Chapter 52
Chapter 52
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 52
Chapter Title: An Order to Die
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Rebesque van Sigmund.
Originally, he hailed from a fallen, low-ranking noble family, but he was a self-made man who had earned recognition for his outstanding skill and military prowess.
However, no one could deny that the secret to his success was his marriage to Medea, a direct descendant of the Sigmund family.
No matter how exceptional his skills were, how strong could a man from a fallen, low-ranking noble family truly be?
If he hadn't married into the Sigmund family and received a Succession Sword, would he have ever become as powerful as he was now?
And would he have become the commander of the 2nd Army Command, in charge of the strategically vital Blood-Soaked Land of Kuberin?
The answer to that question was already clear.
One who is not a Sigmund can ‘never’ defeat a Sigmund.
It was no coincidence that one of the continent's few absolute laws concerned the Sigmunds.
Rebesque was no exception to this rule.
After all, it was a well-known fact among northerners that Carlyle's aunt, Medea, could overwhelm her husband, Rebesque, in a spar.
Considering that Rebesque himself had only become a powerhouse leagues above ordinary knights after receiving a Succession Sword, the superiority of the Sigmund bloodline was something that effort alone could not overcome.
- So you're going to openly disrespect your uncle-in-law? Because I'm from a worthless family and married into yours?
Arrogant to the very end. Fine, I'll wait just two days. In two days, you'll pay dearly for your self-indulgence…
- You insolent brat! If this isn't disrespecting your uncle-in-law, then…
- Fine! We'll see! We'll see if you shed tears of blood!
Carlyle recalled his war of words with Rebesque and squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course, it was more like Rebesque had been unable to overcome his usual inferiority complex and had simply exploded in a one-sided rage…
‘Is this how he’s getting his revenge?’
It was possible.
Rebesque was famous for being exceptionally petty.
“We should still withdraw.”
Carlyle urged Helen again.
“Even if we concede a hundred, a thousand times, and somehow manage to fend off the Butcher Tribe, what about the necromancer and his undead army?”
“That is…”
“You know as well as I do. We don't even have the strength to handle the Butcher Tribe.”
“Even so, there will be no retreat.”
“…?”
“I will send another messenger. Now that we've confirmed the presence of a necromancer, I will request that they either send reinforcements immediately or grant us permission to abandon the fortress and withdraw.”
Meanwhile, the face of Bowden Fortress's messenger, Byron the "Swiftfoot," contorted.
He had only just returned…
Of course, neither Carlyle nor Helen paid any mind to the messenger Byron's reaction.
He wasn't the only one being overworked right now.
“Are you suggesting we all die together?”
“We die even if we retreat.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Do you think I'll be the only one to die for insubordination?”
“...!”
“If this were a matter that would end with me alone, I would order a retreat this instant. I would rather die myself than lead my own men to their deaths.”
“...That's.”
For a moment, Carlyle was at a loss for words.
Helen's calm reply conveyed the anguish, the hardship, and the heavy burden of a commander leading her unit.
“Private Carlyle.”
“Yes, Sir Helen.”
“The command's orders are absolute. A retreat is beyond my authority, and the responsibility is not mine alone to bear. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Carlyle offered a cold smile.
“Then I suppose we'll just have to die together.”
He understood Helen's position, but he couldn't bring himself to accept the irrationality of military law, so he couldn't find it in himself to speak kindly.
“You little brat, I've been patient with you, but…”
Unable to watch any longer, Begman was about to erupt in anger, but Helen calmly stopped him.
“Enough. Private Carlyle was only speaking his mind.”
“But…”
“Your thoughts are no different from Private Carlyle's, are they? Mine are the same.”
“Sir Helen…”
“As I said before, a soldier… dies when ordered to die. The higher-ups have given the order, so we have no choice but to die.”
Helen spoke nonchalantly and rose from her seat as if there was nothing more to say.
‘Her hand…!’
Carlyle thought he saw Helen's hand trembling slightly as she turned away, but he couldn't be sure.
Helen had already hurried out of the office to command her troops…
***
Early dawn.
A battle-ready alert was issued before reveille, and while the entire force moved about busily, the soldiers who had been deployed on the dungeon exploration mission were given three hours of rest.
It was a consideration from Commander Helen, allowing them to rest before the mining operation began, as they must have been exhausted from the dungeon exploration the night before.
“If they tell us to die, we die. Fuck. But if I'm going to kick the bucket, I'm taking at least one more of them with me.”
Marder said as much, then flopped onto his cot and immediately closed his eyes.
“A-are we going to die now? Ughhh!”
Russell, the reconnaissance team's official coward and bedwetter, trembled in fear once more upon hearing there would be no retreat, but he eventually succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.
Begman and Kudo, as if inured to such situations, closed their eyes without a word.
‘Doesn't this piss anyone off?’
Carlyle couldn't understand his seniors.
He could understand them not fearing death.
After all, Carlyle himself was an "expert"(?) in that regard and didn't fear it much either.
But he couldn't comprehend the general atmosphere of acceptance toward an unjust and unreasonable order.
Of course, it wasn't that he didn't understand at all.
He understood the command that issued the impossible order, and Helen's decision to faithfully carry it out.
He knew in his head that the very nature of a military organization was bound to be irrational, rigid, and at times, inhuman.
But now that he was in the position of having to accept it, he found it wasn't so easy.
