One Step to the Great War (4): Have You Ever Buried a Corpse?
Have you ever buried a corpse? Or even smelled one? I'd caught the scent before, but never handled the burial myself. Back in my childhood, when I devoured lowbrow fantasy novels, I might've puked my guts out like some space edgelord, ranting, "What the fuck is this shit-stinking planet, like expired jjajangmyeon?" But now, as emperor shouldering trillions of imperial citizens, I didn't pull that crap. I'm not some worthless space edgelord who'd rat out his superior to military intelligence.
Anyway, the closest I'd come to death in my 21 years was Father's funeral. Everything was handled impeccably per imperial protocol—no real exposure beyond that pigeon carcass from my early childhood. Father's body had been laid out pristinely, the casket gilded, the rites dignified. It was so lavish it planted the delusion that death could be beautiful.
And death on Forge wasn't beautiful at all.
"Haa... I at least wanted to give them a grand funeral."
I muttered to the empty air. What's the point? They're already dead.
"...Still, this is too much. Those fucking Kanf bastards."
Trenches littered with corpses—mostly human. Forge militia, Eldra soldiers, and the butchers' guts mixed like some hellish whale feast, splattered everywhere in indistinguishable crimson slurry. Human and nonhuman tangled in ways that turned my stomach. Exhaust fumes, gas, and blood stung my nose raw.
Yet I grabbed a shovel. Industrial model from the governor's warehouse, crudely field-modified—heavy, crude, but reliable. Dig dirt, bury bodies.
The guards tried to stop me. "Your Majesty, let us—"
"No. I have to do this too."
"But—"
"If I say I'm doing it, I am. No more words on this."
"Yes... Your Majesty."
Back to digging. The blade bit into Forge's metal-dust soil, sparking unnaturally, filling my mouth with metallic tang.
Not tough, though—thanks to my paperwork-callused arms. Pure office muscle.
Then Erisa Karan came running. "Y-Your Majesty! What are you doing?!"
Horror on her face. An emperor doing grunt work meant for common laborers like her? She was flustered. In her mind, I'd already exceeded expectations by leading the victory personally.
But corpse cleanup—the victor's ultimate privilege—done by the emperor himself? Shocking.
"Can't you see? Burying the fallen."
"But Your Majesty's noble hands will get dirty...!"
I glanced down. Blistered, caked in dirt, sweat, and blood.
"No nobility in professions, nor in the work we do."
I kept shoveling. "These are heroes who sacrificed for the empire. If the emperor who let them die ignores their spirits, our forebears would rage. I can't slight heroes who died for the empire."
True enough. Mostly.
My sleep's already shit. Paperwork's piling up—I need to buy time somehow.
Burying bodies meant no desk duty. Can't hold a pen with a shovel. No one dares shove files at a mourning emperor.
Yeah, this is commemoration. Not paperwork dodging. Perfect justification.
That calculation ended as my gut flipped.
"Urk?!"
Shovel dropped, I bolted behind the mound and heaved. Combat rations mixed with Forge's metallic air—vile.
Vomiting, I recalled my thoughts. Damn... no. I said it'd be easier, not treat lives this lightly.
Using the dead for paperwork breaks? What disgusting shit, fuck...
Self-loathing surged. All the Kanf's fault. Without them, no such garbage thoughts—I'd just slave away in papers forever.
Wiping my mouth, steadying my breath, I stood. Hoped no one saw. But Erisa watched worriedly from afar.
As I returned, emotion welled in her eyes. "Your Majesty... pushing yourself like this..."
"Huh? No, it's not—"
"This Erisa, mere provisional governor and secretary of one planet, vows body and soul to Your Majesty's eternal reign, spreading Your will across the empire!"
"No... don't. That's tough."
How's one person gonna reach trillions? Census would top a quadrillion easy.
"Suffering your body for commoners like us... Your Majesty..."
Tears streamed down her face.
"No need for that. You're the one suffering most. You've fulfilled your duty as much as I. Be proud."
Handling paperwork and combat in a warzone? Superhuman. I genuinely respected her.
Gender's irrelevant. She wields heavy pistols and greatswords, slaying synth-beasts solo. Governor material.
Be honest.
To this admirable woman, I confessed. "I'm doing this to cut down on work."
Her smile froze.
"To reduce the flood of palace paperwork. Got it? Stop the praise."
100% sincere. I want less work. Not a hero, not some haloed saint. Lazy 21-year-old emperor, blind idiot fleeing papers into battle.
Erisa wiped her "fervent" tears, smiling. Shit, not getting through.
Clearly interpreting as "humble emperor veiling noble acts in mundane excuses."
Tell the truth, still twisted. Curse? Fucking Kanf witches hexed me? Aide a spy?
No. Calm down, inner Stalin. No paranoia needed.
Finally buried the last one, set down the shovel. Sigh escaped.
"Haa..."
Exhausted. But satisfied deep down.
Blood-soaked OR. Before I arrived, the governor's plush medical team endured hell.
"Hey, cut this. No, what the hell is it?"
"Th-this is a... neural assimilate. Solvers usually use—"
Serrrrk!
"Neural assimilate? Rip it off."
"Pardon? Y-yes..."
Crunch! Snap-crackle!
"Hey hey hey!!! Blood! Blood! D-disinfectant!"
"Hemostatic?"
"Y-yeah! That! Hemostatic!"
Spraaay!
"What's this? Oh right! New organ! Shove it in!"
"Pardon? Uh... yes."
Crunch!
"Wh-what? This fucker's still got eyes open?"
