. It’s a ludicrous waste of human resources that any reasonable person should wish to avoid. And yet, imbue someone with enough honor and courage, and most people will convince themselves that war is the right thing to do.

A war song, plucked by the Imperial mages in the East. Were someone to describe the scene that way, I would probably laugh them off as bookish and pedantic. But from the outside, Tanya must look like a musical instrument of unparalleled quality within the sorry bounds of war.

The results speak for themselves. The Imperial mages now fear potential ridicule more than the curtain of lead rising from below. Opinions may differ on whether this is reckless barbarism, advanced battlefield psychology, or simply skillful manipulation.

Either way, the results are plain to see. How much destructive power can an appropriately controlled instrument of violence unleash? One need only look at the remnants of the supply convoy for an answer. The sight of burning wrecks only whets the appetite of their destroyers, driving them to search for more targets.

“Cease fire! Pull back and regroup! I say again, all units, regroup!”

I glance down at the scene below and quickly process the battle’s results. A whole enemy supply convoy has been wiped out. Yes, a few vehicles have escaped, but the visible damage is significant. Should we pursue further? No. We don’t have time to mop up every single straggler. This is an issue of opportunity cost. Besides, the value of completely annihilating our target was never that high to begin with.

What matters is that we have dealt a heavy blow to the enemy’s supply network, thereby severely impairing their ability to deliver much-needed supplies to feed its ongoing offensive.

Of course, that also means that several capital goods have now vanished from the face of the earth. As the one responsible, I mourn such unnecessary expenditure and economic waste.

War! The ultimate outlay! The height of poor economic decisions!

Particularly when it comes to the extremes of total war.

There must be a limit to such barbarism, I think, overflowing with the spirit of Homo economicus even in the middle of a war. I feel both desolation and satisfaction that I have not allowed the battlefield to rob Tanya of her culture.

It’s obvious why Tanya has to preserve her humanity—that is, her values as a good member of society who loves the free market. It will be vital if she is to enjoy a rich civilian life after the war. It is precisely because I believe in a brighter future that I approach my work so faithfully. I turn my attention back to the task at hand.

Mission accomplished. Once we regroup, it is time to hit the next target. Every objective has to be completed as quickly as possible.

“Our work here is done. We’re moving on. Target any trucks you see along the way—trucks only! Ignore everything else!” I issue clear orders and begin to lay out our next task when I am unexpectedly interrupted.

“Wait! Aren’t we going to pursue them?!”

This is not a voice I recognize. Likely the commander of one of the other units I’ve scraped together. I turn toward the person, resisting the urge to yell him for being so stupid.

“There’s no time. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Bigger fish?”

I nod firmly. Our top priority is crippling the enemy’s logistics as a whole. As I’ve repeatedly emphasized, that is our first, second, and third target!

That is the only way we will impact the enemy’s ability to take organized action. Tanya made that point multiple times before setting out. Hadn’t it been enough? Apparently not—not if they’re questioning orders.

There’s no time to waste. Every second is precious. But even under the strictest time constraints, it’s critical for the leader to ensure that everyone understands the team’s goals.

Without shared awareness of present goals and circumstances, organizations flounder. Furthermore, our division was hastily scraped together under supposed orders from General Zettour without any prior collective training. Effective communication is therefore paramount.

“We will only exploit our successes by destabilizing the enemy army as a whole,” I say, taking a moment during the brief interlude as troops reform into ranks. I deliver a brief, impassioned spiel to the officers to clarify my intentions. Meanwhile, the mages flit through the air, swiftly and quietly, positioning themselves to advance once more.

“We attack their logistics. Logistics, logistics, logistics. We must focus entirely on cutting off enemy supplies. Our only hope of impeding the enemy’s advance is to annihilate their supplies… The enemy is trying to deliver a decisive strategic blow. If we want to have any hope of stopping them, targeting logistics is the one and only option we have left.”

This makes it clear what is at stake. The troops need to remember why we are doing all this. I continue to explain what needs to be done, simplifying the issues so that it will sink into their heads.

“We are the only hope,” I say, once again explaining why. “You must understand that, at the operational level, we are the only ones left who might be able to stop the enemy. That makes us the Empire’s only hope for overcoming our army’s tactical inferiority.”

“Hope…” The men mutter the word among themselves, faint but thoughtful.

“It falls upon us to carry that hope forward. Our willingness to commit is the only thing that can make a difference now! Do you understand that?” I give them all a hard look, and continue, assuming there are no objections. “We have much to do, and it’s time for our next job!”

“What’s our target, Colonel?”

“We will search the roads and railways Eastern Command has identified as probable main supply routes and attack any supply trains we discover. Additionally, we should pick off any other logistic vehicles we spot if the opportunity presents itself!”

Although their expressions remain somewhat grim, this cobbled-together group of mages nods in apparent understanding. As things are going, we should be able to hit another enemy supply route or two before returning to base.

My unit needs to knock out at least one more enemy supply unit tonight—one big enough to require a full regiment of mages. If the other regiments manage to crush at least one unit each, that would bring our total to four.

Assuming each formation successfully engages enemy supply units and delivers significant blows without suffering losses that will render them combat ineffective, then…

No. I shake my head.

“Don’t get greedy. The desire to believe that everything might just go your way is a powerful drug.”

The water of reason cools me down as I scratch my head. Assuming that everything will just work out somehow is dangerous. Throughout history, countless people have been caught by this widely recognized pitfall. I am painfully aware of this, yet the allure is difficult to resist.

Staring at reality head-on is hard; it’s much easier to view life through rose-colored glasses than to steer by the light of painful truth. One can define reality as one wishes, but reality and dreams remain separate things.

It is only by confronting dreadful reality that the world truly begins to smile.

I have taken command and am leading the regrouped troops toward our next target when I receive a report from control about an enemy encounter.

“Message from the Second Regiment. They have encountered a powerful unit of enemy mages and are engaging.”

The enemy! A powerful unit of aerial mages has shown up right when we need to hit the enemy’s rear as swiftly as possible. This is awful news. However, I resist the urge to click my tongue.

Few contests display as little restraint as war does; our opponent is just as committed as we are. It’s important to keep a close eye on the enemy’s moves.

“CP, this is Eastern Chief Inspector. Advise on enemy situation.”

The response is clear: According to command, Second Regiment has encountered a force of mages two regiments strong.

“Two?!”

That is far too powerful and organized for a chance encounter, especially since we are operating in the enemy’s rear. At first I think I must have misheard, but when command confirms the information. I resign myself to a change in schedule.

At the moment, the Imperial Army is attacking Federation logistics using aerial mage regiments. It’s natural that the Federation would mobilize to protect their supply lines, but they’re reacting too quickly. This has thrown a massive wrench into our timeline.

“What if…” I fall into my thoughts as I trail off.

What if the enemy has foreseen that the only effective counter to a large-scale offensive is to destroy the rear lines of communications, and has already built into their strategy the possibility of our concentrated mage deployment?

“Have they…anticipated large-scale aerial counterattacks? And positioned a rapid response force capable of intercepting a mage regiment attacking supply units in the rear?”

Could the enemy have predicted how everything would play out? Based on our activity, they must have worked out that our mage numbers are dwindling. Even after drawing from every mage formation in the East, we have only managed to assemble a single division. The Federation must have at least formed a general estimate of this.

Under such circumstances, would Federation planners really prepare for the possibility of a concentrated aerial mage attack? And even if they did, would they really keep two whole regiments of mages in reserve just in case?

“Hold on. Considering the Second Regiment’s current position…,” I continue.

According to the plan, the Second Regiment is infiltrating deepest into enemy territory. Perhaps the enemy identified this area as a prime target and specifically assigned strategic reserves there. The Federation may be stronger in troop numbers than we are, but I doubt they can afford to be wasteful with units capable of going toe to toe with a full regiment of our aerial mages.

A powerful opposing force like this could be the enemy’s wildcard. All the more reason we should destroy it.

Even if the Federation Army has made progress reconstituting its magical forces, their stable of powerful mages remains limited. If we can take this piece off the board…

What am I thinking? I shake the foolish thought from my head. We can’t lose sight of our priorities. Our time must be spent disrupting enemy logistics, not chasing the vague possibility of destroying enemy units.

“We will respect the Second Regiment’s judgment. They are permitted to engage if they deem it necessary; however, destruction of enemy air and mage units is a secondary objective. The priority is the destruction of enemy logistic. Continue to target enemy supply routes…,” I bark, trailing off.

It is important not to confuse dreams with reality.

A big bad wolf is currently stalking one of our numerically inferior assault units. That unit is going to have a hard time conducting ground attacks with such a predator on their tail. Even if they manage, it will cost them dearly.

A commander can order troops to sacrifice themselves if need be, but it all comes down to opportunity costs. If we can eliminate this persona non grata now, things will likely go smoother later. In terms of sustained assault, if Tanya allows the Second Regiment to engage the enemy and then return to base, it will be much easier to exploit them in the future.

Then it is decided.

“Send a message to Second Regiment! Have them prioritize fighting the enemy mage unit instead! For now, they can ignore logistic targets. Then have them return to base so I can keep their noses to the grindstone next time! Tell them to clear the enemy quickly and then come back for food and rest!”

Yes, a commander must keep priorities clear. On paper, this is simple enough, but in reality, such decisions are incredibly taxing. I try to suppress the distaste rising in my stomach.

This decision means that if things go poorly for the Third Regiment, and if my unit fails to find another target before nightfall, tonight’s attack will end with just a single supply convoy hit.

While not a total loss, it’s close enough. We need to take out enemy supply units as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the further the Federation Army advances and the more our front dissolves.

Time. This is a fight against time.

Imagine slamming on the brakes to stop a runaway train. If, by the time it stops, whatever you hoped to protect has already been run over, then stopping the train was meaningless. The Federation must be stopped now.

I remove my canteen and take a gulp of the tepid water inside, worried that even if we stop the Federation, it might not be before they deliver a fatal blow to the Empire.

Perhaps it is nerves. My throat feels unusually dry. I wish I had hot coffee, but there is no use crying over what we cannot have. The most I can hope for now, flying high at speed, is a few sips of water warmed to body temperature under my protective film.

Unfortunately, although the layout of roads and major railways here suggests a high likelihood of enemy supply units, I see no signs of the enemy. Maybe they are hiding beneath the veil of night until the sun comes up, yet the strain of searching in darkness hangs gloomily over me.

It looks like our work will be hard. However, just as I begin to feel we are getting nowhere…

“Third Regiment has failed to find any enemies.”

“Understood,” I say. The report is disappointing, but there is good news as well.

“Since there were no signs of the enemy, the regiment decided to proceed on their own judgment, advancing to the shunting yard. They managed to burn it down. Nearby, they also discovered what appears to be a depot and are now attacking it…”

The rush of good news hits me like a shot of camphor, raising my flagging spirits.

“That’s what I like to hear!”

I’m so happy I can’t help but clap my hands and smile. Yes, tear the place up by the roots!

Of our three regiments, my own managed to encounter and attack a supply unit as planned. The Second Regiment, meanwhile, has encountered a much swifter and more powerful opposing force and is now engaged in combat.

So far, it’s a wash.

But the remaining regiment penetrated deep into enemy territory without meeting any resistance and is causing havoc. This is more than just a point in our favor—it’s a massive win. Still far too early to breathe easy, but the word success lights up like a slot machine in Tanya’s mind.

“This means…”

It’s possible, it really is.

While muttering to myself, I notice a figure approaching. Hrm? I turn my attention to my second-in-command. He looks as if he has something to say.

“Major Weiss?”

“It’s time, ma’am.”

“For what?”

Before I can ask what he means, Weiss elaborates. “For mid-flight performance rations…”

Of course. Major Weiss is being considerate. He has kept track of the time for me, and his phrasing is excellent! Had this oversight been pointed out in the presence of the others, it might have damaged Tanya’s image as a commander. How fortunate Tanya is to have such a discreet subordinate.

“Oh, of course… Yes, very good.”

Usually I would never lose track of time, but fatigue and stress have affected my cognitive abilities. I thank Major Weiss, recognizing how distracted I am.

“Forgive me, Weiss. I appreciate the reminder.”

“There’s no need to thank me. You have plenty on your plate already; it’s important for me to step up where I can.”

I thank him again before turning to the others and raising my voice.

“A short break for performance rations!”

A midair break! I give the mages permission to drop from combat speed to patrol speed, and then I retrieve the rations I stowed away in my pocket.

“No matter how many times I eat this stuff, I never get used to it…”

I take an unpleasant bite. In terms of nutritional value, these rations are unbeatable, but they taste even worse than what the Commonwealth has to offer.

What is the excuse for this? That we’re in the army? These rations may be the pinnacle of high nutrition, but couldn’t they at least improve the taste a little? I wonder as I pop the remainder into my mouth, wash it down with a swig of lukewarm water, and then take a bite of military chocolate to get the taste out of my mouth.

After a nice post-meal breather, I begin to feel like myself again. I address my second-in-command.

“Major Weiss, I have my own thoughts, but what do you think of the unit’s combat strength?”

“In a pinch, Colonel, we seem about as strong as always. Ammunition usage and casualties are both minor. There should be no problems with combat readiness.”

“However?”

“However, aside from our own battalion, the other troops aren’t as used to such long missions and are likely suffering from fatigue…”

I nod in agreement. Even my own concentration is faltering. Putting aside the pressure of command, our formation is far from perfect now.

I was already growing antsy before we set out, and now that fatigue is mounting, part of me is itching for one more fight.

We have plenty of urgency, but very little choice.

“There is no rest for the weary, Major Weiss. If we stop now, the war will be out of our hands. How will we justify all we have done then? You understand what I mean, don’t you?” I ask.

One good turn begets another.

“In other words, however much work we have ahead, we can only press on?” he asks.

“That’s right. The burden of command at every level is great,” I say, keeping my tone light. Of course, as a commander, I am already juggling more than my share of responsibilities. I have taken direct command of one regiment while managing loose control over the other two via radio.

Meanwhile, I must also answer to the brass and handle constant back-and-forth with Eastern Army Command, who still struggle to grasp the situation. That is just the way of things, even if part of me wishes they would just butt out.

Of course, Tanya is reaping her own rewards, but negotiating with Eastern Command over the radio is hard work—dissembling and evading to ensure they don’t get in our way. On top of that, I must provide moral support for Captain Meybert, left in charge at our base in Tanya’s absence (like when I told him to send away that annoying messenger from command).

And while keeping all these plates spinning, I must also infiltrate enemy territory in search of targets.

Tanya may be a durable mage—one who has built up a resistance to pandemonium under General Zettour’s unreasonable command—but even she is feeling overworked.

The situation is no better for my troops. This has been an extended assault run, with more than half comprised of NOE flight.

Simply put, even experienced soldiers in established units will crack from fatigue and pressure when they’re subjected to sustained combat with no rest.

Tanya disapproves of such labor conditions, but military organizations remain perennially interested in stimulants precisely because of these situations. Every army finds itself scrambling at times to overcome the natural limitations of the human body.

Accepting such measures aside, when a machine is pushed to its absolute limits, a certain amount of maintenance becomes essential. In that same vein, I must care for the mages I have assembled if I am to exploit their abilities to the fullest.

Yes, care.

Or, put another way, I must maximize their service rate.

This means a minimum level of rest is needed for the exhausted mages—even if that means doing something as crazy as landing in enemy territory.

Once on the ground, I allow the luxury of boiling water and, taste notwithstanding, another welcome helping of performance rations, and I sit down to rest as well.

When finished, I step to the front of the unit to lead, and take flight once more.

Fortunately, unit morale remains within acceptable margins. Meanwhile, reports come in from Second and Third Regiments that their missions are finished and they are temporarily returning to base. Even better, neither unit has suffered significant personnel or equipment losses.

The commanders of the other regiments insist that rest is necessary, but I urge them to “sleep during the day and keep fighting for now!”

I don’t want to enter the enemy’s backyard during the day. Under the cover of night, however, the Empire’s aerial mages have the advantage of experience.

There is one fast, clear truth: No matter who you are, no matter your principles or how important they seem, there are only twenty-four hours in a day.

Time is limited. Time is scarce.

Which means we must make decisions as needed, on a case-by-case basis.

“How can the day be only half over when we’ve already done so much?” mumbles the Second Regiment’s commander over the radio.

I sneer in response and say, “You mean the day is nearly half gone, don’t you?”

In substance, the two assessments are much the same.

To repeat: time is limited.

Any mistake that costs us time now is a hideous blow.

Even if we reach the expected enemy supply bases, if we don’t spot their lights amid the snow, it will mean little. With each passing second, my pessimistic fear of not finding the enemy grows stronger. This is no fun.

But I am prepared. I knew from the start that there was no guarantee enemy supply routes would be found, only a high likelihood. We cannot expect to be lucky every time.

Yet, on the battlefield, such reasoning grows thin. It is a human paradox. Unfortunately, I now see that this same rapacity lies at the root of market bubbles—bubbles that must eventually collapse. Even knowing this, the temptation remains great.

But the question now is how to respond to reality.

The longer one gambles time on a campaign with a poor outlook for success, the harder it becomes to recover later. That is the danger of being hemmed in by sunk costs. Conversely, cutting and running too quickly risks wasting hopeful investments.

Both choices have merits and demerits. After crossing my arms midair and thinking for a moment, I decide to take on partial additional risk.

“Climb higher and scout closely for enemies!”

Our visibility is limited at low altitude; from higher up, we can see better. This makes sense, but we had reasons not to choose this option earlier.

“Time is limited. The risk of being detected is not as important now as the risk of not detecting the enemy. Under these circumstances, decisive action is needed. We will scan the area using magic radiation.”

Radar allows one to search for enemies, but it sends out signals that can be traced to their source. Similarly, when mages raise their altitude, their mana signatures can be picked up by enemy units, greatly increasing the risk that the enemy might flee.

Worse, there is a nonzero chance that an enemy mage unit could be sent to intercept us. After all, the Second Regiment had just fended off an intercepting enemy unit. There is no guarantee the enemy has no more units waiting.

“Scout for the enemy! Scan the area! But be prepared for a possible enemy response!”

The men move out to scout, keeping their eyes peeled for enemy mages while flying in pairs to limit dead angles.

However, we soon encounter something both predictable and a total surprise: the expected and the unexpected combined.

“Ah! A signal is approaching! Incoming fliers at two o’clock!” shouts the mage watching the perimeter. Everyone turns their attention in that direction. Detecting multiple flying objects, the mages appear puzzled.

There is no mana signal. The sole response is a faint ping from our basic anti-air warning formulas.

“Is that…?”

“Enemy aircraft!” I shout to the confused soldiers.

The confusion among the veterans is understandable. It may be hard to believe, but mages are not the only things that fly!

“At this time of night? A sluggish night fighter sent to intercept mages?!”

“What other explanation could there be?” I reply, ordering the unit to regroup into combat formation.

If we were facing mages, we would avoid bunching up too closely. For relatively fast night fighters, however, I consider whether combat box formation might be preferable for the added defense… But then I spot the enemy in the distance and groan.

“They seem pretty small for night fighters. Maybe I misjudged the distance…”

Their silhouettes are small. It is still difficult to identify them through the gloom…but something seems off.

Night fighters are generally twin-engine crafts capable of long-distance flight, with decent maneuverability and high speed. Although still far away, this enemy seems…

I shout in surprise, realizing they aren’t night fighters at all.

“Single engines?! They sent normal fighters?!”

Normal fighters flying at night? That is insane. Not just one, but multiple fighters—all skilled enough to fly in formation under these conditions—are now coming our way.

“You’re joking! Where did they even find the pilots?!”

Takeoff, landing, and finding your target in the air at night are incredibly difficult. The guts and training required to lift off in a single-engine fighter at night are immense. Doubly so for these units, which are probably reserves deployed to the rear.

“Are they mad?” I whisper, shaking my head.

In this light, visibility is too low for us to see each other clearly. With infuriating tenacity, the enemy aircraft sprays machine-gun fire in our direction from across the inky night sky.

They attack in hit-and-run fashion, as is standard for aerial combat, sweeping in formation. While their fire does little against our defensive shells, we cannot lower our guard even for a moment.

“Daring, indeed! Have it your way, then! If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get!” I howl, embodying the courageous commander while internally cursing them. Damned Federation goons! Don’t they realize they aren’t paid enough for this? Such labor dumping is infuriating.

I fly to the front of the regiment, knowing I must lead and inspire the men. I manifest a showy explosion formula and fire it at the enemy.

The fighting, however, does not last long.

The enemy aircraft are interested only in harassment attacks and seem unwilling to fully commit to a dogfight. On top of that, it’s nighttime. Too many variables are at play.

Although there are no casualties, valuable time has been wasted. That is more annoying than anything right now.

I mutter, “…If the enemy has brought its air bases this far forward, it spells trouble.”

A base from which they could dispatch and vector single-engine fighters to us. They will get in our way again if we let them. I doubt we were just unlucky this time.

“Hmm? Wait a second…”

What about flight range? A craft suited for hit-and-run tactics, with a powerful engine and heavy arms and armor, usually has limited range. Although fighter planes are faster than mages, the laws of physics demand a trade-off. But if the enemy’s fighters are nearby…

“Everyone, follow the enemy! Let’s make sure they get back to grandma’s house safe and sound!”

We must pursue the enemy and burn down their nest. We can’t let these fighters get in our way again. On the battlefield, madness must be met with madness. Barbarism for barbarism. Sometimes the most extreme decisions arise from what reason dictates in the heat of battle.

The regiment ascertains the general direction of the enemy swarm and immediately pursues.

Several enemy aircraft disperse, making it harder to pinpoint their location. However, while they haven’t made it easy, a report soon comes in:

“E-enemy base! I’ve found the enemy base!”

I steel my resolve and fly straight toward the location. I gasp upon arrival, barely believing the massive size of the base. Huge airstrips are one thing—plains or packed snowfields can serve as makeshift runways—but the attached facilities rising in majestic succession defy reason.

This airfield is so vast that I almost question whether it is merely a forward airfield or a permanent installation. As far as I recall, the Imperial Air Fleet scouted this area only a few days ago. If such a base existed here, it would have been reported.

“Where the hell did this spring up from?”

It is like a fable, like the legend of how Sunomata Castle was built in one night. A base that shouldn’t exist in a place it shouldn’t.

My head begins to pound.

One need not invoke Clausewitz’s fog and friction to know that the battlefield is rife with the unknowns. However, a miscalculation of this magnitude should be impossible without a great deal of effort on the enemy’s part.

“If this is a field base, it’s amazing they’ve placed it this far forward with full facilities.”

It is a mystery how they did it, but I can’t help but flinch at their audacity. We are practically on the front lines. The sheer aggressiveness required to push a base so close to the Imperial Army’s heavy artillery—if that artillery were still functioning—makes me want to curse out loud.

“If only General Laudon were still alive.”

That old general was on the same wavelength as Zettour. Had he lived, merely reporting our findings might have been enough for him to mobilize the artillery—even if the gun crews were already at death’s door.

“Colonel? What’s wrong?” my adjutant asks.

I say it’s nothing. I had hoped to outsource this job, but it appears we must handle it ourselves—a complaint one cannot voice to a subordinate. Instead, Tanya must remain upbeat, as if this were the chance of a lifetime.

“I was just feeling guilty that we get to keep such a big target all for ourselves.”

“It does look like it will burn rather nicely,” my adjutant agrees.

I nod, then cock my head.

We are on snow. Even if we try to ignite their aircraft fuel, I doubt the flames will spread far. Besides, given their position, the enemy likely expects air raids and artillery assaults and is prepared to handle damage control.

“It looks like tossing in a few explosion formulas and then strolling away while the ruins burn behind us…”

…is not an option. Before I can finish, my mind shifts to a deconstructionist perspective: One might say that the chance of the base burning from a single attack is low—or that the risk is low. Aerial bases are full of flammable substances, but even if munitions and fuel bunkers are hit, many facilities may remain intact. Which means…

“Prepare explosion formulas! As soon as the flammable substances are blown away, move in and clear it out! Consider any poorly guarded stockpiles ours for the taking!”

An airborne drop! As I shout orders over the radio, my second-in-command is confused.

“Colonel, this is Major Weiss… I’m sorry, ‘move in and clear it out’? What does that mean?”

“This base is on snow! If it won’t burn, we’ll just need to go down there and destroy it ourselves!”

“A…combat drop?!”

“No, an assault! An airborne assault! Our goal is to destroy the enemy’s nest, not to occupy it! Any questions?!”

He has none. I nod in satisfaction and order the regiment—still forming up for a ground assault—to focus on flammable materials with light explosion formulas directed at the ground.

Unfortunately, the enemy’s AA fire is dense here as well. Of course, in this shootout against a full regiment of mages—with their defensive shells and protective films—the base is the first to capitulate.

Once most enemy anti-air emplacements are destroyed, their fire begins to weaken.

Now is our chance! I order the troops to descend and attack. Leading once again from the front, I touch down near the ruins of what appears to have been the Federation air base’s command center.

I hope to find useful information when I spot a cipher device that has been thoroughly demolished. I can’t help but suck my teeth. The damage was not caused by one of our explosion formulas or collateral damage.

