VOLUME - 13 ( CHAPTER - I)

Map

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JANUARY 15, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, THE GENERAL STAFF OFFICE

General Hans von Zettour was in an excellent mood.

An absolutely excellent, splendiferous mood.

He was refreshed and raring to go, a song of triumph on his tongue. His footsteps bounced lightly off the dull, impersonal floor of the General Staff Office in time to the staccato lilt of his heart, which was beating exuberantly thanks to the rarest stroke of luck.

"My, oh my."

Zettour was acting rather strangely for his age; he knew that. But he couldn't help it when he felt like a sudden gust of fresh air had banished the gloom that had been hanging over him since the start of the year. It left him relaxed, and the excitement was visible on his face.

"I see the way out. Yes, how wonderful!"

He had been in dire straits. Torturously constricted, an impossible burden weighing on his shoulders, his stomach twisted in viselike agony, and he was unable to speak except to groan. All the while, he sharpened himself as an instrument of violence in his role as a staff officer and as the devil Zettour, who was an enemy of the entire world, as necessity demanded. For the sake of the Heimat, he played his part in deceiving the world.

"I see it."

He now clutched a single thread of hope. Just one. The narrowest of paths.

"Yes, like the eye of a needle. But I see clearly now."

And why was it so narrow? Zettour, old man that he was, knew that it was his own mistakes that had led him here.

First and foremost, he had misjudged the timing of the Federation Army's offensive.

"My own bungling led to this crisis. I will admit that. It was my mistake. I underestimated the determination of the Federation and the material support the Alliance was willing to provide. Feckless. Absolutely feckless for someone as involved in logistics as much as me."

The result of Zettour's miscalculation had been a headfirst plunge toward catastrophe, putting him on the verge of witnessing the dissolution of the very world he wished to protect.

It was either a divine blessing or an unparalleled feat of human intellect that allowed Zettour to secure a miracle while teetering on the edge of utter disaster.

"God is with us, or so they say… Those words can't help but sound hollow. If God is with us, then what a sad way he makes himself known. Still, a far cry from being abandoned."

Zettour snorted. Zettour, public enemy of the world, was now prepared to face it. To go beyond the bounds of human intellect, challenge the limits of mankind, vanquish the resentment pointed his way, and force his will upon the world.

He finally had the last piece he needed to make that possible.

The elation welling up inside made it hard for Zettour to maintain his usual smile of composure. Right now, more than anything, he just wanted to shout in exaltation. In Zettour's subjective opinion, he was, at this moment, the happiest man in the world by far.

When was the last time he had smiled with such genuine joy? It mattered little. Here, in this moment, he was smiling.

There was only one reason. A single spider's thread. And the man who had brought Zettour such wonderful news was here with him now. Zettour grinned like that would be enough to share his joy with that benign messenger.

"First Lieutenant Grantz, whatever is the matter? You look atrocious."

If the emotion appearing on the aerial magic officer's face could have been summed up in one word, that word would have been tragic—so tragic, in fact, that it nearly made Zettour want to cry despite his paroxysms of joy.

"As regrettable as it is that I cannot ask you about the situation…I am actually in quite a good mood at this moment."

As a superior officer, Zettour was perfectly aware how severe he could be with junior officers and how much he demanded from staff officers. When it came to magic officers, however, especially the ones heading back to the front, Zettour had a mind to be more gentle.

All the more so, thanks to his current mood. Zettour's high spirits made him feel particularly magnanimous.

Though he was a general now, Zettour had once been a junior officer himself. He was more than ready with a word of pity or two for those poor officers at the mercy of their command.

"Truly sharing this joy with another would likely be impossible, but if I could impart some small share of my good fortune…"

With a gentle smile, General Zettour rested his hand on Lieutenant Grantz's shoulder, assuming the demeanor of a kindly old man toward this officer he once browbeat in Ildoa.

"No need to be shy. Perhaps you should get some sleep? As a mage, you must endure some rather long flights, I imagine. Don't worry, I will speak to your commanding officer."

That reminds me, there's still the leftover Ildoan champagne from the New Year's banquet. Why not allow the young officer to enjoy a glass?

General Zettour continued speaking. He was good humor incarnate.

"It is a shame we are in the middle of an operation. Otherwise, we might have celebrated with some of the Commonwealth Embassy's finest champagne. Truly regrettable!"

"G…General! Get a hold of yourself…!" "Hmm?"

"Please, General Zettour, calm down. Don't you see? The situation we're in…"

The young officer had gone pale. The sight of the young man's face, so desperate to save the world from annihilation, finally brought General Zettour to his senses.

"Why, First Lieutenant Grantz. You must think I've lost it." "General?"

"Hmm?"

Before General Zettour could offer another bemused response, his

thoughts emerged from the morass of euphoria and returned to dismal reality.

"Ah, of course," he murmured.

This messenger had just come on a special mission from the front lines, entrusted by Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff to deliver a bombshell. Of course it would be disturbing to see the general laugh like this as that bomb exploded at his feet. The first lieutenant couldn't say so openly, but he probably suspected the senior officer had just gone mad.

"Lieutenant Grantz, I assure you I am quite sane."

There in the depths of the General Staff Office, the chief officer of the Imperial Army and the monster who had become the nerve center of the Empire smiled as if he was human.

"Forgive my little outburst."

Zettour chided himself lightly. It had been more than just a little outburst. He flashed a smile to cover his embarrassment. This was something he hadn't experienced in quite some time.

Upon further reflection, Zettour realized his giddiness was almost insufferable given his age. He grimaced at his own lack of discipline. It was mortifying, if he was being honest.

"Ha-ha-ha, forgive me, Lieutenant. It wasn't my intention to worry you."

However, General Zettour still could not completely disguise his elation as he continued:

"Thank you, Lieutenant Grantz. You've brought better news than I could have hoped for. I am now certain that I shall triumph over the world."

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POSTWAR

The Official Stance of the East

As the crisis in southern Alliance territory developed, the Federation Army had a difficult choice to make toward the end of 1927. Increased imperial activity in southern Alliance territory, known as Zettour's Ruse,

was intended to draw out the Federation's principal forces. Once the Federation Army realized that this was an unscrupulous plot to bait them into counterattacking before they were fully prepared, the Federation was forced to choose between overlooking the danger the Alliance forces were in, or sacrificing the lives of its people by coming to their aid, fully knowing that this was a trap.

After considering the importance of diplomatic relations and the spirit of cooperation, the people of the Federation decided they could not ignore the threat to the Alliance armies and executed the offensive operation Rising Dawn in January 1928. Despite facing fierce opposition from waiting imperial forces and suffering heavy losses, the Federation Army was able to push back the front line that General Zettour was holding, decisively precluding any further possibility of the Imperial Army putting more pressure on the Alliance's southern front. This sacrifice was politically necessary, as they had to aid their allies. While it was, tactically speaking, a textbook example of a hopeless battle, it was simultaneously a complete strategic victory.

The Unofficial Stance of the East

Despite achieving total strategic surprise with the offensive of Operation Rising Dawn, the Imperial Army was able to respond with speed and flexibility. According to in-depth investigations by military experts, reacting so proficiently to this attack should have been "impossible without prior knowledge." Therefore, the most logical explanation is a catastrophic intelligence leak. It's probable that, after learning of the offensive in advance, General Zettour instituted an information blackout and laid his trap by leaving the eastern theater unguarded. However, it is impossible to determine whether there actually was a leak and to what extent. If the events cannot be attributed to a leak, then General Hans von Zettour must have been the devil himself. Either that, or the west was responsible.

The Official Stance of the West

Toward the end of 1927, southern Alliance front had completely tied up the Empire's strategic reserves and forcibly captured the attention of General Zettour himself. In January 1928, just as this situation was developing, the Federation Army launched its Rising Dawn offensive,

aiming to bring an end to the war. While this successfully caught the Imperial Army unawares, General Zettour struck back with unrelenting counterattacks, and the Federation suffered tragic losses. Haste ultimately leads to defeat, and Rising Dawn was a textbook example of a tactical victory that was simultaneously a complete strategic disaster.

The Unofficial Stance of the West

The events of January 1928 were an unscrupulous trap laid by the fearsome General Hans von Zettour. This uncanny strategy, carried out by the general in the south of Ildoa in the latter half of 1927, was an ambitious tactical diversion that led to the implosion of Federation Army forces. If its purpose from the beginning was to reduce the Federation Army's offensive capabilities, then General Zettour truly was an unparalleled strategic genius. The hostilities that occurred from late 1927 to early 1928 served as no more than a trigger for Rising Dawn and its counter, Morning Light. It is a distinct possibility that General Zettour anticipated everything. There is no other obvious explanation. These events have had a massive impact on current international relations, but just how much did General Zettour foresee? His impact reaches far!

