Chapter 48
Chapter 48
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 48
Chapter Title: Transported by Carriage as a War Prisoner, Only to Find Myself Reincarnated in Another World
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Moltke was a barbarian.
Sometimes a demon, at other times a ghost, and occasionally called by nicknames like fox or wolf.
Truth be told, he wasn't sure.
In his own mind, Moltke was just an ordinary soldier.
He had simply strived to keep his comrades alive,
to protect the traditions and homeland of his people,
and every now and then,
got caught up in the heat of battle and forgot everything else.
That was all.
Was there ever a demon fighting to protect its comrades?
Could a ghost long for its homeland?
A beast excited by the frenzy of combat... well, that might exist.
Yeah.
He probably was a beast.
"Muuul..."
Gulping down the stale urine pooled in his broken canteen,
Moltke suddenly realized
that he truly was a beast.
Maybe that's why he was waiting here to be slaughtered.
"......"
*Bang!* A gunshot rang out. Black smoke billowed up.
The sound of horse hooves approached. If he'd fled at that noise, would things have turned out differently now?
No chance.
This wasn't a battle you could retreat from.
Turn your back, and bullets would rip into it.
Press forward, and an imperial blade infused with secret arts would pierce your throat.
You die.
This was a fight to die.
That was what it meant to stand against the Empire.
Or was it?
Had they ever truly confronted the Empire? He wasn't sure. The imperial soldiers had said so. His commanders had never phrased it that way.
They'd said to fight for the fatherland.
That a soldier's duty was to devote himself to his nation. He wasn't sure about that either.
All he knew was that if he stayed still, his comrades would die pointlessly.
He hated that.
Blood splattered across his cheek.
A horse foaming at the mouth trampled his comrade. Moltke had never seen such a ferocious beast.
They said the Empire's secret arts could turn even a mere horse into a vicious demon.
Riding mounts that devoured men, reeking of sulfur, leaving nothing but death in their wake—
yet they called us demons.
It was the world that was strange.
The Demon King, the Empire, the war, even his own homeland—
all of it was twisted.
"!@#$%^."
"......"
An imperial soldier muttered something in that incomprehensible tongue.
Beside him, comrades were still dying,
in front of him, that demon horse glared with open eyes,
the air thick with the stench of blood and sulfur,
screams filling the world.
And then.
Cutting through all those phantoms and spirits,
a ghost appeared out of nowhere.
"......Ah."
The ghost opened the lid.
Only then did all the spirits vanish.
Moltke realized where he was.
Moltke was...
inside a small box in a pitch-black warehouse,
without a single ray of light.
His crotch was wet.
He'd thought he'd drunk his own urine, but even that had been a dream.
"!@#$%^."
"......"
The ghost muttered something in the Empire's unintelligible language.
And then.
It extended a hand so white it seemed it had never seen light.
Was it because it was a ghost that its hand was so pale?
A cold hand touched his head.
He wanted to thrash, but
he had no strength left even to swat it away.
Was this how he'd die?
A comrade's spirit grasped his hand.
Yeah.
You were waiting.
"......Tired."
"......"
He heard the spirit's voice.
"Rest now. You can go home. You'll bring flowers to Mother when you get back. I want to go home. Sorry. When will they let us go home? When will the war end? It's because of me. Demon. Sorry. Mom. I miss my daughter. No. Send me home. Home. Home. Home......"
"......"
The voice felt unfamiliar.
Slurred.
Like someone just learning to speak.
As if reciting something memorized.
And then.
The pale ghost nodded and closed his eyes.
"......Let's go home."
With those words,
Moltke fell asleep.
.
.
.
.
When he awoke from the dream,
he was loaded onto a carriage, being transported somewhere.
The world shook.
At least he had no strength left even for nausea—that was a small mercy.
'......I've become a slave.'
Moltke quickly grasped his situation.
If they meant to execute him, they wouldn't bother with an expensive carriage.
A crude warehouse torched to burn would have sufficed.
Maybe he should be grateful he hadn't died.
