A Hole to Crawl Out From
After all those twists and turns, we'd hashed out an agreement and cooked up what we called the "Let's Call It a Draw" operation. And the result? A resounding success. Sure, I wasn't without worries, but in the end, Colonel Nerd kept his word, and we managed to pull out of the high ground unscathed.
Confirming the situation, I immediately cheered inwardly. Fuck yeah! We're finally pulling back!! Why only inwardly? Because Cassel's original self was clamping down hard on letting that cheap talk slip out loud. Still, you can't just stop yourself from acting on it. I threw a big fist pump into the air, reveling in the joy. Might've looked like an idiot, but I didn't give a shit. That's how pumped I was.
But I couldn't just bask in it. I immediately started issuing orders to reorganize the unit.
"Claude and Rene, take the vanguard. Jean and I'll handle the rear. First, prep the litters and move the wounded out."
Of course, it wasn't smooth sailing. Everyone except me held onto their suspicions right up to the end—especially the officers who'd shared countless "memories" with the Imperial troops. They unleashed a barrage of arguments to try to sway me.
-They're not the type you can trust.
-Imperial bastards have always been sneaky as hell; I've never heard of them keeping their word.
-They go in with one mind to the shitter and come out with another.
And so on. All valid points, really. Not saying Imperials are born with genes perfectly suited for backstabbing (though Cassel's ego might've nudged me that way a bit), but trusting a deal with the enemy you'd been shooting at tooth and nail just hours ago? Not something you do lightly. Totally understandable.
But that was just common sense for normal situations. The moment I confirmed Colonel Nerd wasn't your typical Imperial commander—ruthless with lives, obsessed with feats and honor—that logic went out the window as irrational bullshit. Might seem hasty, but I didn't need a long chat to size him up. His actions and basic demeanor alone showed he wasn't some moron who believed sheer willpower could flip a losing battle (if he were, he wouldn't have stayed back to order the retreat—he'd have picked a last stand). More importantly, the guy was an Imperial who actually talked sense. Top 10% in humanity: a rational intellectual. And folks like that don't think, "Fuck it, let's just kill each other!" They go, "Hey, we've both stabbed each other in the gut—call it quits before it gets worse?"
To split hairs, I didn't so much trust his word as figure he had zero reason to pull that shit. Anyway, long story short: no need to doubt him.
So I took my time, patiently convincing the officers. "You don't have to trust him. Trust me." Thanks to that effort, they started nodding along before long.
That's how we all shed our doubts and wrapped up retreat prep. The pullout itself was a breeze. We had so few supplies left that it was basically just marching out with what we had on us. Aside from wondering whether to laugh or cry about that, it was pretty damn good.
With lighter bodies and hearts, the whole unit was filing out of the high ground. Thud, thud— I was bringing up the rear, checking on the troops as we went. Yeah, that's right: walking. Not riding. Sure, as acting regimental commander, you'd think any officer worth his salt would be on horseback. But the unit didn't have a single horse left. I wanted to ask the soldiers why, but they were all too busy to chat. What're you gonna do? Fire up the Gallery.
Asked there, and the answer came back: in a defeat, you ditch the wagons first, horses second. Maintenance becomes impossible, apparently. Fair enough—fleeing for your life, grabbing horses ain't exactly priority one. No helping it.
Anyway, the familiar march had my head spinning a bit, but all things considered, it worked out. A lieutenant strutting around on horseback would've drawn side-eye anyway.
"Lieutenant, sir... I'm sorry. So sorry."
"No need. I get it—totally understandable."
Got to chat with the rank and file like this, too. Marching and talking? National rule. Thread and needle. Water and fish. March and talk. They shine together—gotta use 'em as a set. Even prickly seniors bond over shared misery, spilling real feelings. Magic happens.
"I... overstepped. You wanted revenge for Colonel Philippe more than anyone..."
...I'd noticed before, but damn, Jean gets teary-eyed a lot.
"......"
I looked up briefly, gathering my thoughts. Honestly, I had no right to forgive anyone. If anything, I owed an apology for deciding shit on my own. But that didn't matter. What he needs... is comfort.
And right on cue, some profound quote should've popped up to console him and let me look cool. But nada. Best bet? Just hit him with my honest feelings.
"Was it really that over the line, though?"