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JANUARY 21, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, BARUCH BRIDGE

War is cruel.

What's the big deal?

Of course no one would disagree that war is brutal! Cruel or not, though, when was the last time people stopped a battle halfway because of brutality? The hand-wringing usually only starts after the fighting's all over. Regardless of whether everyone truly recognizes the brutality of war, only those who survive can have those sentiments.

And no one is more aware of that than Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff.

"Incoming…!"

I quietly grumble, "Shit, they're getting closer," in response.

The whistle of artillery shells. Where will they land?

That sound is all it takes to understand what's about to happen. As creatures, humans grow accustomed to things. The defining feature of the human species, you could say, is its ability to adapt to its environment. An ability that becomes extremely apparent on the battlefield. But accustomed or not…on the battlefield, entertaining extraneous thoughts is a luxury.

Humans and their oh so human thoughts are a wonderful product of civilization. Far be it from me to speak ill of civilization. But you can't assume that civilization will always be there.

Is that sad?

We occupied these trenches that the Federation Army had so carefully prepared, and now the previous tenants are back, and they're mad. Looks like they want to till the land with artillery and make sure they bury the imperial troops along with the remains of their old camp.

Dig a hole, fill it up.

Did I read that in a textbook somewhere?

The Communists should also give reading a try! Why not pledge fealty to Keynes and transition over to a market economy already? So long as you can build a home in peace, who gives a damn about productivity?!

Even as I continue to toy with these ideas in the back of my head while hugging the dirt, I have to admit: Who can aspire to anything more than survival at a time like this? At the same time, it only makes me wish all the more for peace.

As it says in "A Song of Liangzhou," do not laugh. Of course, this is the eastern front. There are no jade cups to be found here, and the only thing a passed-out drunk will accomplish is freeze to death. The end is the same, either way. How many soldiers ever come home?

Yes, that is war.

Tanya, however, will still do her best.

In place of a lute, we have the overwhelming symphony of war pounding in our ears. The strumming of the Federation's corps-level artillery leaves our inexperienced new recruits pinned to the ground, trembling and unable to move. Deplorable as it may be, the General Staff Office has infused a great deal of promising human capital into our ranks to make up the numbers needed for this mission. With any luck, they'll get a chance to accumulate more value in the future.

Using the kindness reserved for new soldiers (a strong and entirely altruistic kick to the ass), I drive them forward, shouting, "Unless you want to die, move!" Adjutant in tow, I change position slightly, praying that the enemy barrage will soon come to an end.

In a sense, we are lucky.

Imperial or Federation, a trench is a trench, after all.

The Federation's field engineers must have known what they were doing. These trenches, lovingly crafted and only recently stolen by us, continue to stand firm even as their former occupants rain artillery fire down.

A cynical smile crosses Tanya's face. Former occupants? As if anything has really changed.

"Didn't think we'd reenact the Rhine front here."

Did we drop into enemy territory and seize this position just so we can sit here with our dicks out under enemy fire?! Tanya grimaces reflexively.

As the saying goes, infantry wins wars. However, from a footslogger's point of view, it's hard not to complain!

Besides, Tanya is supposed to be a mage. There shouldn't be any reason whatsoever to use her as infantry. So what is she doing holding trenches like a grunt?

"…Looks like we're here for the long haul."

Apparently, the forecast in the east this January is partly cloudy with frequent showers of artillery shells. Too bad there are no cancellations due to bad weather in war.

"In any case, this is terrible. Even on the Rhine, you would normally get rotated back to the reserve trenches once in a while."

We dropped in behind Federation lines and, like Horatius, are currently defending a bridge. After seizing this important critical point in the enemy's supply line, my orders are to defend this lonely outpost in its bloody stream at all costs. Consider us open for business. Operating hours, twenty-four seven.

No reinforcements, and no hope of relief.

Of course, this particular paratrooper squad of ours is composed of mages.

Not only are we capable of deploying from transport planes like an airborne unit, but we also aren't dependent on aircraft and, in theory, are

fully capable of returning home on our own, making us a convenient power projection tool.

And if such a force can be used to disrupt enemy logistics? Obviously, that would be an extremely effective and attractive option. From a tactical standpoint, that is. As the one who actually has to carry it out, Tanya is less than enthused.

"Colonel, contact! They're on the move! Enemy infantry!"

I sigh as Major Weiss reports, raising the alarm. They were bound to come.

"Use the captured LMGs to lay down suppressive fire! Conserve magic rounds for now. Don't forget that this is going to be a long fight!"

"We knew it going in, but this is insane."

"Yes it is, Major. But it's also an extremely logical move."

Put another way, logic is basically all this plan has to offer. I sigh internally.

After finishing with Major Weiss, I mutter softly to myself. "Honestly, this is preposterous."

Hmph.

As soon as that complaint leaves Tanya's mouth, the sky shudders as a large artillery shell lands nearby. A striking reminder that complaining is a luxury. The shrapnel that punches through Tanya's protective film and reaches her defensive shell is upsetting…but even more upsetting is the fact that the shot wasn't even aimed at her in the first place. This is a textbook case of area suppression. But as the one on the receiving end, the fact that it is being carried out so by-the-books is what makes it all the more infuriating.

"Well, I suppose everyone is being rational today. How respectable." There is little to do now but laugh.

After all, the moment we air assaulted this supply base, I fulfilled my purpose. This is the crux of Zettour's three-dimensional strategy. A large- scale airborne operation targeting key supply bases in the enemy's operational rear with divisions of aerial mages.

On paper, at least, it's very straightforward.

Unfortunately, there weren't enough mages for the plan. The idea of scraping together whatever mages you could squeeze out of the Imperial Army, in its current state, and pasting them together into three full-size

mage divisions and dropping them behind enemy lines? It was no small endeavor, to say the least.

But I suppose the extreme nature of radical ideas is part of what makes them effective.

We have captured the enemy's base, after all.

Aerial mages wield a certain amount of firepower and armor. They also have the ability to hold a position, much like regular infantry. If three aerial mage divisions could be put together somehow, they would be a powerful set of spikes that could hold down an area for quite some time. And if three such powerful spikes were hammered directly into the Federation Army's arteries? It could completely asphyxiate the Federation's massive supply network.

Could, could, could. But the Federation Army has its own hard-fought lessons. As far as I can see, the Federation Army is ruled by pragmatism and more than willing to make hard decisions.

"Damn Commies, can't you work a little harder?!"

What are those Reds doing over there? The Communist Party is supposed to be making life difficult for the army. Why can't they make it a little harder? You call that being obstructionist?

What good is an ideologue, after all, if they don't use their ideology to trip up their own comrades?! Even now, heavy artillery continues to bombard the supply point we've just taken. They clearly won't hesitate to bomb every last inch of this position, even if it means losing a supply point their army depends on.

"This is just like Arene," I grumble, taking a quick glance around.

At Arene, the Empire were the ones carrying out the bombardment. This time, the Empire is on the business end of the artillery. But there's no padding with infantry. We overwhelmed the enemy with nothing but aerial mages.

Militarily speaking, interrupting the flow of supplies is a much more serious issue than whatever the current stock might be at any given point in time. Of course I know that. Apparently, the higher-ups think we should be able to "hold off the enemy with whatever captured supplies and equipment you procure on-site." I wish the brass would keep those calculations to themselves.

"And General Zettour… Well, he probably also got burned," I mutter,

praying that the sound of heavy artillery will quiet down enough for me to ignore it.

While technically disputed territory, Arene can more or less be considered an imperial city. Yes, anti-imperial sentiment there was fierce, which caused plenty of headaches for military police and eventually reached the point of open rebellion, but it did show that an army is perfectly capable of raining shells down on its own cities given sufficient justification.

This is perfectly rational.

That was why it was so simple for Tanya to give the order to fire on the city. But for those civilized men and women on the receiving end who only know peace, it is difficult to see the one issuing that order as anything other than a monster.

At the same time, such condemnation is pointless, as no amount of it will bring an end to war.

On the other hand, General Zettour is the kind of man who would say, If you can't avoid the hail of artillery, why not jump right in? What a terrible joke.

Ultimately, these sorts of issues tend to be decided with a single word:

necessity.

"What a barbaric time, war is!" I mutter. That's when I notice something lying on the ground by the wall of the trench. A wooden box.

No, a paper box? Something conical is sticking out… I go pale as I reach for the box, terrified for a moment about the possibility of secondary explosions. However, I quickly relax.

Almost collapse, even.

"Well, well, well, what do you know? In a place like this…"

A beverage! The logo and label on the bottle closely resemble products I've seen in my previous life.

Someone must have gone to great lengths to transport it here from somewhere very far away. Likely sent as part of an aid package from the Unified States. A carbonated beverage, straight from the high temple of capitalism all the way to the sacred seat of Communism.

