Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Hook, Fell, and Shove (1)
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There’s a saying in the army: not too much, not too little—just right in the middle.
It means your military life gets tough either way: suffer if you’re incompetent, suffer if you’re too competent.
Right now, I was feeling that truth more viscerally than ever.
“This time, we’ll finally show those cunning Astorians what we’re made of.”
The commander’s booming laughter made him look like some battle-hungry general reveling in the fight.
Of course, the man in front of me was anything but.
Which meant this was all my fault.
I’d made him this way.
“I can’t wait to see what kind of miracle you’ll pull off this time.”
His excessive trust and anticipation...
“Let’s really cut loose this time.”
Even his overflowing enthusiasm and that oddly optimistic attitude—they were all because of me.
It was the result of me completing missions too easily(?), of me being too damn good.
Who was there to blame now?
Myself, the overly competent one.
“Hm.”
I racked my brain desperately.
The 8th Legion going on the offensive alone was far too risky.
We were still a half-strength force, even after reinforcements—our losses from before hadn’t been fully replaced.
Against an enemy that moved with such flawless coordination, it’d just be suicide. We’d get crushed instead.
So, the best move was to talk the commander out of it.
That had been the plan, anyway.
But it wasn’t possible.
“For the record, I’ve staked my position on this operation. You know what that means.”
The guy who always put his own skin first had made an absurdly huge bet.
One win at gambling, and now he couldn’t see straight.
I was reminded all over again why gamblers go broke.
And this all-or-nothing gambler who could crash and burn any second was my superior.
Damn it. Why’d he have to go and do something like this?
My head throbbed. A groan escaped my lips.
“......I’ll find a way.”
In the end, I had no choice but to wrack my brain again.
“Good thinking. If this goes well, it’ll squash any unsavory suspicions about you once and for all.”
As the commander said, my own neck was on the line too.
By now, that letter from the enemy commander-in-chief had probably reached headquarters.
No doubt the staff there were gleefully weighing my achievements against the possibility of defection.
There was no rule saying guys like Major Evgen Sanov weren’t at HQ. I couldn’t be optimistic just because of my merits.
Thinking ahead, adding a few more(?) accomplishments wouldn’t hurt.
Of course, dragging the 8th Legion’s soldiers into battle just to clear my name or save the commander’s seat was no way to treat people.
But what could I do?
Even if I backed out now, the commander showed no signs of giving up.
I could already see him hounding halfwits like Major Evgen Sanov until they launched some offensive anyway.
The thought alone was horrifying.
“The 8th Legion’s goal isn’t to inflict maximum damage on the enemy. It’s to accelerate their retreat.”
And so, I found myself back in the strategy meeting, drawing glares from the staff officers.
“The retreating Astorian forces might look like they’re pulling back haphazardly, but in reality, their movements are organically linked.”
“Didn’t study military theory, but you’re not completely blind.”
“And yet you’re the one yapping about a full assault.”
One word from me drew ten in return.
It was like being in the heart of enemy territory.
“On the flip side, breaking just one link severs their organic chain completely.”
Of course, for someone like me who made a habit of rampaging in the enemy’s midst, this was nothing special.
“We don’t even need to fight. We should actively avoid engagement. With the 8th Legion barely at half strength, a full-on battle is still off the table.”
“So, you’re saying stir up trouble and bail. Sounds like you lack the qualities of a soldier.”
I ignored the staff officers’ noisy, nutrient-free objections.
“From the opening of the war to now, the enemy’s movements scream one thing: their commander-in-chief is a pathological perfectionist.”
The Astorians’ organic retreat was the work of one man.
I was certain.
Not just the retreat—their every move so far had come from his mind and been executed by his hand.
You could tell from how they’d turned doctrine to scrap paper with their mage corps deployment.
Something no stiff-necked old general could dream up.
Rumor had it the enemy commander-in-chief was a young man in his mid-twenties.
Commander-in-chief at that age? Either the king’s hidden bastard or a freakishly talented operator.
“Evidence?”
The commander, who’d been sitting quietly until now, finally spoke.
He’d been all fired up earlier about showing the Astorians a lesson.
Now he looked like his usual self—no confidence in sight.
I answered, eyeing his deflated face.
“Something the envoy said before. Gave me the impression the enemy commander distrusts his own frontline commanders.”
Among the envoy’s words:
-To think the Thracia army, full of idiots, had someone like you. ‘You too’ must be suffering.
It was dressed up with diplomatic fluff, but the gist was the same.
He’d zeroed in on our struggles amid incompetent allies, subtly revealing his distrust of his own commanders.
Maybe he was trying to sway me with shared sympathy, but I doubted it.
“The tactics of the Astorian legions that crushed us at the war’s start are strikingly similar.”
Even veteran field commanders should have their own styles, yet they didn’t.
It meant the enemy commander-in-chief had stripped his frontline commanders of discretion, keeping the army under tight personal control.
“Slim evidence, but not without merit. Continue.”
The commander nodded, signaling me to go on.
“So, I plan to give those Astorian frontline commanders back their field commander privileges—the broad, sweeping discretion to adapt to changing situations moment by moment.”
How?
“The moment the supposedly regrouping 8th Legion shows up on the battlefield, their commanders will feel serious pressure. Even at half strength, a joint attack would be fatal.”
Just create enough disruption to throw off their rigid guidelines.
“Once one starts acting unpredictably, the rest will follow in seconds.”
Their legions, sensing crisis, would compete to speed up their retreat, creating openings for us.
If no openings came, fine.
We were fighting on home soil in Thracia. The faster they fled, the better—for us.
The meeting wrapped up in no time.
I laid out the broad strokes; Major Evgen Sanov and the other staff fleshed it out.
Separate from insight or strategy, they were capable enough at refining existing plans.
