Chapter 477: No War on the Southern Front
The land was riddled with wounds, full of craters blasted open by artillery shells, while trenches dug by engineers scarred the ground like deep, permanent gashes.
"Boom!"
An artillery shell landed beside the crowd, sending up dust mixed with shrapnel. A few more soot-covered bodies collapsed to the ground.
"Ah, it's an artillery strike!"
With a brief cry, every soldier instinctively threw themselves into the trenches in an instant.
Those who hadn't developed this habit—either fresh recruits drafted from various regions or corpses charred beyond recognition.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Sure enough, the shells rained down like a storm, exploding repeatedly around them.
Except for one unlucky fellow who had the back of his head blown open by a shell, the others were nearly unscathed.
"It stopped!"
"The shelling stopped!"
"Damn those Cassander bastards, they should all rot in hell!"
Someone wailed, clutching the stump of a leg severed by an artillery shell, rolling in agony within the trench.
There were no doctors here, no means of sterilization. On the front lines, a wound this severe was practically a death sentence.
"Poor Busa!"
The veteran sighed with the tone of one accustomed to such sights. Though he was called a "veteran," he was only in his twenties—but that didn't stop those older than him from addressing him that way.
The reason was simple: he had survived the longest on this battlefield, stationed here for over five months.
During that time, his comrades had changed batch after batch.
Of course, the veteran once had a name—Paul Stanton—but everyone was used to calling him "Veteran."
"It hurts so much!"
"Damn it, so this is what it feels like to lose a leg? This is worse than hell!"
"Veteran."
Busa was still lying on the ground, wailing in pain. He looked at Paul, his tear-blurred eyes filled with a complex expression.
Paul could see what it meant—it was a plea.
Busa didn't want to live anymore.
At that moment, the surrounding soldiers fell silent, their hesitant gazes focused on Paul, as if waiting for his decision.
"Damn it."
Paul spat.
With practiced ease, he loaded his rifle, stepped forward a few paces, and pressed the barrel against Busa's temple.
"May you find eternal life in the divine kingdom of Ammanata."
"Thank you."
"Bang!"
A crisp gunshot rang out, splattering blood and brain matter.
Busa had been a merchant. His entire family were devout followers of Ammanata. He hardly ever cursed. Three months ago, he had been conscripted by Wilhelm's draft order.
In the last minutes of his life, he cursed relentlessly, uttering every profanity he had ever known, and five seconds ago, a single bullet had ended his existence.
"Busa survived the longest among the second batch of comrades. He did nothing wrong, he was just unlucky."
Paul thought to himself.
He turned around, his expression calm, but his hand gripping the rifle trembled slightly.
"Let's move. They've already shelled us once, but battlefields change in an instant. Who knows what will happen next?"
"Just like that unlucky bastard who got his leg blown off by shrapnel."
The remaining dozen soldiers pressed on. The battle-hardened veterans were unfazed, but the fresh recruits, having just witnessed the death of a comrade they had spent every day with, were terrified.
Life was far too cheap on this battlefield.
For some reason, the air around them thickened, as if soaked in a bowl of congealed blood.
Before long, after traversing the all-too-familiar, corpse-littered ravines, the soldiers finally reached a safe zone.
Suddenly, someone asked, "Veteran, got any smokes?"
"Get lost. I barely managed to find a few packs for myself. If you want some, go rummage through the pockets of the corpses."
Paul cursed irritably.
He waved them off, pulling out a crumpled paper box from his pocket, holding it as if it were a treasure.
The surrounding soldiers immediately looked at him with eager eyes.
"Whoa! Imperial-made!"
"Veteran, you've been hiding some good stuff!"
The pack bore an emblem of a vertical pupil and flames, with faintly visible words reading "Imperial Made."
The wooden stock of Paul's rifle carried the same marking.
The soldiers neither knew nor cared where these things came from—only that cigarettes with this mark were the strongest and the best.
They knew that if Paul didn't want to share, he wouldn't have taken them out at all.
The soldiers swarmed around him, grinning as they reached out their rough hands, instantly dispelling the previous tension.
"Back off, one per person—this is in honor of Busa."
"I haven't gotten one yet!"
"Wait, me too!"
