Gravenfelt Front (1)
"What do you mean? Ber.ga."
Erika deliberately puts emphasis on each syllable of my name.
'What do you mean?'
She didn't misunderstand. So even that small request is unpleasant to her?
My jaw clenches.
I'm not asking for anything extravagant. I just requested basic infantry-level supplies.
This is the limit.
"Isn't this standard gear? The battlefield is in such poor shape. Now I have a very good idea of Gravenfelt's standards. Be careful with the sword on your back. Humans are still far too fragile to endure the remnants of the cold weapons era."
Erika's face turns beet red. Definitely for a different reason than Lena or Kiara.
"Hoo... Some misunderstanding..."
"Here you go, sir!"
One quick-witted soldier cuts her off and holds out a helmet and rifle. Polished to a shine—they look like quality goods at a glance.
"Who are you! State your name and rank!"
"Ha! Name and rank from inside a trench... How ridiculous. Does a commander not even know her soldiers' names? Soldier, make sure you don't die on the battlefield. Your commander might demand your name and rank from your corpse. Firearms are truly terrifying. They make relations between humans so cold. Things weren't like this in the cold weapons era. Tsk."
Over three breaths, my sarcasm lands. Erika mutters cold weapons... cold weapons... and grinds her teeth. Loud enough for me and the soldier beside her to hear.
"Ha! You said you wanted an assistant, right? Fine, soldier. You're it. Let's see you do well."
With that, Erika storms off somewhere. No final words about not dying.
"You already know my name, soldier. What should I call you?"
"Yes, sir! Berga, sir! My name is Lutz!"
"Good, Lutz. Ready to become a hero?"
"Pardon?"
This guy's still out of it. All the better. I quickly lead Lutz to the foremost First Trench.
'Damn.'
I'd half-expected trench warfare. The concept has long faded from war history, after all.
'Still, it's not quite Moxnagan...'.
A gun straight out of some survival game from my undergrad days. Not quite real Mosin-Nagant since this isn't the Earth I knew. More precisely, a bolt-action rifle from around that era.
"You mentioned magazines, so I brought extra clips!"
Lutz cheerfully offers more relics from a bygone age.
'And she mocked me for talking about cold weapons...'
"Lutz. How many grenades did you pack?"
"None, sir! You said we were heading to the First Trench. There's plenty there!"
Lutz drags a crate from the trench corner and hands it over.
'He can spot stick grenades on sight.'
My head throbs.
"Uh... Berga, sir! May I ask the purpose of coming to the First Trench?"
Hm? Lutz suddenly stands ramrod straight, suspiciously disciplined. What the hell is Gravenfelt... Never mind.
"Go ahead."
"Thank you, sir!"
"Lutz, what is the role of the First Trench?"
A leading question begins.
"Ah... Our camp's basic anti-wave strategy is to bury massive amounts of explosives along the enemy advance path. The First Trench builds a large barrage, while the Second Trench provides covering fire."
"And for this wave?"
"Ah... This wave is mainly insect-type monsters, split into two: tank-like super-sized beasts and mid-sized ones riding them that excel at ranged straight-line shooting. So the First Trench exhausts all prepared ammo, immediately buries explosives in the trench, then falls back to the Second. I know it's rude, but... I'd like to know how you'll approach this operation, Berga, sir."
Lutz finishes despite his obvious fear. Sharp kid. Would've been great if he were commander instead of Erika.
As a summoned hero mercenary, it's my duty to ease this young soldier's anxiety.
"First off, the weak points of those tank-role insect monsters are the lowermost eyes or the soft underbelly, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then shoot the eyes of any that survive the mines. That's it."
"Pardon? I don't understand?"
Lutz regresses linguistically from sheer relief. Thinks it's impossible, huh.
But I've never missed a marksmanship bonus leave. Shooting is physical, after all. Maintaining perfect aim with this stealth-specialized body is child's play.
Eyes visible over the horizon. Body perfectly still, no micro-vibrations. Full bloom is a given.
If things change, I have two or three backup plans brewing. But Lutz, oblivious to my perfect scheme, closes his eyes and mutters prayers.
As if hearing his fear, the trench shakes. The wave begins.
"Your commander is truly incompetent."
"...Please pretend you didn't hear that."
My first operation: snipe the remnants after the pre-buried explosives do their work.
That starts with the minefield doing its job.
But not a single mine detonates.
The front's fate hangs on this. They wouldn't have botched it as a prank. No time for that.
Old mines? Korean War drift mines still pop occasionally...
"Lutz, time for Plan B."
"Pardon? Fall back to the Second Trench?"
"What are you talking about? Gather every grenade crate. Then hand them to me one by one. No interruptions."
Explosions echo endlessly from the distant front.
"Hahaha!"
"Gaaah!"
At the First Trench's foremost point, my mad laughter mixes with Lutz's screams.