The device had been carefully doused in oil, chopped with an axe, and, just to be doubly sure, was even blown up. Once they realized their HQ was under attack, someone in the Federation must have ensured the cipher device was completely destroyed before fleeing.

“Man, talk about going…”

“…Overboard,” someone mutters, but before they can finish, a burst of fire from a heavy machine gun lights up the ruined remains of the command post, shooting from wall to wall.

The bullets cut through the wood like paper, bursting into the room, screaming murder, eager to reduce the soft humans inside to chunks of meat.

In response, the mages and I immediately drop to the floor and take cover, our eyes fixed on the space outside. I blink in surprise. Is that what I think it is…?

“A gun emplacement? Seriously…?!” I groan in shock.

What is going on? This is just a forward air base—why does it have gun stations set up as if expecting paratroopers?

Is this an example of on-site ingenuity by the Federation, or has a higher-up been particularly worried about imperial airborne attack? I can only guess as I order the nearby soldiers and officers to return fire.

“Damn, it looks like the enemy is learning.”

Experience comes at a high price, but it is the best teacher. Any serious pupil advances under its tutelage. Assuming they survive, that is.

“What else have they been up to?”

It is a crazy idea, but as my troops huddle in the ruined command center, I yell, “Search the floor!” Amazingly, it appears an underground bunker has been installed. Furthermore, reports from other troops indicate several disguised bunkers throughout the site. The Federation’s paranoia is shocking. Their level of preparation, unbelievable.

I immediately change plans. It is time for us to get out of here. I quickly issue orders:

“Set the place alight and disengage! We’ll have to settle for just shitting in their beds this time!”

“What? What do you mean, set it alight?!” Weiss asks, confused.

I shout for him to get it together. “Even temporarily occupying this base will take too much time and effort right now. We need to prioritize our initial goal of destruction. Forget seizing supplies for now. Above or below ground, burn it all!”

But Major Weiss stiffly offers, “The enemy opposition is fierce… Aren’t we going to face plenty of resistance trying to burn the place down as well?”

“Why, Major Weiss, that’s what ingenuity is for.”

He swallows his words.

“Let’s go,” I say. “Airfields are meant to be burned. It’s tradition.”

“What tradition?!”

“Let’s call it Eastern flair.”

There are combat examples from the other world that fill Tanya’s mind—fighter pilots landing at air bases and setting them ablaze before taking off again. And those were just ordinary pilots. Why should aerial mages, with their defensive shells, fear enemies prepared for standard air assaults and airborne drops?

A mage may not have the firepower of artillery, the armor of a heavy tank, or the holding power of infantry, but they combine the light tank armor with artillery-level firepower and can conduct infantry-like operations—more than enough to raze a Federation airfield or two.

So long as we commit to the assault, enemy lines will crumble. We can burn the base, capture enemy maps, share the information with friendly units, and then move on to our next target…

I run the calculations in my head as I lift off and assume position in the air.

Whether we attack again or withdraw, for it to be organized, I must maintain strict control. As soon as I have that thought, I notice something is off.

The other soldiers are moving slower than usual. No, not just slow. Some haven’t even gotten back in formation yet! I glance around in shock as the situation sets in.

I ask Weiss what the hell is going on. He points toward the troops with a frown and tells me, “They are exhausted…”

“And you?”

“I’m not too bad yet… Actually, I’m more worried about you, Colonel, given the burden of command.”

“So I appear tired, too,” I reply quietly.

Even as a salaryman who can fight for twenty-four hours straight, with so much pressure coming from so many sides, it is impossible to deny that even I am running ragged.

“We’ve been through tougher experiences than this. However…the other regiments…”

“Yes, ma’am. Our unit is used to being overworked, so we take overtime in stride. However…”

Even if morale holds, it will be difficult to cover our exhaustion through sheer will while working with personnel less accustomed to such fatigue.

I thought I had accounted for this, but the exhaustion among the men is inconsistent. The unit’s condition is patchy, which will ultimately damage cohesion.

There are still others whose opinions I should seek.

“Lieutenant Wüstemann!”

“Yes! What is it, Colonel?” he responds brightly, the very picture of youthful vigor.

“Can you and your unit manage one more fight?”

“Hmm… If you command it, Colonel.”

“I see,” I say, the corners of my mouth twisting up in amusement as I turn toward Major Weiss once more.

“There, it seems we are not quite on our last legs yet.”

“That is only because we are used to you pushing our noses to the grindstone like this, Colonel,” Major Weiss says somewhat obstinately. For some reason, First Lieutenant Serebryakov, positioned nearby and having been keeping watch, nods emphatically in response.

Tanya is only doing this due to orders from above. She would much rather proclaim herself no friend to such sweatshop practices. But, perhaps sadly, this is the battlefield. I do not have the luxury of explaining myself to my subordinates.

Hands tied, I decide to assign roles better suited to their aptitudes.

“We have no choice, then. It is time to return to base. But let us make a few small arrangements first.”

How much should we commit? The answer is obvious.

“I will leave most of it to you, Major. Take the troops back to base with you; have your rest if need be.”

“Y… Huh? I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”

“What’s wrong, Major? Surely you can lead the regiment back on your own.”

“Of course. Just say the word and I will do my best, but…what about you, Colonel? Will you be acting independently?”

“That’s right,” I say, nodding. “I plan to return by leading the absent Grantz’s company and Lieutenant Wüstemann’s unit on a sweep of the route where the likelihood of encountering enemies seems highest.”

“But is there any need for you to lead the detachment yourself…?” asks Major Weiss doubtfully.

Major Weiss’s question is very on the nose. Honestly, I would rather not perform unpaid overtime like this, especially when there’s nothing in it for me. However, I cannot overlook the danger posed by the Reds.

It’s a necessary expenditure for Tanya’s future safety, the processing of a threat that could lead to serious harm later. But an expenditure is still an expenditure. I doubt I would take on so much risk unless it were the Reds who were involved.

But this is no time to grow maudlin… The matter is settled. I answer Weiss in a purposely playful tone.

“These men still have plenty of energy to spare. What would you have me do—take them on a joyride instead? That doesn’t sound very fun. If we’re going to head home either way, doesn’t it sound more entertaining to work out all this pent-up energy by cutting a path straight through the enemy instead?”

“But the sun is almost coming up…”

“All the better to see our targets by.”

“Won’t they be able to see you clearly as well?”

“True. But fair is fair, after all. I’ve never been much for playing fair, but we can hardly throw a tantrum just because the sun refuses to take our side. All I really care about in the end is whether or not we get to blow up more enemies.”

“I know I should be used to this by now, Lieutenant Colonel, but your idea of fun is as lopsided as ever…”

“And here I thought I was promoting a fair and balanced approach for once. You just can’t win sometimes.”

Realizing that my jokes are not dispelling Major Weiss’s frown, I decide to ask what is really troubling him.

“Is there something else?”

“Colonel, are you sure about this? It will involve a dramatic increase in danger.”

Danger? I take a moment to explain my reasoning.

“If we meet any enemies along the way, they are likely to be supply units. According to the Federation Army maps we captured, the main highways are being used to transport fuel, just as we thought. There is a high chance we will get eyes on a logistics convoy laden with petrol.”

“And then you’ll hit them?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding ferociously. “We can’t just let a cluster of flammable goods stroll past, unperturbed—especially not when the enemy is carrying that cargo right beneath our noses.”

“Is it really that likely that supplies are being transported to the front line at night…?”

“Without a doubt,” I say, trying to reassure Major Weiss.

In terms of self-sufficiency, tanks rank somewhere near the bottom. Without regular supply and maintenance, tanks grind to a halt; without infantry support, they are surprisingly fragile. If the enemy is going to use armor as the tip of the spear in a flat, grinding push like this, they are going to have to keep feeding that armor with constant fuel to sustain their advance.

If our side had plenty of fuel, this could have created a nightmare situation where the enemy’s vanguard continuously pushed forward using our own gas against us… But, for better or worse, the amount of fuel the Federation Army can steal from the Imperial Army at the moment is minuscule.

After all, General Zettour transferred much of that fuel to the Ildoan front.

Having repeatedly squeezed out what reserves we could for the concentrated deployment of large panzer regiments, our fuel bunkers are likely empty across the entire front—meaning that the option of capturing fuel is effectively off the table for the enemy.

Under the present circumstances, with both sides scrambling for air superiority and the Federation making a mad dash to carry fuel to the front, the Empire’s one and only prescription for what ails us is to cut off the Federation’s supply arteries.

I am certain of this.

“The enemy will undoubtedly strive to supply their front lines as quickly as possible. Whether we find anything will depend to some degree on luck…but the enemy is sure to be transporting a high volume of supplies, enough to allow for some losses.”

“That is an insightful opinion…but how can you know so much?”

“My education in war college, Major. Anyone with a smattering of logistical knowledge could figure out as much by working backward. I suspect Colonel Uger could even deduce which routes they might take.”

“Colonel Uger?! I thought he stayed cooped up at the General Staff Office.”

“Major Weiss, were you not aware? Colonel Uger and I were classmates.”

“Your argument suddenly sounds a lot more persuasive…”

What is that supposed to mean? I shrug and continue smiling broadly.

“Now then, I’ll leave the rest to you. We need to get going.”

In the end, my suspicion proves correct. We discover several fuel convoys, which we destroy, scattering huge amounts of flammable gas onto the earth in a grand feat of vandalism.

It is a fine enough showing, but far from decisive.

“Visha, how are communications?”

“There are no indications yet that the advancing Federation Army has been ordered to halt. Our front line remains in chaos. Based on the units I can confirm, it already seems that a fair number of our forces will be left behind,” my adjutant says.

Of course. This was expected. Predicted, even. It would be too much to expect the entire army to move instantly based on falsified orders I had forced through. Besides, even if the entire army had attempted to implement my orders immediately, how many units were actually in a position to do so smoothly?

“Very few, I imagine.”

I understand, but I can’t help but pout.

This is only the first day. Less than twenty hours have passed since everything began, yet a whole day’s worth of retreating has already been lost. If the Empire does not kick it into high gear, then this field army Tanya is trying to pull back—by hell or high water—will dissolve in spectacular fashion.

For the first time, I pray softly to Lieutenant Grantz. “Please, I am begging you. Somehow, you need to get through to General Zettour.”

[chapter] III Liar Today, Thief Tomorrow

JANUARY 15, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, PROVISIONAL OPERATION CENTER

Placing your hands together in prayer does not make the world’s problems disappear.

For Tanya, the act of praying to one of her subordinates is the perfect opportunity to reflect and to take notice of her own lack of composure.

Perhaps that is why our two-company assault run comes to an end without issue. After returning to camp, I have hot water prepared, and distribute some of my precious store of real chocolate, taken from Ildoa, to command personnel. While nibbling on the chocolate with them, I soon get down to work, burying myself in a mountain of complicated but necessary paperwork.

We are at war, and in the middle of combat operations. Burying one’s head in paperwork at a time like this might seem like a form of escapism, but this paperwork is, in fact, ridiculously urgent.

After all, an army is still a kind of organization, the kind where the amount of administrative work increases dramatically with each operation or engagement.

Neglecting such administrative work would cause us to deteriorate into an organization destined for failure that cannot grasp the condition of its units, cannot keep supply lines open, and fails to issue effective orders in timely fashion.

For a proper modern army, triumph over paperwork is a necessary prerequisite to winning a war. At the present moment, however, I cannot deny that I am headed toward a decisive defeat on the administrative front.

To be blunt, the paperwork has reached peak saturation.

Even with Major Weiss, who returned to base separately, handling whatever he could; even with First Lieutenant Serebryakov assisting; even with all command staff on deck. I still have not caught up.

The reason for this failure is extremely simple: We do not have enough people. Unfortunately, this is a structural deficiency.

To begin with, most of the officers under Tanya’s command are mage battalion officers, because the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion was formed as a scaled-up battalion.

Naturally, Salamander Kampfgruppe has armored, artillery, and infantry officers as well… Significantly, however, while there are officers for each unit, not a single additional staff member has been assigned for joint oversight. It is the equivalent of working for an exploitative company that has set up a regional headquarters—one that brings together four separate branches—but then expects branch staff to step up and handle regional supervisory duties without hiring additional personnel, not even part-timers.

This Kampfgruppe, after all, is only a provisional unit, flexibly organized in response to emergency conditions and disbanded once necessary measures are completed. Permanent command capabilities would have contradicted our stated mission and were thus seen as unnecessary.

Besides, the overtime involved in running a Kampfgruppe-scale unit is considered part of the job for a commander of my rank. As Tanya has no plans to drown in this sea of overwork on her own, she has always assigned work to the other branch unit commanders at her discretion. This is how she has managed to endure her working conditions and swiftly process a wide variety of administrative tasks behind the scenes.

Now, however, comes the problem.

Captain Ahrens and his unit are off my roster at the moment due to tank maintenance. Captain Meybert, who is in charge of artillery, and First Lieutenant Tospan, who is in charge of infantry, are holding down base with the rest of the Kampfgruppe in my absence. As for magical officers on hand, First Lieutenant Grantz is away as well, currently delivering a message for me.

And yet we are expected to carry out direct command duties for a mage regiment as well as administer an entire mage division under these conditions. This is mission impossible.

It is not as if I can forcibly assign duties to the few magic officers present; after all, I have mobilized the units off the books according to orders given in General Zettour’s name. Only those already aware of and reconciled to the situation can be drafted as command personnel.

At the very least, as a matter of priority and to increase efficiency, I have delegated the majority of administrative work to the division’s various commanders. But with so many repeated sorties—where I am not only sending the men out to hammer enemy logistics but also going with them—it is only a matter of time until everything comes crashing down.

It has been twenty-four hours since the Federation began its offensive. Only twenty-four hours. And already I am reaching my limit.

There is only one hope. If First Lieutenant Grantz can explain things to General Zettour, and Zettour legitimizes and normalizes the situation, then all of this chaos will be swept away in a heartbeat.

I diligently sign document after document and prepare order after order, all in a bid to fend off catastrophe for as long as possible, putting off what can be postponed. Yet the work continues to mount.

Meanwhile, to get anything done, I have been forced to leave communications personnel with strict orders to ignore all appeals for mage troop support, without mercy.

In the end, coordination with the eastern army is not going smoothly, either. I need to play dumb, of course, but I also need to urge them to retreat.

Now that General Laudon is a goner, however, the eastern army is in chaos.

“Let’s see… Considering flight speed and time, we should be able to expect a report from Lieutenant Grantz any time now.”

Let’s just hope he gets through quickly. Perhaps I should have gone myself. I am so overwhelmed, I barely know what I am saying, but there’s no getting back to running operations until I get through all this damn paperwork.

And we need to get back to it now. This version of AirLand Battle is so dispersed that it makes the Cold War look focused. But to get back to operations, Tanya needs to ask for the impossible from all sides.

As I rub my dry eyes, I realize my fingers are shaking. I must have been clutching my pen too hard. Both my eyes and my hands are on their last legs.

Realizing that pushing myself any further right now will be inefficient, I announce my departure to my second-in-command and adjutant.

“Weiss, I’m sorry, but I am going to take a short nap. Just fifteen minutes. You two should rest in shifts as well. Serebryakov, if you don’t mind, please have chocolate and coffee ready for Weiss and me when we awaken.”

Leaving the rest to my subordinates, who nod in understanding, I shuffle off to my bedroom like a zombie and collapse onto my poor excuse for a kip. There is neither a mattress nor a bed, not even a sleeping bag right now, just a pile of hay. Fortunately, however, someone has at least dried it out for me.

A dry, warm haven in this universe of sludge. A luxury, at present. Here on the battlefield, this kip smells as civilized as a full suite of amenities.

My consciousness plummets. In the next moment, however, just as my mind should be sinking into the straw, I am forcibly dragged back to reality by external stimuli.

“Huh?”

My foggy brain protests at how heavy I feel, urging me to embrace sleep, but I realize a hand is shaking my shoulder, grappling with my half-asleep consciousness.

“Ah…? Is it time already?”

I turn my eyes toward the clock and realize that almost no time has passed since I decided to take a rest. I then turn my eyes toward whoever has awoken me.

I see my adjutant standing there, an apologetic look on her face.

“Colonel Degurechaff… Umm…”

“What is it?”

“The telephone. Can you speak? I can bring the receiver.”

“The telephone…? What? Oh, the telephone.”

Whatever it is, it must be important for her to bring it to my attention at a time like this—especially since she is bringing it to me directly rather than letting Major Weiss handle it.

I immediately rouse myself, realizing this is not a call I can avoid.

“I’ll take it. Bring me the phone.”

I hurry from my makeshift bed back to the command center, clear my sleepy throat, pick up the receiver, and attempt to greet the person on the line in a presentable tone.

“Yes, hello, this is…”

“Hello, hello, Colonel Degurechaff! How have you been? I think I am beginning to feel my age, sadly. I just can’t seem to find inspiration these days.”

The voice sounds laid-back, even a bit scatterbrained. But even over radio or telephone, even having just woken up, it is a voice I could never mistake.

“D-Doctor?”

“Indeed, indeed, you do remember me! Good, good, that should make things easier.”

Honestly, I wonder how I could ever forget him.

“Perhaps you might tell me what you’re calling about?” I say perfunctorily, my voice completely devoid of grumpiness. This is less a triumph of self-control—the minimum expected of a civilized person—and more a matter of sheer surprise.

Although, who wouldn’t feel a bit discombobulated after being woken up by a voice like the doctor’s? This is the very same madman who once shoved a self-destructing orb into Tanya’s hands and later yelled at her over the radio for not using it right.

“Yes, yes, that reminds me.” While I am still trying to kickstart my brain, the man on the other end plods ahead at his own pace. “You must be very busy over there. We both know the value of good faith, but I imagine if we keep this operational line tied up too long with our chatter, someone is bound to lose patience with our indiscretion.”

“Ha-ha, yes, there could always be someone big and scary listening in. Your concern is much appreciated, however.”

“Of course, of course, but it is nice to take the time to catch up every now and again, is it not?”

I don’t understand. Why am I making small talk with the doctor all of a sudden? And at the cost of nap time—one of the most precious commodities in the middle of a battlefield.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, I, too, am growing old. At my age, hearing about what old friends are up to brings my old bones some peace of mind. When one finds oneself running all over the place for work all the time, one soon finds oneself with no time for anything more than cordialities.”

“Your company is widely sought.”

“Perhaps. But one always wants to know that one’s acquaintances are doing well. One always wants to do a good turn. Speaking of which, that reminds me of why I called. That young first lieutenant of yours, he is here now on holiday, I believe?”

Hrm? I suddenly sit up straighter.

A young first lieutenant? Why does the doctor, back in the capital, know about Grantz’s whereabouts? I only dispatched him the other day. Of course, this is why we are having this ridiculous conversation over a field telephone. Now it all makes sense!

“Unfortunately, the fellow seemed to have lost his wallet, ration tickets and all. He had gotten himself wrapped up in a quarrel of some sort. Well, it’s not as if the young man is a complete stranger, is he? I decided to show a little kindness and get the man back on his feet. You don’t mind if I bill his taxi to the battalion, do you? After all, under war ration regulations, taxi tickets are for official army use only. I’d hate for anyone to accuse me of embezzlement.”

“Yes, that would certainly be unacceptable. I apologize if my young officer has put you out. He must have gotten carried away by his unexpected holiday. Your help is highly appreciated.”

“Not at all, not at all. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Please, send an invoice for the taxi our way, as well as for the cost of the telephone call. I will tell command to process payment quickly in my absence. I know you must be very busy today as well, Doctor. Please forgive the trouble.”

“I will consider it a debt in my favor.”

“A significant favor indeed. I will be sure to mark it in my ledger. Farewell, Doctor.”

Ending the conversation, I replace the receiver with a thud. Major Weiss timidly speaks up, perhaps discomfited by the curtness of my gesture.

“I’m sorry. Was that something that I should have handled?”

Major Weiss seems worried that he may have robbed his superior officer of sleep. I wave him off broadly, assuring him there is no need to worry.

“You were right to bring it to me. In fact, that resolves one concern. Half the load has been lifted from our shoulders, more or less.”

“It was about Lieutenant Grantz, then…?”

I nod.

With long-distance telephone calls, there is always the palpable worry that someone could be listening in, and this was one conversation we did not want even our own forces to hear. The doctor’s tact was a surprising stroke of good fortune.

“What did they say?”

It is speculation, of course, but I explain what I assume the doctor meant to communicate by his call.

“Capital air defense, or some other bureaucratic mechanism. I don’t know, but it seems someone had gotten hold of Lieutenant Grantz. Fortunately, the doctor managed to work things out somehow.”

“The doctor?”

“Someone in the capital who is allowed to do whatever he likes. He has quite a few connections, though I would never have expected him to be much use to the world at large.”

From my point of view, the doctor’s assistance has come completely out of left field. But even the strangest of folks have their moment to shine. Begrudgingly, Tanya adjusts her opinion of the man.

Of course, my less-than-stellar opinion of the doctor is not shared by most of the command officers around me. Ever one for manners, Major Weiss remains silent. Surprisingly, however, it is my adjutant who, despite having supposedly long looked up to Tanya, chooses to exhort me an exasperated expression on her face.

“That is the same great man who developed your orb, Colonel, not to mention the Type 97s we carry. A man of character, surely, and a respectable engineer. You shouldn’t speak about him like that…”

“In that case, Lieutenant Serebryakov, ask Lieutenant Grantz for his impression of Doctor Schugel when he returns. I’m sure he will be able to enlighten you.”

First Lieutenant Serebryakov nods. I relax my shoulders slightly as I turn away. This is good news. I have been pushing things forward under false pretenses, using General Zettour’s name. If the Empire were to foolishly butt in at the wrong time and declare these orders fake, it could derail this whole train. However…

“At the very least, Grantz should be able to explain things.”

So long as First Lieutenant Grantz manages to explain the situation to the higher-ups, no matter what General Zettour decides in the end, we will have at least made the situation known and will have a chance at avoiding catastrophe.

And if things go well, there is no reason not to expect even more. With that thought in mind, I suddenly feel as if I can handle this ridiculous deluge of administrative work for a little while longer.

Burdens seem lighter when an end is in sight.

JANUARY 15, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, IMPERIAL GENERAL STAFF OFFICE

“Stop!” demanded a guard, sharply.

The guard turned toward the visitor as he spoke, a firm sense of duty in his eyes—all unauthorized entry was strictly prohibited, regardless of rank. The current subject of that guard’s glare was First Lieutenant Grantz, who had already been attempting to rush inside the offices of the General Staff.

Grantz barely managed to skid to a halt and address the guard. To be honest, he was so nervous at this point that he felt as if his heart might explode. After all, up until a moment ago, he had been careening through imperial skies as if approaching in force.

Earlier, he had fretted over the prospect of having to argue with control and defensive command. Fortunately, in the end, thanks to the intervention of the doctor—who had close connections with the Kampfgruppe—Grantz was able to overcome that hurdle and hurry onward toward the General Staff…though he was none too sure about the doctor’s influence beyond those doors.

Supposedly, the doctor had attempted to speak with someone at the General Staff on Grantz’s behalf, assuring Grantz that he would explain everything…but how successful the doctor had been still remained to be seen.

“I am Magic Officer First Lieutenant Warren Grantz. I’ve come from Salamander Kampfgruppe with a message for…”

As Grantz timidly offered his name, the guard’s face relaxed.

“Of course. I heard from Doctor Schugel that you were coming.”

In that instant, Grantz’s respect for the sensible, good-natured scientist grew by leaps and bounds. The doctor had handled things excellently!

Whether it was his work with the orbs or his touch when it came to other people, the doctor was a real man of character, an unsung hero supporting the Empire from behind the scenes. It was reassuring to know that he stood on the shoulders of such giants.

“You have an urgent message from a unit under direct the General Staff command, correct…? Please, feel free to pass.”

“Thank you for your hard work.”

Returning the man’s salute, Grantz continued deeper into the halls of the General Staff office, hurrying slightly as he went. It was not long before he encountered a new obstacle, however.

“Stop!”

“Huh?”

Just as Grantz had set his sights on where he presumed General Zettour’s offices would be, he was accosted by a major with a rifle slung over his shoulder and a first sergeant, likely a veteran NCO.

The area was off-limits. Grantz tried mentioning Doctor Schugel’s name, but the men firmly repeated the same phrase. “You do not have permission. Step away.” They sounded as if they were ready to take him into custody at any moment.

Apparently, the doctor’s auspices had not been as effective here as they had been with the guard at the entrance.

No. Grantz shook his head. Now that he thought about it, this was his own mistake. Due to the top-secret nature of his mission, he had only told the doctor that he had a message to deliver. It had likely never even occurred to the doctor to speak to General Zettour’s security detail as well. The doctor had gone above and beyond, insofar as he understood the situation.

Grantz was the one who had failed to make sufficient use of the doctor’s generous assistance. Should he have broken confidentiality and told the doctor more? What was the right thing to do in that situation?

Wracked with doubt and remorse, Grantz tried to think. He couldn’t afford another mistake. There was no time for that. This was a race against the clock. He needed to find some way to get in touch with General Zettour.

These guards were strict, however. He didn’t want to waste his time arguing with them. Should he just force his way through? Break in to the General Staff Office? What in the world was he meant to do?

