Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Faster Than the Enemy (1)
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The Field Marshal, adorned with five stars, eyed me with a gaze that made it clear he wasn't all that impressed.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-five this year."
"A captain at that age, and a recipient of the Golden Eagle Medal no less. With achievements like yours, of course the stars would follow. Young, with a guaranteed path to promotion—it must feel like life is rolling exactly your way."
In this world, there are plenty of superiors who envy their subordinates.
Some get jealous because a subordinate's wife is prettier than theirs, or because the subordinate racks up achievements and gets praised by the boss more often.
In extreme cases, they envy and resent them just for being young.
Even someone as exalted as the Field Marshal at the pinnacle of the Imperial Army—his envy toward me must stem from this medal.
"Not at all!"
"Ah, I forgot to salute. Making a Golden Eagle Medal recipient salute me first."
The Field Marshal finished his sarcasm and then offered a salute so crisp it was practically perfect.
"Our General Staff Headquarters is a place only the empire's finest officers can reach."
"I know."
"Officers who make it here are at least majors. The reason? Over a decade of building experience in combat, unit management, and frontline staff roles, only the top 10% qualify for the Staff College. And from there, after rigorous screening, just 3% graduate and join the General Staff."
Even from captain's rank, only those already rumored to be exceptional in their units can attend that college—survivors of the cutthroat selection.
Having clawed through such fierce competition, their abilities are unmatched.
"Do you smoke cigars?"
"No, sir."
"Earning good money, and you don't even smoke cigars. Quite the model officer. Enough idle talk—let's get to the point."
The Field Marshal pulled out a cigar to light it, then shoved it back into his desk drawer.
"You're a capable officer. But our General Staff isn't a place you waltz into on the strength of one stroke of luck."
In the empire, officers receive the highest treatment of any profession.
Even a fresh lieutenant enjoys a status rivaling a doctor, judge, or prosecutor back in Korea.
Staff College graduates hold a prestige that truly pierces the heavens—no exaggeration.
And here I was, slipping in on the back of a single medal.
"You're a hero of the empire. I have no intention of denying that. Luck played a part, sure, but I don't think you're undeserving. Still, we need to test if you truly possess the qualities of a staff officer. Do you agree?"
"I agree."
Hearing something like 'We acknowledge your skill, but honestly, wasn't it just luck?' right after arriving on post could turn anyone's stomach.
But he wasn't entirely wrong.
Sure, I'd held off an enemy cavalry company with a single platoon.
But whether I had the qualities of a staff officer with a broad strategic view? That's a completely separate matter.
"Discuss the empire's grand strategy."
Grand strategy—the how and what of waging war, and the plans for after.
At the academy, reciting the empire's strategy with a dash of personal opinion sufficed. Now, I had to lay out my views clearly and persuade him.
"The empire will fall if we continue like this. Shortest estimate: ten years. Longest: fifteen."
"Is that something an Imperial Army officer should so casually declare?"
"When staff officers should be squarely facing the empire's reality, wouldn't blindly optimistic analysis be the real problem?"
If you've got cancer, you rush to the hospital for treatment.
Lock yourself in a prayer house insisting God will heal you, and even curable cancer worsens until you're dead.
If reality is grim, you accept it and find ways to improve. Denying it only makes things worse.
"The empire is currently checked by five nations: the Gilbert Kingdom, Marco Kingdom, the lowland Hern Republic, the North Sea's Ortz Kingdom, and the Dolce Republic below us. Or rather, it was."
"...Was? And now?"
"Right after our crushing defeat to the Dolce Republic in the last war, they've judged the Imperial Army weakened. If things continue, within a few years, they'll form a coalition and declare war on the empire."
The Field Marshal listened, then fetched a cigar from his drawer.
"Mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all, Your Excellency."
With that, he clipped the cigar's end and lit it with a match.
"As you know, our empire is the continent's strongest. We maintain 400,000 troops through conscription. We lost over 40,000, but we'll rebuild in a year."
"The empire is the continent's strongest power. Immense military might, vast production for food, economic strength, technology we've poured resources into—leading every field."
Most would picture some middling empire—not holy, not Rome.
But ours is a true empire, mighty in name and fact, even if not holy.
Beyond what I said, we have the largest population and are the center of art and culture.
"Put yourself in their shoes. How terrifying must it be to turn such a powerhouse into an enemy?"
"...You've got a point."
The Field Marshal drew deeply on his cigar as he listened.
Even feigning calm, the increasing puffs and twitching brow betrayed him.
Proof he agreed with my dire assessment.
"They'll want the empire gone to escape that overwhelming threat. They fear death itself."
"And this defeat gave them confidence. The supposedly invincible Imperial Army massacred by Dolce Republic rabble—we must look like paper tigers."
"Yes, exactly."
"You've got a point. Not one I want to accept, mind you."
Facts are bitter pills by nature.
Even if I get a trim at the salon and dress sharp, the truth that I'll never land a girlfriend remains bitter.
Accepting it saves 40-50,000 won on haircuts and 200,000 on fancy clothes.
Ultimately beneficial, yet a harsh reality to swallow.
Ah, my eyes are misting up.
Not from my time in Korea, of course.
A friend of a close friend experienced that.
"Any countermeasures?"
"Ultimately, further developing the economy to bolster military strength is best. Spirit, combat experience, great commanders, brave soldiers—they can't march on empty stomachs."
"So war is fought with money, not courage?"
"Feed them well, and the troops will fight with lives aflame, grateful for His Majesty's grace."
One mark is roughly one won in Korean terms.
A rural family head's annual income: 12 million marks, with 7 million in taxes.
Feeding a 5-6 person family on the rest means constant hunger.
Hunger is more fearsome and painful than death, so with full bellies, they'd fight without fear.
"A fresh perspective."
"As platoon leader, I spent 70% of my pay on the men. Fed and helped them well, and even in sure-death situations, they fought alongside me. The rest won't be much different."
"Budget constraints make boosting rations no easy task. I want immediate countermeasures."
I pointed to the lowlands on the map.
"When they think the Imperial Army is soft, the first to provoke with local skirmishes will be the Hern Republic in the lowlands."
"The Hern Republic..."
"To dispel the image of weakness, we need another victory—and retaliation. Prepare for their provocation and crush them thoroughly to restore the empire's dignity."
"What about wooing some of the encircling nations?"
A nerd tributing 100,000 won to a bully won't earn thanks.
The bully won't call him a friend, either.
That cash is a 'right,' while he'd cherish a triangle kimbap from a real pal more.
We're no nerd, but diplomatically cornered and seen as militarily inferior now.
Proposing alliances now is tucking tail.
'It harms the empire's interests.'
"If we could boast military superiority, maybe. But judged weak, they'll demand massive concessions for any alliance. Neighbors will mock us more. They might even incite a coalition, claiming the empire's finally ripe for collapse."
"..."
"It's time to ruthlessly punish the inevitable lowland provocations and show the empire stands strong. Your Excellency."
The Field Marshal drew deeply on his cigar, furrowed his brow, and spoke.
"I've heard your views—quite intriguing. I'll discuss them with the other staff officers. You're dismissed."
"Loyalty. With your leave."
Once Captain Michael left, the Field Marshal immediately unrolled the map and reviewed his words several times.
Each review brought cold sweat.