I'm hurling grenades at insane speed.
Not just throwing. With superhuman shoulder muscles, I lob them skyward.
Mortars aren't far off. Bombs. Flying far. That's it, right?
Lutz trembles as he passes grenades like a maniac.
My grenades rain on the distant wave like an air raid.
Indiscriminate bombing shreds monsters, upheaves earth. Unexploded mines chain-detonate from the shock.
An assassin's not throwing daggers but grenades? Same difference.
Kill them, it's slaughter. No witnesses, it's assassination.
No Gravenfelt monsters survive today. Mission accomplished.
"Berga, sir! Five grenades left!"
"Got it. Is the wave in rifle range?"
"Visually, yes... But shooting from this distance..."
"No problem."
Bang!
Post-carpet-bombing, as smoke clears, I start sniping.
One shot fired. Zeroed in fine.
'Lutz picked a real A-grade rifle.'
The distant flea-tank, pinky-nail-sized before, now spans a finger joint.
That tiny underbelly weak spot is crystal clear to me. Easy.
"Berga, sir! I thought your main weapon was a dagger."
Lutz asks while I swap clips. No briefing, yet I shoulder the rifle and sight it fluidly, naturally. Curious, sure.
"Lutz. How long since you enlisted?"
"Ah... Ten months now."
I swallow the fact that I served a year and a half back home.
Instead:
"I see... Got a girlfriend?"
"Ah, yes! From a small village behind the front. Childhood friend named Helen. You ask about that too, sir?"
"Yeah. Never let your guard down. This is the most dangerous time."
"Pardon? Dangerous how? What do you..."
"Clip."
Back home, there's a sad legend. Lutz, right around then, couples magically break up. Hope it doesn't happen to you.
A few more silent shots follow.
Bombing and sniping. Just me and Lutz hold back seventy percent of the wave.
"Berga, sir! Now we bury explosives in the First Trench and fall back to the Second. The main force's barrage can handle the rest. Incredible... How did you do it alone..."
"With you, Lutz. And do soldiers mumble?"
"Ah! Sorry, sir!"
"You can head to the Second Trench. Plan C is solo."
"What?"
"I'm infiltrating straight there. Give me the explosives."
"Pardon?"
Lutz's speech regresses again.
Lutz shakily hands over the explosives. I sling them casually over my shoulder.
"Y-you... sure about this..."
His loose chinstrap quivers. Thinks I'm on a suicide mission, probably.
Wrong.
The reason I thinned the wave with bombs and snipes:
"The wave's down to thirty percent already."
Yeah. Thirty percent can't form a barrage.
If those half-insect-half-human monsters firing stinger-bullets from one arm were at full strength, they'd form ranks and volley fire.
I couldn't slip that bullet net. Some way around it, sure, but not my playground.
But I vaporized seventy percent. Dropped three crates overhead, popped one eye per shot.
That loose net is my stage. Stealth? I can cloak.
They can't stop me. Plus, I sense it—no first Kiss Addict has burst yet.
"Don't worry. Not going to die. Lutz, my final order to you."
"Don't say it like that!"
Flags, huh.
"Memorize your commander's every changing expression up close and personal. Report back after the wave."
I leap from the trench.
The monster horde charges despite heavy losses. Closing fast.
Perfect. Shadow Step. I melt into the shadows.
Even a brief run-up tenses my thighs taut. I walk the sky again.
Original plan: Sneak in, take out the tanks one by one with explosives or dagger.
But this battlefield's goal is showtime. Hero-grade means overturning the field.
As flashy as possible. As bold as possible.
In midair, I dump all the explosives.
They reveal themselves as they leave me—midair.
Scattering into the straight-line formation's heart.
Blast. Shockwave. Thirty percent of the remaining thirty percent—gone in a flash.
Next target.
Monsters scatter into loose anti-bomb formation. Horde loosens further.
Assassins exploit gaps best. Now it's one-sided hunt.
I charge the nearest group at top speed. Lucky—sole pair of tanks clustered together.
Straight slash. The ink-black dagger carves a blade-far wider arc.
One strike, guaranteed kill. My cold weapon burns hotter than gunpowder.
Monsters bisected mercilessly. Panic from rear attack? No help.
More engagement range, wider squad gaps.
Cover behind tank carcass. Shadow Step again. Next target, next, next.
Doesn't take long. No bullets fired.
Well, left exactly one.
Can't return early. Don't want to burn Cron.
Wanna see Erika's face.
Wave won't clear till that insect beast's green blood drains from its pierced gut.
Only I stand on Gravenfelt's vast plain.
I walk silently to the Second Trench. Soldiers gawking up—not just from trench depth.
"You asked what I could do. Or if I could do anything. Doesn't matter."
I say it to Erika, still in the trench and now at my feet.
"Is that answer enough?"