Grantz was nearly on the verge of tears when he caught sight of a group of staff officers walking down the hall. He realized that he still had a thin, but durable, sliver of hope.

“I am First Lieutenant Grantz, a member of General Zettour’s personal guard!” he shouted desperately, as it suddenly hit him that he technically had the appropriate authorization.

“Hold on, we weren’t told anything about this. We can’t just let you through…”

“Then get confirmation! It’s Grantz! Tell them First Lieutenant Grantz is here!” he shouted.

Somehow, please! Grantz begged. If only someone who knew him would pass by now. Just as he was beginning to lose hope, however, and seriously consider the option of using his orb to break through…

“Grantz? Wait, First Lieutenant Grantz? Of the 203rd?”

The words, spoken from behind the major and first sergeant, sounded as sweet as honey to Grantz’s ears.

Grantz’s face lit up. I’m here! he wanted to shout. In contrast, the guard major glanced over his shoulder with a look of consternation as he spoke to the person standing behind him.

“Colonel Uger? I’m sorry, do you know of a person named First Lieutenant Grantz?”

“With the 203rd, correct? I am only loosely acquainted with him, but I would recognize his face…,” said the voice, mercifully.

“P-please! I beg your pardon, but this is an emergency!”

Clutching the note at his breast, Grantz took a step toward Uger, ready to entrust his last glimmer of hope to the man.

“Hrm? Why, it is Lieutenant Grantz. What are you doing here, so suddenly?”

“Here,” said Grantz, desperately thrusting the note entrusted to him by Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff into Colonel Uger’s hand. “I have been sent by Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff with an urgent report on the current situation in the East. I have been tasked to seek a meeting with General Zettour or, if that is not possible, with Colonel Lergen, or yourself!”

In his evaluations, the Imperial Army’s personnel bureau had always described General Hans von Zettour as the “academic” type. Of course, this was the bureau’s polite way of sugarcoating its assessment.

Incidentally, the opposite of “academic” was “highly courageous.”

By imperial personnel standards, this was quite a scathing assessment. After all, even the opposite end of the spectrum implied that there was little else worth mentioning of merit. Highly courageous? Weren’t all officers meant to be courageous? Even an average personnel evaluation, in reality, carried a strong hint of censure, containing the nuance that the person has no other exceptional qualities and therefore should be watched closely.

Meanwhile, the highest accolades were virtually acrimonious. Highly courageous? Then where are his medals? If he is so courageous, then why is he still alive?

Regardless, to the General Staff officers on the receiving end, these personnel evaluations—merciless, unsympathetic assessments of a person’s whole character that followed the strict standards of the front line—were nauseatingly severe.

In the end, the General Staff’s assessment standards were based on the premise that human beings have limits and were designed to coolly assess how a person comported themselves when up against those limits. They were unflinching evaluations of the degree to which an individual could face reality under high-stress conditions, where mental faculties are often bent to the breaking point.

It was the army’s tradition since its founding; those who created the Imperial Army must have known that the human grip on reality was fragile.

That was why both the military academy and war college were so ridiculously strict, pushing officers to their very limits. It was meant to quickly thin out the weak before their true colors betrayed them in combat, when it was too late.

But human intellect had its limits. Even the Imperial Army’s forefathers, despite their foresight, would have never dreamed that their progeny in later years would deteriorate into such myopic fools.

These forefathers may not have been perfect, but they were at least fanatical realists. They must have been proud then, lying in their graves, to know that at least one person with the right training had been left in the right place, to know there was a worthy successor working in the General Staff, a senior officer capable of functioning well under extreme stress.

It occurred to Colonel Uger that he would likely never forget this moment.

It had all been a coincidence.

General Zettour had just directed the colonel, his adjutant, to “send a telegram to ascertain the degree of confusion in the chain of command in the East.” The colonel had just finished arranging for the telegram to be sent and was on his way back when it all happened.

The security staff seemed to be arguing with someone. Finding this strange, he glanced in the guards’ direction…only to find a magic officer whose face he recognized, pleading somewhat pathetically for Uger to intercede with General Zettour on his behalf.

The officer who rushed forward, claiming to be First Lieutenant Grantz, held out an envelope containing a small scrap of paper. Despite its size, the note’s contents were momentous.

It read, I have taken arbitrary action. However, the main force needed to be saved. Please confirm the details with my messenger. I do this regardless of the punishment.

Though the message’s meaning was ambiguous, it was clearly alarming. Had it been written by a stranger, Colonel Uger would have simply laughed it off. Even if written by someone else he knew, he might have dismissed it with a chuckle. But knowing who sent the message, Colonel Uger was more than willing to intercede on First Lieutenant Grantz’s behalf.

After all, this was arbitrary action—reported after the fact—taken by Degurechaff.

Naturally, after learning that a staff officer had taken arbitrary action, the ordinary thing to do would be to escalate the matter up the chain. And, naturally, Colonel Uger was an ordinary man.

Colonel Uger had an instinctive feeling that, between two equals at the pinnacle of their professions as staff officers, the meaning of this would be perfectly clear… A fine enough display of instinct on his part.

However, as General Zettour snatched the note from Uger’s hand and glanced at its contents, the emotion that appeared on his face in that moment was indescribable. Uger knew instinctively that it was an emotion beyond description, and he chose to forget it, letting it vanish.

Unfortunately, some things are impossible to forget.

“Colonel Uger.”

His voice shook. Or was it flat and hollow? He sounded scared. Or did he sound overjoyed?

“Bring Lieutenant Grantz here immediately.”

Uger remembered what General Zettour’s voice sounded like when he gave that order. He distinctly remembered every word. And yet, Uger was unsure.

His brain failed to understand the general’s tone.

Uger hesitated, unable to find the right words to describe it. It was only later, after the fact, that he would realize he must remain silent on the matter for the rest of his life.

But he had witnessed it all—the embodiment of Imperial Army ideals in the flesh; the deputy director of operations, an unwavering force capable of discerning the one clear course of action amidst a sea of complexity.

“Colonel Uger…! I have an urgent addition! Cancel the orders I asked to be sent! Cancel them in their entirety!”

“General?”

“Quickly, stop that order from being sent! They should still be encrypting the message, correct? There is still time. Go now. Make sure nothing is sent; do it yourself. And bring First Lieutenant Grantz here. Confirm the orders are stopped yourself, and as soon as all associated documents are destroyed, report back to me.”

General Zettour had only ordered him to send the telegram a moment ago. However, from what he understood, an order had appeared in General Zettour’s name that he had certainly not sent. The telegram was an inquiry meant to clarify the situation.

“B-but, you just said…”

“Colonel Uger. Carry out my order. You understand what I’ve asked, correct?” said the general, his tone brooking no discussion.

Uger pushed his growing doubts aside to focus on his duty as an adjutant general, one capable of fully understanding and executing his superior’s intentions.

“Y-yes, sir, immediately!”

Excusing himself, Colonel Uger quickly hurried away. It would be faster to go directly, seeing as the room was nearby, than to try to manage things over the phone.

Along the way, he quickly shouted to the waiting First Lieutenant Grantz and the guards, “Yes, General Zettour wishes to see him after all,” before rushing off to the communications room.

Colonel Uger’s feelings were complicated; although he had set his doubts aside for now, they lingered. A message for the General Staff from a young officer with the Salamander Kampfgruppe? A young officer under his old friend Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s command? This was unprecedented.

And now, for everything to be turned upside down like this, all because of a single scrap of paper.

What was happening in the East…? What if…?

But no, the Degurechaff that Uger knew would never do anything of the sort…would she?

Question after question bubbled up in Uger’s mind, burying the good colonel in a sea of doubt. These doubts threatened to make him hesitate, to flounder, to sink—but no, Colonel Uger was too dedicated and competent, too faithful and polished as an organizational man, to allow such a thing to happen.

In a sense, Uger was the ideal adjutant. He prioritized General Zettour’s wishes to the letter.

“This is Adjutant General Uger! Hold all communications! I want you to hold all communications!”

Uger burst into the bustling communications room and shouted for the officers to hold the telegram, which was still in the process of being encrypted.

Between his staff officer aiguillettes, his position as adjutant general to a deputy chief, and, most of all, his long history of service with the General Staff, an outburst from Colonel Uger carried significant weight.

“Halt all telegrams being sent in General Zettour’s name! Give me all encrypted items and communication records and anything that hasn’t been sent.”

Uger indicated that he was going to destroy the items. The young major on duty looked shocked, mentioning protocol.

“Permission must be received from the officer in charge, Brigadier General Collier, before disposing of records…,” he objected.

Of course the major was right. However, considering that General Zettour’s order was to “confirm the orders are stopped yourself, and as soon as all associated documents are destroyed, report back to me,” Uger had no choice. The obvious implication was that Colonel Uger was to involve as few others in this as possible.

Thus, his course of action was clear. Even if the responsible person was a brigadier general, it was better for that person not to know.

“This is the general’s prerogative. I’m sorry, but mention of this to anyone outside this room is strictly prohibited.”

Uger was asking for the impossible. He knew that. But in his current position, he had no choice but to insist.

“Colonel Uger, I’m sorry, but even on your authority as a colonel…”

“Major, excuse me, this is not a discussion. It is a directive.”

Necessity has a way of making the outrageous commonplace.

“I am borrowing your phone, Major.”

After a brief word with the exchange operator, Colonel Uger thrust the receiver back toward the officer on duty.

“Here, you may speak to the general directly about the matter.”

“Me?”

Colonel Uger visibly grimaced in response to the major’s stare of disbelief. He understood how the major felt. Unfortunately, however, Colonel Uger was not the type to make jokes.

He pointed toward the phone, urging the major not to keep someone so important waiting. By all means, talk to the general if that is what’ll convince you.

Looking pale, the officer on duty timidly reached for the receiver, almost as if he were picking up a live hand grenade—shock and awe awaited him on the other end of the line.

“This is General Hans von Zettour. You wished for confirmation?”

The heavyweights at the General Staff were terrifying. Among the many first lieutenants of the Imperial Army, First Lieutenant Grantz was, unfortunately, the most intimately acquainted with this fact.

After being told to enter quickly, General Zettour bid him speak. Grantz complied, telling the general everything. The superior officer nodded, his expression suggesting full understanding. Several minutes later, he picked up the telephone, which had suddenly begun to ring.

What happened next? First Lieutenant Grantz witnessed one of the most fantastic displays of coercion he had ever seen.

“That’s correct, Major. It is at my direction. Colonel Uger will deliver the details verbally. I assume he has done so? Good. Confirmation is well and good. Consider this your notice that Colonel Uger has been granted my full authority to implement all necessary measures.”

Will that do? Do you understand? It sounded as though whoever was on the other end was being thoroughly browbeaten. General Zettour’s demeanor was intense.

As someone fully familiar with the general’s steely temperament, Grantz could feel the fear wafting from the other end of the line as if it were his own. He sympathized deeply with whoever was on the receiving end of this conversation. He could only imagine who it might be or what they might be doing at that moment, but he was certain the pair would get along like a house on fire if they ever met.

At the very least, they would have plenty to gripe about down at the beer hall together. They would probably be fast friends before long. Anything would be better. He just wanted to get the hell out of there already.

General Zettour’s eyes suddenly flicked in Grantz’s direction, fixing the lieutenant with an arctic stare.

“Thank you for your hard work, Lieutenant Grantz… There are a few things we must get straight to ensure that everything remains neat and tidy,” said General Zettour, his voice like the lull between two fierce waves.

The aging general spoke calmly and naturally. His eyes, however, were not smiling.

Grantz’s sense of danger, honed on the battlefield, told him that this was the sort of monster best left to an officer like Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff. As an ordinary man, Grantz could only tremble as he waited for the tempest to pass.

“I ordered everything. When you came charging in with an emergency report, it was regarding the orders I had issued, correct?”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Likely the only reason Grantz was able to answer immediately, albeit in a trembling voice, was that he had already built up immunity to General Zettour. Grantz suddenly recalled—or perhaps was so nervous he was having flashbacks—the time when General Zettour had thrown his weight around with Salamander, asking to “borrow” First Lieutenant Grantz.

Grantz’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff, must have had nerves of steel. Although there was only so much she could do, she had protested as much as possible to shield Grantz from General Zettour. Grantz hadn’t realized it at the time, but his superior had known General Zettour for some time by that point and was well aware of how terrifying the General could be. And yet, despite this, she had resisted the General for Grantz’s sake—a fact that left him deeply moved. It took a different kind of mettle to rise to the top.

But that superior officer was relying on him now, having entrusted the fate of the entire Eastern Front to his hands.

Though just one man, Grantz was determined to rise to the challenge and fulfill his duty. He mustered his courage, despite practically shaking in the face of General Zettour’s questioning.

“You mentioned trouble with Air Defense Control, correct? Why?”

“It was a problem with identification.”

“Ever since the incident with Rudersdorf, air defense has become pushy about identification. There aren’t many veterans over there anymore, so they’re not accustomed to the usual procedures. Their behavior can be very rigid.”

“A shame,” says the general, smiling in a generous, understanding manner—even though his eyes remained stark. “I will have a word with them. Let them know they interfered with the General Staff dispatch. I’ll be sure to give them a good dressing down. By the way, it is probably unnecessary for me to ask…,” he said, almost as if in afterthought.

In contrast to his casual tone, his eyes are as cold as glass. He turned his observant gaze upon Grantz’s, and Grantz gulped as he waited for the general’s next words, realizing that this was the real crux of their conversation.

“You haven’t spoken of this to anyone else, have you? How did you get through in the end?”

“I had help from Doctor Schugel along the way.”

“Doctor Schugel? Why Doctor Schugel?”

Grantz’s superior officer’s superior officer reacted as if that were the last name he had expected to hear. Grantz continued quickly, before the general could suggest disposing of the doctor.

“While en route, I was nearly intercepted by capital forces as a deserter or bogey. The doctor simply vouched for my identity and for the fact that I was a messenger.”

“And your mission? You did not share the details, did you?”

Confidentiality. Absolute confidentiality. Fortunately, Grantz had not said anything that might get the good, respectable doctor mixed up in all this.

A moment ago, Grantz had been convinced that he had made the wrong choice, wondering if he should have revealed the truth to the doctor and asked for assistance. But now he understood that by saying nothing, he had made the right choice. It was all a matter of hindsight. Had he chosen poorly, things could have become very difficult.

“No, I did not.”

“Good. Does anyone else know about this note?”

“The note? Only Colonel Uger.”

“Enough to get the message, perhaps.”

Fortunately for First Lieutenant Grantz, there was no need for him to know what the general meant by that. After all, upon seeing the note, Colonel Uger had decided to escalate the matter immediately. Thus, Grantz could proudly assert that he had made it this far solely by showing the note, and that no one else besides Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff was aware of the matter at hand.

Confidentiality was paramount. Considering the weight of the matter, it took precedence above all else. For necessity’s sake, certain unpleasant measures might have been needed—and while General Zettour was secretly pleased that such steps were not, in fact, required, he grimaced at himself for so readily considering the option.

If he could stoop so low as to kill a friend, what else would he do? When had he lost all restraint?

Secretly, General Zettour was somewhat amused by how his thoughts had become simplified in the service of his goals. Or perhaps it was just that his lack of compunction over questions of good and evil had finally allowed him enough breathing room to feel humor. In any case, the important thing was that General Zettour was, fortunately, in a state of mind to receive his adjutant general’s report with calmness—a stroke of luck for all concerned.

“Adjutant General Colonel Uger returning. I am entering the room.”

“Thank you for your hard work, Captain. Were you able to halt the telegram?”

“Yes, I made it in time.”

General Zettour glanced briefly at the items held out by Colonel Uger before tearing them up with his own hands and stuffing them into his ashtray. His face, as he casually withdrew a match and set the documents aflame, looked the very picture of a good-natured old man finding satisfaction in the smallest of things. Without further ado, he drew a rolled cigarette from his inside breast pocket, placed it between his lips with a grin, and began puffing away in an extremely mischievous fashion. He immediately began speaking once more.

“Good. This is very good. You did well, Colonel Uger,” said General Zettour, spinning about and speaking with his back to his underling. “I’m sorry, but may I ask you for one more thing?”

“O-of course. Name it.”

General Zettour’s tone was gentle while Colonel Uger’s face remained strict, as befit a career military man. Incidentally, First Lieutenant Grantz was only watching from the side. From his perspective, the general now was a perfect living example of how truly terrifying good manners can be.

“I’m sorry to run you back and forth like this, but I would like you to arrange for a new urgent telegram to be sent to Eastern Army Command. It should read, ‘Promptly carry out previous orders from Eastern Chief Inspector.’ That is all.”

“General? Are you sure?”

“What are you confused about, Captain? The existing order came from me, after all. Do you understand what I am saying?” said General Zettour pedantically, as if his words should have been obvious. “The esteemed General Laudon had been handling things in the East, but sadly fortune was not with us, and General Laudon has gone missing. It was an emergency. Reports from the front indicated a great deal of chaos, so naturally I chose to step in. Just to be safe.”

Good lord. First Lieutenant Grantz nearly groaned out loud but managed to contain himself. General Zettour was making himself loud and clear: There was to be no—absolutely no—further questioning on this matter.

Grantz understood what he had dragged in. He respected Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff and believed her when she declared that General Zettour would likely ratify the order.

But something about this was insane, using unquestionable authority in this way to turn black into white. How could anyone be so ready to commit on the spot with zero hesitation? What gave General Zettour and Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff such a different perspective from ordinary people?

These heavyweights were terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.

In what might be thought of as a valiant effort to preserve his sanity, First Lieutenant Grantz began to entertain thoughts of escapism. Meanwhile, General Zettour, standing off to the side, continued to speak calmly.

“Oh, that’s right. I hadn’t properly informed you of the matter, had I, Captain Uger? A point I greatly regret.”

“…Of course. Please forgive me. With all the chaos, we must have gotten our wires slightly crossed.”

“So you understand me then.”

“Yes, General. I understand completely.” Colonel Uger nodded, his face stiffening in understanding and respect.

General Zettour’s voice remained gentle as he responded, “Good.”

Spinning back around once more, General Zettour flashed a smile in Colonel Uger’s direction and began explaining how what Tanya had done had been carried out at his direction.

“It was a stroke of pure luck that the previous order managed to arrive despite all the communications mayhem. Considering the unfortunate fate that befell General Laudon, confusion on the ground was unavoidable. It falls to the General Staff to reestablish strict and formal order, and to ensure thorough implementation of the operational guidance I issued under my authority as the Eastern Chief Inspector.

“Don’t you agree?” the general asked bluntly, still clutching the cigarette between his lips. Of course, none could dissent. The orders falsely transmitted under General Zettour’s name had just been transformed into truth through this dreadnought act of absurdity.

But if the very person under whose name those orders had been issued now claimed to have been the one to issue them, what more could be said? These were official orders. That was the new reality, and it was time for everyone else to get with the picture. Colonel Uger nodded solemnly as Grantz watched on, signaling the beginning of that change.

“I will make the arrangements myself to ensure that everything is transmitted appropriately this time, without omission.”

“Excellent, very good,” said General Zettour, thanking Colonel Uger casually, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “My apologies, General, as always…for putting you to such pains.”

“No, it is my honor. If you will excuse me.”

Colonel Uger left with a salute. After watching him go, General Zettour turned his eyes back toward Grantz, almost as if he had just remembered Grantz’s presence. For his part, Grantz would have much rather been left forgotten. He was still frightened. Genuinely, incredibly frightened.

Yes, this was fear.

The longer Grantz stared into the eyes of the general—who still gave off the impression of a good-natured old man—the more the fear welled up inside him. To First Lieutenant Grantz, General Zettour was an object of extreme reverence, yet shrewd to the point of trepidation. In comparison, a fiendish senior officer like Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff, prone to fits of stormy passion, seemed like an angel.

“Lieutenant Grantz. Please, have a seat,” said the general, his manner warm, friendly, kind. But to First Lieutenant Grantz, it felt like being asked to take a seat in an electric chair.

“Let’s enjoy a little chat.”

As Grantz reluctantly sat down, General Zettour took a seat across from him. Grantz felt as if he wanted to jump out of his skin.

“I would like you to take a look at the map. Yes, here.”

Grantz was used to seeing maps of the Eastern Front for strategic purposes. While the paper used by the General Staff was of higher quality than that of his unit, the map itself was largely the same.

“As you can see, the information included here is no more than what we believe to be correct, based on what we in the Empire have grasped from the rear. Bluntly speaking, it is visualized confusion. There are differences, I imagine, compared to what you have seen?”

“Y-yes, sir. Based on what I know of the situation, there are discrepancies in several places.”

“Of course,” murmured General Zettour, stroking his jaw with a gentle expression. “It is difficult to grasp conditions from the rear, far from the front lines as we are. Unfortunate, isn’t it?” the general added, but Grantz could only reply with a stiff, awkward smile. “The only thing we can do from here is establish broad policies. If we do not lend an ear to voices from the front…I worry that could lead to crucial mistakes.”

Even the highest levels of decision-making must listen to feedback from those on the ground. It was an evidently sound argument.

“Lieutenant Grantz, I would like to ask you something.”

Ask away—just make it about anyone else but me! thought Grantz.

“Of course, what is it?”

“Do you have any experience with combat drops…?”

“Y-yes, we’ve carried out a few since Norden.”

“Good,” the General nodded in satisfaction. He thought for a moment before eventually rubbing his chin in curiosity and turning his eyes toward Grantz. “It may be a silly question to ask of someone with so much experience in decapitation strikes, but may I ask one more thing?”

Grantz nodded. “Of course.”

“Just to confirm,” continued General Zettour, his attitude still as laid-back as if he were asking about breakfast, “the mage battalions currently on regular deployment in the East…possess adequate skill to rout a regiment of Federation infantry. Correct?”

“Yes, sir. Even a mage battalion at about sixty percent strength, I think, would be enough to respond to turn back a Federation infantry regiment.”

“I see,” said the superior officer, folding his arms and looking up toward the ceiling as if choosing his words. After a pause, the general seemed to make up his mind and began speaking again. “In terms of using an aerial mage division to destroy enemy logistics…it was Colonel Degurechaff’s assessment that a mage division would be enough to cause havoc in the enemy’s rear lines, yes?”

“Yes, the Colonel, my commander, gave my orders under that assumption.”

General Zettour grunted softly before falling into silence. He almost seemed to be sleeping, completely still, like a statue frozen in place. It was perhaps several minutes—or maybe only seconds—before the general lifted his head in apparent realization and opened his eyes.

“Give me a moment, Lieutenant… Please, make yourself at ease.”

General Zettour stood up and folded his arms behind his back. He began pacing about the room as if deep in thought.

“Umm… General…?”

“I need to think for a moment, understand?”

“Huh?”

“I see I need to make myself clearer,” the general continued, displeased. “Be quiet. That is an order.”

Perfectly clear, indeed. First Lieutenant Grantz clamped his lips shut. An idle tongue is the devil’s plaything, after all.

I’m just furniture, I’m just furniture, he repeated internally, staying as silent as he could. He was trapped in this room with the irritable general—a man whose concerns were far from ordinary. Grantz focused on letting the general’s strange mutterings pass through one ear and out the other.

“It’s not enough, it’s not enough, it’s just not enough…”

Suppose Grantz were to listen, to accidentally catch a word or two of what the general said? Not enough? What wasn’t enough—the men? The time? The opportunity? Grantz had no idea. So why did he have such a bad feeling about this?

“The cat may already be out of the bag when it comes to our decapitation tactics. But it is likely only our decapitation strikes they are aware of, and not the true value of our fundamental ability to project combat power. In which case…”

In which case…?

No, enough! Grantz did not want to hear more!

“Hrm…?”

Just then, the tone in General Zettour’s voice changed ever so slightly—from disjointed and grumbling to vaguely excited and alive.

“Yes, yes…”

General Zettour nodded slightly, even tracing his lips with his fingers.

“Yes, of course, yes. This will do.”

He clapped his hands together suddenly in what could only be interpreted as delight.

“Lieutenant Grantz, you have permission to speak again. But why do you look so grim? A smile is a thing to be cherished! Relax, there is no need to be so tense. Now, I have some questions for you.”

A two-pronged campaign. On the one hand, paperwork. On the other, destroying logistics in the Federation Army’s sphere of influence. It is a nightmare.

With these two fronts under my command—neither of which can be allowed to fail—I hunker down and clench my teeth as a good, free, and fair individual, cursing anything and everything under the sun.

But Tanya knows that this is the manifestation of good civil duty, something which no true liberal could help but praise. Her efficiency is truly marvelous.

In order to temporarily cut out the noise from Eastern Army Command, I have taken the drastic step, in General Zettour’s name, of ordering the eastern army to be silent. Of course, if what Tanya has done were exposed, noisy reprimands would be the least of my problems. Armed gendarmerie or mage troops would be pounding on command’s door with the butt of their guns before long—and not to exchange words.

In terms of organizational theory, Tanya’s actions are highly barbaric.

But if I am to survive the here and now, I do not have time to fret over such trivial concerns. After a very brief nap, my adjutant and I swallow some of the disgusting, muddy water that is meant to pass as coffee, the one redeeming quality being that it is hot. I bite loudly into a bar of chocolate, part of our aerial mage performance rations, as if biting off the head of someone who had just killed my parents.

A brief rest.