One of the original occupants of this trench probably stashed it here. And now the Federation Army has come back to mercilessly dispose of it with heavy artillery, along with Tanya and her troops.

I glance around. The area near the trenches looks like the pockmarked surface of the moon. Scattered across the ground are holes, craters, flames, and—as a fun bonus—fragments of what used to be humans, as well as the remains of the massive Federation Army stockpile so generously provided by the capitalists.

Even with all her combat experience, Tanya has rarely been witness to a sight like this. Not only the ammo and fuel stored in the warehouses, but everything from foodstuffs to luxury goods is also strewn across the battlefield, mostly blown to smithereens. A joyous sight? No, this is the opposite of that.

At least I can savor the great taste of capitalism while we ride this out. I reach for one of the bottles of soda, materializing my magic blade in place of a corkscrew.

"Lieutenant Serebryakov, care to join me for a glass?" "Colonel?"

I don't know if these beverages were meant for celebrating the New Year or a successful offensive, but this generous gift of soda will taste just as good on imperial lips. In which case, the least we can do is enjoy it.

"A gift from the Federation! Or should I say, from the Unified States? Very considerate of them, either way. A little fizzy from the opposite end of the planet!"

"In that case, don't mind if I do." "By all means!"

A smile plays on my lips. Delight springs onto my adjutant's face as I gently toss her a bottle.

Just as Serebryakov is about to catch it…

…an artillery shell detonates directly above the trench where my unit is hunkered down. Shrapnel fills the air, striking the airborne bottle with perfect timing and splattering it and its contents onto the ground.

"Low-down Commies…! Too stingy to share a single lousy drink!" I grimace. I expected nothing less from those bastards.

"Well, that's disappointing. The one thing I did always like was their slogan. How does it go again? From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs?"

"What a civilized insight, Visha. Cheers! There's still another bottle.

How about it?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

I lob another soda to the lieutenant. Shell after relentless shell continues to explode in the sky over our heads. Tanya has no official qualifications as a weathercaster, but even an amateur can tell there will be heavy shelling, with occasional flares, for the foreseeable future.

With the way things are going, it might not be long before the enemy starts laying down a smoke screen in preparation for a charge.

Unpredictable weather is just another example of the many atrocities of war.

That's why Tanya is supposed to be a force for equity and fairness.

And is it fair, I ask, that the Federation should be the only ones to rain explosions on the battlefield? With a swig of carbonated soda, I fire off a crude burp into the air in an attempt to bring some small measure of equilibrium to the Federation artillery's one-sided balance sheet.

Unfortunately, that's all Tanya can do here. There are no jade cups to be found. Flares light up the night sky in place of the moon, and the elegant sounds of battle are the only strains of music. There isn't even any sand. Only deep and stifling trenches.

This is a battlefield. And I fucking hate war.

There must be something wrong with the brass if they can still smile while all this is going on.

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JANUARY 1, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, IMPERIAL CAPITAL

On this particular day, as part of his public duties as a high-ranking government official, Counselor Conrad was attending a New Year's party.

For a pragmatist such as Conrad, getting drunk on wine and mingling with guests at such a supercilious banquet held little appeal. If it was up to him, he would have rather not put in an appearance at all.

First and foremost, he found it distasteful.

They were at war. The Empire was gray and ashen. The very idea of showing up to such an ostentatiously cheerful and drunken soiree with a smile! At a time like this!

The gap between reality and this farce made Conrad want to vomit. If he ever got the chance, he would like to ask whoever put this event together whether it had been intended as an elaborate form of torture.

But there were obligations that came with his position. High-ranking officials in the Foreign Office had certain roles they were expected to fill. This naturally included mandatory attendance at the New Year's functions of the Imperial Court.

That was why Conrad reluctantly sipped bad wine and tolerated this revolting atmosphere with a smile on his face.

His military counterparts were similarly duty-bound.

In fact, since the nation was at war, there was much more significance attached to the military's presence, making their attendance that much more mandatory.

That was simply their lot on this morning of January 1. Attendance was required regardless of how much they would have preferred otherwise.

And come that afternoon, it would include the mastermind of the Imperial Army and ranking Deputy Director of the Service Corps in the General Staff, a man whose presence inspired fear within the very Foreign Office bureaucrats in whom the system had been vested—General Hans von Zettour himself.

Zettour seemed to be one of the few members of the Empire who could still see the writing on the wall. He had greeted the morning of the New Year with a displeased look on his face.

However, it was always crucial for officers to keep in mind how they appeared to their subordinates. As the head of the General Staff, Zettour was aware that his every word was an object of public scrutiny.

People who held important positions were constantly watched for signs of change in their every deed and action. This explained why officers with long military careers were generally so regimented.

Despite it being the New Year, there had been no appreciable change in Zettour's morning routine. He rose at the same time he normally did and drank his customary cup of coffee to start his day while looking over the reports presented to him by the personnel on duty. The only difference was the flavor of his coffee had suddenly improved, since it'd been sourced from Ildoa.

It was a wholly undramatic start to the day. This habit had been ingrained in him. Although he didn't show it, due to the Imperial Court function he would soon be forced to endure, Zettour considered this a dark day.

The Empire's lifeblood was trickling from its veins like sand through an hourglass. This was no time for extravagant and overblown parties. Or maybe it was exactly the time for such things. Zettour's inability to judge what the moment called for left him feeling more disgruntled.

"Most annoying is the fact that I can sympathize." Unease. It was unease that ate away at people the most.

Uncertainty was a dreadful thing. It restricted thought, caused people to lose faith in themselves, and led to spirals of misery and self-hate.

Once such fear had lodged itself inside a person, dealing with it head-on was a daunting task. Even for imperial staff officers, who were expected to stand tall and resolute and to remain mindful that the eyes of their subordinates were always on them.

"Growing older is a terrible thing…"

Zettour took the cigar he'd just been about to place into his mouth, returned it to his breast pocket, and chased away the budding unease building in his chest with a futile sigh.

It felt difficult to breathe.

Each and every breath he took was like torture. What he wanted to do, more than anything, was flee from this place. And if it wasn't for his position, he would have done so immediately. The muscles in his face, however, remained fixed in a perfect smile.

What else could he do? There were no circumstances that allowed a prominent staff officer to walk about with a frown on his face, least of all at a cheerful New Year's banquet hosted by the imperial household.

What the current situation called for was a smile, bold and confident.

Affectatious, vainglorious nihilism.

How deplorable. Zettour could feel himself sneering internally at the garishness of the capital this New Year's. He supposed that before the shadow of ruin could appear, there must be light to cast it.

The sun was beginning to set on the Empire, and the atmosphere at this New Year's banquet was as bizarrely cheerful—unhinged, even—as the war was ghastly. With the ladies and gentlemen replete in their finery, the banquet hall and the outside world was like night and day. The guests had left their anxieties at the door, full of good cheer and intent on nothing besides enjoying the moment.

It was a dazzling court ritual. The dresses, the jewels, the chandeliers. "It seems all the beauty in the Empire has been gathered in this room."

A dazzling, infinite collection of light. Even the bubbles in the champagne, poured by darting waiters, seemed to compete for exquisite attention to detail. Attending sons and daughters overflowed with the budding radiance of youth, and laughter rang throughout the hall, as if all was hale and happy.

Naturally, the children of important families were not the only centerpiece of this event.

Various influential and important figures in attendance had contrived to clothe themselves in their gala best—finery specially reserved for such occasions. General Zettour, too, was an unmistakable part of these niceties.

His clothing—immaculately pressed formal wear of the highest grade—

was only the beginning. Exquisitely polished medals glittered on his chest, and the military saber strapped to his waist was resplendent with ornamentation. Even his feet left nothing to be desired, as his military boots had been polished to a mirror shine. The general looked as if he had just stepped fully formed from a painting, the very image of a majestic imperial commander.

He was impressive and powerful, exactly what one expected from a soldier of the Empire. His appearance was a carefully calculated representation of the nation, the army, and the General Staff.

It would make for striking photographs if anyone was taking them.

Hiding his phlegmatic self behind a smile, General Zettour slowed his steps, which had been growing too fast, and slowly presented himself to the influence-peddlers in the crowd.

He found the waste of time aggravating.

As far as Zettour was concerned, every second was invaluable. The crackdown in the south, the vigilance in the east, the aerial battles in the west—all three were sources of uncertainty. Truthfully speaking, he simply didn't have the time to fritter a whole day away on social niceties at some New Year's banquet.

But the entire Empire was gripped with unease at the moment. People craved the reassurance of victory. The heads of the army could ill-afford to show their own discomfort at a time like this.

Zettour had no choice but to continue to present a sanguine face to the party, one majestic and confident in victory. He continued to walk through the room in this fashion. Unexpected encounters, however, were inevitable. Several eminent figures Zettour was familiar with had gathered around a single table, and naturally, Zettour could not just ignore them.

