Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Those Who Seek Death Shall Live (1)
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Sergeant Major Yurgen stared at me with a look of utter bewilderment, as if wondering, 'What the hell is this nonsense?'
Expecting a single platoon to hold off an enemy army was mad, no question about it.
To him, I must have looked like a lunatic eager for a dog's death.
But I wasn't claiming we could win because I'd lost my mind.
"Platoon Leader, what on earth makes you think we have a chance?"
"There are three main factors that give us a shot."
With that, I held up three fingers.
"First, the path we're holding is narrow, with sheer cliffs on both sides."
"Even so, it's just one platoon. How can we fortify and defend this place with that?"
Truth be told, if I could, I'd turn this spot into a full fortress.
But that wasn't realistic.
The enemy pursuit force would hit us here as early as tomorrow, or the day after at latest.
'No way one platoon can manage that kind of labor.'
"This path is so narrow that no more than ten men can pass at a time. If we just drive in some stakes and hold the line, we can slow the enemy down considerably."
"Sure, but the key point is we only have thirty men. What if the enemy infantry unleashes a volley? Their firepower would overwhelm us in no time."
Blocking and holding a narrow path could let us beat forces ten or twenty times our size.
But even then, we'd need at least a hundred men.
With thirty, could we even build proper obstacles or cover in time?
"Second reason: the enemies we'll face first are the vanguard scouts of their main army—cavalry, most likely."
"They already beat us. Why send scouts ahead when they think they've won?"
"They may have won against us, but this is Imperial soil. Unless their general is a complete idiot, he'll send scouts first to avoid getting ambushed during the pursuit."
In war, soldiers die in droves during pursuits when they hit enemy ambushes.
History's full of battles where victory turned to defeat because of a hidden trap.
Any competent commander would scout ahead before advancing.
"I get that, but cavalry are stronger than infantry, aren't they?"
"Normally, yes. But in a choke like this, they can't use their biggest advantage: mobility. All they can do is charge straight ahead. Cavalry coming right at us? They're just moving targets."
"True, they have to hold the reins with one hand, so only pistols. Definitely shorter range than our matchlock muskets."
The Empire's pistols were basically tiny matchlocks.
Effective range: ten meters. Hit rate: under five percent.
A matchlock musket, properly aimed, hits over ninety percent inside fifty meters.
"If we kill the rider with a musket ball, his horse becomes an obstacle blocking the rest. The cavalry get stuck, unable to advance or retreat."
Cavalry with tangled legs? Nothing but standing targets.
"Of course, if their commander has any brains, he'll rally them, dismount, and counterattack. That's why we need to pour everything into them before they recover—in that short window."
"But matchlocks have a reload limit, don't they?"
"If we roughly pack powder, ram in the lead ball, prime the pan, and fire, we can speed it up, right?"
"That works, but... isn't it dangerous?"
Matchlock muskets were damn finicky weapons.
A bit too much powder, and the barrel blows apart. Too little, and the ball doesn't fire.
Reloading was a hassle too.
That's why you followed procedure to the letter...
Which usually took over fifty seconds per shot.
Skip steps, and it either explodes or misfires...
"What if we pre-measure powder and shot into paper or cloth cartridges? Load those, and we speed up big time."
"Brilliant and ingenious, sir. Truly impressive!"
"And in war, enemies gauge our numbers by the firing rate and intervals. If we blaze away fast with multiple shots, they'll assume we're a big force."
Thinking we outnumber them? Panic sets in.
Cavalry dismounting to fight is weird enough, but way more of us than expected?
Morale crashes.
"That's when we charge with spears, maces, swords—everything. Panicked foes can't respond properly. Naturally... we win."
"I get the plan, sir. But will it really work?"
The scouts would all be cavalry, maybe a hundred to a hundred twenty at most.
If we seal the path tight and hold firm, we had a real chance.
"I believe this plan will succeed spectacularly."
Sergeant Major Yurgen's face had improved, but he still wasn't fully convinced, shadows lingering.
"......If you say so, sir, I'll trust you once. I'll rally the men—give me a moment."
Coming from the platoon leader's tent, Sergeant Major Yurgen let out a string of heavy sighs.
"Argh, that guy. I tell him to run with us, and he says no? Can't just stab the bastard."
In this situation, suggesting flight to another platoon leader only for him to refuse?
Yurgen would've killed him on the spot, 100%.
Chop off the head, flee, report back to base. Done.
"Platoon Leader Schumacher's a mad bastard. Why's he so damn stubborn?"
Sergeant Major Yurgen appeared before the troops, face twisted in a scowl.
"Our platoon leader says he's fighting to the end here."
"Sergeant Major, that's insane. We don't even know how many enemies are chasing us."
These soldiers were mostly farm boys conscripted at age.
Most couldn't read, let alone grasp strategy or tactics.
But one thing they knew for sure:
'If we stay, we're all dead.'
"Sergeant Major, that fucking battalion commander ditched us to save his own skin. Staying here? It's a dog's death, nothing else."
"So the platoon leader said anyone who wants to run can go anytime, damn it."
Yurgen had been a lowly private once, clawing his way up through grit and villainy—a survivor of countless battles.
He knew exactly how reckless Lieutenant Schumacher's plan was.
Anyone not suicidal wouldn't dream of holding here with so few.
But abandoning a commander crazy enough not to die? He couldn't say it.
"Thing is, I can't leave our platoon leader. Bluntly, have you ever met—or even heard of—anyone who cares for trash like me or you grunts as much? Be honest: anyone here not in his debt? Step up."
"......Sergeant Major."
"Max, you remember when your mom was sick? Platoon leader grabbed the battalion commander, begged for your leave, gave up his own to send you. Even fronted your travel money. Without that, you'd have missed her last breath, right?"
Sergeant Major Yurgen sighed deeply again and again.
"Last year, when my wife struggled after the baby, he emptied his pay for meat, bowed to the battalion commander for my leave. And that's just one thing—how much has he done for us?"
Other officers skimmed rations, seized meager pay—quiet corruption everywhere.
But Schumacher never did.
He obsessed over feeding them better, helping more.
Bowing to superiors for his men's sake? No hesitation.
"I could abandon the Empire, but not our platoon leader. You all know he always pulls through when he says he will. I trust him this time too. So I'm staying to fight with him. Everyone dies eventually—the difference is early or late. If you're dying anyway, why not live without shame first?"
His words struck a chord.
"Yeah, no one wants a shameful life. Better one day repaying our platoon leader's grace than running like that battalion coward. Where else is there an officer who cares like him?"
"Can't trust anyone else, but him? Absolutely."
"......If we survive, you owe us a beer, Sergeant Major."
Their resolve unified.
Following Lieutenant Schumacher's orders, they prepared for the enemy ambush, wasting not a second.
The next day, as predicted, the enemy cavalry scouts charged into the narrow pass.