Lingering exhaustion.

I continue to lead my regiment in this state, thoroughly and mercilessly striking at enemy logistics in order to keep any supplies from reaching the Federation’s front line, which is still running roughshod over the Empire’s defense.

Interfering with supplies is, as one might expect, quite effective. Even in trench warfare, where the focus is on flesh-and-blood infantry, a fighting force will wither away without food to eat. Likewise, ammunition will deplete.

But interfering with supplies does not produce an immediate effect.

Under normal circumstances, a human being won’t die after a single day without food. They will feel hungry, of course, and one could argue that hungry troops do not live up to their full potential… But an army, ultimately, is a slave to necessity, to the point that a military is more than willing to fill its hungry troops’ stomachs with amphetamines to keep them marching through the snow.

And how humane, peace-loving, and altruistic was the Federation Army’s organizational culture to begin with? If anyone were to ask me, I would likely laugh in that person’s face. Whether the Empire or the Federation, based on what I have seen, all armies have a nasty habit of worshipping at the altar of necessity.

Naturally, a day or two of interfering with supplies is not going to stop the enemy in its tracks. As a result, although we are on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion due to constant and fierce battle, the cries (screams, really) for assistance from the front lines never cease. Not even when we collapse into our beds and plummet into unconsciousness. If anything, these cries have only grown more numerous.

“How can we abandon our fellow soldiers?!” Myopic shouts of protest rise from the lips of my heroic mages, directly echoing the front line’s cries for help.

“The front line is requesting support! We need to go to their aid! If we don’t have anyone to spare, why not just my unit?” And so on and so forth. I am already close to losing it when yet another company commander, from one of the detached forces, comes to me with another impassioned plea.

Here we are, on the brink of collapse, and this pea brain can’t even see the forest for the trees! Why is he wasting my time? I consider shooting him dead and appointing a different commander in his place.

In a fit of not rage, but reason, I weigh the potential time and emotional backlash, genuinely wondering whether making an example of this man and then suppressing the subsequent backlash would not, in fact, be the most efficient option.

We don’t have enough time. We don’t have enough manpower.

I freeze. Fortunately, before I can make any irreversible decisions, the reliable iron fist of Major Weiss enters to solve the issue for me.

It is extremely rare for one officer to strike another.

“You call yourself an officer?! Get your head on straight!” shouts Major Weiss, openly incensed as he punches this half-brained shithead right in the jaw.

While the others stare, frozen in astonishment, Weiss shoulders the unconscious company commander and tosses him outside.

“Lieutenant Commander, it seems the officer fainted from lack of sleep! I think he should be allowed to rest for a little while. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Hrm? Maybe he should rest six feet under instead.”

I laugh as Major Weiss’s face stiffens and assure him I’m just kidding. Tanya is not tactless enough to intentionally waste such a kind act from one of her subordinates.

“Smack him awake immediately; there is work to do. If he is in a condition to continue his command once he comes to, have him return to his duties. If not, pass command to the next in line and allow him to get as much rest as he needs. Make sure he knows his rest can be permanent, if need be.”

“Yes.” Major Weiss nods briefly, scurrying from the room. I turn back to my documents and maps, truly grateful for the major.

The eastern army’s defensive line is already beginning to crumble. The Federation Army’s bombardment against our scrambling defensive plans and the enemy’s overwhelming shock power have reduced the embankments to rubble, with their first echelon already surging like black water into the Empire’s sphere of influence.

Importantly, however, the flood is contained to the retention ponds for now.

The Empire’s defensive line does not have much depth. Its retention capabilities are limited. It is only a matter of time until the line is swept away in the flood. Common sense suggests that if the defensive line is not reformed in time, we will be on the verge of a great collapse.

But if no more water is allowed to flow in for now, this flood might still be controlled.

If we can prevent the enemy’s second echelon from advancing, if we can sabotage supplies intended for the first echelon, then, at least for now, the defensive line will be able to regroup after pulling back.

“For now, for now, for now…,” I repeat three times—three wishes—before suppressing a sigh.

Aware that my mind is growing clouded, I take a bite of chocolate for a change of pace, which brings me back to myself slightly. Now all I need is this bit of my adjutant’s coffee to feel fully human again.

This whole ordeal would be much more civilized if I could just spend a little more time relaxing over chocolate and coffee…but unfortunately, these are precious commodities. If our rate of consumption increases any further, our stock will dwindle to nothing. Where will that leave us then?

Well, if I make a request to Colonel Uger, he could probably arrange for more, although supplies would be unlikely to arrive before the eastern army’s sickly condition can be confirmed.

Time, time, time. Why are there only twenty-four hours in the day?

I stare at the roads on the map laid out before me, while continuing to lament the many absurdities and contradictions of this world, before exhaling with finality. Like the earthly attachments that tie us to this world, neither the imperial nor the Federation army can free themselves from highways and railroads. This means that both armies are fully aware of which roads serve as supply chokepoints.

Therefore, it is safe to assume that the Federation Army expects the possibility of a large aerial mage force targeting those locations. Although the Federation itself may have hidden its eyes behind the blindfold of ideology, the Federation Army wears the spectacles of pragmatism and, most assuredly, it is clear-sighted.

That is too bad. If only the Federation Communist Party would apply a little more effort to getting in the Federation Army’s way. That is the problem with commies. Not that I expect much from the Reds, but they are never useful when you need them.

“I’d prefer a surprise attack. But I guess an assault is unavoidable,” I mutter, resigning myself. Our approach is decided.

Although brief, the mages being sent out have been allotted rest and a hot meal. The medic has even managed to scrounge together some fuel for a makeshift sauna to be enjoyed by a portion of the troops.

Naturally, the commanders go last.

A senseless pretense, perhaps, but war is already the height of poor sense. Before setting out again, I look each of the company commanders and leaders in the eye, making sure they are clear on what needs to be done. This is no time to screw up.

Having inspected the unit closely, like a cat licking its cub, I get right to the point.

“Everyone, it’s time to work. You know the drill. Follow me.”

There are no fierce exhortations. Sometimes, clearly demonstrating what needs to be done can be far more eloquent than an entire litany of encouragement.

Therefore, I banish my exhaustion and take the lead.

Which, of course, is why my troops lift off after me.

It is why they follow.

Why they do not shoot Tanya in the back.

After all, the role being imposed on the mages now is a truly awful one.

“The mages! Where the hell are they?” “We need support! We’re surrounded! The entire battalion is surrounded!” “We have visual confirmation of friendly planes down! Please, where is the mage support?! Even just a platoon?!” “A battalion of enemy armor is rapidly approaching our withdrawing artillery! Please, there must be someone nearby! Send anyone! Stop them!” “Emergency! Emergency! We need support! Two companies of heavy armor are approaching our position! If we don’t receive help…!”

The reception today is outstanding. We are picking up the laments of our fellow soldiers, loud and clear. Previously, we had been frustrated, unable to hear anything due to the Federation Army’s electronic warfare. Now the exact opposite is true.

Devastation. No other word could so perfectly sum up what is happening down on the ground. Listening to the cries of “help me, help me” are eating up the men inside as they maintain radio silence in the name of necessity.

“Unfortunately, in order to maintain our AirLand Battle strategy, this is necessary.”

Orders are orders. And this was absolutely necessary. Ordering them to ignore all pleas for help was the only card I had to play.

Down on the ground, the Imperial Army’s defensive line is being shredded like paper. The units that chose to hole up in their positions have become surrounded, strongpoints and all. All we can do in response is focus on attacking the enemy’s logistics.

The mud-slinging is brutal. While we blast apart the enemy’s combat trains and advancing follow-on units, the enemy likewise bombards every inch of our front line.

The future looks far from bright, even for those imperial soldiers lucky enough to survive within the ruins of their plowed-over positions. With the Federation Army surrounding them like a rushing wave, they are being slowly crushed, no longer able to implement their last-minute withdrawal orders.

Even the units fortunate enough to begin retreating without immediate support face a protracted and deadly game of tag against the tenacious Federation Army, trembling in fear of the loitering enemy air troops as they march, bitterly cursing that they have no air support of their own.

One can gloss this however they like, but the Empire is clearly on its last legs.

I know better than anyone that even if the main force avoids being destroyed in the East, it will only amount to a Pyrrhic victory.

But we can do little more now than see this through.

“Target acquired! An enemy fuel convoy… You gotta be kidding. Another self-propelled anti-aircraft gun.”

“And do we give a damn, Lieutenant Serebryakov?”

“I suppose we are used to this by now.”

As First Lieutenant Serebryakov’s comment indicates, the enemy’s supply units are obnoxiously enthusiastic about anti-air defense. For the mages engaged in this operation, heavy anti-air fire has become a day-to-day event.

These cargo trucks always have self-propelled anti-aircraft guns escorting them at the very least. At worst, even the trucks come equipped with anti-air guns, and this is despite the fact that the Federation Army has already secured air superiority. I doubt if even a ground army that completely gave up on even contesting air superiority would be as paranoid about the need for AA fire.

“At least it isn’t radar guided…”

The Federation’s anti-air fire may be thick, but when it comes to targeting and hitting mages, it still isn’t thick enough. A mage could still be shot down if careless…but this is still a level of fire where caution can win the day.

That makes what we need to do clear: attack immediately, thoroughly, relentlessly, and without mercy.

“All units, strike the ground in pairs. And watch out for each other’s lines of fire. I don’t care if we are an ad hoc unit! Friendly fire will not be tolerated!”

At my orders, the unit disperses to strike, displaying the kind of practiced skill that comes only with repetition. The men prepare for incursion.

Good. As their commander, I nod. We will soon be ready to descend en masse.

“Now then, it’s our turn… Let’s show some enthusiasm out there, Visha!”

“Yes, Commander. I’ll be sure to make up for Lieutenant Grantz’s share of enthusiasm as well!”

“I like your spirit, but why mention Lieutenant Grantz’s share?”

“It’s nothing. I said that for myself, really.”

“Come on, out with it,” I say, lending my subordinate an ear.

“I’m just worried you’re going to replace me with him as your wingman.”

Replace Visha?! Oh, of course. I nod. Come to think of it, Tanya asked Grantz to accompany her on that long-range reconnaissance flight.

“Aha-ha-ha, what a great idea! But don’t worry, I prefer the wingman I’m used to. You are the most dependable, Lieutenant. I am counting on you, as always.”

“I’ll do my best!”

“And I look forward to it,” I respond, before glancing toward the regiment.

They have finished getting into position. We can now proceed with our ground attack. Since we are a full regiment, I take extra care to confirm that everything is in place. There is only one order to give.

“All units, move out! Hit the ground targets!”

I fire an optical sniping formula toward the ground as I give the order, with First Lieutenant Serebryakov at my back. The flames from the ignited cargo vehicle serve like an insect lamp, luring the Imperial mages to their target.

The sounds of battle form a terrible symphony.

The scintillation of explosion formulas. The screams of what were once people, pierced by optical sniping formulas. The chatter of SMG rounds imbued with penetration formulas, the light and sound as the bullets rip into assault vehicles on the ground—there is a macabre frivolity to it that almost makes it hard to believe these sounds herald the doling out of death.

But it is still too slow! I attempt to whip the mages into a frenzy.

“Everyone, work faster! Every second counts! Think of your fellow soldiers! Be prompt and efficient!”

In theory, destroying the enemy’s supply lines is simple. But while the theory and the individual actions may be straightforward, execution is anything but. Every ounce of efficiency, every last drop, must be squeezed out wherever possible.

If striking logistics is the obvious move, then so too are its countermeasures.

“The enemy artery is thick! We can’t afford to surgically sever each and every supply route! We must hack through the whole limb—fast, magnificent, and rough!”

In all times and in all places, from neophyte to master, all agree: Destroying the lines of supply is a fine thing.

An army is a great consumer.

Even before combat enters the picture, unless soldiers are provided with proper food, rest, and leisure, an army will collapse. Once combat begins, munitions can disappear in the blink of an eye, fuel stores can run dry, and hospital beds, once so empty, can quickly fill to capacity.

Of course, the impact of cutting off an army’s logistic lifelines is immense. As time passes, an army that fails to maintain its supply lines will inevitably and rapidly begin to crumble.

Thus, even a layman can easily grasp the usefulness of attacking enemy logistics. Yes, it is a fine idea. That is why experts praise it as an idea. But practically speaking, one addendum must be made: it is a fine idea if one can pull it off.

Tanya recognizes that practical difficulty very well. As an obvious and orthodox approach, the countermeasures to having one’s supplies cut off are just as common and diffuse.

And therein lies the crux of the problem: How easy will it be for a single aerial mage division to completely destroy the supply train supporting an enemy army the size of the Federation’s—over one hundred divisions? The answer is simple: It will be impossible.

That answer should be obvious. The enemy is on guard for such attacks. Most importantly, there is a difference in scale between attack and defense. Under such circumstances, how much difference can the activity of one small but elite unit actually make?

We can celebrate our smattering of localized wins as much as we want, but it still begs the question: Is there any value in what we are doing beyond a twisted sense of military romanticism?

A logical enough question. Following strict reason, the discussion should end there. No matter how hard we might try, a single division of Imperial aerial mages cannot alter a situation like this. Game, set, match. Victory in war goes to the Federation… That would be the common sense conclusion.

However.

Is there such a thing as common sense in war?

If there were, war would never occur in the first place. If a war that should not be already is, then the Imperial mages have no obligation to content themselves with common sense and meekly accept defeat.

No. This single aerial mage division will devour the enemy’s logistics.

War, however, is an agglomeration of absurdity. If we can pull off the impossible, so can our enemies. I am reminded of this common truth by Captain Meybert via my radio, as I fly over enemy territory.

Altitude, 6,000. We are currently in scouting mode as we penetrate the enemy’s sphere of influence. This is the crucial moment—when I least wish to be distracted—so obviously I am none too pleased at receiving an emergency transmission from absentia command at this time.

However, there is danger in becoming the type of commander who does not welcome unwelcome news. I pick up.

“C-C-Colonel!”

It is the voice of our artillery man, clearly upset! Is this prodigious veteran, whom I have left in charge in my absence, frightened? To say that I have a bad feeling about this would be a massive understatement. However, perhaps because of that very feeling, I adopt a magnanimous tone as I respond, “Captain Meybert, what is it? Calm down. This isn’t like you.”

I speak slowly, enunciating each word so that my excited counterpart can hear me clearly and, by extension, hopefully calm down.

“B-but! It’s an emergency!”

Despite all my solicitude, Tanya’s voice does little to tranquilize him.

“Colonel, it is an emergency. It’s the enemy! They’re conducting an airborne attack on command!”

“What?”

My jaw drops. I fail to immediately grasp the meaning of his words. Captain Meybert, nearly in tears, repeats himself.

“It’s an air drop! The Federation Army is targeting Eastern Command! It’s a decapitation strike!”

Well, would you look at that. I purse my lips. The Federation is copying the Empire’s favorite trick.

“Damn it, Captain Meybert. That is not good news.”

An airborne assault on command. That is our specialty, but the truth is, it doesn’t necessarily take mages to pull it off. Assuming a one-way trip, even ordinary airborne troops would likely suffice.

Obviously, the Federation would not blink at such extreme steps. As long as they could establish an airhead, the rest could work itself out. I grimace. It’s just like those commies—willing to make the bloody trade if it means shattering our chain of command.

Now would be a good time to throw up, a voice inside my head whispers. But that would just be escapism, another voice chides in response.

I shake my head and begin asking Captain Meybert more questions, almost impulsively.

“What other units are nearby? I don’t care how bad it is. I need to know the situation at command.”

“We’re still in the dark! The only clear thing so far is that they are already fighting!”

I make an immediate decision.

Eastern Command may have lost General Laudon, but that only means they have lost their decision-maker. We cannot allow command to be excised entirely; that would mean losing all organized combat capabilities.

It is our duty to avoid the worst-case scenario, plain and simple.

“I am ordering you to provide assistance. Top priority. Use the entire Kampfgruppe if need be, including Lieutenant Tospan’s infantry—I don’t care. You have my permission to commit all forces currently at your disposal to assist Eastern Army Command.”

“Wh-who will hold the base?”

“Only leave what’s needed to destroy cryptographic equipment if it comes to that. Deploy with everyone else. I do not care what it takes—do not allow Eastern Army Command to be taken out by the enemy.”

“No matter the cost?”

I grunt emphatically in response to my subordinate’s question.

“Yes, Captain Meybert. Let me be clear: Even if it means total annihilation of our Kampfgruppe, the loss of command would be far worse.”

“I will begin immediately. Can we expect help from the mages?!” he asks, desperate for support.

But Tanya can only tell him the hard truth in a bitter voice: “Support will be difficult. We won’t make it in time. We’re deep in enemy territory right now, remember?”

We are currently infiltrating the enemy’s rear to target supply lines. Even if we can fly, it isn’t as though we can turn around and be at their door in five minutes like a delivery driver with a hot pizza.

“Can’t you turn back?!”

“I just told you, we won’t make it in time.”

“But, but…!”

I understand how he feels. This doesn’t look good for them. I don’t need to hear Captain Meybert’s pleas to know that any enemy airborne troops coming for command are going to mean business.

The core of a Kampfgruppe is its combined arms doctrine. Expecting them to fight with only artillery and infantry, since both Captain Ahrens’s armor and my mages are currently absent, is asking quite a lot.

As his boss, I consider what we can do. I can only choose the best option available under the circumstances. Though we may not be able to reach command in time, we can at least defilade against follow-on forces.

“We will mobilize here to prevent reinforcements from reaching the airhead. If we can make it on time, we’ll attempt to provide close air-support afterward…but don’t pin your hopes on that.”

“I’ll do what I can… If you can send even a company, though.”

“It’s an airborne attack on our HQ. Depending on the scale of the follow-on troops, there’s no guarantee we will be able to beat them back on this side, either, even at full strength. I say again, do not expect reinforcements.”

It is the worst thing someone can hear from their boss. There is effectively no guarantee that help is coming. I sigh midair. What a sad excuse for a boss Tanya has become.

I have never wanted to be a good soldier. I have wanted to be evaluated as one, treated accordingly, and given better career options. But given the choice, I would just as rather change career paths. When that time comes, I would not want a note in my personnel file stating that I am the type of boss who expects employees to fend for themselves.

If it were me in charge of hiring, I’d prefer to hire a team player. Who wouldn’t? Deep down, no one wants to be forced into self-sacrifice. But the bare minimum of social behavior demands that one be cognizant of others’ eyes, and display at least enough teamwork to avoid being seen as pushing the short end of the stick onto others.

As a functioning member of society, Tanya accepts that she is now in a position that requires her to provide good faith support to Captain Meybert. Of all the damned luck! But I can hardly complain out loud. Instead, I offer up a different complaint.

“Those damn Federation commies. When the hell did they get so good at war?!”

[chapter] IV Professionalism

THE FIRST HALF OF JANUARY, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, REPAIR YARD, EASTERN ARMY DISTRICT REAR

The Imperial Army had many captains.

Among them, there was one sad captain who, after barely being allowed any time at all in the capital over New Year’s, was cruelly thrust back into the East before his champagne glass had even run dry. That man’s name was Captain Ahrens, the leader of Salamander Kampfgruppe’s armored forces.

Being worked to the bone comes with the territory for middle management, no matter where someone may be, but Ahrens also had the privilege of being overworked as a cog in an organization.

It was time for redeployment to the East, and it was the middle management on the ground who were left to implement the whims of higher-ups.

Thus, before Captain Ahrens knew it, he was being shuttled off to the East at breakneck speed. On top of that, while the Kampfgruppe’s main force was ushered along to a spot near Eastern Command—as if borne along by an angry wave—due to the state of their tanks, the armored unit was held back near the rear, alone.

If Captain Ahrens had been the type who preferred to avoid the front lines, he would have likely celebrated and counted himself lucky. But unfortunately for Ahrens, he took his role as a tanker very seriously. Furthermore, he was also the type of man who was extremely well suited to the Salamander Kampfgruppe.

“Why are we the only ones stuck back here?!” cried Captain Ahrens after realizing that he had been left behind at the eastern repair yard.

“This makes no sense! Just give me different tanks! I’ll use them better than anyone else out there will!” he said. “What do you mean, there aren’t any reserves?! Then just fix the running gear on these for now and send us back to the front! The rest of the Kampfgruppe is already there!”

Captain Ahrens was indignant. He ranted and raved. “Faster! Do something!” He was desperate to see the timeline for getting his unit back to the front pushed forward even a millimeter. However, he could butt his head against that bureaucratic wall as hard as he liked. It was getting him nowhere.

In the first week of January, Captain Ahrens and the bureaucratic structure soon found themselves at loggerheads.

“Sonofabitch… Why does nothing go the way it should? When is it going to be my turn?” The tank commander threatened and wheedled, intent on getting his way, but under the circumstances, he was forced to recognize that it was hopeless. After all…

Captain Ahrens chewed silently on the butt end of his cigarette as he took a good look around. The yard was already piled high with countless vehicles, all marked for repair.

Whether they were husks good only for spare parts or damaged tanks that would likely be refurbished, the repair yard had essentially become a graveyard.

However, despite how early it was in the year, a myriad of repair staff were already busy at work. It was all hands on deck around the clock, with the men working in shifts. They had even brought out real chocolate, sent in by special shipment—probably to keep up morale. It showed how serious the higher-ups were about getting those tanks out.

With so many people and parts available, Captain Ahrens had felt hopeful at first. As long as they had parts and workers to fall back on, the repairs needed for his tanks should have been relatively easy.

To his surprise, however, Eastern Army Command was harder up than even Ahrens had imagined, for tanks and fuel both. All these engineers and all this fuel were still a far cry from what was needed to meet demand.

Efficiency had been thrown out the window. This facility for the recovery and refurbishment of abandoned tanks had long since been transformed into a round-the-clock hub of activity.

As a result, the eastern army repair yard was already pulling its hair out to secure tanks for its own forces. They had no interest in fielding requests from an outsider.

“Depending on our schedule, we might be able to discuss the possibility next month…but I wouldn’t expect much.”

The fearless Captain Ahrens, commander of Salamander Kampfgruppe’s armored force, frowned, ready to scream, but he could see things from their point of view. General Zettour had uprooted the whole force and transferred it to Ildoa, leaving the eastern army’s tank situation strained, to say the least. With a deficit in armored forces and a grave shortfall in numbers, Ahrens understood why the eastern army would be greedy for every last tank it could get its hands on.

With so much on their plates already, the yard hardly wanted to add more unnecessary work to their roster. And besides, Salamander Kampfgruppe was part of a force that had been taken out of the East and sent into Ildoa. Not that the Salamander Kampfgruppe had done anything wrong, but the facts were the facts. People were already waiting their turn in the East, making them none too keen to let the Salamander Kampfgruppe, which had only just returned from southern operations, cut to the front of the line.

Thanks to the General Staff’s stamp of approval, Ahrens’s unit technically came at the top of the totem pole. But as his unit needed a full overhaul rather than just simple repairs, there was only so much the yard could do.

“Isn’t there some way…?” Captain Ahrens pleaded. The yard inspector simply pursed his lips and turned away. Ahrens had his answer.

The days passed, gloomy and uneventful, with Captain Ahrens chafing at the bit. Once he heard there was fierce fighting on the front, he couldn’t take it anymore. When he was told of the Federation Army’s attack on January 14—what would later come to be known as Operation Rising Dawn—the pressure reached a boiling point and Captain Ahrens exploded.

He was, quite literally, bursting with fighting spirit. Understandable, of course. Ahrens was a panzer commander down to the bone. What respectable tanker could stomach lounging about in the rear while there was fighting to be done? No, tankers were a particularly proactive breed of Homo sapiens—the kind that treasure direct action and saw boldness and intrepidity as the ultimate virtues.

With the typical directness of a tanker, Ahrens approached every door available in search of tanks. Obviously, he would have preferred his own trusty tanks, but seeing as they weren’t available… Officers accustomed to the front lines tend to look for whatever they can get, and this was no exception. Ahrens was going to have to make do with whatever he could procure on-site. And the truth was, there was one particular inventory that had captured Captain Ahrens’s eye.

It was not, however, the yard’s. After all, driving tanks directly for long distances tended to damage running gear. The inventory Ahrens was after was one found much closer to the front and the unit’s main force.

If there were just tanks waiting around to fall into Ahren’s lap, then surely the Empire couldn’t have been so hard up in the first place, could they? That is a fair point. But Salamander Kampfgruppe’s special status meant there was a supply source tailor-suited to their needs located exactly where they needed it. Specifically…Ahrens was thinking of the inventory under urgent maintenance at the arsenal attached to Eastern Army Command.

Eastern Command’s secret stash.

Captain Ahrens had quickly sniffed out this prize.

Naturally, this armory was one of Eastern Army Command’s prized possessions. To be precise, after the armored units were redeployed and command was left in the lurch, they had gone around to every corner they could to make ends meet, collecting damaged tanks and repairing captured equipment in order to steadily build up their meager armored force into something halfway decent.

A single tactical unit, at least… In the end, however, they only managed to scrounge up less than a company’s worth of tanks.