‘It's a system created for the survival of the many. The military organization itself. A structure where the few, the individuals, must be sacrificed for it.’
As he mulled over these somewhat philosophical thoughts, his uncle-in-law, Rebesque, came to mind.
‘If you're trying to kill me, you'd better pray I actually die. Because if I survive, you won't get away unscathed…’
As Carlyle's hostility burned with vengeful thoughts toward Rebesque, the hatchling suddenly poked its head out.
“Butler.”
Its voice was thick with sleep, as if it hadn't fully woken up.
“I'm hungry. Feed me.”
“Since when am I your cook?”
“I told you, if you're a butler, act like one. Haaah.”
It yawned so wide that a tear welled up in the corner of its eye.
“You have an appetite in a situation like this?”
“What kind of situation is it?”
“A situation where we're all about to die.”
“What's that got to do with me?”
the hatchling replied nonchalantly.
“If the person who feeds you dies, what are you going to eat?”
“I'll just find another butler, I guess.”
“…”
“Feed me. I told you I'm hungry. Don't make me say it again.”
“You should at least earn your keep. What were you doing while everyone else was fighting? Sleeping.”
“I didn't die, did I? Isn't that enough?”
“What…?”
“Besides, I was just born. I get hungry when I wake up and sleepy when I eat, you know? Being a newborn is hard work. You're taking care of a newborn, can't you understand that much?”
Carlyle was about to ask what kind of newborn speaks so rudely and shamelessly, but he stopped himself.
‘We're all going to die anyway, what's the point of arguing with this beast…’
As Carlyle thought this and shook his head, the hatchling's eyes glinted viciously.
“What? A beast?”
“...Huh?”
“Have you said your piece, butler?!”
“How did you…”
“Haaaak!”
The hatchling growled.
“Hey, rookie.”
“Yes?”
“Let's get some sleep. I'm tired.”
Begman warned him, his voice half-asleep.
“And could you quiet down that dragon or whatever it is? Your muttering is one thing, but its constant meowing is so annoying I can't…”
“My apologies.”
Carlyle quickly apologized, then grabbed the hatchling and fled the barracks.
He didn't want to disturb his comrades' precious sleep by bickering with the hatchling, and he knew that if he didn't feed it, it would whine about being hungry for hours. His only thought was to get some food into it and shut it up.
‘If I want to feed it, I'll have to ask one of the cooks.’
Carlyle headed for the mess hall.
“Hey! The soup's sticking! Stir it, quickly!”
“You there! Is the bread done baking?”
The mess hall was bustling with preparations for breakfast.
One might ask what the point of a meal was in such a desperate crisis, but it was no exaggeration to say that there was nothing more important in this world than food.
Even if you were going to die, you needed to eat to have the strength to fight until the end, right?
For any living creature, consuming food was something that had to continue until the very moment the world ended.
“Excuse me.”
Carlyle approached a cook who was trimming meat in a corner of the mess hall.
“Aaaahhh!”
The cook shrieked as if her life depended on it upon seeing Carlyle.
The problem seemed to be that the cook he had approached happened to be a woman.
“P-please, don't assault me! Please!”
“…”
While Carlyle stood there, dumbfounded by the absurdity.
“You pervert!”
“You piece of trash! You want to do this at the crack of dawn?”
“I knew it! You're finally showing your true colors!”
The unexpected commotion drew the other cooks, who swarmed Carlyle, brandishing their various cooking utensils.
“Um. There seems to be some misunderstanding. It's not like that…”
“Shut up, you pervert!”
It seemed Carlyle's explanations were falling on the deaf ears of the already agitated cooks.
“You bastard! We caught you red-handed!”
“Sir Helen is going to chop your dick right off!”
The cooks threatened Carlyle with their utensils, slowly closing the distance.
‘Every time I turn around, I'm treated like a sex offender. You should've kept your trashy behavior in check. Ugh.’
Carlyle cursed the body's original owner—the real Carlyle van Sigmund—as he slowly backed away.
‘Should I just knock them all out and then explain?’
As Carlyle seriously considered it, a savior appeared just in time.
“Oh? Brother!”
It was Gwen, trudging toward them with a bucket in each hand.
***
Gwen's appearance was like a rope sent down from heaven for Carlyle.
“Private Gwen?”
“What are you doing here?”
“What about you, Private Gwen?”
“I'm on kitchen duty. Hehe.”
Kitchen duty.
It meant that regular soldiers were helping the cooks with their work.
“And you, Brother?”
“I came here on an errand and a misunderstanding arose…”
“A misunderstanding?”
“The usual one.”
“Ah.”
Gwen nodded as if she understood completely.
After all, her first meeting with Carlyle had started with a similar misunderstanding.
“Oh? Jeanne?”
“Gwen, you're on kitchen duty today?”
“Yeah.”
Fortunately, it seemed that Gwen and Jeanne, the cook who had misunderstood Carlyle, knew each other.
“You were really scared, weren't you? But it's okay. Broth— I mean, Private Carlyle isn't that kind of person.”
“R-really?”
“He might have been a dirty, despicable pervert in the past, but now he's a very polite and gentle person.”
...You call that defending me?
And when was I ever gentle?
Carlyle wanted to protest, but since the situation seemed to be resolving itself, he decided to just keep quiet.
He didn't want to get an earful from Helen after knocking out a bunch of cooks for no reason.