Resolve Lasts But Three Days
Life is an endless chain of worries. Resolve lasts three days (作心三日)—a saying that a person's determination never survives past three days. So why three days, exactly? Theories abound: it's the human adaptation cycle, or maybe happiness hormones only last that long. In short, structurally speaking, human resolve comes with a system that guarantees at least three days.
Thud—
But had even three minutes passed? As I stepped outside and sucked in the first dawn air of this otherworld, that earlier determination had vanished without a trace. All I could think was how badly I wanted to run.
No way...
Dead and dying soldiers sprawled everywhere, their life drained away. Makeshift tents barely holding together. Supplies that looked like total shit at a glance. Nothing—no, nothing—was intact.
The troops' condition was especially dire.
Fuck...
Their eyes had lost all focus. Not a single one moved or spoke. The face of utter defeat. The relentless drizzle soaking everything only amplified the gloom, mirroring their despair.
Squeeze—!
I'd only glanced around for a second, but tension had already knotted my brow.
This is worse than I thought...
Even in my past life, I'd been through similar shit a few times. Like when the entire camp collapsed before we'd even finished the first lap—lines exploding left and right, turning the whole jungle into a clusterfuck. In those cases, you didn't waste energy; you just waited for the graceful surrender vote.
What the hell was I supposed to do about it?
The problem is, unlike those games, this is real life—my life—on the line.
The moment I gave up, it wasn't game over. It was life over.
And I wasn't the type who could just shrug and say, "Ah, this life's a bust too—aim for the next round three reincarnations from now?" Hell, who could?
"Ha, fuck."
The more I faced reality, the hotter my blood boiled.
"Possession... goddamn possession."
Wasn't this supposed to be a destined victory arc? Why the fuck was I dealing with this bullshit?
Sure, just coming back to life was something to be grateful for... but come on. This was too much.
Splash—!
"Hoo..."
Pointless brooding. I kicked forward irritably, figuring the rain might cool my pounding head.
But against my intentions, I barely moved a few steps before I had to stop.
"Lieutenant...?"
"L-Lieutenant!"
Huh?
The moment they noticed me, they swarmed like chicks rushing their mother bird.
These guys...
Faces came into view, and memories started clicking into place one by one.
Jean, Claude, Rene...
According to the memories, these were the unit's junior officers. Heroes who'd fought desperately alongside Cassel to save their comrades—the turnaround warriors.
Just looking at their haggard, broken-down faces told the story of the hell they'd endured.
Damn it...
Seeing them like that weighed heavy on my chest. Excuses and self-justifications bubbled up to my throat, but I had no choice but to push them down and speak.
"The situation... how's it looking?"
How's it looking? Fucked beyond repair, obviously. No need to dig through Cassel's memories. Just the fact that a lowly lieutenant had to command the regiment said it all.
"... ..."
A heavy silence followed, drawing a bitter smile across my lips.
They know it too, of course.
But it was a necessary question. To lay any groundwork for a plan, I needed some facts first.
Swish—
As I waited for an answer, the man who looked most senior—rifle slung over his shoulder—stepped forward. It was Jean.
"...Reporting, sir."
His calm voice rang out as he saluted. I returned it and listened intently.
"...Regiment strength: 1,022 men remaining."
1,022. By the memories, a standard Lillium Kingdom regiment—including non-combatants—clocked in around 2,000. We were fucked.
"Recovered two field cannons, but they're fixed-position only."
Better than nothing, but what the hell could two cannons do? Pop some corn, maybe.
"And... scout reports confirm nearly 3,000 enemy troops sighted. We can't stop their encirclement. Offensive imminent."
Fuck, 1,000 vs. 3,000?
1,000 against 3,000. This wasn't a tactics problem—it was basic math. And I was damn good at math. 1,000 goes into 3,000 three times. Utterly fucked.
"We're sorry... sir."
Jean's head, which had faced straight ahead at the start, now hung toward the ground.
"Kkh... Colonel Philippe..."
"Hoo... hngh."
Soon, a few couldn't hold back their rage and burst into tears. I got it. Even if a legendary commander rose from the grave, this looked hopeless. No wonder.
I wanted to cry too. Fuck.
"Hoooh—"
I closed my eyes tight and exhaled deeply, trying to steady my tangled emotions. They say even if the sky falls, there's a way out. Think slowly. Slowly.
......
...After thinking it over, my options boiled down to three.
1. Run.
2. Fight to the death.
3. Surrender.
Goddamn it.
A little brainpower showed how every choice was fucked in terms of realism.
Run?
The Southern Front hugged the border. Fleeing meant heading to the Kingdom or the Republic, nothing else. Kingdom? I'd get hunted by our own military. Think I could shake them?
No shot...
My survival skills—even with Cassel's memories—were amateur-hour at best. No future where I escaped painted itself in my head.
High chance I'd end up court-martialed, dangling from a noose as central square decor.
Republic asylum? Same shit. No background, low-rank officer? Fat chance they'd take me. Hiding as a civilian? This face would get me caught quick.
And Cassel's little sister would be in danger too.
Above all, slipping from the front to a safe zone undetected? That assumption was bullshit from the start. Running was out. Too many reasons why not.
...Fight, then?
Fight. Battle. Was it even possible?
I'd played my share of StarCraft. Cassel's military talent seemed decent too. With desperate resolve, maybe mix it up right and snag a win—
.
.
......
What the hell was I just thinking?
This was gambling, pure and simple. Thousands of lives as chips.
Someone might argue: "Win chances slim anyway, no other options—last-ditch gamble makes sense, right?"
Fair point. When every path's a dead end, betting on slim odds isn't crazy.
But it's dangerous thinking. You only roll the dice if the odds check out—not blindly hurl yourself at impossible shit. That's not gambling; it's flailing. Dog death.
I could say it with certainty. Anyone charging in blind? Stark raving mad. Burning happy circuits on spirit alone—certifiably insane.
And that's exactly the mad thought I'd just had.
"No options? Go die then."
"I dunno, but maybe if we fight, we win? Who knows?"
The longer I pondered, the bolder the bullshit got. Long deliberation leads to bad moves, huh? Spot on.
Grind—
My molars ground together. I felt pathetic.
So that's why Cassel chose surrender.
No other choices. Surrender... I'd die for sure. No doubt.
But after all this agonizing, it was the right call. Simple reason: nobody wants to die.
Me? Lying cold on the asphalt after that truck—pure regret. Learned my lesson on what not to do in life. Solid intel.
Thus, someone who's tasted death once before making the sacrifice? Most rational choice.
Pfft—
Even resolve has qualities. Simple math that cleared my head. Hesitation gone.
This won't be some pathetic, absurd death, right?
My contemplation ended on my men's faces. I'd agonized for ages, but they hadn't budged—still right there by my side.
Obviously, no reason to hesitate. Just say what needed saying.
I moistened my lips and started.
"Everyone—"
｢User's will confirmed.｣
Synchronization in progress —
Congratulations! You have obtained access to the War Commanders Gallery.
A breakthrough floated right before my eyes.