If Ahrens asked to borrow those tanks, it was pretty obvious where they would tell him to shove it. But that didn’t matter right now. All Captain Ahrens cared about at the moment was that there was a company of tanks just sitting there, ripe for the taking. The details could be worked out later. Ahrens had already been clamoring for command to lend him those tanks even before the Federation attack had started. Could he just borrow them? Just for a little while? The real waste was for them to just sit there not being used, wasn’t it?

On the fourteenth, when shelling began, Ahrens had begged his hardest. If they were already using the tanks, that would have been the end of the story, but if they weren’t, then by all means, let Ahrens have a go at it!

But no. Once it became clear that neither telephoning nor telegrams were going to get Ahrens anywhere, then, by God, like the true man of action that he was, Ahrens was just going to have to go in person.

Unfortunately, open seats in transport planes were limited, and the vehicle situation on the ground was even worse. Captain Ahrens had honestly begun to wonder whether he should just go alone and trick the mechanics into becoming his tankers.

Experience, however, soon suggested a better plan.

“What if I take a page out of the colonel’s book?”

Clapping his hands together, the captain negotiated with a mage battalion flying toward the vicinity of command on orders from the Eastern Chief Inspector. He was somehow able to convince the battalion to drag him and twenty tankers to where they needed to go.

The mages transported artillery gunners in Ildoa, or so Captain Ahrens claimed in a bold bluff. Usually, it would never even occur to an armored unit commander that a mage could carry a person easily enough. It took a commander from the Salamander Kampfgruppe, someone already up to his eyeballs in mages, to think up an idea like that.

In any case, by the next day, he had already stormed the maintenance base near command, seizing one of the technical officers and haranguing him to “lend” them their tanks. “What’s the issue? Just let us use them for a little while. We’re just borrowing them, that’s all,” said Captain Ahrens, dragging the poor, confused technical first lieutenant out by the shoulder.

“But, Captain, they aren’t our tanks to lend…”

“But no one’s using them right now, are they, Lieutenant? Can’t you see there’s a war going on here?!”

Fine. Captain Ahrens decided to change tactics. “These are vehicles that were collected from the front line and repaired, and are just waiting to be sent back in, right? In that case, why don’t I take them there for you?”

“And drive them around a bit yourself while you’re at it, I bet!” said the technical first lieutenant, with a look of exasperation. Captain Ahrens, however, shook his head with wounded pride.

“No more than minimally necessary for self-defense. Worry not, I am a veritable coward.”

“I’d sooner buy in to empty promises from upper brass than believe a tanker’s tall tales of cowardice and self-defense!”

“Please, you can trust me. I am just an honest, upright panzer commander.”

“Don’t give me that!”

“I asked before I borrowed, didn’t I? See, this is me asking! Come on!”

“What did I say?! This is exactly why I hate tankers,” cried the poor technician, but Ahrens paid him no mind, continuing to zealously insist he “lend” them the tanks.

Before the technician could answer again, their almost comical back-and-forth was suddenly interrupted by the sound of sirens. “The air raid siren?!” Their astonishment only lasted a moment.

Captain Ahrens and the technical first lieutenant, though from different branches, shared the same instinctual habits. They immediately called off their fruitless squabble and dove for the nearest dugout.

It was just a shallow hole, barely large enough for one person, but it was still far better than nothing.

In the middle of a bombardment, no one can help but pray that, whatever else happens, a bomb won’t drop on their head. If one had drunk down the cocktail—not so much of courage as of experience and resignation—one might also stare up at the sky on the lookout for enemy aircraft carrying possible payloads.

Captain Ahrens was a tanker. In other words, he was a creature used to riding around in the coffin of steel known as a tank. The obvious catch was that, even if enemy aircraft appeared, a tank couldn’t just run and hide. Spend enough time on battlefields where air superiority was out of your hands, and enemy aircraft became as loathsome to a tanker as an AT gun.

The enemy had firm control over the skies. Thus, Captain Ahrens—experiencing a strange mixture of relief at being hunkered down in a dugout instead of in a tank, and discomfort at not being surrounded by armor—expected to have plenty of time to settle in, stare at the sky, and curse the tides of battle.

These expectations, however, were not met, for Captain Ahrens then realized that something strange was happening. With nothing else to do, he stared at the dreaded enemy aircraft, which should have been striking them at any minute, until he noticed something off.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that model before…”

There were no fighter bombers or the like buzzing across the sky at that moment—which was all well and good, but a heavy bomber could easily annihilate the roads with level bombing.

Neither prospect was great. Ahrens tried to make out the plane’s shadow. For some reason, though, as far as he could tell from this distance, although the plane’s body was squat and fat, it did not resemble any bomber he recognized.

Just as Captain Ahrens was thinking the plane seemed too large even for newer heavy bombs, he furrowed his brow, realizing that the enemy had begun to drop something.

“That’s falling pretty far away. Did they miss? It happens. But the fall seems unusually slow…”

As if it were a parachute…? Well, who knows? Maybe sometimes bombs are dropped with parachutes. But Captain Ahrens knew of something even more dangerous than bombs that could also be dropped from planes.

“What? No, that can’t be. Can it?”

Captain Ahrens’s education as an officer with the Salamander Kampfgruppe meant he was more than familiar with the ways a unit could drop in from above and lay waste to an enemy’s position. His experience told him that whatever was happening right now was very bad.

And as a veteran officer, Ahrens knew that allowing himself to become blinded by normalcy bias was a surefire way to get killed. His battlefield experiences had etched that fact into his bones, whether he liked it or not.

In the next instant, Captain Ahrens completely reversed his plan to wait out the attack in an air shelter and, as a veteran, began bellowing the alarm.

“Airborne! Those are enemy airborne troops! It’s a combat drop!”

The enemy was carrying out an airborne assault on command. Captain Ahrens understood perfectly well what that meant: a decapitation strike designed to take out Eastern Army Command’s head while it was in the midst of a large-scale operation. If that strike landed, it would be an instant knockout. Match over. Having been on the offensive end of such strikes before, Captain Ahrens knew just how powerful decapitation tactics could be. Now, finding himself on the receiving end for the first time, he trembled at the savagery of it all.

“All armored personnel, prepare to deploy! Don’t forget ammo and fuel, but prioritize getting those tanks up and running above all else! Get moving!”

At Ahrens’s command, the tankers leapt from their dugouts, completely undisturbed by the risk of bombardment as they began running toward the precious tanks, fuel, and equipment.

“Get those tanks moving! Hurry it up!”

They scrounged together cans of fuel and whatever ammunition they could get their hands on. “This should be enough to get them going!” With cries of excitement, the tanks began to move out.

Naturally, as a member of the Salamander Kampfgruppe, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had instilled in Captain Ahrens the importance of playing by the rules. He didn’t forget his p’s and q’s before leaving.

“I’m borrowing these, Lieutenant,” he said. Emergency or not, communication and consultation were fundamental.

Unfortunately, due to a cultural barrier, this fine show of consideration on Captain Ahrens’s part was met with rebuttal—and even abuse—from the exasperated technical first lieutenant. “Borrow?! More like rob, you mean!”

“What? Clearly we are evacuating them in the face of enemy bombardment. This is an emergency, remember?” said Captain Ahrens, delivering his most reasonable and heartfelt appeal. After a moment of waffling, the first lieutenant in charge of the tanks reluctantly agreed.

“Well… Try not to damage them at least, okay?!” he sobbed. To which Captain Ahrens nodded in solemn reassurance, the height of sincerity and practicality.

“I will give it my most sincere, most serious, most dedicated effort.”

“Why do I not believe you?!”

This was a fine moment for Captain Ahrens and the on-site technical first lieutenant to reflect on the sad reality that trust can only be built upon a foundation of shared achievement and interpersonal relationships.

The technical first lieutenant took his position very seriously. He shouted warnings over the radio as the tanks charged away: “Don’t overestimate your armor! A lot of the tanks have been wrecked or blasted! Most of them have just been patched up. Even the running gear…!”

The radio receivers, at least, seemed to be in good order. For all their yapping, the engineers seemed to know what they were doing. Captain Ahrens stroked his chin in satisfaction.

“Not bad. Looks like it even comes with service and warranty.”

Patting the vehicle’s armor with satisfaction, Captain Ahrens broke into a grin and addressed the world, repeating his favorite phrase: “All right, tanks, move out!”

In the end, Captain Ahrens was only able to borrow around ten tanks. The tankers operating them formed a slapdash unit consisting not only of the men under his command, but also a collection of hastily mobilized repair yard engineers.

Although, seeing as they had managed to deploy ten whole tanks without prior warning, it was a decent enough reserve force, all things considered. The dropping Federation airborne infantry were going to be in for a big surprise when they saw the kind of armor that was waiting for them. It would take at least a light AT gun—maybe something close in power to an anti-tank rifle—to pierce through the tanks. This would be enough to force the Federation troops to take a defensive posture and pull out their anti-tank grenades in an attempt to keep them at bay.

However, the Federation force had the power to maintain their defensive posture. Even worse, there was still a possibility of Federation reinforcements showing up.

“There goes tank number four…! Seven, too!”

“Fuck,” spat out Captain Ahrens, pulling his tank back into cover. They could try to provide relief, but the enemy had already gained fire superiority.

“Is that an AT gun? That’s an AT gun, isn’t it?! Where does an airborne unit get off lugging in AT guns…?!”

“Captain, that’s one of our guns!”

“What did you just say?!”

This news, received over the radio from one of his men, left Captain Ahrens unexpectedly dumbfounded. Without thinking, he thrust himself out of his hatch and turned his binoculars in the direction of the dreaded AT gun.

Well, isn’t this a fine kick in the pants.

“Those idiots at command let their guns get captured?!”

Screaming curses, the tank commander did the only thing he could: he urged his men to hull down.

“Shit, and we’re sitting here with junk for armor!”

Restored tanks left plenty to be desired. No matter how much effort you put into reinforcing a restored tank’s armor, it would never be quite good enough. Restored tanks were hopeless against AT guns. Softened armor, for example, was no match for an imperial-made tungsten core round.

To make matters worse, the maneuvering carried out by these Federation troops was practiced enough to give even Captain Ahrens a shiver. Relying on the AT gun for suppression, the Federation’s airborne infantry were nimbly and steadily closing in, hunting their tanks.

“We can’t let them get close. Don’t we have any cover?!” murmured Captain Ahrens to himself. Without support from friendly infantry, his tanks were just massive targets.

Captain Ahrens was just beginning to think this looked like the end when he received a report from one of the tank commanders positioned behind him that nearly made his eyes bug out of his head.

“New enemies sighted! A truck is approaching!”

What? Captain Ahrens barely processed what he heard before turning around and parroting his subordinate’s words. “A truck?!”

Ahrens turned to look. There was, in fact, a cluster of cargo trucks visible in the distance, ambling forward slowly, almost at walking pace. But they were definitely approaching. His brain immediately began to picture the worst. First an airborne unit, and now ground troops?!

Of course, Ahrens had known, in the back of his mind, that more enemy troops could be coming. But the arrival of enemy reinforcements at that exact moment was so terrifying that even the bold and courageous Captain Ahrens could do nothing more than gulp and clench his fist to keep from swearing. “It’s too soon!” he would have shouted. “Where did these bastards even come from?!”

Just as Captain Ahrens—determined to dig his heels in until the last—was deciding it was better to get the jump and shell them first, the rug was suddenly swept out from under him. But in the best way possible.

“Th…they’re friendlies!” shouted the soldier who had informed Captain Ahrens of the presence of the trucks, his voice practically bursting with joy. The soldier stared through his binoculars as he repeated, “They’re friendlies! It’s reinforcements!”

“What?”

Captain Ahrens began to question the man’s sanity. Maybe he had cracked from the strain of battle. Poor fellow, so delicate… Just to be safe, however, Captain Ahrens pointed his own binoculars toward the approaching gaggle of trucks once more.

He was right. They might not have been in the best shape, but upon closer inspection, he could confirm they were genuine imperial-made trucks. Of course, everyone used what they could as long as they could. Both sides had captured and lost plenty of equipment along the way. It would have been delusional to assume these were friendly forces based solely on the make of the trucks. In fact, enemies disguised as allies were the biggest threat of all… Just then, his eyes alighted on a person atop one of the combat trucks, waving a gun.

“Is that…Lieutenant Tospan?! Then that must be…the main unit!!”

“Yes, sir,” said the subordinate over the radio, in ecstatic agreement with Captain Ahrens.

“They’re allies! It’s the Salamander Kampfgruppe!”

The moment Captain Ahrens understood that the approaching trucks were packed full of friendly infantry, he roared with joy, waving his cap at First Lieutenant Tospan. What a beautiful world, after all!

“I could kiss him right now!”

More than kiss, even.

There was no sight more blissful than relief troops boldly galloping to rescue, all the more so when that rescue came in the shape of old friends.

“Captain Ahrens?! What are you doing here?!”

“I saw the fireworks starting. You can’t expect a tanker to sit around and take a nap at a time like this! No, tankers rush in toward the sound of gunfire! If there’s one thing that’s always true, you know it is that!” replied the tanker in high spirits, grinning from ear to ear.

He hadn’t forgotten the predicament they were in, however. Despite his joy at the reunion, he quickly filled First Lieutenant Tospan in on the situation.

“Command is still putting up a resistance. As far as I can tell, they haven’t fallen yet. However, the airborne enemy has the advantage in numbers. The infantry they dropped in were initially light on firepower, but they’ve upped their threat thanks to artillery they seem to have captured from our side… At this rate, things look dicey,” he briefed Tospan quickly before the first lieutenant could even ask a question.

As it turned out, First Lieutenant Tospan and his men were the spearhead of a relief force led by Captain Meybert, dispatched on Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s orders to support command.

“It’s time to get to work, then. Now that we’ve got the infantry and tanks back together, this should be familiar ground. Let’s do it like we always do,” said Ahrens, clapping Tospan on the shoulder encouragingly and flashing a knowing look. For better or worse, as far as instruments of violence went, their Kampfgruppe was perfection.

They continued to fire off their cannons, using the tanks to apply slow, steady pressure. Whenever the enemy—who lacked their own armor—attempted to engage them in close combat, Tospan’s infantry used suppressing fire to drive them back, steadily securing a foothold.

When it came to textbook tank assaults, Captain Ahrens and First Lieutenant Tospan knew their respective roles down to a T. Their experience, acquired through blood and sweat, was obvious in their actions. They operated like a well-oiled machine in the cauldron of battle. As a result, by the time Captain Meybert and the guns he had dragged with him arrived to join the fight, the groundwork needed for the tanks, infantry, and artillery arms to fulfill their roles was already set.

However, they were still desperately short on men. Hence, Captain Ahrens’s hopeful question about the possibility of relief troops.

“Captain Meybert, what’s the situation with reinforcements?”

“There aren’t many friendly units in the area.”

“Can’t they redeploy any? Not even to come to command’s aid?” asked Captain Ahrens.

Captain Meybert shook his head.

“There wasn’t much of a reserve to begin with. In fact, it’s possible the Salamander Kampfgruppe was the strongest relief force available at the moment.”

“Aren’t there strategic reserves kept exactly for situations like this? Where are they?”

“They exist only on paper,” said Captain Meybert, his voice strained.

Captain Ahrens looked him in the eye and smiled painfully. What else could he do in the face of such an unfortunate situation? The answer was, of course, nothing. So why not smile? This was what it felt like to need what you can’t have.

“Well, isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do. My tanks are ‘on paper’ as well, and look at them. They’re fighting just fine.”

“They don’t look like paper to me…”

“In fact, they look as real as can be,” said Captain Meybert, pointing toward the armored vehicles technically still under repair. Captain Ahrens was now making temporary use of them after claiming he was going to withdraw them from enemy bombardment.

“Obviously, you filched them from somewhere,” said Captain Meybert, to which Captain Ahrens puffed out his chest in pride.

“I’m just keeping an eye on them. I found them over yonder.”

Of course, Captain Meybert could imagine what the report would say now: “Encountered unexpected combat while retreating and was unavoidably forced to participate in battle.”

It was a risky bit of handiwork that might lead to trouble later. Captain Ahrens felt annoyed, worried he was about to get chewed out. He didn’t see why he should be lectured and made to feel like a little boy at a time like this. He was surprised, though, when he saw the indomitable grin on Captain Meybert’s battle-hardened face.

“We’ll get you a written order from the Lieutenant Colonel afterward. That should solve everything.”

“Can she do that?”

“Of course,” said Captain Meybert, chuckling.

“The Colonel has gotten very creative with orders these days. We’ll probably be talking about this over a drink with the mages before long,” said Captain Ahrens cheerfully to First Lieutenant Tospan.

“Well, it’s up to the tanks, infantry, and artillery now,” added Captain Meybert, approaching the familiar work as if it were old hat. Their combined-arms unit, made up of tanks, infantry, and artillery, quickly got down to the business of clearing out the airborne Federation unit.

Even without the mages who formed the core of the Salamander Kampfgruppe, Captain Meybert was used to working with this sort of combined-arms unit. However, it was at this point that Captain Meybert recognized a slight deficiency in his own command, namely, that his experience was lopsided.

He grumbled quietly, careful not to be overheard by his men, as he realized how awkward it felt to be on the attacking side for a change. It was difficult to run things smoothly when you weren’t used to the process.

If they had been repelling an enemy attack, Captain Meybert would have felt right at home, but when it came to initiating support for command, he wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

The Imperial Army was famous for its expert use of interior lines… The Empire preferred to counter. As an old-school officer, Captain Meybert was particularly set in those ways. To elaborate, his experience was almost entirely on the defensive side. As a result, his experience in executing hammer and anvil tactics was comparatively weak.

He had experience attacking as artillery under Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s command, but his experience in taking command of the Kampfgruppe’s combined forces was limited entirely to defensive battles. And while he had brushed up on the infantry handbook, he had mostly read it from a defensive perspective.

“I guess I’ve gotten used to hiding out in my shell,” said Captain Meybert with a soft sigh. Even that thought was half escapism. After all, there was a bigger problem at stake than whether or not he was used to initiating attack, and that was that they simply did not have enough men.

The scale of the enemy force being dropped onto command was still unclear, but it was clearly bigger than their own relief unit. Under current conditions, where command was still putting up resistance, even merely containing the attackers meant they were partially fulfilling their role by alleviating pressure. However…

“The situation is going to keep deteriorating as time passes,” said Captain Meybert, shaking his head lightly as he stated the simple truth. Postponing command’s fall was all well and good, but if destruction was still inevitable in the end…well, that wasn’t good at all!

If they could keep scrambling for time, there was always a possibility that either friendly forces or a senior officer would come to their aid. Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff might even be able to get to them sooner than imagined.

But even by the best estimates, that wasn’t soon enough for right now. It came down to the same thing in the end—they didn’t have enough men. At this rate, command was in danger. Captain Meybert’s back was against the wall; he could barely think. It was risky…but maybe their only chance would be to charge in, even knowing it was a gamble.

From his vantage point as an artilleryman, the situation seemed logically hopeless. However.

“Captain Meybert! Can I leave things to you here for a little while?!”

“What’s your idea, Captain?”

“To look for another road!”

A third way. Captain Ahrens grinned majestically. A fitting idea for a modern tanker, who had inherited the cavalry tradition of yore, of flexibly and enthusiastically searching for detours upon the field.

“Another road?”

“There were still tanks and engineers left at the arsenal. I’m sure we can scrounge up something.”

Then the tanker grinned, a hint of desperation in his smile.

“Besides, if we’re borrowing tanks, we might as well borrow personnel as well. I’m sure we can work something out about the orders later, right?”

“Absolutely. I don’t see how anyone could possibly complain.”

“In that case, better to strike while the iron is hot, as they say. Shall I?”

“Be my guest,” said Captain Meybert, nodding firmly. In fact, why not take things even a step further? “Actually, don’t ask them to come with you, order them to,” the Captain added nonchalantly.

“But they’re command’s men.”

“That doesn’t matter. Remember, we’re under direct assignment to the General Staff, and have been granted authority over this operation. In for a penny.”

Captain Meybert was finally beginning to get it. When senior officers behaved recklessly, it often appeared unreasonable to others, but now that he was standing in that position for himself, he could see that what might seem unreasonable from the outside might be the only logical solution.

As a result, while in the past he had vacillated at times over Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s way of doing things, sometimes wondering if perhaps she hadn’t gone too far, in this moment he made a valiant effort to emulate the Lieutenant Colonel’s example, understanding now what he needed to do.

“We have the authority. That is how things stand at the moment, and that is how you should go about it.”

“I don’t really know what’s going on, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Might as well use whatever we can.”

Captain Ahrens flashed Captain Meybert a virile grin.

“I’ll bring everything I can get my hands on. Until then…I’m afraid there aren’t many tanks left at this point, but I’ll leave behind the ones I snagged earlier.”

“Understood. Leave the battle to me.”

“Haste without waste. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Hey, by all means, take your time! I’ve got this. In fact, I bet I’ll have this all cleared up while you’re gone.”

Even a man like Captain Meybert, who prided himself on being honest and serious, was able to crack a joke every now and again. A joke meant you still had some life in you.

“Now then,” said Captain Meybert as he sent Captain Ahrens off, chewing softly on the butt of a rationed cigarette. He turned his attention back toward the confounded battle at hand.

Maybe Captain Meybert really did have this in the bag, but that wasn’t stopping the enemy from going, guns blazing, as before. Unfortunately, their infantry seemed well organized. A moment later, Captain Meybert was hit by the shockwave from a shell that had landed very close by, eliciting a storm of curses.

“Cripes?!”

The shell had hit so close that Captain Meybert inadvertently cried out and covered his head. Once he peeked over, his eyes came to rest on a derelict hunk of metal. It was the remains of what had been one of their tanks up until a moment ago. At least the personnel inside had escaped in time.

For tankers, though, this was an almost unmitigated disaster. As a commander, Captain Meybert could only lament seeing yet another of their armored vehicles destroyed.

“Suppress that AT gun!”

“It’s no good! There are enemy mages! Enemy mages are taking the field!”

“They’ve got mages, too?! Mages with AT guns?! Airborne, my ass!”

They had expected lightly equipped paratroopers, but the enemy was wielding far more firepower than they had dreamed of. The fact that the Federation had captured an armor-piercing AT gun had already given Meybert a major headache, but now they had to deal with intermittent explosion formulas from mages flying overhead as well.

Besides, why was he sitting here getting outgunned by mages in the first place? As an artillery gunner, this situation was about to drive him mad. If only he had some heavy artillery and shells, none of this would be happening, at least not at this range. But the best he had on hand at the moment were some rifles and whatever field guns they’d managed to drag into position. Worst of all, they didn’t have many shells. What they needed now was more ammo—enough to fire as much as they needed.

Why were there never enough shells on hand?

“And now that command has let their stockpile get swiped from under their noses, we can’t even go down shooting. This is embarrassing…”

A relief unit getting shot down with ammunition stolen from the very army they had come to save. Of course, Captain Meybert thought, finally understanding how something like this felt. He had fired on enemies with captured ammo many times in the past. It must have been infuriating for the enemy. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, it was easy to see why. He also understood how thrilling it must feel for the other side. They were probably chomping at the bit right now.

“Well, this is not a good turn of events,” Captain Meybert muttered, careful that his men would not hear.

He tried to make sense of the situation in his head. Although the enemy should have been the ones in hot water—having dropped into enemy territory—their morale was high, while Meybert’s side felt as low as could be.

Under normal circumstances, they could have just waited for support forces to get into place so that the enemy would be at a disadvantage again…but with things as they were, would command even last that long?

Captain Meybert began making calculations in his head. The enemy troops were highly active and motivated, while his own command was weakening by the day. Even by his conservative reckoning, the situation was worse than it appeared.

The artillery officer sighed in disgust, muttering about how he was always forced into battle with too little of everything. Why couldn’t the Imperial Army be the ones with supplies for a change?

He needed shells.

He needed men.

Why was there never enough of anything?

What had command’s maintenance unit been up to all this time? And more importantly, where were all these strategic reserves they supposedly had on hand?

“Those fools at command! Always trying to pump reserve troops into backup squads. And where are they when they’re needed most?! If they can take the men out, why the hell can’t they put them back in?!”

Captain Meybert was not done cursing this damnable situation as he lived and breathed. When the going gets tough, a filthy mouth is the sign of someone who hasn’t given up. In other words, it’s a sign of humanity.

It looked like things were about to get bad. Feeling the change in his gut, Captain Meybert lit the rationed cigarette clutched between his teeth. Puffing on the tobacco helped him regain his cool. The enemy’s airborne infantry, he knew, were well trained—better trained than the enemy command he had once traded casualties with while defending that harbor.

“What am I doing in a situation like this? I’m supposed to be artillery…”

Captain Meybert wished Captain Ahrens would hurry up and arrive with those tanks. He wished it more than anything at that moment—perhaps even more than he wished for Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s mages to show up.

“If only they were here now,” he muttered softly.

But that sort of talk was forbidden for a commander on the ground. You can’t solve anything by wishing for what you can’t have. Still…how wonderful a few friendly mages might be right now. Even officers like Meybert found it hard not to wish for expedients.

Captain Meybert groaned, snapping out of his reverie as the sound of a telephone cut through the tension. It was a radio call from the forward positions, where they were under constant attack and on the verge of collapse. He picked up the phone, knowing the news couldn’t be good.

“Captain Meybert, we’re already at our limit! At this rate…!”