"Bullshit! What's that in your other hand? I just saw you take one!"
When the crowd finally dispersed, Paul looked down at the now nearly empty pack, with only a single cigarette left, his face full of regret.
"Damn bastards."
He pulled out the last cigarette, shielding it from the wind with one hand while expertly lighting it with the other, then placed it in his mouth.
"Hah—"
"Imperial-made, as expected. Strong, much better than those cut-rate knockoffs."
Leaning against the dirt wall, Paul exhaled a thick puff of smoke, muttering to himself.
The refreshing sensation surged straight to his head, momentarily pulling his thoughts away from the battlefield and back to his distant hometown.
He thought of Strong Town, a small town in the eastern Thrace region—peaceful and beautiful.
Back then, Paul had been just an ordinary blacksmith's apprentice. He had made a promise to Jenny from the neighboring flower shop—once he could run the smithy on his own, they would get married.
He remembered that evening, Jenny's flushed face, her shy yet blissful smile.
The scene was so warm, more beautiful than heaven itself. He could even smell the wildflowers on her.
But in the next instant, an explosion shattered the memory, dragging Paul back to reality with a scream.
"Ah—"
He continued thinking.
The merciless flames of war had shattered everything. Soon, the young men of the town were all conscripted by the Thracian Kingdom's officers, Paul included.
"Jenny..."
"Is she still safe? They said Cassander's cavalry has entered the eastern kingdom..."
"Maybe, just maybe..."
A sense of unease gripped Paul's heart.
The air, thick with gunpowder and mist, turned gray. He tasted the bitterness of tobacco on his tongue.
Paul disliked the taste of gunpowder, but he loved smoking—it was one of the few ways to relieve stress on the battlefield.
Each exhale of smoke cleared his mind, offering his tensed brain a fleeting moment of respite.
"Damn it."
"Damn war."
Paul took a deep drag, realizing war had seeped into every part of his life, inescapable.
Even in his moments of escape, he could not outrun its shadow.
With total war in full swing, armies ravaged each other's lands, looting and slaughtering indiscriminately—Paul was just another soldier on the southern front.
If there was anything that set him apart, it was that he had simply lived a little longer.
He could change nothing.
"Veteran."
A timid voice came through.
Paul turned his head and saw a dirt-streaked, youthful face.
He was wearing a military uniform several sizes too big, with the sleeves rolled up and bunched around his wrists.
It was Tommy, a newly arrived recruit, reportedly only sixteen. Because of his distinctly babyish face, everyone called him "Kid."
Paul glanced at him.
"Kid, the smokes are all gone."
Tommy shook his head, looking serious. "No, that's not why I'm here. There's something I've never been able to figure out, and I wanted to ask you."
"What's your question?"
Paul squinted his eyes, exhaling a puff of smoke indifferently. "I've been on this battlefield the longest. Ask away—knowing more means living longer."
"Busa knew quite a lot, too. Too bad he had terrible luck."
Tommy hesitated for a moment before looking Paul in the eye and whispering, "Do you know why we're fighting this war?"
Paul's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected such a strange question.
Tommy continued, "My father told me that the Holy Fadlan Empire was once united. Whether Thracians or Cassanders, we were all proud citizens of the Empire."
"But now, we're slaughtering each other. Why?"
"My father said that Otis betrayed the great Sun God and became an apostle of Hell. His Majesty Wilhelm is fighting to stop him."
The surrounding soldiers had gathered around, intrigued by the conversation. After all, entertainment was scarce on the battlefield.
Paul didn't know.
He didn't care about the war's origins or its meaning. He just wanted to survive, return to his town, and marry Jenny.
Paul was about to shake his head and say he didn't know, but for some reason, he suddenly remembered a "joke" he had once heard from an officer.
So, with a meaningful expression, Paul said, "The old emperor left behind a throne made of gold. Our great Wilhelm wants to sit on it, and so does that wicked devil Otis. So..."
He deliberately drew out his words at the end, making it sound mysterious.
Tommy was stunned. "That's why we're fighting? So many people have died, so many have lost their homes, all over a chair?"
"So—what the hell does this have to do with us?"
"It's just a joke! No matter how hard we fight and kill, we're just helping those at the top fight over a chair."