"Why, hello. A good New Year's to you all. How have we been?"

High-ranking military officials, imperial dignitaries, bureaucrats, and members of the nobility. The fundamental fact that they were at war practically forced them to come together at a court gathering like this in a friendly pretense of "leisure."

"It's been quite some time since we last met. I hope there's room for a set of old bones such as myself at this table."

Zettour took a seat, joining their circle and chatting pleasantly.

The impression he wished to leave the attendees was one of relaxation,

even confidence. He needed to be the very embodiment of victory and couldn't let them see any hint of trepidation or inner turmoil, no thoughts of defeat. Not even unintentionally. He needed to play the total fool and scatter false hope in his wake.

That was what everyone would want if they found themselves in similarly precarious circumstances—a powerful savior, here to sweep away their concerns. Understanding that this was the role expected of him, the all-too-human Zettour had no choice but to squash the vulgar unease teeming under his breast and fully commit to his part as Zettour the bombast, Zettour the extraordinaire.

"A toast!"

"Here, here. To General Zettour!"

A steady chorus of optimistic cheers rained down on General Zettour from passing guests. It was his duty as an officer to leisurely and elegantly raise his cup in response.

"Thank you, thank you. You are too kind."

Officers always had eyes on them. It was one of the first things Zettour had been taught in cadet school. Only, no one had told him that it wouldn't only be fellow soldiers watching his every move.

They had been terrible teachers. A terrible era.

A terrible reality.

"I was highly impressed by your campaign in Ildoa last year. As long as we have your offensive might, the threats surrounding the Empire should prove easily surmountable."

"No, no, General Zettour's true value lies in his logistic expertise. It was absolute mayhem while you were gone, General, but everything is finally running smoothly again."

"The situation with the Federation has grown much more stable thanks to your interventions as well. It seems our victory rests on your shoulders, General!"

A solution. It was what they all demanded. The general answered each voice with a smile on his face.

"General, we are counting on you!" "General, may fortune favor you in battle!" "General, this will be the year!"

The future was uncertain, and their own fates were equally unclear. They needed a deus ex machina to wipe away that fear. A figure to idolize.

General Zettour raised his glass and paused a moment before speaking. "To our victory!"

"To victory!!"

They probably believed it, every last one of them. In victory. Victory would come in the end. Feeble, yes, but the general wasn't going to laugh at them. He understood human nature too well for that. Once upon a time, he had also clung to the panacea of victory.

The hope of victory was a powerful drug.

For anyone who somehow managed to wake from the dream and free themselves from their addiction to victory, the world would become a place of cynical amusement, perverse to the point of cruelty.

-x-X-x-

[Image]

-x-X-x-

Zettour stood up and began walking around the room, as if to enjoy the party. The guests seemed to have abandoned themselves entirely to diversion. The Empire was at war, but the general couldn't find even the smallest shadow of remorse over holding such a lavish banquet.

It hadn't always been like this.

At the start of the war, when it came to New Year's parties and other events, the word on everyone's lips within the capital had been restraint. That sentiment, too, had likely been sincere. But as the Empire's destruction began to loom, those same people started to insist—with faces as serious as stone—that what was needed now, at a time like this, was gorgeous extravagance to chase pessimism away. It was difficult not to laugh at the absurdity of it.

"A time like this, indeed."

People could deny it. They could protest. But deep down, humans always looked for ways to banish their uncertainty.

"Humans truly are amazing creatures."

Strange creatures, incapable of being fully honest with themselves. Always in need of some sort of cynical enjoyment in order to prop themselves up.

"Today's enjoyment provides energy for tomorrow. But perhaps tomorrow will be sunny. Maybe it isn't as foolish as it sounds."

So long as you don't know what price will be paid, General Zettour added sarcastically to himself.

The cost of squandering today.

Time was an extremely rare asset. No matter how stingy you were with it, there would never be enough. And yet the Empire's most important people had all gathered at this New Year's party with the express purpose of wasting time.

How many of them understood? There was one, at least. One who, for better or worse, could see the writing on the wall.

That day, Counselor Conrad reluctantly made an appearance at the court's New Year's banquet. Counselor Conrad was both a diplomat and a high- ranking official at the Foreign Office.

Conrad, a career bureaucrat born of aristocratic blood, was so typical that men like him had almost become cliché in the Reich. Thus, despite his personal misgivings, Conrad found it easy to plaster a perfect smile on his face. His tongue moved loquaciously, driven by a power source other than his heart.

"A happy New Year!"

The counselor took care to receive each and every guest he met with a polite, seasonal greeting. People, however, could be sensitive things. Depending on time and place, even asking something as innocuous as Are you okay? could be considered intrusive and cause someone to pull away. And yet if you made them feel ignored, that could also create a rift.

It was important to always tailor the words to the individual in question.

Counselor Conrad was a chameleon. Although appearance-wise, he seemed more like a sloth.

The fundamental basis of social etiquette was to never make people feel awkward. As a diplomat, it was important to be extremely proficient in this skill. To be affable. Sophisticated, but cheerful. Maintaining a hint of delight at the corners of the mouth, even when the situation was unpleasant. Especially when the situation was unpleasant.

Despite the wariness he was feeling deep down, Conrad appeared every bit the carefree socialite as he strolled jovially about the magnificent venue. Occasionally, he spotted another guest with a similar, slightly forced smile on their face, but these encounters afforded no more respite other than to briefly wonder just how far ahead that other person had seen.

That was why the moment he saw a familiar face, Conrad was very tempted to flash a cynical smile. His very first thought was that it felt like looking in a mirror.

It was none other than the personification of imperial victory himself, General Hans von Zettour, surrounded by a crowd of people. At the moment, the general was under siege, penned in by fools with heads full of straw. Needless to say, General Zettour maintained a perfect mask of etiquette despite his encirclement.

Taking a glance around, Counselor Conrad could not help but chuckle painfully.

"I see a few familiar faces in that crowd. And oh, there are some more!" In contrast to that nostalgic turn of phrase, Conrad was grumbling

internally. People in our line of work are like sharks.

He had just spotted some diplomats who hailed from neutral counties. It was a good idea to engage with them. After all, making nice and forging connections was the job of a diplomat. In a sense, you could say that these neutral diplomats served as proxy hounds for nations at war, going here and there to unabashedly sniff out whatever favor could be curried.

Naturally, the greatest prize for such men was whichever piece of information that could be sold for a high price. In other words, rather than futilely trying their luck with His Imperial Majesty—who'd only appeared briefly at the start of the event—it made much more sense to take their time sniffing around the man who was the de jure boss, General Hans von Zettour. This would give them a better chance of getting the information they needed. It was practically a law of nature.

That was why the general was seemingly so popular among guests from the various foreign nations. Most were waiting close by with sharp eyes to catch some glimpse of whichever one of the arguably most important people in the Empire might betray once he grew weary from interacting with his own countrymen and his powers of courtesy began to slip.

For a diplomat, such duties were an unavoidable part of the job, but for a military man, these were tedious side tasks. Conrad found it difficult not to sympathize with the general. He made a decision on the spot to play the clown and come to Zettour's aid. As one human to the next.

"Why, hello, hello! How are we all doing today? And a happy New Year to you all. If I had known so many familiar faces were gathered here, I would have made my way over sooner! So good to see you, so good to see you, you don't mind if I join?"

Conrad called out in a loud voice to the familiar dignitaries, leaning on their relationship as fellow diplomats. Obviously, they could hardly ignore him.

"Why, if it isn't Counselor Conrad! A happy New Year to you."

"Yes, yes, Happy New Year. Why, what's this? It almost seems like there isn't a single bubble left in your champagne. Shame on us, serving flat champagne to our guests. How embarrassing."

"Your consideration is greatly appreciated, Counselor Conrad. But the truth is, we found the aroma so nostalgic that we simply spent too long enjoying it. It seems we were distracted by the lively conversation as well.

How shameful. Please, you mustn't blame the waiters."

Jab, jab, jab.

If a second audio channel could be added in, listeners might have heard Conrad say something like this: You must be up to no good, sitting here so long that your champagne has gone flat. And behind the feigned response of "nostalgia" came the other diplomat's carefully crafted response: "We haven't seen champagne in your nation for quite some time. The Empire must be on shaky ground, if it can no longer maintain a steady supply of luxury goods…"

After this gentle verbal fencing, they exchanged a few graceful pleasantries before saying their farewells and going on their merry way. Although neither of them had gotten the better of the other, Counselor Conrad had achieved an impressive tactical victory by scattering the diplomats who had gathered around General Zettour like hyenas.

As if he had been waiting for the right timing, General Zettour waved familiarly and spoke in a cordial voice, which carried surprisingly well.