“First Lieutenant Tospan! I can’t give you permission to withdraw. I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

“We’ll do what we can. But goddamnit, if something doesn’t change soon…”

Captain Tospan didn’t need to finish his sentence. The situation was obvious, and Captain Meybert had already grasped it. There were no illusions left now. It was time to prepare for the worst. Under these circumstances, every last man needed to be put to use.

“I’m sending in reinforcements. I’ll meet you there!”

“What? What do you…”

“Every last soldier. That’s all.”

Abruptly, Captain Meybert ended the call and put his helmet back on. The Kampfgruppe was long past the point of sending in the reserves; he would have to squeeze what he could from other places instead. It was a simple calculation.

Every army has what is called a chain of command. The people who usually said, “Do this,” or “Go there.” But those people were still soldiers, just like everyone else, and they could be counted among the troops.

Of course, common sense dictates that rather than let the head of one’s force be crushed, it’s better to have commanding officers sit toward the back, protected by guards. But on the battlefield, expecting everything to proceed according to common sense is naive.

Which meant…

“The command section is joining the battle line!” he ordered briefly.

The Salamander Kampfgruppe’s temporary command staff did not need further explanation. After all, their usual commander, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff, often directly participated in battles while commanding from the front.

“Is there anyone in this unit who isn’t a glutton for war?”

He was sending Kampfgruppe command, along with its guards, straight to the forward line of contact. Something like that would get you flunked out of military academy on the spot. But with their forces as depleted as they were, that was the best call in this situation.

It wasn’t long before Captain Meybert, too, had joined the infantry at First Lieutenant Tospan’s side.

On the forward line, they were close enough to reach out and punch the enemy. It was hand-to-hand combat in the strictest sense, using any and all weapons available to beat the enemy in a primitive manner. The situation had progressed to close combat.

It was a fracas. They held out with sheer firepower and grit as the enemy cut into their ranks, even swinging bayonets and knives. The members of the Salamander Kampfgruppe, who had supposedly come to bail out Eastern Army Command, found themselves on the defensive instead. Every last soldier was in the same boat, no exceptions.

Even Captain Meybert, who had been directing the troops, suddenly appeared on the scene with a command map in hand.

What was that? Captain Meybert peered closer. An enemy soldier, out ahead of the pack?

Before Meybert knew it, the airborne Federation soldier was right on top of him, brandishing a knife and charging forward to skewer him.

“Damn it!”

Captain Meybert cursed and twisted out of the way, managing to avoid the knife in the nick of time. However, he was only able to avoid the exposed blade itself. He was still rammed by the charging soldier, taking the full brunt of the man’s Federation-fed weight. It wasn’t nearly as bad as being plugged full of cold steel, but a body blow from an intrepid infantryman was nothing to sneeze at.

Struck by the man’s heavy, accelerating mass, Captain Meybert was dramatically knocked off his feet and sent flying through the air in accordance with the laws of physics. But despite being knocked down, he continued to hang on to his trusty friend for dear life.

“Captain?!”

“Stop! You’ll hit Captain Meybert!”

The commotion sounded as if it came from a world far away. With his trusty friend still gripped tightly in his hands, Captain Meybert swung hard in the direction of the young enemy soldier, whose eyes were bloodshot as he thrust his knife again.

“Don’t…underestimate me!”

The blade of Meybert’s trusty friend had been well polished. It struck the enemy soldier on the back of the head. When the enemy jerked back reflexively, Captain Meybert quickly pulled away, putting distance between them.

There was a brief pause before a nearby fellow soldier pumped the enemy full of lead, putting him down for good.

“Captain, are you okay?!”

“Yes, it’s nothing serious. I would have been in trouble without my trusty shovel, though.”

Captain Meybert spat blood and dirt onto the ground and rinsed his mouth with a precious swig of water from his canteen, before expressing his anger—and perhaps more loyalty to his own branch.

“I’m an artillery captain, and I’ll be damned if I’m killed by anything other than fellow artillery!”

Boldness was something soldiers liked to see in a commander. But in truth, this was all for show. Despite the brave face he put on, deep down, the captain felt like he was about to cry. He feared this situation was beyond saving.

The Federation soldier had been isolated and alone, yet evidently had enough spunk to plunge ahead and go after a commander. If an entire unit of such soldiers were to suddenly rush them…

When it came to gumption, Captain Meybert was sure he was a match for any man, but they were at a clear numerical disadvantage.

Any more, and at this rate…

A chill ran down his back. He covered himself, still needing to put on a show for the men, laughing fearlessly as if nothing troubled him. Maybe it was silly, but as an officer, he couldn’t show weakness. He was just doing what needed to be done.

Speaking of which, he also had to keep his eyes peeled, didn’t he? Captain Meybert raised his binoculars in one hand and peered about. What was that? The captain suddenly froze.

He did an unintentional double-take before finally smiling. This time, as if he really meant it. There was a hunk of steel in the distance. And riding atop it was an armored branch officer, waving his cap in high spirits.

As an artillery gunner, Captain Meybert tended to find tankers a little conceited. But conceited or not, at that moment, Captain Ahrens was the nicest sight he’d seen in ages. The arrival of friendly tanks was exactly what was needed to lift their spirits.

“It looks like the cavalry is here,” said Captain Meybert, smirking softly and pointing out Captain Ahrens’s tank unit to the nearby soldiers. “See? New armored forces. Double-digits in total, it seems.” Captain Meybert hit his fist into his hand to punctuate the moment, chuckling gleefully. “Support the tanks! Let’s show those airborne fools that they’re no match for a combined arms unit!” he shouted, peppering the men with words of encouragement to drum up their morale and inspire hope and optimism that things were turning around.

Captain Meybert was just about to say one more good thing to light a fire in his troops when he noticed a very welcome surprise among the tanks.

It was an armored vehicle loaded with a 10.5-centimeter howitzer and a pile of massive shells. Shape-wise, it mostly resembled a tank, but it was unmistakably an assault gun.

Captain Meybert called Captain Ahrens on the radio.

“Well, well, Captain Ahrens! That’s a mighty fine howitzer you’ve brought back with you! Where did you get your hands on that beauty?!” he exclaimed.

“I borrowed it! I encountered some friendly troops along the way and asked nicely!”

“Of course,” said Captain Meybert, chuckling and grinning. “In that case, as an artilleryman, I guess it’s my turn to ask nicely. Let me fire that thing!”

“Tsk!”

“It’s an assault gun, isn’t it? Who else should handle it if not artillery?”

“Okay. But just the assault gun…!”

“See, I knew you’d understand.” Captain Meybert laughed, calling to the other artillery soldiers nearby. “Everyone, we’re done playing infantry! It’s time to become artillery once more—even if it means playing at being tankers as well!”

The soldiers shouted in unison as they piled into the gun—definitely a gun and not a tank—while Captain Ahrens watched from the side, frowning. Together with the tanker, who was driving, they began putting the assault gun to good use.

After all, guns were meant for artillery, not tankers. Such wonderful display of mechanized force. If only there were more self-propelled guns.

Still marveling at how magnificent the contraption was, Captain Meybert began to fire. The gun’s effect was proportionate and immediate. Unlike a normal assault gun, the howitzer under Captain Meybert’s control had no drawbacks against infantry. He went to town with it, firing into the enemy’s ranks with abandon. Just moments earlier, he had been like a hero from the Stone Age, fighting with shovel and knife. But now, with shells and munitions on his side, he was rapidly regaining his ardent faith in the doctrine of superior firepower.

Firepower always makes right—at least when you have the advantage over your enemy. It was the enemy’s firepower that was dastardly. And righteousness always triumphs.

As Captain Meybert operated the howitzer, he suddenly remembered that every howitzer has a mortal enemy: armor. Or rather, he was forcefully reminded of their existence by the Federation Army mages’ counterattack.

Unbelievably, the mages were using the terrain and their defensive shells as cover, shamelessly letting the AT gun cover them as they indiscriminately returned fire with explosion formulas.

“Those enemy mages are going to be trouble. Fuck me, could this day get any worse?”

Captain Meybert clucked his tongue and shot an HE round, fully expecting it to not be very effective for much more than suppression. After all, a mage’s defensive shells could endure such a blast. But at close range, it might at least give them some pause.

Or so he had initially calculated. His calculation, however, proved wildly off-base.

Was the captain seeing things, or did that enemy mage completely crumble under a close-range howitzer shot? To say this was unexpected would have been a massive understatement.

Captain Meybert did a double take.

“Huh? What…? Did I accidentally hit infantry instead?” he wondered, worried he had just wasted ammo. But he got the same result with the next mage he spotted as well.

“Huh?”

“Hey, Captain Meybert? Mages fly, right?”

“That’s right, they fly.”

“How come these guys aren’t flying then?”

“What?! You’re kidding! Now it makes sense, these mage units must be cobbled together from whatever they could scrounge up! Damnit, I’m so used to our own mages that I didn’t even notice the difference at first!”

Forget about protective films. Federation orbs were supposed to be durable, but these mages couldn’t even muster defensive shells that offered much protection.

“All right, stick to HE rounds and keep them suppressed. Then blast them clean off the field.”

“Are you sure? They’re pretty close to command.”

“Better than giving them a chance to suppress us, right? Besides, the enemy is bombarding us with our own captured shells. It’s now or never.”

“Good point. Take this, you pieces of shit,” declared Captain Meybert, channeling every ounce of bitter devotion and hostility into the loaded shell. Then he howled, willing his message to reach its target.

“Let ’er rip! Captain Ahrens, let’s move out!”

In the end, the heavily armored, combined arms counterattack initiated by Captain Meybert completely sideswiped the large, brigade-sized airborne assault of the Federation troops, a flanking blow delivered by armored forces against light infantry whose ultimate weapon was a captured AT gun.

It didn’t take long for the scales to tip heavily in the Empire’s favor.

And yet, even that was not enough for the airborne Federation unit to throw in the towel. They continued their attempt to surge forward, capture the command center, and eliminate reinforcements with unparalleled grit, determination, and hope.

All they needed was to push a little farther, to just gain a toehold.

In the end, however, the scales of power never tipped back in the attackers’ favor. Their hope that inspired them to fight so hard was the promise of a second wave. If only those reinforcements had shown up!

The promised troops—an armored unit that was supposed to charge to their aid—did not appear, even after the appointed time had come and gone. Then came a terrified report that they were being “hit by a powerful aerial mage division,” and contact with the unit was lost altogether. The loss of hope broke these courageous soldiers and their staying power quickly evaporated. As they disengaged in twos and threes, some even choosing to surrender, their faces ceased to reflect the determination of heroes bent on conquering the enemy’s headquarters. They had long since become mere humans again, desperate to survive.

Meanwhile, the defending Imperial Eastern Army Command that had been previously forced to imbibe the libations of despair now greedily indulged in the exquisite vintage of hope, from the highest-ranking officers to the lowest enlisted privates.

They had survived. They had sawed their way through the enemy attack.

Once reality set in, they finally found the strength to spare a thought for matters that had been pushed aside. Even worry felt like a luxury now that they were alive.

But luxury or not, what had that strange order been about? Lieutenant General Hasenclever had asked as confusion set in, only for command to be suddenly hit with an airborne assault.

Once the attack had been successfully repelled, he was helping himself to some combat rations with mud-stained hands and his rifle slung over his shoulder. Whether the bombshell telegram he received during the meal, addressed to Eastern Army Command, should be considered a luxury simply because he had survived was a question best left to rhetoricians.

To be blunt, today was not Lieutenant General Hasenclever’s lucky day.

“This came from the General Staff. It says it’s from General Zettour. The encryption was legitimate.”

Finally, Lieutenant General Hasenclever took the telegram with relief. A moment later, however, he clutched his stomach and shouted, “Impossible!”

“You mean to tell me that previous communication was correct?!”

That was an unexpected development, to say the least.

“Wait, those orders were genuine?” The staff officers did not bother hiding their unease as their eyes drifted to the scrap of paper in the lieutenant general’s hand. He was gripping it so firmly it looked as if he might tear it to pieces.

An authentic telegram, sent from the Empire by General Zettour. A message that should have resolved this chaos immediately. That was what the staff officers had expected.

However, what they were confronted with was the slowly petrifying face of the lieutenant general. He hadn’t looked this grave even upon receiving reports of the Federation Army’s airborne strike.

Unable to bear the suspense, one of the staff officers took the telegram from the commander’s hand. Only after he also froze like a statue, did the attachés finally lay eyes on it. They froze as well.

It was, indeed, a telegram from the the General Staff. The General Staff was throwing their weight around again, so to speak. It was what the General Staff did best.

General Hans von Zettour’s response to eastern army’s previous inquiry about Plan No. 4 was exceedingly clear:

“Promptly carry out previous orders!”

That was all.

Of course, they understood what had been left unsaid.

Total and immediate execution of Defensive Plan No. 4—a plan they had been holding at arm’s length and had only just halfheartedly begun to implement—and the continuation of the aerial mage operations. Was there any room for misinterpretation?! The telegram was firm, explicit, and angry!

No one in the entire army could have failed to pick up on that. Promptly carry out previous orders. In response to such a direct order coming all the way from the top, there was only one thing to do. A reminder like that was nothing to laugh at—a career-ending message for any elite staff officer who questioned it.

“In other words…it was our inquiries that were causing the confusion?”

“Do you think it seemed like we were repeatedly questioning authentic orders?”

“But the General Staff was in disarray as well! That’s where the whole mix-up started…”

“Since when are orders delivered in that manner?”

“Everyone, enough!” shouted Lieutenant General Hasenclever, slicing through the turmoil in the room.

His eyes were bloodshot, his voice trembled, but he focused on what needed to be done next.

“We have orders. Orders! We need to make up for lost time!”

“But…they were so strange!”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever was a good company man, and he was about to show, by example, what he was made of.

“We have an order! And it is authentic!”

Lieutenant General Hasenclever had only been left in charge in General Laudon’s absence. He was far too passive for the now-deceased General Laudon to have considered him a replacement, but he was still a classic imperial military man.

In other words, a strictly trained career soldier who would not hesitate to follow orders.

“Implement the order! We must make up for lost time!”

The first echelon was destroying the Imperial Army with the momentum of a turbulent wave. The resistance offered by the troops hunkered down in their strongpoints was even weaker than expected. Federation Army Command celebrated this as a sign that the Imperial Army was in greater decline than imagined. However, several bizarre reports were also cause for concern.

The airborne force should have easily overwhelmed the command’s security forces.

The attacking airborne brigade had the advantage, but an unidentified armored force suddenly appeared and sideswiped the brigade, leading to completely mind-boggling results. Furthermore, this unit was accompanied by an infantry unit of comparable strength to the Federation’s airborne infantry. Who could blame the airborne unit for complaining that this wasn’t what they had signed up for?

By the time an assault gun appeared to place the final nail in the coffin, the airborne assault unit had no choice but to retreat. According to reports, their accompanying mage company had been wiped out entirely.

Naturally, no one left in Federation Army Command was foolish enough to believe an outcome so convenient for the Empire had developed by chance. They were now faced with several questions:

How was the enemy able to muster an unknown force at such a convenient time?

If the enemy had unknown reserves at the ready, why was the general advance proceeding so decisively?

And why were the enemy’s advance positions more brittle than expected?

The answer soon became clear. There was only one unfortunate explanation: It was possible that the enemy was executing a full withdrawal to avoid the Federation’s initial attack.

That can’t be, thought the officers, growing pale as they turned to face one another, only to see the same fear in their comrades’ eyes. They glanced furtively at the map, now predicting the worst.

Rising Dawn was a large-scale offensive aiming to achieve a strategic victory, its main goal being the total annihilation of the Imperial field army. Or, to put it another way, their one true objective was the enemy’s field army.

And if that objective were to retreat just as the first echelon advanced, and leave Operation Rising Dawn to tilt at empty space…?

The Federation officers had a bad feeling about this. A cold chill swept over them. Had they been caught in a con?

Judging solely from the map, the Federation Army’s advantage looked firm. The Imperial Army’s defensive line was crumbling. Their reserves were weak and flimsy, whereas the Federation’s supply lines were robust.

Furthermore, they had a second echelon waiting in the wings to support the first. All that remained was to steamroll westward once the Imperial Army’s main force on the Eastern Front was no more.

Or so it should have been. But something was strange. Disturbing reports were coming from the field. Foreboding signs seemed to confirm the worst for Operation Rising Dawn’s command personnel.

“Why haven’t the supplies arrived?!”

“They were attacked by the enemy?! But we accounted for potential losses and prepared multiple shipments!!”

“The supply dump was destroyed?!”

“O-our supply train…?!”

Logistics.

Emergency reports were coming in that their supposedly robust, unassailable logistic networks were being thrown into disarray by Imperial mages. The Federation had anticipated that such a scenario might occur, incorporating the relentless demands from higher-ups to stay on guard against Imperial Army decapitation tactics and interdiction of supply lines, allowing for almost too much redundancy and dedicated interceptors.

They had even beefed up their supply units with ample defense, modifying trucks with copious anti-air weapons.

Or at least, that should have been the case. However, something strange was afoot.

“A-a division? A whole division?!”

A staff officer gripped the receiver, gaping in dismay.

“The Imperial Army should be scraping the bottom of the barrel for manpower. How are they able to attack our supply lines with a whole division of aerial mages?! I thought they barely had enough mages for a single division in all of the East put together?!”

“Perhaps they’ve diverted every last one.”

“Redeploy their mages, all of them, in perfect timing with Rising Dawn? On the spot, without hesitation?!”

The staff officers couldn’t believe such a thing was possible.

The core aim of Rising Dawn was the complete annihilation of the Imperial field army, which is precisely why they had disguised it as a full-out offensive with grand battleplans, combining an advance across a huge front with a doctrine of superior firepower. Under normal circumstances, the idea of gathering up every last mage in a theater and deploying them to attack supply lines that might not even exist seemed unthinkable.

Could the enemy have foreseen that targeting logistics would starve the first echelon and prevent them from moving…? That seemed preposterous. But then, how?

“Those imperial fiends…!”

“How have they managed to choose the one response to Rising Dawn that is sure to hurt the Federation the most?”

“Damn them! Why are they always so good at war?!”

JANUARY 17, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, IMPERIAL CAPITAL, GENERAL STAFF OFFICE

There was one man in the capital who was smiling. At that moment, he was perhaps the happiest man in the world. From the deepest pit of despair—when the path toward his dream was closing before his very eyes—he had been delivered the most splendiferous news in the most unexpected of ways. The future was certain, and joy was written all over his face.

He was happy.

If only everyone could be as happy as he, the world would surely be a more wonderful place. But unfortunately, General Zettour’s happiness was so unique that not even the young First Lieutenant standing by his side could share in it.

Regardless, General Zettour puffed contentedly on his cigar with a smile toying at his lips as he tossed his wound watch onto the desk. The mechanical parts made the hands move, but even a hand-wound timepiece required the occasional human intervention.

It was the same in war when faced with overwhelming steel.

In that case, thought General Zettour, feeling deeply moved, whether old or young, as humans we must celebrate moments like this in our own way.

“Lieutenant Grantz, my apologies for calling you here. I know your time has been short, but have you been enjoying the capital?”

“Yes, General.”

“Now, now, there is no need to be so formal. I simply wanted to share some of the joy you have brought me,” said General Zettour, with a tut and a smile. “I hope you have gotten your rest, because I now have a request for you. You’ve already done so much, but would you mind carrying a message for me?”

“What kind of message?”

“The necessary kind.”

“Necessary?”

Without meaning to, First Lieutenant Grantz allowed a hint of confusion and fear to creep into his voice. Poor man. General Zettour felt a faint twinge of sympathy for the young first lieutenant.

This complete upending of history. It seemed the young fellow was not yet used to such an exquisite vintage. Could anything be so intoxicating, so rich, so luscious and full-bodied?

General Zettour whisked his disappointment away with a single grimace. If this exquisite vintage was wasted on the young, he would just have to keep it for his own aging self. Not that he underestimated the value of having a friend who could share in the occasion.

“Give my regards to Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff. She should understand.”

“Yes! May I have your message?”

“As you wish,” said General Zettour, picking up his pen and writing across the page. He had penned several orders in his time and approved countless documents, but never before had he experienced such a thrill as his pen ran across paper in this moment.

“Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha. How delightful.”

He was so giddy that keeping his pen from slipping was a gargantuan task.

“Incredible, incredible. For everything to be overturned at a juncture such as this. All it took, for everything to come true by this hand.”

Understanding a problem was half the way to solving it, but when it came to unraveling a solution, violence still had its place. Punch out the Fates as they weave their web. Off with their heads.

“If we are going to take an advance on fate, we might as well borrow all that we can. Why not, when there is nothing else to lose? The Empire is invincible. Or at the very least, I, General Zettour, have nothing to fear. Not even from fate.

“After all, I am an irresponsible borrower.”

When he thought of it that way, his worries began to fade. The world had once been so gray, but now it was brilliant, dazzling with color. Everything was vivid and clear.

He could make the choice that needed to be made now, without hesitation. The road to the future was easy to see when it was painted in crimson.

“Who cares about planting next year’s harvest? Especially when we’ll die if we don’t eat today.”

[chapter] V Mage Graveyard

The organization known as the Imperial Army is one of, by, and for career soldiers who pursue military rationality and nothing else. A classic example of an over-specialized, one-track organization.

Perhaps it is a matter of pride in living up to their military reputation. But for better or worse, once a decision has been reached, the Imperial Army is as nimble as can be when it comes to taking action.

Eastern Army Command is no exception.

After receiving General Zettour’s strict orders via the General Staff, Eastern Command’s previous intransigence vanished in a heartbeat. Silencing their doubts, the staff officers began transmitting strict orders in General Zettour’s name to all eastern army units, ordering them to withdraw and occupy new defensive lines.

This is no simple retraction. Once a legitimate order is received, all other matters take a back seat. They are to completely abandon the prescribed defensive line and immediately, decisively, implement Defensive Plan No. 4.

While there are some discrepancies among the units, and despite the fact that the orders differ from prior assumptions, they have begun implementing them with relative alacrity. The Imperial Army may be on the brink of exhaustion and suffering massive attrition, but as a military body, they are unshakable—an organization that maintains control. Praiseworthy when it comes to waging war.

Withdrawals are generally difficult things to pull off, especially large-scale withdrawals from a front that is one hair away from crumbling. And yet the Imperial Army has accomplished this feat under incredible time constraints.

From an outside perspective, the Imperial Army’s level of organization is nearly perfect.

The moment the Imperial Army sensed the scale and purpose of the Federation Army’s attack, they completely abandoned the idea of stopping it head-on. Jettisoning prior assumptions, without regard for sunk costs, they began a full-scale withdrawal timed to the Federation Army’s advance, all while a division of mages sowed confusion by pummeling the enemy’s rear infrastructure.

As a result, the Imperial Army yielded space faster than the Federation Army had presupposed, while also accomplishing their main goal of conserving the main force’s strength.

Of course, this still took the form of a retreat while being hounded by the enemy. The Empire was running, and the Federation was the one doing the chasing.

That said, if the Federation Army had expected the Imperial field army to be tied up on the front line in a repeat of the Imperial Army’s decisive attack on the François Republican Army main force, they were soon disabused of that notion.

For an army, movement is attrition.

Even infantry tire from walking. Securing water, food, and places to rest is indispensable. Vehicles also require maintenance after a certain amount of use, and fuel has to come from somewhere.

The farther one gets from one’s center of operations, the greater the problems become. No matter how thorough your logistic structures, an army is always subject to the ravages of distance. While the fleeing side has bases to look forward to, the pursuing side only moves farther from its own.

As a result, whether they like it or not, the Federation Army—which is supposedly the pursuing aggressor—will be forced to remember one thing. The Empire’s objective is the same as it always has been: a counter. This is the Empire’s standard forte. The Federation will be expecting something like the baiting retreat and mobile warfare they experienced during Operation Iron Hammer.

On that point, the Federation Army has read General Zettour’s intentions almost to a T. This sort of inference requires no creativity, ingenuity, or great leaps of logic. Rather, it is military common sense.

The possibility of a counterattack of this sort on the Imperial Army’s part was even predicted before Rising Dawn commenced. What if the Imperial Army retreats as the Federation Army’s main force advances, then attempts to regroup and counter? The Federation Army had incorporated such possibilities into their plans from the start.

It was only by thoroughly crushing any hope of counterattack that the Federation’s main goal was achievable. Even the opposing imperials would likely agree that the Empire is on the back foot, scrambling to craft a sensible response. Even Tanya, with her insight as a career soldier, has calmly accepted this assessment as reasonable.

How careless of me to indulge in common sense when I know perfectly well what kind of creature Zettour is.

Compensation for that naivete is soon foisted upon me by First Lieutenant Grantz while I nibble on some of the chocolate included in the mages’ performance rations, which have arrived on time for a change. He has just returned from the capital.

I greet my subordinate, going through the formalities and thanking him deeply for carrying my message. Halfway through that process, First Lieutenant Grantz slowly produces a sealed parcel with a letter scribbled on General Staff stationery.

“For you,” he says, handing over the letter as if placing a live grenade into my hands. “Sealed orders, Colonel. With an accompanying letter. Delivered in the homeland by General Zettour. Please read the letter first.”