"Pardon?"
Jean's dopey response. Not "What'd you say?" but straight-up "Pardon?" Dude's hooked deep. Anyway, he seemed confused, so time to clarify.
"I just picked the option that netted the biggest gain in that situation. If killing him would've profited more, I'd have done it without hesitation."
Slight hesitation, maybe, but close enough.
"So... yeah."
"......"
"Just saying, it was the circumstances—no need to dwell on it. Haha."
Bit of a sloppy wrap-up, but the point got across, I hope. If not, no biggie. These things ride on momentum.
"...Colonel Philippe would understand."
"You... think so?"
"Definitely."
I was the type who could sell out the dead a hundred times over if it meant the living marched on. Scared of heavenly retribution? Sure... but begging a little forgiveness for the survivors' sake? Should be fine, right? Ahem.
Anyway, after Forms 1, 2, and 3, I saw tears welling in Jean's eyes, spilling down his face.
"Ugh... sob."
I patted his back gently, helping him vent it all. It was the only comfort I could offer.
We're fucked.
That was the conclusion Major General Leonil de Valmont, overall commander of the Lillium Kingdom's Southern Front, had reached after deep deliberation. Staring at the war map, brutally ravaged, it was indeed fucked.
"Goddamn it."
Who was this Valmont? How the hell did a guy like him end up in this dog-dick situation? To understand, you gotta know his political backstory.
First off, commanding a shithole like the Southern Front meant he'd pissed off the capital, just like everyone else here. But one weird thing: unlike the criminals, women, and lowborns populating the front, he was a "real" noble—a count.
Count. Sounds cheap 'cause romance novels and fantasies overuse it, but this ain't some go-stop win. It's the pinnacle: history + bloodline + lands. And he'd been War Minister to boot. History + bloodline + lands + power center.
Up to here, you'd wonder: what the fuck happened to get him hated? And could they really demote him this hard just for that?
Surprisingly, his pathetic downfall had no grand reason. Gerard de Bormiang. One of the kingdom's three dukes, royal guardian, real power broker. Valmont had fucked with him.
Count Valmont was blunt—thoughts straight to mouth. Fine with subordinates, disastrous against the royal shadow, Bormiang Duke, who gripped the reins.
I won't detail it to preserve the count's honor. Just rumors of street-level profanity echoing in the duke's office.
Anyway, exiled he went. But back then, Valmont was cocky. "What can you do besides dump me here?" Reckless, in hindsight.
The capital nobles who'd dumped him there started fucking around for real.
One: cut supplies. Fine. Squeeze his own lands somehow.
Two: fuck with intel. Fine... Run scouts, build spy nets, sift truth from lies.
Three: tamper with ops orders. This crossed the line. Even iron-willed Valmont couldn't defy royal directives—that was treason. But the "directives" were lunatic offensives. ...Might as well order suicide. Hell, suicide would've been better—one life ends it.
Now? No retreat possible. Advance: mass suicide. Retreat: treason. Bullets ahead, guillotine behind. Faced with doom, he picked forward. Result? Undeniable... crushing defeat.
Left with main force and scattered remnants. Can't block the next push with this... War's endgame. No way to stop the enemy's hammer.
Yeah. Unless troops fell from the sky—
"D-Division commander!!"
That moment, a frantic voice shattered his escape into delusion. The office door flew open.
Normally: "Who the fuck barges in without knocking?!" But fresh from denial, Valmont just startled like a half-asleep mess.
"R-Rep-Reporting... b-back."
Normally: "Soldier my ass—reports in inverted order?" But—whatever.
Anyway, eyeing the messenger's state, Valmont sensed big news and leaned in.
"Colonel Philippe's 4th Infantry Regiment has returned!!"
"What did you say?!!"
BAM!! Valmont slammed the desk hard enough to splinter it, shooting up. The news was that shocking.
Allies returned. Troops from a clear sky. Where? 4th Regiment? Philippe.
Philippe. Philippe. Philippe! The man delivered.
"Where?!"
"Uh... what do you mean?"
Goddamn dense fool. Superiors speak, you get it.
"The regimental commander!"
"W-Well, sir."
Not a tough question, but the messenger agonized over how to explain. Valmont's doubt flickered—then the guy wetted his lips repeatedly before forcing out the report.