War of the Stars (1)
…After the first war, I had a chance to speak properly with the Heavenly Bombardment Star.
He called magic a letter.
You can confirm each other’s hearts with it, confirm each other’s natures—so what word could possibly fit better than letter? That was how he put it.
I couldn’t understand him then. I can now.
It really is a letter. Truly.
The day after the bombardment, the Union army’s defense line rose again—taller, thicker.
Trenches that had once run straight were bent into zigzags to blunt chain explosions and shockwaves; iron-plate ramps were added above the firing slits. Underground shelters dug deeper still. Dummy trenches and dummy observation posts appeared, meant only to waste the Heavenly Bombardment Star’s mana.
Even after scouts reported which trenches and posts were fakes, the Heavenly Bombardment Star paid no mind and shelled real and false alike.
In his own words:
…The two madmen answered each other’s magic with perfect diligence.
If the question was an explosion, the answer was a fortress; no room remained for people between the lines of their conversation. They never even saw each other’s faces, yet they kept confirming and reconfirming each other’s hearts.
Only the soldiers caught between them died.
Torn by blasts, buried under collapsed trenches, cut off by newly risen walls… every one of them died isolated. Even those who had gone together closed their eyes having learned the truth that death is always solitary.
Front-line maps were redrawn every day. Yesterday’s path was today’s wall; yesterday’s trench was today’s corpse pit. Couriers and telephone lines snapped several times a day; proper communication never held. When they tried to evacuate the wounded there were no stretchers, no vehicles, so the medics finally dumped the patients straight into the corpse pits.
Their duty was to remove the wounded. Yes. You can remove them by healing them, or you can remove them by turning them into corpses. The choice belonged to the medics.
Still, I have to snipe.
Sergeant Müller never came by. Beside me sat Sergeant Misty, already a cracked piece of porcelain. In circumstances like these, the only outlet left for my frustrated desires was to steal glances—through carefully hidden observation magic—at the faces of enemies in the instant before they died.
“New firing slit visible on the upper right of the fortress.”
“Understood.”
“Range four-eighty. Looks like a spotter.”
“Fire authorization is…”
“Hold.”
I rested my finger on the trigger and waited.
Then, without warning, Sergeant Misty seized me by the scruff of the neck and hurled me out of the position.
A sickening crack came from my leg.
Seconds later Misty herself burst out after me.
Boom!
The moment we cleared the position an explosion swallowed it; the firing slit I had been lying in collapsed entirely. My right leg—still not fully healed—bent at a wrong angle from the throw. I tumbled across the mud.
“…The inhaler.”
“I’ll get it! Fall back first!”
The inhaler must have slipped from my coat while I was rolling. Sergeant Misty clenched her teeth, snatched it up, grabbed my scruff again, and tossed the inhaler to me in the same motion. I barely caught it.
Sss, haah…
White smoke rose.
Looks like sniping’s over for today. The slit’s gone.
Frustrating. So frustrating!
Isn’t this completely unfair? Ever since those two Stars—the Heavenly Bombardment Star and the Construction Star—arrived, I haven’t managed a single proper shot. Between the fever and everything else I’m just scrambling to stay alive… Sergeant Müller hardly visits, and my so-called partner—no, the spirit—keeps replaying the same expression she already showed me.
It’s far too boring.
Yes. These days I live a life with no room for boredom.
Heh. I’m enjoying myself, so don’t look at me like that. A miracle might still happen, you know.
Anyway, back to the point.
The Heavenly Bombardment Star and the Construction Star never managed to kill each other. Perhaps they never even intended to.
They began experimenting with magic, and the cost of the experiments was soldiers’ lives.
A Star is a strategic weapon.
Strategic weapon. Meaning something that can make a great many people unhappy all at once.
This boring routine will end someday. Please, someone, pull me out of this hell.
The next morning I was in an observation post with Sergeant Misty, staring at the Union trenches.
Or rather, if I must be precise, staring at the place where trenches had still existed the day before.
“…What in the world is that?”
A colossal mud wall—a rampart stretched the length of the front line.
By the standards of my previous life it stood about three stories high; firing slits, gun turrets, and observation windows dotted its face. Something moved beneath it.
Clank, thud. Clank, thud.
A repetitive sound.
Tracks.
I wanted to punch my past self for the complacent judgment that this world still had no tanks, so everything would be fine.
A gigantic mobile fortress on continuous tracks began crushing the mud as it advanced toward the Imperial trenches.
Sergeant Misty, still wearing her observation scope, spoke.
“That’s the Construction Star. An advance fortress the Union’s Star built overnight…”
As the fortress crept closer the trenches began to shake. Up close its crudeness showed: thick mud roughly plated with iron; wherever an explosion cracked or collapsed a section, the fortress simply pulled surrounding earth to itself and repaired the damage.
Not that the fortress had arms—more like a magnet sucking in the nearby soil.
Rat-tat-tat!
In that instant Union fire poured from the slits. The fortress had begun to spit flame.
