First Murder (3)
Sergeant Misty opened her mouth.
“…Permission to fire.”
I held my breath and lowered the muzzle by the slightest fraction. The range was more than enough. There was no need to calculate the wind.
Silence.
Bang!
I squeezed the trigger. Recoil shoved hard against my shoulder.
A boy who looked about my age toppled and rolled across the mud. His mouth opened, but no sound reached me.
He thrashed in the muck, clutching his leg.
“…Half a handspan to the left. Slight error.”
“Thank you. I’ll correct it.”
I watched beyond the firing slit. Exactly as expected, movement stirred around the fallen boy.
A Federation soldier risked a glance toward our slit, then ducked back out of sight.
Too fast. I lost the chance to shoot.
…Have we been spotted?
A moment later a soldier who looked like a medic came scrambling after him. Another man appeared as well, one whose rank insignia I couldn’t make out.
It wasn’t close enough for insignia to show clearly.
Honestly, without even the help of D Magic, managing this much with the naked eye was excellent work! Suddenly I felt rather hard done by.
“Hold.”
Sergeant Misty ordered the hold. I waited with my finger resting on the trigger.
Probably now. The moment the adult leaned out a little farther and tried to drag the boy soldier toward himself.
If I took that instant to blow his head off, it would make a very fine picture.
An adult whose skull bursts while trying to save a child—ah, is that too ugly for a first-murder impression?
But the moment a human dies is always ugly by nature.
Only those who revel in Yuryeol can turn the moment of death into art.
For example, if I were to kill myself…?
I held my breath again.
“Not yet. A little longer.”
Sergeant Misty kept the hold.
That was when it happened.
Something glittered.
Very far back, beyond the Federation trench line… a collapsed wall? The rim of a shell crater? I couldn’t be certain, but I had definitely seen it.
The flash of a scope.
There.
I shouted urgently.
“Requesting permission to use D Magic!”
“Denied.”
“I’ve confirmed an enemy sniper!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes!”
“Your condition—”
“If I don’t confirm it right now, I’m going to die!”
The glint came again.
My heart hammered.
“Permission granted!”
Sergeant Misty must have caught the flash herself; her voice snapped out the approval in a rush.
Below my diaphragm, the pool of magic overturned.
Gush.
The instant I opened the circuit, blood ran from my nose and mouth.
The world unfolded.
No-man’s-land spread open. I felt every mud puddle and strand of barbed wire. Then I prepared the net.
A fine mesh. It filtered out impurities and discarded everything useless.
Again. Filter, filter, filter once more.
The glint, the lens, and the person beyond it. The enemy sniper. He was looking at me too.
His finger rested on the trigger; the skin around his eyes had gone tight with concentration. His lips were slightly parted. He was holding his breath. A fairly skilled sniper.
A face that believed it was about to kill. And a face that still had no idea it was about to die.
Ah. Perfect.
So clear.
Detection precise enough to read the expression itself—and with that precision came the recoil through my circuits.
They were screaming, but I forced myself to ignore them.
I swung the muzzle and corrected the aim.
Sergeant Misty was saying something beside me, but I couldn’t hear her. Only the enemy’s face remained sharp.
In that moment the world held only him and me.
He realized.
His eyes widened a fraction.
He understood that death was looking at him, and that his calculation had been slower than mine.
That single instant.
Bang.
The enemy sniper’s head snapped backward.
D Magic sealed shut.
I exhaled hard.
Blood was still streaming from my nose and mouth, yet even that couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.
I wanted to ask him.
What did you see right before you died? How did my face taste?
You monster bitch.
This time, without any doubt.
“Ah…”
Good. I love it. I love it so much!
I really, truly love it!
Sergeant Misty seized my shoulder.
“We’re withdrawing.”
“……”
“Our position has been exposed.”
She hauled on my arm, face twisted with urgency.
As expected, you never fail to disappoint. You.
You break far too easily.
What’s so wrong with a pretty girl smiling brightly through blood-smeared lips?
I admit it might look a little strange, but couldn’t you at least give me the benefit of the doubt—chalk it up to the joy of surviving?
Is this really something that needs such a grave look?
Hmph.