"Is that Counselor Conrad I see?"

It was a farce, but the general acted as if he had only just noticed Conrad. Conrad understood but answered him in kind.

"Why! If it isn't General Zettour himself!"

Conrad assumed a posture of deference, as if to apologize for having taken so long to greet him, offering a formal bow that was proper almost to the point of ridicule.

"General Zettour, Your Excellency, I wish you a happy New Year." "Why, Counselor Conrad. Perhaps I should refer to you as Your

Excellency as well today, in keeping with court etiquette?"

Under the circumstances, this concern for position almost seemed like a joke. But all the more reason for Counselor Conrad to return a graceful bow. It was his duty, as a member of the aristocracy.

"Now is the occasion, but as it pleases Your Excellency." "Ha-ha-ha. And perhaps for other occasions as well?"

Despite the offhanded manner of his comment, it was actually quite a pointed rejoinder.

"Yes, well, this is the New Year. It is easy to let customs fall by the wayside in everyday life. We have to decide ourselves if we want to honor tradition. And at times like this, even pretense can be entertaining."

"Yes, you're absolutely right. At times like this, indeed."

The grinning general took a champagne sword from a passing waiter and, in classic fashion, sabered off the neck of one of the champagne bottles. It was an elegant display, and the general himself was the very epitome of refinement.

Ignoring the excited crowd while doling out glasses provided by an attentive waiter, General Zettour raised his glass.

"To Counselor Conrad!"

The general was a straitlaced man who normally didn't show even a hint of pageantry. But as he deliberately loosened up for the party, General Zettour displayed a natural sophistication in a way that was beyond compare.

"Thank you, Your Excellency. I would like to raise a glass in your honor as well, but I'm sure you're tired of champagne at this point."

"Thank you, Counselor Conrad. Your concern is admirable."

Yes, yes, no, of course. The two exchange overly polite banter. The counselor bowed, apologizing for "causing a stir" and for "intruding on the conversation." As he did so, General Zettour extended a hand, as if to say, Not at all.

"My apologies for taking up your valuable time in this way…" "Nonsense. I am here now. I can afford to forget my military duties for a

day and celebrate the New Year. Don't fret over an old man like me. Spare a thought for yourself."

The kindness, however, was touching, and Zettour nodded slightly in acknowledgement.

After draining his glass, General Zettour returned it to one of the waiters and gripped Counselor Conrad's hand once more, before sending him off.

"Thank you, Mr. Conrad. Have a good year. And take care of your health, won't you? The future is ours, after all."

A thought suddenly seemed to occur to General Zettour. He drew a pen and nonchalantly began scribbling something onto a paper napkin lying nearby.

It read, The Rising Dawn is near—however, Morning Light will soon follow. An exclamation that could not be spoken out loud. Upon reading it, it took everything Conrad had to keep his expression from changing.

However…

How long would it take for the sun to once again rise on the fatherland? It would happen. Eventually…though there was no way to know if either of them would be around to see it.

"Your Excellency, please take care of yourself."

In response, the general grinned and gripped his hand firmly once more. It was just a handshake. But Conrad couldn't help but feel the most substantial exchange he had that day was contained within that simple gesture.

Empty formalities. Trifling obligations. Beyond them lay genuine, heartfelt gratitude.

It was a lofty exchange overflowing with humanity. Which perhaps explained why Conrad privately decided to act as General Zettour's mosquito netting for a night. He chose to do this purely out of goodwill and with no expectation of anything in return, which was rare for him.

Just as Conrad endeavored to draw a spontaneous crowd…

"Happy New Year, Mr. Conrad. May relations between our country and the Empire be as peaceful this year as they were before."

Conrad's face nearly flinched, but he managed to recover and hide his agitation with a smile. With all respect, he hardly merited such formalities. When he spotted the person who had spoken, however, he realized it was someone in a very particular position. Conrad had no choice but to maintain his mask.

"Why, it is His Excellency, Honorary Consul Torm. And his charming wife as well!"

Counselor Conrad continued to play his part, acting more surprised than he felt in order to hide his actual shock. The honorary consul, however, was a capable man. Despite Conrad's best efforts, he had likely seen through the ruse.

The consul and his wife wore plastered smiles of their own. So be it. Conrad had no choice but to wave the white flag, recognizing that any resistance against this pair of veterans was futile.

"A happy New Year. I can only hope that the friendship between our two nations continues to grow this year."

"Thank you, Mr. Conrad. Though we may have our differences, as long- standing neighbors, it pleases me to be able to exchange words without hesitation."

"I have a feeling our connection here will be the foundation of a beautiful relationship for our countries, Honorary Consul."

It was a highly formal conversation. Natural enough for two officials engaged in foreign relations.

The unspoken implication of the honorary consul's greeting was It would be excellent if these problems could be solved peacefully, through words. The official of a small nation was emphasizing their neutrality. And as an old friend, we can expect your support, I'm sure was the undertone of Conrad's own reply.

However, there was something extremely strange about this exchange. Because as the name suggested, Torm was not officially the representative of any country. He was, in fact, an honorary consul, which was generally an unpaid position filled by a person already residing in the country. The natural conclusion would be that Torm and his wife were imperial citizens, just like Counselor Conrad.

However, while Honorary Consul Torm and his wife were extremely influential within the Empire, they were actually old-world aristocrats who didn't hold imperial citizenship. Consequently, the Torm family found itself in the highly unusual position of being subjects of the imperial household but not imperial citizens.

"To His Imperial Majesty of the Reich!"

Conrad raised his glass, to which Torm quickly replied: "We shall drink to His Imperial Majesty."

Yes, of course. We.

As they raised their New Year's cups, there was a distinct difference between the two. The faint distinction between a subject of the Empire, and a friend. Those who scoffed at the extremes to which empty formality could go would do well to understand the historical significance behind these conventions.

At the time of the Empire's founding, those among the aristocracy who were of particularly noble birth generally attempted to transition from vassals under feudal contract to retainers.

Sneering at such arrangements would have been diplomatic suicide. At times of war such as this, anyone willing to laugh at such behavior as mere stubbornness or the backwardness of smaller nations would have to prepare for a fight to the death with the many diplomatic officials who craved the

goodwill and support that could be provided by such nations.

Such a response was impossible for anyone with common sense. However, that was exactly what made conversations such as these, laden with so many diplomatic considerations, so tedious and roundabout.

"Thank you, Mr. Conrad. As a man of distinction in the Foreign Office, you would be doing me a great pleasure if you could spare a little time to discuss a small matter."

"But of course, anything for Your Excellency."

"Wonderful, thank you, Mr. Conrad. Although, it would seem a shame to disturb the Empire's beautiful New Year's celebrations with such uncouth matters…"

Honorary Consul Torm shrugged as if to suggest delicacy. His wife, meanwhile, flashed a carefully crafted and elegant smile, seemingly urging discretion. Naturally, she would never say such things outright. Not here, where others could hear.

When coming into contact with the peripheries of a manufactured community, artfully navigating the divide between courtesy, public persona, and true intentions was an unimaginably arduous task. There were always subtle differences between communities. But perhaps that was why the following invitation from Honorary Consul Torm and his wife was not entirely unexpected.

"You must have had your fill of champagne by now?" the honorary consul's wife asked. Her husband seemed to understand.

"I may have partaken too much, and in front of Mr. Conrad to boot. How embarrassing!"

"No, I believe I've drunk too much as well. I was enjoying celebrating the New Year so much with everyone that the alcohol simply flowed."

"Ha-ha-ha, you and I both." Honorary Consul Torm laughed openly, brightening the mood. Without missing a beat, his wife cut in with completely natural timing to suggest a change of location.

"Perhaps we could take a moment to sober up. Speaking of which, we recently received a shipment of tea from our estate… Won't you come and sample it?"

"Of course, madame. Why, thank you. It is almost too great an honor, a tea procured by your fine household, but nonetheless, I would be delighted to join you."

"Excellent. You as well, dear, mind your step."

As they proceeded deeper into the palace, guided by Honorary Consul Torm and his wife, Conrad naturally felt strange. Although it was a court event, even the guards, who stood by at attention, allowed them to pass with an affable "Your Excellency" when they recognized Honorary Consul Torm's face. For Conrad to enter this deep into the palace chambers, an attendant would usually need to intercede along the way.

But Honorary Consul Torm and his wife were not even imperial citizens. Despite this, for better or worse, their household enjoyed a favorable relationship with the Reich, having resided within the Empire for

generations and even occasionally intermarried with the imperial family.

Which was why Honorary Consul Torm and his wife, though not formally citizens of the Empire, had their own private quarters within the imperial palace, where they were leading Conrad now. Conrad, a mere government official, thanked them, once again being reminded of just how unique the honorary consul's position was.