Unlike me, a non-academy grad, their networks and intel from HQ and other legions were solid.
Thanks to that, we picked out a relatively vulnerable(?) enemy target.
“Not bad.”
The plan I’d devised, polished by the drones, wasn’t half bad.
At least better than the 8th charging alone and getting counterattacked, like the commander wanted.
Poke around, and bail if it didn’t work.
Sure, the commander might look a bit foolish after all his big talk, but you can’t save face if you’re dead.
At that moment, I forgot something.
Plans are made by men; success or failure hangs on heaven.
And how much that heaven hated me.
I also overlooked it.
How contagious the madness of the battlefield could be.
I realized too late and regretted it, but by then, it was far too late to turn back.
“Retreat operation proceeding smoothly. Legions maintaining formation, withdrawing gradually to rally points. No anomalies so far.”
Even with his aide’s report, the pale, delicate-featured youth—Oscar von Nightheart—didn’t brighten.
“Just follow orders. If they can’t even do that, they should go die.”
His aide shook his head at the harsh words, mismatched with his pleasant voice.
Oscar ignored him, glaring at the map on the table.
“By next year, or the year after at latest, we could’ve fully subjugated half the occupied territories. Before those prideful idiots ruined everything.”
His slender white finger tapped a line in northwest Thracia.
“The Astorian army is rotten. Despairing, having morons like that at the top.”
“Didn’t you yourself turn down His Majesty’s court offer to throw yourself into that moron-filled military?”
“......You always know how to piss people off.”
“Oh? Needed comfort? Should’ve said so. Nothing I can’t do.”
Oscar scowled at his aide’s deadpan response.
“Don’t blame yourself too much. You’re not an omniscient god.”
“What a comfort.”
“Not good enough? I tried. Anyway, since I’m talking, the Schrelgrad rout wasn’t solely our army’s incompetence.”
His aide pressed on, undeterred by Oscar’s discomfort.
“Thracia’s commander was simply more capable.”
Oscar’s constant grumbling shifted at that.
“If you’re trying to praise the enemy, stop there. That Yannick or whatever’s caused more than a little damage to the Astorians.”
“Oh! And from you, who values him highest...”
He didn’t deny it.
“He perfectly turned the board I set against me. Enemy or not, I have to respect it. Hate the mirror tactic, but if I could, I’d rather ally with him than our idiot allies.”
And yet Oscar was the one who’d packed that letter with phrases to rattle Thracia’s brass.
“You, who knows the struggles of fighting amid incompetents better than anyone, can be real spiteful.”
Oscar shrugged at the point-out.
“Necessary measure. If that guy goes wild again, our side suffers. At minimum, block him grabbing command with his war record.”
“Oh? Thought you were channeling that tale of Reinhardt the Great—conqueror of the stars, founder of the old empire—and his worthy rival.”
“Can’t deny that either.”
A proper hero saga would help solidify Astoria’s grip too.
And the myth of a lowborn who conquered all lands touched by starlight was a damn good one.
Young folk ignored history, but plenty of elders still hailed the Galactic Empire’s heroes as the best.
“Worst case, if things don’t go as planned, your story will echo through the ages.”
“I’d prefer the best outcome.”
“It’ll happen. They’re as rotten as us—if not more.”
The lone success amid failures invites isolation.
His letter gave the losers ample pretext for envy over jealousy.
Oscar wasn’t thrilled, even after neutralizing a future threat with one letter.
“You were genuinely hoping he’d defect.”
“His background and record? Enough to sicken anyone of Thracia.”
“Guess he’s a patriot like you. Maybe shares your dreams.”
“......Papers didn’t peg him as that type.”
So yeah, those outrageous defection terms in the letter were sincere.
His aide chuckled softly at his complaining boss.
After some more chit-chat, they turned serious about the future.
“Once this wraps, I’ll purge the rice worms. Can’t watch them ruin Astoria’s future anymore. Time to uproot them all.”
“They’re not dumb enough to sit idle.”
Oscar snorted at the worried tone.
“Nothing new.”
Nothing had come easy on his path here.
Oscar looked invigorated instead.
“And relay to the legion commanders: no complacency until the op ends.”
“Will do. A charging Thracia army is no joke.”
Especially their heavy cavalry—handle with care.
Thracia’s heavies had taken near-annihilation early on, few left, yet still a threat.
Hell, a Winged Hussars company—claiming rivalry—got thoroughly toyed with by one enemy platoon, suffering irreparable damage in no time.
Scale aside, Thracia’s heavies had the punch to shatter the battlefield’s fragile balance.
“Yannick... Yannick...”
And with a commander who’d broken Astoria’s offensive will with just dozens of cavalry... Oscar couldn’t relax.
Envoys sent, precautions taken—unease lingered.
“Our 4th Legion! Engaging two enemy legions!”
And his bad premonition hit true.
“Nearby 6th and 11th Legions moving to join! Enemy legions heading to the battlefield too!”
The sudden report.
A roar like hallucination filled Oscar’s head.
Rumble.
Weeks of sleepless micromanagement for perfection crumbled like sand.
“That fucking idiot 4th Legion commander!”
“Th-that fucking idiot!”
Watching the Astorians peel off half their engaging forces from the Thracia 15th Legion—right in front of us—curses flew out.
Half the Astorians in combat were deploying toward us.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Seemed their commander planned to smash both the 15th and us at once(?).
“All units! All units! Battle stations!”
The commander, majestic atop some pristine white steed from who-knows-where, went pale and bellowed.
Bwooo! Bwooo!
Horns blared nonstop, signaling battle.
Ahead, the formed-up enemy advanced, drums pounding.
“Bluecoats! Full combat readiness!”
I slammed my visor down and raised my lance.