“Naturally. Now then, you said this is from the general? What on earth can it…?”

As soon as I take the letter and begin to absorb its contents, the rational part of my brain refuses to grasp its meaning, shouting instead that this makes no sense.

At the same time, the other half of my brain—used to unreasonable orders and demands—already understood the implications, and immediately ordered a main ballast tank blow at Tanya’s heart to keep it from being crushed by the shock.

I pick out just one word from the letter’s page.

“Airborne?” I say, cautiously, trying to avoid critical damage to my ego by immediately voicing those eight letters before my mind could be overloaded.

“A-airborne…?” I repeat, taking a deep breath and reluctantly facing the news that First Lieutenant Grantz has brought me.

My subordinate has officially received the full and total approval from General Zettour. By extension, this means High Command also approves. It is excellent news.

It truly is.

Even if it was to effect an emergency evacuation, Tanya falsified orders. Not only has my superior officer legitimized and pardoned my actions, he is also publicly proceeding with the same course of action.

By all rights, this is an outcome to be celebrated. Good news beyond my wildest dreams. What more could I have hoped for? But even with such good news to wash it down, the letter from General Zettour that First Lieutenant Grantz has brought is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Lieutenant Grantz, I wish to confirm something.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“This letter, from General Zettour. Are you aware of what it contains?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“We are to cut off enemy lines of communication with a division of mages…a volunteer raid, airborne. Details are within these sealed orders. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Colonel,” my subordinate replied in a near-mechanical monotone, repeating the phrase as if on loop. Without waiting for further elaboration, I gingerly set the parcel from First Lieutenant Grantz down on my desk, as if it might explode at any moment.

Honestly, I don’t want to open it. Unfortunately, I have no choice.

Confirming that the seal is intact and protocol is followed, I have Grantz sign as witness, methodically following the rules for breaking the seal…a small act of escapism for me. Even Tanya can show a human side from time to time when confronting something I’d rather not face.

General Zettour’s personal gophers, the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion, peer bloodshot at the (so-called) operational plan that the General has brazenly assembled.

“Deliver mage divisions to each of three chokepoints?”

I had barely finished reading the objective when a profoundly overwhelming sense of dizziness overtook me. Three chokepoints, indeed!

Of all the harebrained requests! Zettour is supposed to be one of the few people in the Empire with half a brain, isn’t he?! How can he seriously consider such fantasies?

“Put pressure on the Federation Army’s fuel and ammo, thereby triggering their operational limits. Deal a heavy blow to the Federation Army, who are ranging far from their center of operations, at minimal cost…”

I understand the logic of it. Any shred of military common sense is enough to grasp the general’s intentions: Apply pressure to chokepoints in the enemy’s rear and cut off their lines of communication.

Using the main force to envelop space while attacking supply lines is almost textbook. And it feels painfully familiar.

After all, this closely resembles Operation Iron Hammer, which the Imperial Army initiated on May 5 of last year. To be blunt, it seems to have been lifted entirely from the previous operation in places, betraying the hastily constructed substitute beneath the surface.

But regarding the objective…the idea is so far out there that, as one of the officers involved in Iron Hammer, even that overly reckless and dangerous gamble seems rock solid by comparison. And that operation, in my opinion, was practically all risk!

Last year, the Imperial Army still had armored divisions active in the east. How many tanks could the eastern army muster now? Nearly all the surplus was either sunbathing in Ildoa or recovering from sunburn.

Furthermore, during Iron Hammer, support was available for the troops dropping in to screen the enemy’s rear. With the armored divisions gone now, could they still expect such assistance?

I shove all the chocolate scattered on the desk into my mouth and cross my arms. Without sugar, I might become lightheaded again.

“You have some too,” I say, tossing some high-calorie chocolate designed for aerial mages toward a dumbfounded First Lieutenant Grantz as I consider the mess we’re in.

Armor is out of the question, and, as if that weren’t enough, air superiority is a dream beyond a dream.

Last year, we scrambled together air assets from throughout the Empire to secure a modicum of air superiority for high-maneuver warfare. That was a true, deliberate attack. But today, the Empire no longer has that capability. General Zettour completely used up the Air Force in Ildoa, down to the last drop.

As a result, we can forget about not only air supremacy, which is a major prerequisite for airborne operations, but air superiority as well. In fact, it is doubtful we can even secure a decent enough number of large transports.

But it must be precisely because he is aware of these issues that General Zettour has picked out us mages, who can be effective even in small numbers, instead of standard airborne infantry for this operation. He probably expects us to use our firepower and defensive capabilities to make up for the Empire’s numerical disadvantage. The logic, at least, seems sound… That is, if you ignore the question of where we are supposed to scrounge up so many mages from.

Would it be possible, when under present circumstances, even the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion who report directly to the General Staff, has been told not to expect any replenishment? What contortions will Imperial Army officials have to perform to produce new airborne divisions?

Besides, even if that issue were solved by some miracle…

“…the worst part is, we’ve already done this exact same thing before,” I mutter, despite knowing First Lieutenant Grantz can hear my complaints.

This plan, which appears to have lifted its basic framework from Operation Iron Hammer, is known by both sides. The world learned then how the Empire behaves. Our opponent is now inoculated against such tactics. It’s foolish to expect it to be just as successful now.

The enemy is more powerful than before. And we are weaker. We would be staking everything on an operation with an even slimmer chance of success than our last gamble, reusing old tactics and hoping things go our way.

Even assuming it is the only way, this plan is overly reckless and ambitious. It is ridiculously rash.

“Air mobility, and a large-scale bounding advance with strategic units. It’s…”

The word “impossible” nearly escaped my lips before I remembered my position. First Lieutenant Grantz was present. I rack my brain for a more diplomatic phrase.

“…an expenditure. To be honest, the mages will be massacred. The idea is to buy time and exchange it for victory. However…even if we hold out until we are completely annihilated, the chance of operational success is far from decent.”

According to the sealed documents, we’re supposed to “drop into the enemy rear and cut off supply routes for as long as possible.” Not until follow-on troops arrive, but for as long as possible. Perhaps my stellar experience as a field officer lets me read between the lines. No support will be coming.

In short, there will be no relief troops.

After dropping into enemy territory and using our own strength to apply pressure, these dropped units—isolated and alone—will need to withstand battering from all sides as we wait for the Federation Army’s main force to fall apart from lack of supplies. The exchange might be favorable, but it is an exchange of Imperial mage divisions for the Federation’s main force.

We may as well have been told to go out there and die. I considered refusing, but I had only just indebted myself to Zettour’s due to the falsified orders. I shut my eyes reflexively and prepare for the worst.

“This is…”

I glanced at First Lieutenant Grantz. “Thank you for your hard work,” I said. Then, as if afraid someone might overhear, I charged him with a task: Call in Major Weiss and First Lieutenant Serebryakov, and personally ensure that no one else, no matter who they may be, approaches the operation center.

Upon being called to the room, Major Weiss was confronted by an unexpected sight.

“Major, there you are. Would you care for some coffee?”

It was his superior officer, sitting on one of the wooden crates in the operation center, holding a coffee cup in one hand with a grin on her face. Not only that, but she offered coffee and chocolate, calm as a breeze, like something out of one of the cafes in the capital.

“Go on, take a load off. It’s real coffee. See?”

She was inviting him to sit down to tea here on the front line, where blood and steel waited around every corner!

Dumbfounded, Weiss noticed that First Lieutenant Serebryakov—someone who had known the Lieutenant Colonel longer than he had—was already there, biting into a piece of chocolate.

“What? It’s good.”

“Oh, well then.”

Weiss wasn’t sure what to say…but oddly, the tension was broken. Before he knew it, he found himself settling onto the wooden crate offered in place of a chair.

“Please, before we get down to what I wanted to talk about, have something sweet to eat. And some coffee, as well. Try to relax a little, if you can. This is something you’ll want to be seated for, I promise,” explained Weiss’s superior officer in a soothing tone.

With the Empire at war as it was, coffee and chocolate had become luxury items beyond compare. After this lavish feast, Major Weiss settled in and prepared for the worst. If his superior officer had gone to such lengths, the problem was obviously big.

“I volunteer. Whatever it is, just give the order.”

“Major Weiss?”

The commander looked stumped. While she usually exuded the air of a battle-hardened veteran, in that moment, her expression seemed more suited to her age. Major Weiss was amused, but he relegated that amusement to the back of his mind.

This oddly formal banquet had been prepared by their superior officer because she had something difficult to tell them. It was going to be troublesome, that was for sure. Having his nose pressed to the grindstone in the East for far too long, Weiss had seen his share of sorrows and could already smell what was coming.

“I was prepared for this from the beginning. I was told what kind of work was in store for us even before our battalion was assigned to the Salamander Kampfgruppe. I am ready to volunteer for any mission, no matter how difficult.”

Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff glanced toward First Lieutenant Serebryakov. Weiss knew from that subtle movement what was being asked of Serebryakov. The lieutenant colonel wanted to know if she felt the same.

Simultaneously, she extended a lifeboat to the first lieutenant. Serebryakov was free to object if she wished, but nothing was said aloud. If she disagreed, she could simply remain silent—a thoughtful gesture from their commander, allowing subordinates to dissent without confrontation.

Weiss remained quiet out of consideration for the colonel’s feelings; after all, it was none of his business.

First Lieutenant Serebryakov hummed softly. “For hazardous journeys, small pay, and long months of gunfire and strife…”

These were words Weiss held dear. Brave, noble words. Words for heroes. But reality had made it painfully clear that there was no room for romanticism on the battlefield. Yet what if a unit that still clung to such grand words were to take center stage?

“I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression. We’ve been a flight pair since the Rhine. Of course I intended to volunteer, Colonel.”

“I see.”

“Yes, you do.”

The lieutenant colonel muttered softly, then turned her eyes toward Weiss.

“Are you sure you’re both prepared for this?”

““Absolutely,”” they both said.

“When I volunteered for this battalion, I was lured by the thought of heroism. I finally see that heroism is simply how you go through life, Colonel.”

“You understand that safe return is unlikely…?”

Weiss was certain that even if he confessed fear and wished to rescind his commitment, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff would not chide him. Her face was sincere as she asked again if he truly wished to volunteer. If he had been certain before, he was doubly so now. This was his last chance to escape what would be a ludicrous mission.

Weiss shrugged lightly and spoke, trying to verbalize his feelings, “This is war. Whatever is necessary should be ordered.”

“Before I make this request, I’d like to ask one more time… Well, Lieutenant Serebryakov? What do you say? Please, speak openly now.”

“What do I say?”

The lieutenant colonel’s adjutant, who had been busy shoveling chocolate into her mouth and gulping down coffee, cocked her head to the side. Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff stared back, on tenterhooks.

Then Weiss suddenly noticed how unusual this exchange was. The lieutenant colonel had already asked the adjutant if she wished to change her mind once and was now asking her again. Was she hesitating to acknowledge this departure? Urging the first lieutenant to reconsider? Who but Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff would show such concern in the face of adversity?

Weiss smiled uncomfortably despite himself.

“Colonel, I’m sorry, but…”

“No, Major. Do not interrupt. Well, Lieutenant Serebryakov, are you set on volunteering as well, like Major Weiss? Speak openly.”

“I’m sorry. But…why are you asking me this?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?” First Lieutenant Serebryakov nodded, holding her coffee, confused. “I thought I made myself clear… During the Rhine, I decided to go where you went. I don’t know why you’re asking me to rethink things now, after all we’ve been through.”

An expression of blank surprise appeared on their superior officer’s face.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Weiss couldn’t help a belly laugh, even in the presence of a senior officer. “You see? What did I say?”

As Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s adjutant, First Lieutenant Serebryakov had always covered her back since the Rhine. It was fine for Degurechaff to show concern, but it must have felt bewildering for Serebryakov to receive it.

When it comes to interpersonal relations, our superior officer can be awkward in the most unexpected ways. Grinning uncomfortably, Weiss suddenly realized something. Come to think of it, this great hero standing before him was, in fact, several years his junior! Though she appeared perfect, she was still human.

Savoring this pleasant revelation, Weiss adopted a more somber expression as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but we’re well past the need for you to question our commitment. Our minds were made up long, long ago.”

“Then I guess I’m completely surrounded by warmongers…,” said the lieutenant colonel, exasperated.

Weiss was about to say, “Birds of a feather flock together,” but First Lieutenant Serebryakov beat him to it with a better rejoinder.

“No, there is one exception.”

“Oh?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff, turning her eyes toward First Lieutenant Serebryakov as if to ask whom she meant.

“Can’t you guess?” said the first lieutenant with a chuckle before revealing, “The only normal person in Lergen Kampfgruppe is Colonel Lergen!”

Of course, Colonel Lergen! Weiss clapped his hands in agreement.

“Yes, that’s true. Colonel Lergen is perfectly respectable!”

The three laughed heartily. Once they had released that tension, feeling warm and cheerful once more, Weiss took the written order that Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff offered and skimmed it, letting the warmth seep into his chest.

“This is quite a tall order.”

“Is that all you have to say? You’re very restrained, Major.”

“Once you resign yourself to something, what else is there to say?”

It was settled. Weiss heard it clearly. There was a snap as the atmosphere in the room settled.

“Let us prepare for our fates.”

A moment ago, our superior officer might have seemed to be her age, but now with her aura as she gives orders, no one could doubt she is every bit the grizzled officer who earned the title of White Silver on the battlefield.

“It is time. To surpass Iron Hammer… And it shall be done by our hand.”

To be clear, I’m very confused. Why did no one refuse? The world can be a very strange place at times.

Maybe this is one of those unsolvable mysteries. But if no other options remain, I am still determined to do what I can to avoid the worst outcome.

Thus, with General Zettour’s order, the on-site commander’s consent, the agreement of on-site personnel, and no opposition to be found, the airborne drop—the kind of military gamble that makes one question everyone’s sanity—was approved without much issue.

Approved and set into motion.

The Imperial Army is truly gluttonous for war.

Many doubts remain, but there is no time to stand still. We must each carry out our respective duties. To perfection.

There was something strange about that time. One Imperial mage described the moment vividly.

They had been flying continuously for who knows how many hours—who even knew what day it was—carrying out relentless ground attacks against the Federation Army. It was the battlefield, and everyone was desperate for sleep. “Please, just five minutes!” And then the sight of their superior officer shouting angrily, “There is no time for sleep! Resupply while you fly! We marshal again immediately!” as she shoved high-grade chocolate into the exhausted mages’ hands.

“Ladies, gentlemen, eat, sleep! Sleep the sleep of death until you’re woken up!”

They would have given a small fortune for a few winks, but they suddenly felt wide awake.

“We have permission to sleep…?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t forget, we’ve been told not to expect sleep again for the foreseeable future.”

They scarfed down the chocolate they could, quickly shut their eyes, and plunged into a world of dreams, eager to catch every last second of slumber.

Meanwhile, magic officers blinked with eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, recalling the orders the Eastern Chief Inspector had barked. “Attention all commanders, curse the fact that you are commanders! There is work to be done! It is time for a commanders’ meeting! You have one hour first to take a nap!”

They had emergency orders, so being allowed to sleep, even for just an hour, was a huge indulgence. These orders must have been big.

As soon as the inspector gave them the go-ahead, the thoroughly exhausted officers tumbled to the ground like dominoes or so many ragdolls and quickly began to snore.

And then, exactly one hour later.

It felt as though they were being shaken awake mere moments after drifting off. With their bodies still crying out for sleep, these officers dragged themselves to the operation center, some even using their orbs to forcibly stimulate their minds. That was the day they learned what their roles would be.

Of course, other than those of the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion, the mage commanders gathered together in the combat operation center erupt into shouts once they are informed.

“Unbelievable! Has the general lost his mind?!” “Take and hold ground with our current forces?! But we can’t have more than two hundred!” “This is armchair stupidity! The chokepoints will be defended!” “They clearly haven’t accounted for how much AA fire will be on the ground!” “We don’t have enough supplies! Do they expect us to do this only with what we capture?!” “There are far too few mages!”

In other words, imperial soldiers do seem to have the ability to object. Unfortunately for them, they are still Imperial soldiers.

I respond succinctly. “I understand your objections. If you wish, I will record them in writing. However, the order has already been given. Furthermore, mission pay has been issued.”

An order is an order, as the old adage goes. The commanders fall into meek silence. Some even cast optimistic glances my way. “Pay, you say?”

“They’ll be beefing up forces. This is the replenishment we’ve been waiting for, gentlemen. There is no need to attempt the mission with a single division. The brass will be providing more hands.”

The higher-ups will pull a few divisions out of their magic hat, it seems. I snicker. The others don’t seem to get the joke and begin prying me with very serious questions. How many reinforcements could they expect?

“What are the numbers?”

“Two additional divisions, from the homeland.”

“What? I’m sorry, did you say two?” asks one magic officer, leaning forward in disbelief. I nod, understanding his sentiment. “They are serious about this in the capital. They plan to squeeze out two divisions worth of mages.”

In response to hearing how many soldiers the higher-ups promised, I am immediately met with a flurry of follow-up questions.

“How are the divisions constituted? What is their actual order of battle?”

“Three regiments per division, with three standard companies per regiment. Together with the division already present, that should make nine regiments.”

“Colonel Degurechaff, if the regiments are staffed to full capacity, that will mean close to one thousand mages…”

“Yes,” I say with a nod. “Assuming full strength.”

“Colonel, with all due respect, when you say full strength, I wonder if there is something you aren’t telling us.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit. “At face value, that would be enough force to overrun even Moskva, as flimsy as its defenses are now. That’s assuming we were willing to make it a one-way trip, obviously.”

Even the mage division under my command, already in the East, only has about two hundred mages at most, leaving us at roughly two-thirds strength.

“However, according to the general, they plan to wrangle together full numbers by any means necessary.”

“So we have a promissory note for numbers at least,” I say, grinning.

“With all respect,” says First Lieutenant Grantz, interrupting, “There is a question as to whether the mages they send will be useful.”

“Do you have a reason for saying that, Lieutenant Grantz?”

“Yes, Colonel. I had the opportunity to trade pleasantries with the mages of Capital Air Defense, and it seems that even the ability to fly straight earns one a gold star these days.”

His words seem to fill many in the room with unease. They turn their eyes toward me and Grantz, alarmed.

“Lieutenant Grantz, I was not there to witness this. Please share your practical concerns.”

“Of course,” he says, continuing. “From what I observed, it appeared that merely flying in formation over capital airspace was enough for a mage to pass with top marks. Based on the level of skill I witnessed, I would even be concerned about their ability to maintain airways and advance to the target…”

“If what you say is true, they are sending us hindrances, not reinforcements. We’ll be stuck carrying around mages who can’t fly like sacks…,” said a liaison officer from another regiment, frowning.

I smile uncomfortably, reminding him, “You forget, Officer. This is an airborne operation.”

“But our transports can barely reach the destinations. Even if we bring them all the way up to the front…”

“That’s true if we were just talking about the range of the transport planes.”

“Are you imagining something like V-1 long-range rockets? But would we even have enough to move full divisions…?”

A sensible objection, indeed. Yet it seems even magic officers, who should understand Imperial Army generals at least to some degree, cannot foresee what is coming. I groan… This crazy plan of General Zettour’s might just work after all.

“Colonel?”

I shrug.

“Your objections have unexpectedly made me realize that General Zettour’s plan may actually have a chance of success.”

The officers look at me blankly, and not just the liaison officers scrounged up from the other units… Even First Lieutenant Serebryakov, who has been serving under Tanya the longest, reacts similarly. I see First Lieutenant Grantz’s expression cloud over slightly.

“Lieutenant Grantz?”

“I’m sorry, but…it’s General Zettour we are talking about, after all. Are you saying he has something up his sleeve?”

“Bingo,” I say, applauding his instincts.

“It is fortunate for our side that you are not with Federation Army Command.”

“Here,” I say, tapping the map on the table. “Everyone, take a look at the map. Do you see our destinations?”

“Of course,” they reply. I grin.

“All three targets are clearly outside the combat operation range of the nearest air transport unit. No disagreement there. But what if our heavy transport planes were to make the trip one way? Would they be within range then?”

“What? But…that would mean…”

Large transport planes are incredibly precious, high-value assets for the Imperial Army. They are the exact kind of asset that you would expect to be well defended under normal circumstances. You certainly wouldn’t treat them as disposable. Gambling with such precious equipment on a mere airborne operation is jaw-dropping. And yet…

“It won’t need to make the round trip if we simply dispose of it in the end, will it?”

The liaison officers freeze, taken aback. I can’t be serious.

As someone under my direct command, Major Weiss finds it easier to speak up. While other officers stare, he asks the question on everyone’s mind, “We’re going to…dispose of… transport planes? They’re planes, not gliders…!”

Major Weiss’s opinion is very sensible. Very sensible indeed.

“Does everyone agree with Major Weiss’s thinking?”

They nod. I decide to explain. The truth is that General Zettour is likely following a strategy of selection and concentration.

“There is no need to be bound by common sense. One must be flexible when necessary. In the end, whether gliders or transport planes, it all comes down to cost and return.”

The logical conclusion is clear. Even a large expenditure is rational when the benefit is commensurate. I explain further, “If we can break the Federation Army’s strategic offensive here, it would be a significant boon for the Empire, even at the cost of dozens of transport planes. This is a bold and practical decision by the general, and I fully agree. The transports may be valuable equipment, but from a strategic standpoint, the expenditure is entirely valid.”

Of course, I carefully omit what will happen afterward, though I can already picture it. The Imperial Army’s air transport division will likely never recover.

Even so, in terms of cost and effect, General Zettour’s choice is exceptionally rational. From a national policy perspective, even vital strategic military assets are mere collateral against the state’s survival.

I am also aware of another sad logical necessity. Not only will strategic transport planes and strategic projection capabilities vanish from the Empire, but the humans deployed into such a battlefield—where even their transports are expected to be lost—will likely be going on a one-way trip as well.

“I’m sorry, but with an operation like this—”

“Yes,” I interrupt, finishing Major Weiss’s thought. “The mages and transports alike will likely be lost.”

I decide to get ahead of the news myself. It leaves a better impression if Tanya steps up as their boss and doesn’t hide the bad news than if she appears as a senior officer reluctant to admit the truth.

It is a godawful truth. But it is my duty as an officer to explain this to my troops.

“We are to be carried one-way by transport plane, to keep the commies busy until the operation is complete, and then we are free to fly away afterward—leaving someone else to clean up the mess. In short, the operation calls for us to be thrown directly into the middle of fierce fighting and then to narrowly escape—or embrace—death.”

“Many men will die, won’t they…,” said one liaison officer grimly.

I responded with a pained expression. “The loss of new recruits who are not accustomed to long-range flight will likely be immense… And with repeated battles, even veterans who have survived this long are at risk.”

Worst of all, the risk for even Tanya will be high.

“But sadly, among the sacrifices available to the army at the moment, this is the one with the lowest cost. As you already know, gentlemen, at the moment, the eastern army has lost much of its heavy equipment. Likely the only units capable of mobile counterattack now are the armored forces in Ildoa.”

But unfortunately, there is little hope that the tanks will return from Ildoa for us. Although I don’t say it aloud, it would be better to think of the tanks as a force in name only. After all, even movement puts strain on tanks. There is no such thing as a maintenance-free machine. It’s not like such hardware can just roll into battle after battle, in tip-top shape, without any outfitting in between.

Even if the armored forces did all they could to quickly redeploy to the East, there are bigger problems for the tanks than just mass mobilization. Without maintenance, the tanks would be useless. The only vehicles they might be able to drag straight here are the pillboxes.

In other words, from a strategic point of view, whatever other concerns remain, the armored forces will not make it on time.

Thus, the only piece on the board for General Zettour right now is the exhausted eastern army main force. Meaning that General Zettour will likely be hungry for a counterattack that is as impromptu as possible.

Applying a debuff to the Federation Army forces will inevitably prove indispensable. In that light, the military rationale of cutting off supply lines is clear.

The proviso of course being, if that can be done. It is a monumental task. The fact that they have gone as far as concentrated deployment of several mage divisions to strongarm a solution goes to show just how momentous this is supposed to be.

Thus, I continue, delivering a stirring appeal.

“We have a battle-hardened division, and the pick of new recruits. Multiple units in multiple divisions. In other words…a motley crew of survivors and scraps.”

“But we also have our pride,” I roar. “That is what makes us magic officers. Gentlemen, together, you and I will need to utilize everything at our disposal to whip these hastily shipped reinforcements into three respectable aerial mage divisions. Into a force to be reckoned with on the Eastern Front.”

We have no choice. And so we will do it. We will do it because we have to. It is foolish, circuitous logic. How miserable it feels to have to inspire people with histrionics like these before sending them into battle.

It is a middle manager’s nightmare.

But nightmare or not, I continue my appeal to the magic officers, even if that appeal is a farce.

“We can do it, even with the three aerial mage divisions available. We will cut off the Federation Army’s logistics, just as we did during Iron Hammer. If we can deprive the enemy’s main force of oxygen, we will win.”

We can win. Victory is in sight. It is all smooth talk to persuade others, even if just on a surface level, that there is meaning to what we are about to do. It’s not just recklessness.

“The reality is that we, and we alone, can save the Empire.”