Even now, from their own point of view, they considered themselves a subject of the old Empire, rather than subjects of the Reich that connected the past with today.

And so the pair were guests in the imperial palace who enjoyed elevated status and were deserving of respect. Even if they were seen as part of the Empire and officially referred to as Honorary Consul and his wife, they continued to live casually as figures of authority from before the unification of the Reich, equivalent in status to that of a markgraf. And from their point of view, people like Conrad were little more than the servants of their friend.

From an outsider's point of view, such a hybrid situation might seem highly confounding. But within the imperial system, it had been a natural development.

When the Empire unified, it had relied on the authority of the imperial household and aristocratic society. Some might consider them relics of the past, but aristocratic rights and privileges still remained.

And yet…

…Honorary Consul Torm and his wife resided within the Empire but were also foreigners who did not share in the Empire's destiny. Meanwhile, Conrad engaged in practical affairs of the nation while at this New Year's

banquet. For these aristocrats to go out of their way to speak to him and to invite him to tea in their private quarters away from prying eyes and ears… Well, it was no ordinary occurrence.

"Now then, Your Excellency, shall we get down to the important matters you wished to discuss?"

Straightforwardness seemed like what might be required here. Although he rarely took notice of common subjects, the honorary consul smiled.

"Indeed, Counselor Conrad. If you don't mind, I was hoping you might educate me slightly on some matters related to the Empire."

Conrad gathered himself. The fact that Torm had dispensed with the earlier formalities must mean that the important matter was coming.

"Insofar as diplomatic protocol allows?"

"No, please do not concern yourself to that degree. There is just one question I wish to ask. In terms of people or staffing… I do not know how best to put it, but is there a successor in place?"

"A successor?"

"Yes, the next person in line, I suppose. I really do not know how to put it, but yes, it is a question of personnel, I believe."

Conrad found himself at a slight loss.

When it came to hiding one's true intentions, the aristocracy were masters of the game. But it was quite rare to see a member of the nobility struggle for words like this after deciding to speak openly. Did Honorary Consul Torm trust Conrad so much that he was willing to give voice to misgivings that he had not fully mastered even within his own head? That seemed hard to believe. As Conrad hesitated, the honorary consul placed a cigar into his mouth as if to buy himself time.

Conrad remained quiet for several minutes, allowing the honorary consul to puff at his cigar.

"Counselor Conrad, I wish to ask about General Zettour," Torm said at last.

"I see, you wish to know more about the general."

Like the diplomats, it seemed Honorary Consul Torm was looking for information about General Zettour. Just as Conrad felt he was beginning to understand, however, the honorary consul shook his head as if to disabuse Conrad of that notion.

"Yes, to be honest, I suppose I would like to know more about what type

of person General Zettour is. About his talents and his intentions. But as I said, I only wish to ask you a single question. And there is something more important for me to ask."

"As you say…but are you sure your question is something I will be able to answer?"

"Counselor Conrad, if you cannot answer this question, then I am sure no one present at this banquet today would be able to."

Hmph. Conrad cocked his head internally. It was a strange statement. For someone like Honorary Consul Torm, who occupied a high position within the court, asking after General Zettour should have been a simple proposition. With some private inquiry, surely he could have aristocratic officers or even high-ranking nobility at his disposal… What exactly was he driving at?

Conrad threw the ball back into Honorary Consul Torm and his wife's corner, attempting to keep his face blank as he did so.

"And what is it about General Zettour that you would like me to answer?"

"Not about him, per se. Well, I suppose it has something to do with him…," Honorary Consul Torm said, turning his eyes toward his wife.

Something unspoken seemed to pass between the two. They both nodded, as if reaching a decision. Torm began to speak once more, his expression determined.

"Has the Reich considered…who will follow after General Zettour?" "I'm sorry, Your Excellency. What do you mean, 'after'?"

Conrad didn't mean to repeat the honorary consul's own words back to him, but he genuinely didn't understand what the man was trying to ask. As two pairs of eyes stared back at him, Conrad attempted to think, before finally grasping their meaning.

"Oh, I see."

They were likely worried about a repeat of what had happened with Zettour's predecessor, Rudersdorf.

"It was truly unfortunate what happened with General Rudersdorf, to lose such a distinguished person."

Conrad made the face that was expected of him, putting on a truly sorrowful guise of grief; however, his eyes darted impatiently to the side.

"Do not worry, Your Excellency."

"Counselor?"

The fact that Torm had referred to him by simply his title was likely designed to elicit some sort of sympathy. Conrad, however, smiled calmly.

"Even if the worst were to happen and something were to befall General Zettour, other staff officers would step up and take his place."

"Is that really true, Counselor? Is it even possible? Who would it be?

What is their name?"

"I'm sorry, Your Excellency. That is a matter of military staffing, so it would be better to ask someone within the military, rather than myself."

Not that I expect the General Staff Office to be very forthcoming with that information, Conrad thought, thumbing his nose internally. A moment later, however, his mind reeled with bewilderment. For some reason, Honorary Consul Torm was suddenly staring at him as if he had said something ludicrous.

"I wish to ask you. With all due respect to the honorable individual, I wish to know the truth. Are you, sir, aware of any such person who could fill that role?" asked Honorary Consul Torm, leveling his gaze toward Conrad, who was still in shock at suddenly being addressed as an equal.

"I am afraid I do not see your meaning. Naturally, it would be truly saddening to lose someone as estimable as General Zettour. However—"

"Surely, you must know what would happen thereafter," Honorary Consul Torm said, his face serious as he delivered this salvo. "Won't you stop playing ignorant? Please, I'm asking you to tell me. If General Zettour falls, what will happen to the Empire?"

"What will happen…?"

What a strange turn of events.

"Your Excellency, allow me to speak openly. May I ask you instead why are you so fixated on General Zettour? Obviously, he is a very talented general. Perhaps incomparably so. But he, too, is no more than a single cog in the Empire."

"Assuming you are not feigning ignorance, then perhaps it is because to an insider like you, it seems that attention is simply being paid to whoever and whatever it needs to be, and this all seems laughable. But how is someone like me, sitting outside on the sidelines, to know who the principal players are?"

Was he saying that it was difficult to assess who the key figures were

from the outside? That made sense. Didn't it? Conrad began to speak. "Naturally, a rising star such as General Zettour will stand out. But it is

an army, after all. There are always successors."

"Yes, but what if he falls? Does the Empire have anyone who can take his place?"

"I'm sorry…? Are you asking what will happen to the Empire if General Zettour falls?"

Yes, precisely! Honorary Consul Torm assumed a posture of utter relief now that the counselor finally seemed to catch his drift.

"Ha-ha-ha, it would certainly not be good, I imagine. But the army would likely find a way. The government would struggle, and bureaucrats such as myself would be thrown into disarray, but such is the system. It would all work out somehow," Conrad replied reassuringly. Inside, however, his feelings were precisely the opposite. Counselor Conrad was already beginning to realize the seriousness of Honorary Consul Torm's words.

What would happen? It may not have been Honorary Consul Torm's intent, but his question put the situation into stark relief. Those watching a boat sink were afforded a different view from the passengers who were still aboard. From an outside perspective, General Zettour had become the Empire himself, part and parcel.

When it came to parts in a system, the ability to effect repairs boiled down to replacement parts—or in other words, issues of succession. But if the issue was what would happen to the system itself, well, that was a question of whether the system could actually be repaired if and when it broke.

He may or may not have adequately voiced his concern, but it was clear now that Honorary Consul Torm's main worry was the sustainability of the entire system. Or more specifically, its utter reliance on General Zettour.

Conrad had trouble recalling how he had smoothed over the rest of the conversation.

The shock of that realization had been too great.

After that astonishing tea party, Counselor Conrad somehow managed to drag himself back to the Foreign Office. As he strode along the hallways, a sour look on his face, the brighter officials in the office knew better than to

do anything so foolish as to ask him what was wrong.

That, at least, was a little silver lining.

The halls were far too wide and decorated with paintings that were far too gallant. Conrad walked down their lengths, feeling as if he would rather crawl, before eventually washing up inside his own office. Once he arrived, he opened a secret compartment in his pompous counselor's desk and removed the small bottle of whiskey he had hidden there, bringing the open bottle directly to his lips.

The strong alcohol burned as it went down his throat. Usually, Conrad believed it was better not to throw back something so ripe and sophisticated as if it were cheap swill.

Usually.

How could this be? General Zettour was just another part in the system, wasn't he?! Just another person?

Conrad attempted to squash the thought.

A talented diplomat needed to face reality head-on. What was he? A second-rate official who made poor judgments based on wishful thinking, based on how things ought to be. No, that wasn't even half of it. He was nothing but a fool. A fool who had mistakenly convinced himself he was capable of making difficult decisions. Another good public official, a member of the intelligentsia, puffed up on too much education and property.