No need to think. If that thing reached the Imperial trenches it would simply crush them flat, men and all.
“Wahahaha!”
A familiar laugh rang out.
The Heavenly Bombardment Star—Major Ernst Krüger—stood atop a rear observation post with both arms flung wide.
“A splendid reply, Construction Star! Then I too must observe proper etiquette!”
Black dots were born in the sky. The clouds were pregnant with death.
The death they carried never even experienced its mother’s womb; it fell headfirst to the earth. Black rain fell, and white light began to drown the world. Everything returned to blank paper.
Rumble…
The ground shook; shockwaves swept the trenches. Positions crumbled; wooden supports screamed as they splintered. I clapped both hands over my ears and curled into a ball.
My chest hurt. An unpleasant pain climbed my right leg; my lungs shuddered. I thought I would vomit.
.
.
.
Only after a long time did the explosions stop.
When I carefully lifted my head, half the mobile fortress’s front was simply gone. Iron plate torn open, fire projection silenced. Even the presence of Union soldiers I had sensed nearby no longer registered to my D Magic.
Behind me Sergeant Misty frowned, having detected the movement of my mana.
“…Winterland. I—”
“I’m sorry. Given the situation I judged it necessary.”
“We’ll discuss it later.”
Later, later. Would later even exist?
I’ll be lucky just to stay alive.
Hah. All right. Let’s try a deep breath. I don’t want to die.
Then the sound returned.
Clank, thud. Clank, thud.
The tracks were still moving.
Surrounding mud and debris were drawn into the walls; the fortress rebuilt itself. Having received the Heavenly Bombardment Star’s magic, it was now the Construction Star’s turn to send a reply.
The fortress took one step forward; the Heavenly Bombardment Star hurriedly leapt down from the building and put distance between them.
Explosion and reconstruction repeated.
The two Stars kept a fixed distance while shifting the entire front line.
“…Wahahat! Excellent! Let’s see how far you can crawl!”
Does that man even realize there are soldiers nearby?
Tweeeet!
A whistle shrilled inside the trench; three red signal flares climbed into the Imperial sky.
“That’s the signal to abandon the forward line.”
“Withdrawal?”
“Yes. Gather your gear.”
Soldiers around us began pouring out of the trenches all at once. There was no order. It was closer to a rout… yes. We had chosen to run.
A few grenadiers bravely stayed as rearguard, but the rest barely managed to grab weapons and ammunition before flooding into the communication trenches.
Sergeant Misty slung my rifle across my back; the cane had to be abandoned.
Well… Sergeant Misty piggybacked me, you see.
“Speed takes priority right now.”
“…What?”
“Get on.”
My pride stung a little, but I was carried on Sergeant Misty’s back into the communication trench.
Farther back, military police divided the passage.
“Walking wounded left! Serious cases right!”
The telephone lines were already cut, so the withdrawal order had probably been passed by signal flare, courier, and written orders.
Wait.
In that case…
I looked around. The place I was now was behind the communication trenches—meaning the rear.
Sergeant Müller worked in the rear. If we reached the vicinity of the battalion command post I might see his face again.
…No. No, I mean it.
At the time I was thinking of nothing but toying with you.
Just as I expected, I spotted a familiar face near the battalion command post.
From Sergeant Misty’s back I looked at him.
“You’re late.”
“Why is the sergeant here…?”
“Communications are down, so the inspection team has to verify the withdrawing personnel.”
His gaze dropped to my leg.
A perfect moment to harvest some fever. I’d been waiting for this!
“Injured?”
“I was already injured.”
“Looks worse than before.”
“…A little more injured.”
“Hah. We’re moving to the Second Defense Line first. You’ll have to walk the two kilometers from here. Trucks are at the assembly point.”
Then Sergeant Müller stepped behind Sergeant Misty and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted me off her back.
Wha— wha— wait, system failure. I never saw this coming…?
“Light.”
Don’t say things like that!
“W-wait just a moment—”
“Shut your mouth.”
“I can’t treat a superior like a pack mule.”
“A senior private fretting over a sergeant, of all things.”
Sergeant Müller shifted me onto his own back, and the flight continued.
Carried on Sergeant Müller’s back, I looked behind us.
I felt something.
A fierce desire to survive.
And so I thought and thought about what I would need in order to survive, until I reached one conclusion.
I have to become a Star. I have to create a unique magic. By any means necessary, I have to rise.
A Star can fall back without being defeated. A Star has the next defense line, countless soldiers, another chance to fight.
But ordinary soldiers? The ones retreating with us right now?
Do they have a next chance? Can they survive? Can they fight again? Can they be certain that falling once isn’t the end?
I need that certainty.
…If I reach Star rank I receive a lieutenant’s commission and the authority to form a platoon however I like.
I turned my head forward again. Sergeant Müller’s nape filled my vision.
If I became a Star, I could bring Sergeant Müller… into my platoon, couldn’t I? Right? I could keep him beside me?
Ah. I’ve had a good idea.
I should ask him how to create magic.