A Sense of Foreboding
Without anyone ordering them to, hundreds of soldiers snapped to attention in unison and threw up salutes.
"LOYALTY!!!"
The booming cry echoed through the ruined city.
It was less a welcome than a burden.
I returned a rough salute and gestured toward Gunter.
"Gunter, what's with all the fuss?"
Gunter strode over with a grin, his shoulders puffed out to twice their usual size.
"Fuss, Captain? They've all been waiting to catch a glimpse of the Ghost of Rosenheim — the living legend who tormented the Republican bastards for three days and nights straight and chewed through their tanks with the 88s."
"The rumors have already spread that far?"
"They've gone well beyond rumors, sir."
Kurt slithered up to my side before I even noticed.
"The entire front's in an uproar, Captain. Word is the Army's having to tear the Imperial artillery doctrine apart from the ground up, all because you had the nerve to lay the Acht-Acht on its side."
"Ha... good grief."
That much was only to be expected.
Then it happened.
VRRRM—!
A heavy engine roar cut through the soldiers' clamor.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and through the gap rolled a sleek command vehicle painted in glossy black.
I frowned at the abrupt arrival. An unpleasant chill crept up from the soles of my feet.
...Could that be because I didn't have exactly fond memories of that particular vehicle?
Thankfully, the emblem on its side belonged not to the Inspectorate, but to the 1st Armored Division.
A Division major climbed down from the passenger seat, marched briskly across the field hospital courtyard, and planted himself in front of me.
"Captain Max Jäger, I presume?"
"That's me."
"The Division Commander requests your presence. Immediately, at the operations briefing room. I am to escort you there."
Polite, but utterly unyielding.
So the inevitable has arrived.
I swallowed a sigh.
The hero's welcome was over. Which meant it was time to pay for my supper... or rather, my coffee. Still, hauling me off the moment I got discharged felt a bit much.
Not that I had any say in the matter.
"Understood. Lead the way."
With a silent nod to my men standing behind me, I climbed into the black vehicle.
*
The car rattled across the ruined streets of Rosenheim, heading for the temporary command post in the most secure zone. The roads had been cleared, so at least it was passable.
Our destination was an underground bunker serving as the brigade headquarters. Guard Panzergrenadiers stood watch at the half-collapsed entrance.
"After you, sir."
I was escorted into the briefing room.
"Oho! There he is! There he is!"
The first voice to greet me was a familiar one.
Air Force Major Heinrich von Hermann.
"Didn't I tell you all! This man is the revolutionary who turned anti-aircraft doctrine on its head!"
He began introducing me to the air force officers, spittle flying.
"You lot weren't there, so you don't know! The sheer thrill of that massive 88-millimeter spitting fire horizontally! Those tanks just went pop, pop — blew apart like fireworks!"
Status Analysis.
Name: Heinrich von Hermann
Status: Fanatical excitement; blind faith in Max Jäger
Emotion: Delighted that a living witness has arrived to prove his war stories true.
So the man was still at it.
And beside him—
"Welcome, Captain Jäger! How's the body holding up?"
Brigadier General Dietrich approached, flashing his signature good-natured smile.
Behind him stood a row of familiar faces.
Erika, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. The moment she spotted me, she turned her head with a scoff.
Emotion: Annoyed, yet can't help acknowledging him. Relieved that he made it back alive.
Then Major Seraphina, standing beside the operations map with a cool, composed expression. When our eyes met, she gave the faintest nod.
The key players of the operation were all assembled.
And at the center of it all stood me.
"Attention."
A deep, resonant voice silenced the room's chatter.
The man seated at the head of the table: Major General Wilhelm von Falkenhein, commander of the 1st Armored Division.
His perfectly pressed uniform was as immaculate as when I'd last seen it — not a spot of oil on it.
He rose slowly to his feet.
Thump. Thump.
As he walked toward me, the Guard staff officers parted to clear a path all at once.
"Captain Max Jäger."
"Yes, sir."
Major General Falkenhein looked me up and down.
A hospital gown with a military coat thrown carelessly over it — hardly a dignified sight. But he studied me with the rapt attention of a jeweler appraising a gemstone.
Status Analysis.
Name: Wilhelm von Falkenhein
Affiliation: Imperial Army, 1st Armored Division
Rank: Major General
Status: Careful appraisal; deep interest; curiosity
"His Majesty gave me strict orders to come back and confirm, with my own two eyes, the face of this insolent coffee fiend."
"...My sincerest apologies."
"No, no need to apologize."
Clap.
Falkenhein's thick hand clamped down hard on my shoulder.