Conrad had always striven to embrace reality. But today, for the first time ever, he began to doubt himself. The surprise came like a bolt from the blue.

Fortunately, Conrad had managed to pass off his distress while still inside the palace.

It was a celebration, early in the year. There was wine and socialization after a long dry spell, and people were in a good mood. Conrad doubted anyone had noticed anything unusual about him.

Or was that itself just more wishful thinking…?

No, navigating parties was like a diplomat's very first baby steps. Something like that would always remain old hat. Perhaps he had faltered, but he would have still known if he had fallen on his face.

Wouldn't he?

Conrad meekly readjusted his own assessment of himself. On further consideration, he began to feel his behavior may have been dubious.

"It seems I was more deeply affected than I thought…"

Yes, perhaps he hadn't realized just how far he had stumbled.

While in attendance at a New Year's banquet, Conrad the veteran diplomat had encountered a surprise more shocking than anything he had felt in quite some time.

"I need to work this out… Of course, even General Zettour can't be more than a cog."

When he encountered Zettour at the palace, the man had been breathing. Blinking, even. Of course he had. He was human. A living creature. The only people who didn't live and breathe were those who existed as ideas, like juristic entities.

"When an actor takes a role, they are only playing a part, no more than pretending to be the system. The writer who writes the script, the director who directs the stage—no matter how you look at it, none of those people could be considered equal to the system."

It was a kind of habit for Counselor Conrad to put his thoughts into words like this, investigating and organizing them, and to draw out and narrow down those thoughts so as to be ready when the time came. He continued to mutter to himself, trying to make sense of the shock he had just experienced.

"A monster—he is a monster…and Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff?"

The person known as Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff was a changeling in the guise of a young girl. Conrad understood that she too, in her own way, was difficult to comprehend. A monster. An object of respect, but also a person who inspired fear.

"It is also difficult to understand the existence of monsters such as Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff. But does that mean the two are similar? Are they?"

A child that small, with a Silver Wings Assault Badge. It was obviously strange.

"Anyone can see that. She is gifted, yes, but too much so. I doubt any would deny that it is disturbing…"

But something was different. A person like Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff was recognizable as a monster at a glance. In attempting to compare the two, General Zettour seemed to have even less in common with Conrad's image of a monster than he had initially thought.

"Looking at it in that sense, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff just barely falls into the category of the type of creatures who can possibly be understood. A genius but still a single part, someone who can still be assessed as a prodigy of my ilk."

Not that I actually do understand her, Conrad thought, reaching for the small bottle once more. He wasn't trying to drown himself in drink. But he felt cold.

There was a chill clinging to his spine that just wouldn't go away.

As the strong liquor traveled down his throat and landed in his stomach, he finally proceeded to the next stage of his thoughts.

"General Zettour, then… What is he?"

Not who, but what. What in the world was he? Conrad continued to carry out a self-dialectic, attempting to order his thoughts.

"At first, I thought the opposite, didn't I?"

Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff was the monster in the guise of a young girl, while General Zettour was the man possessed of monstrous genius. But now with the situation laid out before him, Counselor Conrad could not help but realize his own mistake.

"Of course. Now I see."

The former may, in fact, have been a monster in the guise of a young girl. But even still, she was a living creature. The monster known as Tanya von Degurechaff possessed two of the most cold and hollow eyes known to man—those with glass eyes seemed more human by comparison—but she was still a creature whom the diplomat could at least attempt to understand.

In comparison, there was no such possibility with General Zettour.

Counselor Conrad could only despair. Comprehension seemed impossible.

Through elaborate mimicry, he was able to appear, on the surface, an exemplary soldier of the Empire, but peering closer, one could eventually see. The fearsome general…

He was a system in the guise of a man.

He ought to have just been a man, but he had long since become the system.

"Is…such a thing even possible?"

When it came to academic theories of government, like the source of state authority or the theory of the emperor as an organ of the state, Conrad knew his stuff. Every student aiming for an administrative position in

government had at least a textbook surface familiarity with such ideas. There was nothing particularly strange about these ideas. There were ample instances of a particular person, due to circumstances of position, duties, or title, rising to the level of a system similar to an organization or government body.

"As a part of it, that is."

His Majesty the Emperor himself held massive power, with an impact that cut across the worlds of government, bureaucracy, and finance. But even if he constituted the heart of the Empire, he was still but a part of the system. The emperor was merely a man pretending to be the system. But this was only a convenient fiction. The emperor's true nature was as a part, meaning he could be replaced.

Not even the emperor amounted to the opposite, a system pretending to be a man.

It was precisely because of Conrad's strong commitment to serving as an exemplary cog of the nation that he was so sure that even rising to the level where a person could be considered a portion of the system was a near insurmountable task. People were people and nothing more. Even by honing oneself through relentless public service, a person could only ever become a single piece of the cog.

Yes, perhaps a person could become incorporated into a part of the system and be consumed. But that was no different than, say, the way nutrients consumed by a person became a "part" of their body.

It's true, you are what you eat. In that sense, food and drink could become a "part" of a person. However, the meat, cheese, bread, and wine consumed by a person obviously could not become a part of that physiological system. A person's hands and feet might be a part of their body, but food could never rise to the same level as a pair of hands or feet.

And yet!

At some point, Zettour the individual had taken on a strange existence as a deputy director on the General Staff, conducting himself as a part of the warmaking system and then, before long, transforming into that system itself, for all intents and purposes.

When it came to key figures in an organization, the number may be small, but particularly exceptional officers could color the character of that organization. For a nation such as the Empire, however, not even a person

as preeminent as General Zettour should have been able to constitute the hands or feet of the nation.

This was something Conrad had never before seen. It was as if an individual had been incorporated into and then begun to fuse with the Empire, the state itself.

"I would almost prefer simple usurpation…"

The seizing of the crown. To assume the place of a portion of the system. That would be easier to understand, at least. Conrad might not be able to approve, but he could at least comprehend it.

But this. This!!

It was like the hands and feet had sprung up of their own accord to naturally steer the body away from its course of danger. Moreover, in the eyes of the people, the hand of General Zettour was considered the same as the hand of the Empire! A strange transformation in the zeitgeist of their age.

On top of it all, Conrad himself was a part of that group, a good little collaborator in the end. How could he not be surprised to find himself living in a reality that had lost any sense of that word?

"This? This is reality?"

Reality was meant to be embraced. Internally, however, Conrad was finding it much easier at this moment to question his own reason, his own sanity even, than to live in reality.

For Counselor Conrad…right now, a person of "common sense" such as Colonel Lergen seemed much more endearing. Someone like that might not be capable of saving the Empire. But compared with taking a gamble on a system pretending to be a person—one that could lead the Empire anywhere, perhaps to salvation, perhaps to ruin—someone like Lergen was far, far more reassuring and comprehensible.

"Of course, I understand a gamble is precisely what is needed now… Ha-ha-ha…"

A strained laugh, full of unruly consternation, spilled from the counselor's mouth. What could he do but laugh? Though whether it was a laugh of resignation, hardship, or self-deprecation, even Conrad himself could not say.

"What a strong drink to start the year with…"

It was all well and good to raise a toast and down that drink, but it was

powerful stuff that left every drinker stumbling. Speaking of which, it was General Zettour who had plied him with champagne at the party. One drink from the system was apparently all it took to leave a man punch-drunk.

"Total war, total war, ahh, Zettour and his damnable total war."

That exasperating, sinister, irredeemable monster, intent on burning everything. That son of a bitch.

"May the system consume you."

Yes, if only. That would be for the best.

What if? Conrad knew that prayer was useless, but as a person, he couldn't help but try.

"May the system known as General Zettour be successful."

He wished for the end of that other system. If everything was as he envisioned, Conrad could admit, he was a foul, despicable man. Another system to replace the Empire.

How horrendous…and besides…

"Can one person even achieve so much…? Is something like that even possible?"

As both a cynic and a believer, Conrad begged for mercy. Some tiny blessing, even. But it was vaguely beginning to take shape now.

"If it is true? If a person really can replace the system of the state?"

If the world really had mistaken General Zettour himself as the system of the Empire…

…then it was possible. Conrad could only tremble.

The dangling sword of Damocles would not fall on the emperor's head, but rather on the lone, aging soldier who had set himself up as a tyrant, deceiving the world into believing, It is I who is the Empire!

"Victory is within our grasp… We can— Nay, we have won."

Victory amid defeat. One miserable little grain of defiance. Compared with losing all hegemony, embracing certain defeat, and submissively accepting certain ruin, it was nearly inspiring.

Glorious defeat may be lost to them, but the future could still be theirs. "For just the possibility… For a person to make it possible in the first

place."