I’m not giving you any of my soft-boiled eggs.
While I was busy promising myself that childish little revenge, Sergeant Misty half-dragged, half-carried me out of the position.
“Don’t lift your feet. Drag them.”
“Yes.”
“Keep your head down, and your expression—”
“Yes?”
“Never mind.”
I hastily managed my face.
Ah. I’d only meant to smile for a second, but apparently the smile had stayed plastered on the whole way out.
Had the moment of death been that intense?
It had certainly been stimulating material, but… hmm. On second thought, that level of reaction might have been exactly right.
I forced the corners of my mouth down.
The blood-caked lips didn’t want to obey. The muscles twitched, and the corners of my mouth trembled with them.
We tumbled deeper into the trench almost as if rolling.
Sergeant Misty immediately propped my back against the wall and wiped my nose and mouth with a handkerchief.
“How long did you use the magic…”
“It was short.”
“I’m asking for the exact time. How many seconds?”
“……”
“Private Winterland.”
“Probably under five seconds.”
“That’s a lie.”
Caught.
I simply averted my eyes.
Sergeant Misty clenched her jaw and glared at me.
She wasn’t raising her voice, but her failure to control her expression made the anger plain enough.
I really don’t want a scolding.
Maybe I should play up being in pain.
“…Sergeant, the inhaler, please.”
“What?”
“Inner pocket of my bag.”
Her hands moved at once, producing the Magic Inhaler.
A small magic stone still glowed faintly inside; it hadn’t worn out yet.
Sergeant Misty already seemed to know how to use it. She set the mouthpiece against my lips without hesitation.
“Slowly.”
I inhaled as ordered.
Sss.
Cold magic scraped hard down my throat.
The pain eased a little.
Huuu…
White vapor drifted out.
“Just… one more…”
“I know what this is. Anything from the Mold Star is custom-made.”
“……”
“Rest.”
Sergeant Misty knelt beside me and simply watched my breathing for a long while without speaking.
Her face was still twisted.
As expected, no flavor at all.
You’re finished.
And so my life on the Western Front with Sergeant Misty began.
Here’s a riddle!
What starts as one, then becomes two, three, four, five—growing by one every single day?
That’s right: my daily kill count. Anyone get it?
“Behind the wire on the right—signalman.”
Bang!
“Left wall of the ruined farmhouse—probable officer.”
Bang!
“Second firing slit of the forward trench—observer.”
Bang!
Identify the target, calculate wind and range.
Lie prone, hold the breath, pull the trigger. The same loop, over and over.
Every time the work finished, one more person fell. The process was astonishingly simple and easy.
Killing a person is not complicated.
What comes after is always the complicated part.
Sergeant Misty recorded every shot, rigorously separating confirmed kills from probable ones.
Cases where the observer personally saw the target drop, and cases inferred from the enemy’s subsequent movement. Two categories only.
Even death has ranks.
Certain death, probably death, death I would very much like to have happened.
Something like that.
The reports went up to the front command post every evening, and copies of some of them headed to the Inspection Unit.
Probably because I’m a magic-circuit contaminate.
The Inspection Unit had a duty to investigate any violation of magic-use restrictions.
Which meant my records were reaching Sergeant Müller…!
What kind of face is he making?
Ah, when will he come in person?
Is he wracked with guilt for having handed a child the crime of murder? Or maybe he’s just flipping through the papers with complete indifference?
He was always a man with a talent for keeping his expression under control!
Even these little daydreams were rather enjoyable.
Sergeant Misty finished organizing the report and said,
“Today’s confirmed kills are six. Probables, two.”
“Is that a lot?”
“…It’s an enormous amount, Winterland.”
She set her pen down and looked at me.
I timed it carefully—when her gaze landed on me I drew on the Magic Inhaler.
Sss, huuu…
Smoke briefly veiled my vision.
Through the haze her expression looked soft and blurred.
.
.
.
And at last the day arrived.
“…Sergeant Müller? What brings you here?”
“Orders came down. And you’ve picked up a moniker.”
…A moniker?
Wait—Sergeant Müller already knows I’ve been given a moniker? Does that mean they can intercept enemy communications?
Maybe the Empire is stronger than I thought…?