"The sheer gall of hunting for coffee in a hell where three hundred tanks are rolling in. Even the Guard boys couldn't copy that nerve. Aye, a hero ought to have exactly that kind of audacity!"
He laughed heartily and swept his gaze around the room.
"Mark my words! If it weren't for this man, the entire Imperial West would belong to the Republican bastards by now. A mere company commander racking up achievements like these!"
"Quite right! The value of the new tactics the Captain proposed alone is—!"
The Guard operations staff chimed in eagerly.
"The 88mm anti-aircraft guns, of course, but the very idea of refusing to abandon the city and using it as one colossal piece of cover—"
"The reports of him holding out through local requisition when his ammunition ran dry were equally impressive."
The other staff officers were no less lavish with their praise.
"Captain, thanks to you, my armored division walked in without firing a shot. I feel like a guest who's had the whole feast laid out and all he had to do was pick up his spoon — I'm almost ashamed."
It was pure acclaim, wall to wall. For the proud, blue-blooded elites of the Imperial Guard to shower such tribute on a common infantry captain was nothing short of extraordinary.
Somehow, this makes me uneasy.
Well, whatever the reason, I might as well enjoy it.
"You flatter me, sir. It was all thanks to His Majesty's resolute decision and your swift reinforcement, General."
When I bowed my head in modesty, Falkenhein looked even more pleased.
"Talent with humility, and political savvy to boot. Now I understand why Field Marshal Ludwig set his sights on you."
High praise indeed. Yet what I felt was a chill running down my spine.
When the compliments of the high and mighty start running long, it's time to watch your back.
And right on cue, Falkenhein wiped the smile from his face and walked, with practiced ease, over to the operations map.
"Now then, now. Enough pleasantries."
Tap.
His baton struck the map lightly.
"Let's get to business."
The baton came to rest over the Western Front.
"The situation is not optimistic. No — to be perfectly honest, it's a mess."
And he wasn't wrong.
The entire Western Front on the map was drenched in the Republicans' red. We had barely managed to establish a new defensive line centered on Rosenheim, but it was, quite literally, barely.
"We held Rosenheim, but the enemy's main force — the 2nd Corps itself — remains intact. True, their vanguard was shattered, their supplies heavily depleted, and their morale dented, but..."
A corps doesn't collapse from that much.
So said Division Commander Falkenhein.
He then pointed to the north of the map.
"What's more, intelligence reports enemy reinforcements marching south from the north. Left as we are, Rosenheim will end up sandwiched and isolated."
The air in the briefing room grew heavy.
"As you know, the Empire is fighting on two fronts right now. We have no reserves to spare."
With troops being poured into the Eastern Front as well, that meant no further reinforcements were coming.
"In other words, we must turn this board around with nothing but the 1st Armored Division here, the 7th Brigade, and the surviving remnants of the 3rd Corps."
Falkenhein's gaze swept across the staff.
"Any opinions?"
A Guard staff officer, a lieutenant colonel, spoke up cautiously.
"Sir. We must judge this realistically. Abandoning Rosenheim and withdrawing fifty kilometers to establish a defensive line along the Bergen Line would—"
"Denied."
Falkenhein cut him off with a single stroke.
"His Majesty just rejoiced at the victory report, and now you'd have us throw away ground and run? You might as well be asking for my head on a platter."
"......"
What followed was silence.
It couldn't be helped.
Too strong to block outright, too politically unpalatable to retreat from — and charging head-on was tantamount to suicide.
We had repelled the enemy with a surprise airstrike and the commitment of the 1st Division, but viewed across the whole front, that was only a temporary success. Nor could we repeat an operation of this scale indefinitely.
For all the triumphant drive that had thrown the enemy 2nd Corps out, the situation was pitifully meager.
And in the midst of that suffocating silence—
I quietly stepped forward to the map.
"...It's not that there's no way."
Every eye turned to me. Major General Falkenhein's eyebrows twitched.
"Oh-ho? The hero's grand insight, is it? Let's hear it."
I picked up a pen and pressed it against Rosenheim on the map.
"Right now, Rosenheim is a thorn lodged in the enemy's throat. They're being driven half-mad by this thorn. Only once they remove it can they advance into the interior with any peace of mind."
"Precisely. That's why they're concentrating their forces on our front."
"Which, put the other way around—"
I slid the pen across the map, pointing to the region marked as forest and rolling hills on the enemy main force's flank and rear.
"—means this side, their flank, is wide open."
Written there, in the Imperial tongue, were these words:
"......The Ashen Forest."