I stare into each of their eyes as I make my appeal. For love of country, for honor, for professional pride…anything will do. So long as they can get over the danger and work as one, I will administer whatever medicine is needed, in any amount, no matter the recommended dose.

“It is we who will protect the Empire, who will protect the world, from the nefarious hands of the commies. If you are soldiers, now is the time. This is your stage.”

I grin a bellicose grin. I pause for a moment, swaggering, as if I cannot contain my excitement, leading them away from their own cowardice.

“And as preparation for this operation…”

I wait. Wait until the moment the words sit heaviest, and then, bam, punch my fist into my hand.

“We must continue immediate operations against enemy supply lines, ongoing ground attacks, while we prepare for the volunteer raid.”

“What…? We’re expected to continue conducting interdiction even while preparing to assault their chokepoints?”

The officers look stunned.

I begin speaking before they can complain that this is asking for too much.

“We cannot ignore the risk of officers aware of this information being captured. As a result, as of now, you gentlemen are prohibited from taking to the field. Your soldiers, however, absolutely must continue to fly missions.”

The relief at knowing they will not be out on the front, and the guilt they feel at thrusting their men into danger in their place. It sometimes takes a moment for people to process their own feelings.

Enough time, perhaps, for them to miss their chance to raise objections. After all, the organizational culture known as the Imperial Army has successfully instilled into the officers the standard military principle that once a course is decided upon, it absolutely must be followed through.

“Now then, gentlemen. It is simple. Have your men go conduct as many air strikes as possible while you work yourselves to the point of death here in preparation for the airborne operation. Nap no more than is needed for survival. That is how we do both.”

JANUARY 20, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, THE EAST

Supply lines are the lifelines of an army. Armies in all times and all places have attempted to cut off their enemy’s supplies, dreaming of encirclement and annihilation.

The Imperial Army’s Hans von Zettour is one more figure in a long history of generals who have attempted to cut the enemy’s supply lines. And, like his forebears, he knows that this is easier said than done.

In that sense, General Zettour is a veteran. The general has succeeded on multiple occasions in striking back against major enemy offensives carried out by a massive force, even when his own force was depleted, precisely by targeting the enemy’s logistics. That is evidence of his might as a strategist, of the knowledge he has amassed as an expert in logistics, and of the charlatan skills that made him an enemy of the world.

In the end, however, numbers talk. That’s why concentration of force and its careful application are all important. So long as the garden-variety approach remains viable, a dull, textbook, garden-variety approach will be the most sure.

But when it comes to a gamble, when a depleted force attempts a miracle, such as attacking enemy logistics in order to cause an upset, then nothing is certain… Either way, as ardent believers in necessity, the Empire has no choice but to target the Federation’s logistics.

And so, in pursuit of necessity, the Empire has used every ounce of its strength to rally its mages together. When you look at the situation that way, it almost sounds gallant. On the ground, however, there is little gallantry to expect beyond the gallantry of words. We on the ground have our fill of sadness, instead.

The Imperial mages, scraped together by fair or by foul, do in fact measure three divisions in total. Considering that even the recent large-scale—what might even be called unprecedented—mage air strikes decisively carried out in the Eastern inspector’s name was only done with a single mage division, these numbers very well may represent every last mage the Empire was able to muster.

Naturally…if the army had tried to go about things the fair and proper way, they would have never been able to produce such numbers. As a result, what we are left with is far from fair and proper.

“Ha-ha-ha… Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha, what can you do but laugh?”

I can’t help myself. Considering the situation, I was prepared to see a few young, green crops mixed in with the yield. When General Zettour started mentioning that they could hardly pull instructors from the training units…well, that was exactly what I began to expect. But…I had expected at least some restraint!

“Forget about instructors and early graduates… It looks like these mages might have still been in training.”

Had they shipped off anyone they could find with even a smidgen of magical aptitude to the front? That’s right, let’s give the kiddies a chaperone and let them out for the day. Who cares if this little field trip happens to be to the very front? It will be the experience of a lifetime for them, at least.

“You know what they say; the picnic isn’t over until it’s over.”

Tanya’s mind fills with memories of the peaceful, modern world. After seeing countless battlefields, I thought I knew better by this point than to relax before making it back home, safe and sound, but this incident has taught me something new.

For better or for worse, Tanya is able to compartmentalize. Everything in its place. Whether new recruits or trainees, they are still soldiers at the end of the day. Meaning, legally speaking, nothing prevents them from being sent into battle.

Although there might be a difference between volunteer and conscripted soldiers, as far as I am concerned as the one utilizing them, that is someone else’s problem.

At the end of the day, however, I am a creature of self-interest. I rub the corners of my eyes as I glance at the other divisions.

“The Empire is determined to drive me absolutely mad…” I know I shouldn’t say something like that in my position, but I suppose I just wasn’t able to keep my true feelings from slipping out.

And who are those men over there? Disabled veterans? There are a few small clusters of men among the ranks who are so advanced in age that one might expect the Empire to send soldiers to the front who are missing a limb or two next. As long as they were mages, that is.

“Degurechaff… Lieutenant Colonel…?! I see you’ve moved up in the world!”

“Hrm? Is that…Kahteijanen? Warrant Officer Kahteijanen?!”

Warrant Officer Anluk E. Kahteijanen. A former subordinate, evacuated from the Rhine front due to disability, I believe around Unified Year 1925. But if I remember correctly, Kahteijanen had retired.

“Didn’t you leave the army after getting food poisoning from a potato?”

“Well, yes, that was what kicked it off. But according to the doctor, my liver had stopped working right due to a sustained buildup of food poisoning…”

“So it wasn’t just the potato, then.”

“Well, a sign of the times, I guess, I ran into trouble and had to retire. But I was contacted by the army again later.”

As unlucky as he had been, at least he was able to retire thanks to his golden ticket injury. But it is just like the Empire, sweatshop that it is, to pull the poor unfortunate man out of retirement anyway.

“When did you return to your current post?”

“I came back as an instructor only recently. I thought I was just going to be spending my days drilling that second-rate program they now tout as ‘extreme hands-on training’ into the rookies’ heads… I never dreamed they’d actually send me into combat again,” he adds, muttering softly.

“How about the trainees? What is their actual skill level?”

“Going by flight time alone, they’ve had over two hundred hours.”

Hrm? I cock my head in surprise at this unexpected figure.

While two hundred hours is still far too little by frontline standards, it is not too terrible considering the state of total war we find ourselves in nowadays. It all depends on the curriculum. But as far as flying goes, at least, it sounds as if we might just meet a minimum level of standards.

“I’m surprised… With General Zettour’s blunt approach to conscription, when I heard trainees would be included, I was expecting to see some men with just a few dozen hours of flight time.”

Unbelievably, it looks like the general may have actually scraped together something useful for us. I am just beginning to smile at this pleasant surprise when a frown appears on the older mage’s face and I realize I am mistaken somehow. I purse my lips.

“Colonel, are you aware of the style of training carried out these days?” Warrant Officer Kahteijanen asks, lowering his voice. I honestly shake my head no.

“I do not have many connections with the rear, although I wish I did. I know they follow a program of accelerated orientation these days. With such training, I imagine many things are simplified, but… Well, you tell me.”

“Simplified is one way to put it. Basically, we’ve adopted the Federation approach.”

“What?”

The Federation approach? I’m not sure I heard him right. Or maybe I just don’t want to hear him.

“The Federation approach to training, which mixes like oil and water with Imperial Army mage tactics?”

“They’ve decided that the most efficient, reliable way to transform a bunch of amateurs—who don’t even know how to spell the word mage yet—into an effective fighting force, is to adopt the Federation’s approach.”

“Morons.” The word slips out naturally, before I can stop myself. “Don’t they know that runs completely counter to the design concept of our orbs…? Our troops have average defensive shells at best, and they want us to use them the way the Federation uses theirs? We’ll be left with a mountain of corpses on our hands…”

Imperial-style orbs value mobility. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. That is the crux of the imperial approach. Federation-style orbs value durability. As firm as a mountain, with the firepower of a volcano.

It isn’t that one way is better than the other, but the ideas are just completely juxtaposed. And naturally, the way the troops are utilized differs as well, just like the design concept behind the orbs mages are equipped with.

As a result, while the Empire does aim for a high-low mix…even its most budget orbs have been designed according to the presumption that they will be utilized as part of the higher end of the spectrum.

The idea of using Imperial Army mage equipment outside those parameters! To hold ground out of sheer stubborn persistence, like the Federation! That would be as ridiculous as using an F1 racecar to tow a truck. Obviously the equipment would be fatally unsuited to the task.

“This method is faster though,” says Warrant Officer Kahteijanen reluctantly, as I stand there in stunned disbelief.

“So they simplified training for time’s sake.”

Of course, I think, finally understanding. By focusing on just defensive shells and flying formulas, and assuming no activation of optical deception formulas or switching between multiple formulas, they would probably be able to cut out a lot of the classroom time. If they cut out time spent studying various book subjects and just focused on drill flight at first…it wouldn’t be impossible to drastically simplify previous training and reach two hundred hours of flight in that time, would it?

However, the price paid would be great.

“Which is better, dying because you can’t fly, or dying because you can?” asks Warrant Officer Kahteijanen, hitting the issue uncomfortably on the nose.

The aerial mages of the past were flying combat experts. Today, with this sped-up training, freshly minted mages are simply amateurs who know how to fly. To be blunt, inserting soldiers like this into battle will be an unspeakable waste of human resources.

First of all, the fact that we can’t categorically dismiss such recklessness out of hand is a clear sign the army is on its last legs. But when it comes to Tanya’s self-preservation, I am not willing to compromise one iota.

“That is defeatist talk, Warrant Officer. The water back in the capital must not have suited you.”

“I am like you, Colonel.”

“Like me?”

“I feel much more at ease on the front lines.”

I am a little puzzled by Warrant Officer Kahteijanen’s peculiar sensibilities, but choose to respect his personal opinion and remain silent. After all, there are all sorts of people out there. It is probably better to respect their freedom to think whatever they like. However, I do wish to relieve him of this notion that Tanya herself is one such person.

“I wish to correct a misapprehension you seem to be suffering from. I have the utmost respect for the busybodies who poke their noses into our business from the safety of the rear. It is only thanks to them that we continue to fight.”

Speaking of which, I would be thrilled to do such work myself, but there is no point making a fuss about that now. It is not like Warrant Officer Kahteijanen is in a position to get Tanya a cushy job in the rear.

All the same, as someone with the sensibilities of a responsible member of society, I never miss an opportunity to point out how well-suited Tanya would be to a position on the back lines.

“Seeing the new recruits gives me ideas. I think I would rather like to teach myself.”

My constant appeal to common sense seems to have left a deep impression on the other man.

“Thank you for saying that… Although I hope to lose as few of my pupils as possible on this mission.”

“I’m sorry. All I can say is that we will try our best. After all, considering the kind of battlefield we are heading into, even you and I will have to prioritize our survival…”

“Of course…”

Wishing each other well, I resist the urge to sigh. These new pawns are all rookies. Even their equipment is only what could be readily scrounged up. They must have turned the warehouses upside down to mobilize every last fossil on the shelves, and it still hadn’t been enough. It looks like they have even appropriated display pieces—what could be better called historical memorabilia—from the museums. Out of the museums and straight to the battlefields.

Forget about planting seeds for tomorrow’s harvest, we’re now dismantling the monuments of yesterday. We are living in historical times, a truly glorious sight to behold.

“What we’re facing now is a task so difficult it could cause even veterans of the past to throw in the towel in despair.”

As my complaint dissipates in the empty air, I grasp my dangling Elinium Arms Type 95 Assault Computation Orb in hand. The day is likely coming when I will have to rely on this device again.

Damn it all.

“But there is no room to be picky when it comes to survival…”

Creating disarray in the rear using three mage divisions. Securing local superiority through concentration and careful selection. General Zettour showed no qualms in committing everything he had.

Was this massive commitment made with a long-term perspective in mind? Experts have argued the point for ages. More than a few have whispered that, formidable though he might have been…perhaps, at that point in time, General Zettour was thinking with the mindset of a talented army commander.

As one leading authority pointed out, “General Zettour’s experience in central military administration may have been extensive. However, that experience was largely as a strategist in the East. General Rudersdorf had previously been in charge of the overarching matters. Until taking Rudersdorf’s place after his sudden death, General Zettour’s experience in making ends meet with the forces available had, on an operational level, been limited. Perhaps he had still been thinking with the mentality of an area commander, quick to use whatever was at his disposal.”

There are many theories on this matter, including no small number that refute such arguments and see General Zettour’s choice as “a decisive strategic judgment, made with the mentality that, even if it were to bring pain tomorrow, this commitment was a necessary step in order to survive long enough to feel that pain.”

However, there is one thing that many from later generations acknowledge, and that is that his victory was massively Pyrrhic. The mages were a sleight of hand, and the almighty General Zettour, unable to resist his instincts as a soldier, lost a great number of them in his relentless pursuit of victory.

Some even say, when viewing the issue from a bird’s-eye view, that the tide of the war was decided right then and there. The Empire won a massive, temporary victory, while also sealing its fate of ultimate, bitter defeat.

In that moment, the mages of the Empire stood at the pinnacle of the world. They took the glittering center stage and, through incessant bloodshed, wrested victory from the earth by planting it with their own bleached corpses and cries of resentment.

The aerial mages of the Imperial Army won the battle, and, for all intents and purposes, died out.

Hence, what the world now knows: The utter, incomparable terror of a mage on the brink of death.

“We are the aerial mages of the Empire! No one can stand against us!”

The mages threw themselves into that battle with utter ferocity, as if flying into the very dusk in which Minerva’s owl spreads its wings. A battle that heralded the end of their age, etching their mark upon the world at the very end, before flying off toward Valhalla.

While friendly forces are out there fighting a bloody, gruesome war, as serious as can be, I lay napping in a rear base, roll over, wake up, and immediately look for chocolate.

Naturally, it is only real, high-grade chocolate. None of that cheap stuff for me. I munch on the luxury chocolate provided by the General Staff Office. With a richly fragrant coffee—not only real, but also freshly roasted—in one hand, I grab yet another honey-laden biscuit.

Oh, I almost forgot. I fit one of the sugary biscuits in my other hand.

Restraint? Frugality? Keep those stingy words to yourself. So what if we are at war out there? So what if the soldiers, working in shifts, don’t even have a hot meal? Who cares? For now, I get to savor the hot stew, full of rich, hefty chunks of meat. Yes, finally. Satisfied with food in my belly, I pile into the airplane and set off on a midnight flight.

From that description alone, it sounds like we are about to take an elegant journey across friendly skies. How scandalous. Perhaps some high-minded folks out there might be tempted, morally speaking, to decry such thoughts, to which I gladly invite them to join us on this trip.

After all, this may as well be our Last Supper.

The fully armed and outfitted soldiers have been provided this little bit of consideration by the base’s storekeepers before they depart on a one-way nighttime flight from which there is almost no hope of return. So if one were tempted to criticize such a thing as a luxury, I say to them, perhaps you are the one who needs to practice better restraint.

I am still entertaining these thoughts as the transport, packed full of soldiers, takes off without issue.

“The marriage of pilot and machine is a marvelous thing,” I mutter softly, impressed.

Taking off at night is no easy task at the best of times. And in a stodgy, jumbo transport plane, laden with cargo… Additionally, the surface of the runway is hardly in good repair. A pilot capable of taking off smoothly in such a heavy transport plane under these conditions must be a veteran of rare proportions.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking, Air Force First Lieutenant Hans Schulz. We are currently circling blind over base air space. According to reports from observation planes, cloud cover to our destination is at a seven.”

The pilot, who hails from the Imperial Army 472nd Transport Wing, pauses for a moment before continuing.

“Control is giving us the flashing signal. All planes have taken off successfully. We are currently pulling into formation. We’ve now reached the scheduled time, so as much as it irks my goat, if crew would prepare for hijack, please.”

The pilot strangely stresses the word “irk” as he speaks over the intercom, causing the mages on board to burst out into laughter. I can appreciate this breed of professional humor.

“Ha-ha, gentlemen, it seems our poor pilot is angry. Major Weiss, Lieutenant Serebryakov, follow me. It’s time to hijack the plane. Lieutenant Grantz, you come as well.”

As I enter the narrow cockpit with my second-in-command, adjutant, and First Lieutenant Grantz in tow, I spot the flight engineer coaxing the engine and the pilot making careful final adjustments to the autopilot system.

Usually, I would have preferred for them to stay aboard until we reach our destination, but wasting such specialist technicians on a one-way flight is not within acceptable cost-benefit margins. Thus, as much as the pilots protest, the two men are being asked to disembark here.

I speak frankly. “Thank you for your hard work, Lieutenant. We’re here to hijack your plane. Legally, of course, in accordance with military law. If you wouldn’t mind handing over the control stick,” I say.

The pilot turns around with just his face, sighs, and shakes his head dramatically, left to right.

“I am Air Force First Lieutenant Han Schulz. This plane is my baby. How can the higher-ups ask something like this of me?”

“This transport plane is going to be abandoned. That’s excessive enough. There’s no need to drag you both down with it. Thank you for your service, but you can disembark now.”

“Very kind, but there’s no need to worry for my sake. If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay aboard until the end.”

His tone of voice and the look in his eyes are serious. This pilot is prepared to go down with his ship. But I shake my head. To be honest, I would love for him to come with us. But unfortunately, as a good company man, Tanya must think of the company’s best interests.

“What, you think we can’t navigate a plane? We’ve even got an autopilot system. All we need to do is fly it in a straight line, and if everything goes okay, we’ll be at our destination before we know it. We can also make a few adjustments if need be. Besides, not to be rude, but when it comes to flying by night, we’re the ones with more experience, after all.”

“If, if, if. What if there’s an accident? What are you going to do then?”

“Worst-case scenario, so long as we get to target airspace, we’ll figure something out. Remember, the plane is going to be disposed of anyway.”

“All the pride I took in never once getting shot down, just to lose my baby to something like this in the end!” laments the pilot, before heaving yet another massive sigh. His eyes rest on the gleaming instrumentation. It looks like he has given them a good polish as one final farewell… The pilot’s face as he clutches the control stick looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’ve even given enemy fighters the slip… I can’t believe this. I never imagined that in the end, it’d be my own side’s barbarism that would get me. Ain’t that some shit,” he jokes, though undoubtedly he means part of what he says. Who wouldn’t complain at seeing such well-loved tools of the trade snatched from their fingers at upper management’s whims, when they were still performing so admirably?

It’s rare for any work to be meaningless enough to merit the firing of someone you would rather not fire. I, myself, would rather let the pro do his work and not destroy such professional tools. If this is not an example of true work, after all, what is?

Why do I, of all people, have to be responsible for such waste?

The least I can do is sympathize. Suppressing my own internal conflict, I extend a hand and words of consolation to the pilot, First Lieutenant Schulz.

“I would much prefer an elegant trip through the skies, guided by a first-rate pilot such as yourself. But orders are orders, Lieutenant.”

“And what are the orders, exactly?”

I respond sadly. “Why, we are to truss you up in a parachute and toss you from the plane. Those were our orders. I’m truly sorry, Lieutenant…but you’ll need to hand the controls over now.”

“Is there no way I can fly the plane instead…?”

“I understand your reluctance to let go. But this is a one-way trip, Lieutenant Schulz. We can’t let a pilot, someone unable to fly on his own, get wrapped up in this.”

“But I know this plane, I’m the best qualified to make sure you get where you’re going. This is going to be its last flight…”

The pilot insists indignantly that he can handle the plane better than we can, showing an admirable sense of responsibility toward a salutary asset. From the viewpoint of a fellow good citizen, someone who feels similar pride and confidence in my work, I fully sympathize with First Lieutenant Schulz.

“I’m sorry to have brought something so unfortunate to your doorstep. But, like you, our hands are tied.”

“Can’t you overlook just one person?”

“I can’t,” I confirm, shaking my head sadly. “It all comes down to orders. Veteran pilots are rare. If I were to waste even one, I’m told, there would be hell to pay.”

“How heartless. Who issued such a threat?”

“Why, it came from the infamous ne’er-do-wells of the General Staff, of course. But if you would like to petition the government for compensation, you have my full support. Just send the invoice to the General Staff, if you please.”

A sad consolation, perhaps, but at least the first lieutenant gets to abscond from the battlefield. If it were me, I think I would celebrate.

“If needed, I can attach a note. General Zettour may be the type to order what is necessary, but worry not, he is not the type to categorically reject complaints.”

“A complaint to General Zettour? Thanks, but I’d rather steer clear of the heavyweights. I’m sure he’d be happy to foist even more trouble on my shoulders, given half a chance,” blurts out First Lieutenant Schulz.

Although this is technically criticism of a senior officer, I decide to let it slide, as I consider that sort of talk forgivable on the front lines. Just then, however, the young officer standing next to me speaks up.

“What did you just say?” he barks, causing me to reflexively turn his way. “I’m sorry, Captain Schulz. What did you just say about General Zettour?” asks First Lieutenant Grantz, glowering, as he stands and places a hand on Schulz’s shoulder.

The pilot continues to stare straight ahead as he responds, however, completely unfazed. “I said he’s a big shot who wouldn’t hesitate to cause me trouble. What of it?”

First Lieutenant Grantz instantly explodes with laughter.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Whoa, what is that reaction for?”

“I feel exactly the same! Captain Schulz, you are absolutely correct! Once this operation is over, give me a chance to chew your ear off. I’ll buy the drinks. I’ve got plenty of complaints of my own to share!”

“Me?”

“Yes indeed,” cries First Lieutenant Grantz, bobbing his head vigorously. “It’s not just General Zettour, it’s all those heavyweights over at the General Staff Office. They’re monsters. You’ve got the right idea: better not to have anything to do with them at all! I’m glad to meet a fellow soul, maybe this is a good day after all!”

As I watch my subordinate firmly shake the man’s hand, I feel a small morsel of regret. First Lieutenant Grantz is not the shy type, but perhaps he was not cut out for dealing with a senior officer like General Zettour. This must be a stress response. Despite handling things perfectly fine on the battlefield, when it comes to interpersonal relationships, there is apparently a side to Grantz I hadn’t expected.

“Lieutenant Grantz, I’m surprised. A warmonger like you—I saw the way you rushed out from your cushy place at General Zettour’s side just to return to the front—speaking ill of an old man like that!” I tease, but First Lieutenant Grantz vehemently objects.

“I’m sorry, Colonel! But if I am a warmonger, then General Zettour must be the world’s greatest enemy! That is not me speaking ill of him, this is just an accurate assessment!”

Captain Schulz responds to the First Lieutenant’s witty retort with enthusiasm. “Well put, Lieutenant Grantz!”

“You said it, Captain!”

The two seem to be on the same page. They would probably get along, thick as thieves.

I, on the other hand, as their superior officer, start to wonder if I should put the brakes on my subordinate badmouthing the “big shots” like this…but I soon decide to let it pass. After all, everything Grantz is saying is true, and one must always respect the truth.

Whatever. I shrug. But it’s time to wrap things up. I move to bring the derailed conversation back on track.

“Well, rejoice, Lieutenant Grantz, as you’ve now been given the honor of joining that enemy of the world, General Zettour’s, grandest operation yet.”

Turning away from the surprised First Lieutenant Grantz, I address the captain gently.

“In any case, I’m sorry to make you miss out on all the fun, but this party is for mages only.”

“This is discrimination against non-mages. You should feel ashamed.”

“A very enlightened and progressive opinion. I agree wholeheartedly. By all means, make your feelings known to the higher-ups. I can sign an affidavit if necessary. But progress is gradual and takes time. Perhaps one day, things will change, but for tonight, you will have to bow out.”

Still gripping the control stick firmly, Captain Schulz manages to squeeze out one more stoic reply.

“The festivities are really for mages only, then?”

“Indeed, a special event for our entertainment only.”

Not that I particularly want things that way, but as the one sponsoring this New Year’s mixer with the Federation Army, General Zettour has set the rules. It’s the boss’s wish. A faithful employee can only comply.

“Now then, please disembark, and keep your ears tuned to the base’s wireless. Perhaps you’ll hear the Federation Army’s rapturous welcome cries as we, and we alone, throw the finest bash this world has ever seen,” I say.

In response, Captain Schulz nods slowly and stands up.

“She’s in your hands now… While she looks good on the outside, her insides are a mess. I hope you mages can navigate all right. It’s going to be hard flying without a flight engineer. I wouldn’t put too much stock in the engine oil or expect it to have had regular maintenance, if I were you. With respect, don’t push it.”

“I imagine it has taken much longer to build pilots capable of properly flying a machine in this state than it has to build the machine itself.”

“You are a tiny giant.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I say, shrugging with deliberate casualness. “My height has proved highly convenient.”

“Why? Do you still get the kids’ discount?”

“Exactly. Especially during trench and air combat, where, as a smaller target, I get a massive discount on my odds of being shot. It’s a great bargain when it comes to the cost of staying alive. In any case…” I say, holding a parachute toward the captain and smiling softly, “it’s time to say farewell.”

In truth, I am incredibly jealous of this captain, who gets to escape the situation. If I could have traded places with him, I would have done so on the spot…but I can’t have those commies crushing the world, either. In the end, it looks like there is no choice but for Tanya to do her job.