A slave's life or a soldier's—there wasn't much difference.
Not knowing the language, he'd get whipped,
and if deemed useless, 'disposed of,'
but that still beat being 'consumed' on the battlefield in terms of survival odds.
'......Did I still want to live?'
He wasn't sure.
Starvation made thoughts flicker and fade. His mind was blank.
Ringing in his ears.
He lost consciousness several times, waking and sleeping again.
Sometimes, when he stirred, someone fed him gruel.
Managing him so he wouldn't die en route, perhaps.
Gruel of bread scraps and oats boiled in water—crude stuff,
but even force-fed half-asleep,
he remembered it tasting delicious.
"!@#$%^."
"I under...stand......"
Thanks to that, by the time he arrived somewhere, he'd recovered enough to walk.
Not run, but walk.
He hadn't wanted to escape anyway.
A runaway slave's end was worse than a regular one's—easy to guess.
Besides, fleeing far in a foreign land with no common tongue? Impossible.
"!#$%^^."
Following the muttering man's guidance in the imperial tongue, he entered.
He saw a blackboard, like those used for briefings in the army,
and chairs and desks lined up like soldiers at attention.
"Sit... down?"
"!@#$%^."
Chairs. Rare in the military. Sitting on the ground was cheaper.
Moltke nodded and sat.
The guide nodded approvingly and vanished.
Leaving the prisoners, Moltke included, awkwardly seated.
He considered talking to another, but
it wouldn't end well.
They seemed slaves captured from different regions anyway.
Captive slaves were usually mixed by origin to prevent clumping.
The awkward time dragged on,
until the guide returned
and placed a book on each desk.
"A... picture book?"
It was a book with drawings.
Simple illustrations,
phonetic script like his homeland's,
and short text.
+
⾕ = [House]
+
This was a place to learn the language.
"......"
"!@#$%^."
The man who'd brought the books drew a house on the blackboard, identical to the textbook's.
And repeated one word.
Moltke caught on quick and mimicked him.
"House."
"House."
"Water."
"Water."
"Horse."
"Horse."
Not hard. Simple words.
The script was similar to home's, just slightly different.
Thus they learned words and letters,
and about 50 minutes passed.
*Ding-dong*
A bell rang somewhere.
"!@#$%^."
"......?"
[Break].
Tilting his head,
the man drew [Toilet] and [Water] on the board.
"Ahh. Bathroom break......"
"!@#$%^."
He hadn't eaten or drunk much, so no urge,
but who knew when the next chance would come.
Following the man, he found the toilet,
squeezed out what little urine there was.
Then stared blankly at the [mysterious bucket] beside it.
The instructor turned a handle by the bucket,
and water flowed into it.
But the used water drained through a hole below, despite looking clean.
A bit wasteful.
"Drinking... water?"
As Moltke leaned to drink, the man startled and stopped him.
Water slaves couldn't have?
As Moltke braced for the whip,
the man put his hands under the flow.
Rubbed them thoroughly,
turned the handle to stop it, shook them dry.
"......?"
Some religious rite?
He recalled church rituals washing hands or feet in running water.
Finally getting it, Moltke nodded
and turned the handle like the man.
Water flowed,
and he washed his hands carefully.
"!@#$%^."
"Hm. Guess that's it."
The watching man smiled, nodded approvingly.
Hands clean,
back to the classroom.
Just then, the bell rang again.
Signaling the break's end.
Like a church with a steeple, they used bells to mark time here.
"......"
More language lessons,
another 50 minutes, then the bell.
"......Again?"
It happened once more.
Then Moltke realized: classes ran 50 minutes education, 10 minutes break,
in one-hour units.
"......"
But this time, the man's reaction differed.
He drew on the board:
a rice bowl and spoon...
Mealtime?
"!@#$%^."
"Yes?"
[Meal].
"Ah. Got it."
And so,
in the building he was led to,
Moltke saw.
"......This is?"
[Ahh. You don't know.]
"......"
[This is── bean meat.]
Roasted meat,
far too lavish for a mere slave.