"Anesthesia worn off?"
"Huh? No way? We skip it usually—they should've passed out by now?"
"What???"
Yeah. Supplies depleted fast—no anesthetics for wounded, rags wrung in water for bandages. Dire straits.
Luckily, before "graze grass like herbivores" Impala vibes, my golden carriage arrived. Supplies flooded in—amputations dropped, regen tech revived the severed for duty.
How empire-friendly. Shells for all.
Raich-raich-raich. Stability allowed ops meeting. I called one in the governor's bunker ASAP. Big sis was waiting.
"Let's begin."
Governor's bunker conference room. Formerly Victor Grayburn's secret office, seized in revolution—now Labor Salvation Committee HQ.
His portrait gone; replaced by my hologram speech—fiery little Hitler mode.
Hah, cult shit.
Do they know this extends my absolute monarchy?
Probably not.
Eight around the table, me included. Head: Kaius VIII, me. Right: Alexandria Kreuz, aide. Left: Erisa Karan, secretary-general cum provisional governor.
Opposite: four legion commanders.
First: Hans Reichenbach, Colonel of 1st Orbital Assault Legion, 3rd Fleet—scarred face.
Next: Katarina Müller, Colonel 2nd Ground Legion cum 5th Fleet remnants CO.
Across: Friedrich Hohenstaufen, Colonel 1st Guard Drop Legion, Guard Fleet.
Last: Aurora Astraea, Brigadier General provisional 3rd Breakthrough Legion.
These seven decided Forge's fate.
"Ahem. May I start, Your Majesty?"
"Proceed."
Reichenbach first. "Situation summary. Fleet battle's over. Eldra Platinum Fleet remnants destroyed or surrendered. Orbit secured."
Good news.
"However... other Eldra, especially pro-gov warlords, may intervene. Platinum defeat news spreads—hardliners could send reinforcements for revenge."
Müller chimed. "Ground—here—is the real issue."
Hologram map activated. Forge surface, forces color-coded.
"Enemy ground forces exceed estimates. Initial 50k, then 100k, 500k—now confirmed ~3.4 million."
Room froze like arctic blast. Days ago, 70x bloat—not bluff, full ranks.
"What? Impossible numbers."
I voiced aloud. Platinum dropships ~200 max. 250 each = 50k. No way 3.4M post-orbit control.
"Those bastards..."
Clicked. Gene-modded ant-men butchers. Synthetic life, non-natural. Proves biotech prowess.
"Butchers felt off from the start... no way."
Hohenstaufen interjected. "Your Majesty's concern confirmed. Airborne recon report."
Aurora perked curiously.
"They've forward-deployed 'bio-replication factories.'"
Collective sigh. Expected, now real. Great War vets knew.
Hohenstaufen continued. "Eldra outpace us in Soul Engineering. Mix in cloning biotech..."
I got it, dreaded it. "Battle-hardened, upgraded bodies, infinite spawn till resources dry... right."
Tree-of-World soul tech: transfer consciousness to clones. Solved manpower woes in planetary sieges.
Cloned cannon fodder + souls = infinite vets. Zombie horde.
That explained 3.4M.
Gloomy, but I grinned. "Knew it'd come to this. We brought funnier toys."
Seven stares. To aide: "Kreuz. Prep the Living Wire."
Her eyes gleamed. "As commanded!"
Living Wire. Empire's latest—literal "living barbed wire."
Eldra spits on god with souls? Humanity progressed: mocked god while they spat, proved abandonment. Killer tech.
Extended lifespans too. Biotech pinnacle.
Militarized: semi-organic wire. Vine-like, metallic sheen. Animal-plant hybrid, autonomous.
Camouflages, auto-targets non-IFF foes. Neurotoxin spines: paralyze 30s, kill 3min. Feeds on corpses to breed.
More bodies, more wire. Perfect barrier. IFF-safe. Controlled cancer.
Elegant over their crude butchers.
"Find those factories, seed Living Wire around. Choke 'em."
Pointed hologram. Wire catches cloners, breeds on corpses, infinite loop agony. Worse than mines.
Want infinity war? Grant it.
"Those earless fucks messed up. Dare..."
Voice edged unintended. Burial/vomit emotions lingered—raw hate leaked.
All those human corpses? Eldra synths and Eldra did it. Had to hate.
Shifted room vibe unwittingly.
Erisa bolted up. "In Your Majesty's name, this planet stays imperial!"
Fire in eyes. "Better we blow factories, invoke Klausevitz Operation—nuke the planet scorched than let them have it!!!"
Proudly declared total annihilation.
Militaries ignited. Her fanatic loyalty—moved or swept—they roared hotter.
Reichenbach slammed fist. "I too pledge annihilation! My unit fights only for victory—Your Majesty's and humanity's!!"
Hohenstaufen straightened. "Guards low casualties. Paratroops die plenty—fight till we do!!!"
Wow. Fresh death notices for me?
Müller saluted, bandaged arm. "Marines ready to storm their HQ on order!"
Aurora quiet, but I knew battle-lust burned beneath.
Chill down spine. Too casual with death.
No. "Stop."
Hand up, quelled. Room silent.
"As emperor, I command: minimize casualties."
Not econ whiz, but unlike old Earth death-gram dumps—proper funerals, pensions planned. Budget balloons my work. Exhausting.
Bigger scale? Overwhelm.
Humanity and admin survival.
Good plan. But how minimize effectively?
Pondering...
"Long live the Emperor!!!!"
"Woo! Earless elf! You're human now!"
Then Brotherhood of Man showed.