Paul smoked his cigarette down to a stub the width of his pinky, sighing with satisfaction.
"I—"
Realizing he had been tricked, Tommy's face turned red. It took him a long time to squeeze out a single word.
"Hahahahaha!"
"He really is just a kid!"
The soldiers burst into laughter.
"Kid, just focus on staying alive. I don't care about the Sun God in the sky—if I can see the sun tomorrow, I'll be satisfied."
Paul stretched, dusted off his uniform, and spoke.
He was talking about war, but in that moment, what surfaced in his mind was Jenny's flushed face—the future he longed for.
In the distance, crisp gunshots and the rumble of artillery continued unabated.
At that moment, neither Paul, Tommy, nor the soldiers laughing beside them knew that because they were stationed on the southern front near the Holy City, their unit had been selected by General Misael Benasaraf as reinforcements.
Soon, they would be heading to the most brutal "meat grinder"—the battlefield of the Holy City.
Those who were now laughing and joking had no idea how many of them would return alive.
...
...
Isthalia, Krauberu Industrial Group's Thirteenth Factory.
Massive machines hummed like a giant steel beast, constantly spewing smoke.
On the assembly line, before enormous machine tools, hundreds of workers performed their assigned tasks—some inspecting, some sorting, some assembling.
Like machines themselves, they mechanically repeated simple motions without pause.
"Stay sharp!"
"The defect rate of the last batch exceeded 8%!"
"You idiots, how can you mess up such simple work? The higher-ups are not happy!"
The foreman's angry voice echoed through the workshop, making the workers tense up.
"Just a little longer…"
"Another half-hour until the shift ends."
Raj Pink thought to himself.
He was a parts sorter. His job was simple—just categorize different components.
But after six hours of non-stop work, staring at the parts made his head spin.
"What are you doing!"
A worker nearby made a mistake, letting a defective part slip through. The sharp-eyed foreman caught it.
The worker hurriedly apologized, "S-Sorry, sir, I got distracted."
"Don't let it happen again! Next time, I'll dock half your wages for the month!"
Hearing this, Raj quickly snapped to attention, forcing his tired eyes open.
He worked here just to make a living.
Money.
As the most developed city in Anzeta, Isthalia had a high cost of living.
As an assembly line worker, his wages barely covered basic needs. Buying a home in this city was a pipe dream.
The foreman said their products would become fine weapons, sold to the south, each fetching a gold dinar.
A gold dinar!
Raj's monthly wage, even without expenses, was just a single gold dinar.
And every month, thousands of firearms passed through his hands—where did all that money go?
He didn't know.
Maybe it all went into the pockets of the big shots.
The foreman had told them impatiently, "Without the investment of the Dragonblood Nobles, without their factories and equipment, you wouldn't even have jobs in Isthalia—let alone wages."
Raj and his coworkers had discussed this at length and agreed that the foreman had a point.
Raj's idol was also a Dragonblood Noble—his name was George.
George's story was published in the "Imperial Daily," beloved by workers. Raj even bought that issue, cut it out, and pinned it to his dormitory wall.
Baron George had been born a northern serf. He started as a lowly worker, climbed his way up, and ultimately became a Dragonblood Noble.
That was Raj's dream for himself, just as it was for countless workers who had come to Isthalia seeking fortune.
"I even met one of Lord George's former coworkers once. I think his name was Howard—he's a foreman at the factory next door."
"I wonder if I'll ever meet Lord George…"
Raj mused.
Suddenly, a harsh voice shattered his thoughts.
"Raj! You're daydreaming again!"
"I knew it—thinking too much leads to mistakes! Look, you put a No. 2 part in the No. 3 bin!"
"Sorry, sir, I—"
Raj broke into a cold sweat, panicking, unable to explain himself.
The foreman barely glanced at him before turning away. "No excuses. This is your second mistake this month—get ready to take home silver dinars instead."
Raj stood there, his face dark, silently sorting parts.
His dream was to buy a small house in Isthalia's outer district and open a flower shop.
But property in Isthalia was expensive—even the outskirts cost over a thousand gold dinars.
Raj's monthly salary was just one gold dinar, and half of this month's wages were already gone.
When would he ever achieve his dream?