Conrad couldn't contain himself. He lifted his head and spoke into the

air.

"How fearsome, General Zettour…"

A throne was still a throne, even with a sword dangling above it. If it was a throne surrounded by wealth and cloaked in the pleasures of contempt, from which one could stare at their surroundings from on high, it might be easy enough to temporarily ignore the chills such a precarious seat might afford.

Unfortunately, when it came to such matters, the Empire was severe in its aesthetics, its watchwords being simplicity and fortitude. Whether he liked it or not, General Zettour was painfully aware of this as he traveled by car from the palace back to his own nest.

The vehicle that had been provided for him by the General Staff Office was far from luxurious. The comfort provided by the rear passenger seats, which had been designed with practical use in mind, was nothing to write home about under the best of circumstances. When coupled with the discomfort of poor upkeep, bad roads, or even a combination of the two, the seat was like torture on an old man's back.

On top of that, the only thing that awaited the general upon his return, after having been forced to take a breather at that stressful celebration just as his schedule was filling up, was a mountain of unfinished work. Although Zettour was familiar with the military's administrative affairs and was exceptionally good at processing reams of paperwork, he was still just a single person. Replacing the system was like an ant moving a mountain.

The difference in atmosphere, as Zettour returned from that bright, surreal party to cruel, cruel reality, left his feet feeling leaden. Although the new year had just begun, he was already finding it difficult to breathe.

The moment he reached his chambers at the General Staff Office, as soon as he was out of sight of prying eyes, Zettour's shoulders slumped forward.

His dazzling dress uniform and array of glittering medals hung heavily on his weary shoulders. He removed his ceremonial saber and collapsed into a chair, his feet practically planting roots into the ground.

"I'm so tired…," Zettour said as he leaned against the back of his chair, the words coming from his very soul. He pulled out a cigar that had been waiting inside his breast pocket and silently lit it before taking a few puffs.

"A terrible thing for the old. The body betrays the will."

He sighed heavily, his breath mingling with the smoke in the air. The way it lingered vaguely from his cigar could not help but remind him of a certain friend. Even the cigars that Rudersdorf had left behind were set in

their ways. He had always been a stubborn man.

"It's just like him. Even his daily accoutrements have taken on his nature… I suppose I am the same. Stuck in my ways," General Zettour said, speaking to himself before smirking.

When was it he had first noticed? That the Empire was on the decline, and that the Imperial Army's General Staff Office had begun to transform into the state? The change was so natural and inevitable that, at first, he hadn't even noticed that one system was replacing another.

As their options began to narrow down irreversibly to total war, the Empire had lost the luxury of national strategy. All it could demand now were stopgap measures based on military logic. In other words, gradual decline. To put it bluntly, the Empire was at the end of its rope.

As this situation dragged on, it became extremely difficult for those involved to realize that the line dividing the state from the military—or more specifically, the government from the General Staff Office—was beginning to dissolve. From a bird's-eye view, however, it was easy to see that the General Staff Office was expanding to become the system itself.

But what if that system was one where an individual could use the General Staff as a fulcrum to move the entire world? Zettour, old as he was, began to have strange fancies.

"Such grand delusions… Delusions that continue to grow into reality.

Just further proof of the hopeless state of the world."

The General Staff was running this interminably pointless race to the finish…and it fell to Zettour, as the mastermind of sorts, to wave the starting flag.

As one who knew the truth better than any others at the core of the Empire, Zettour could only laugh. But what mattered was not the facts; it was how those spectators, known as the world, viewed those facts.

If he could pull off this deception, though? Maybe Zettour was just a waste of space who could never stop the sun from falling. Someone who couldn't even begin to compare to his old friend. But if he could manage this?

The cost would be repugnant. Necessary, but he didn't like it. But if it could be pulled off, he wanted to win. Too much to lie to himself about that fact.

"When exactly did I become so eager to see the sun rise on tomorrow?"

Zettour emitted a small sigh and shook his head slightly.

It was trivial sentiment, the remnants of humanity. But as trifling as he knew these feelings were, they continued to gnaw away at the wound deep in his chest.

"This is hard," Zettour said absently, the words coming out unintentionally. He frowned in surprise, realizing that he was talking to himself.

"Isn't this a sorry state…?"

Even standing up from his seat was an ordeal. Despite his age, he had been limber enough when out at the front during battle, but now that strength seemed long gone.

"Is this, too, a part of growing old? How detestable."

General Zettour placed his cigar in the ashtray and stroked his face. He realized he was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. He shook his head.

"Perhaps…I am finally reaching my limit."

Behind Zettour's unconscious grumbling lay his own weakness. He attempted to put on a strong face, but he was also human in the end. He might have had the spirit for magnificence and determination, but in mind and body, he was no different from any other ordinary man.

His stomach hurt, his shoulders felt heavy, and even his eyes were bleary.

"Thoroughly…utterly wretched. I'm beginning to worry I may not be able to play my part to the end."

Zettour had been applying the whip to his own back. But his role as public enemy of the world, or at least his energetic boasting of it, was only for show. Naturally, he had begun to feel that his own limits were approaching.

But maybe this, too, was only passing.

"Once I push past this weariness, maybe I will be able to stand again… though I will need to do much more than simply stand, in the end."

It was only a matter of guts. General Zettour was just a simple man, lacking even a shred of that madness the world was so sure he possessed. All he truly had was stubbornness.

Zettour grimaced, placing the cigar between his teeth once more and recalling the face of his old friend.

"I need to take a lesson in not knowing when to give up from

Rudersdorf, that fool."

Otherwise…how would he keep his true feelings from spilling over?

"How much sweeter it would be to be an ordinary grenadier, dying defiantly on the battlefield."

Zettour immediately sneered at himself.

"Fine dreams for someone who has betrayed the trust of the fatherland."

What was wrong with him? Enough of this pathetic complaining. If he really were Rudersdorf, that old fool, this would be the exact time when he would have smacked some sense into Zettour.

"He may have been a fool, but at least he was faithful. What of me?"

With a grunt, Zettour extended his hands to his desk and finally rose from his seat. As he stood up and took a few steps, his legs began to respond.

"The trick is to stay on your feet." There was a lesson in this.

"If you can stand, you can walk. And if you can walk, you can keep moving. And if you can keep moving, you can reach the top. You just have to do it."

As he spoke, Zettour stared into the mirror cynically.

The Heimat and the fatherland. Two ideas best not to compare, but like some arrogant god, Zettour had placed them side by side on the chopping block and was preparing to choose only one. What right did an upstart like him have to think he might rest his human bones? Although, of course, even supernatural beings were allowed a day of rest after they finished creating the world!

"What deep-seated conceit to think I can forge the future of the Empire… I don't know how I will ever apologize to His Majesty the Emperor. Or to the many generations of the imperial family and my own predecessors."

How? How had things come to this?

"I cannot find the words."

General Zettour folded his arms and gave the matter serious thought, trying to find some sense of remorse in his heart, but the honorable old soldier, bastion of the Empire that he was, could only smile bitterly.

"Why can't I find the words?"

He considered himself to be a relatively loyal man. A good imperial

soldier, a von Zettour, the embodiment of commitment to tradition.

"Now when it all comes down to it, it's almost as if none of that matters."

A strange upset of values, one that differed from nihilism. Just now, in this moment, as the sun was setting on the Empire, Zettour realized that as a member of this doomed world, he could no longer be a loyal soldier of the Empire, pledging fealty to the fatherland and the imperial household.

How, how, how? He could only be surprised.

Holding his cigar, which had grown considerably shorter, in his hand, Zettour watched the bluish smoke float away like his vanishing sentiments.

"If the person I was a few years ago could see me now, we would likely come to blows…and no wonder."

He had been the good Brigadier General Zettour, a man of honor and reason. With his good friend by his side. But now he had fallen and become the wicked General Zettour, a man who only believed in what was necessary. And his good friend was now gone.

"How far man can fall when necessity demands."

War was misery. And those in charge, who were unable to bring war to an end, were a pestilence.

"From the outset…I made a grievous mistake. To err is a curse." Guardian of the nation. Shield of the Reich. Bastion of the Empire. The

Imperial Army, praised as such for so long, had been toiling under the extremely mistaken belief that the army was protecting the fatherland. A belief that had yet to be corrected to this day. Even in their current situation, most had not even begun to consider the truth.

"'Bring us victory! Victory will solve everything!' Don't they think of anything else? Our forebearers knew how to make use of a victory."

Protecting the nation was not a matter of military victories. In the end, unless you could subjugate the entire world and beat every other player into submission…victory was ultimately something that still needed to be utilized politically. When necessary, even defeat could be turned into an advantage.

"The harsh reality is that terms need to be reached with the world."

Zettour understood this. They had collectively failed in a spectacular fashion. A military approach was just one means at a government's disposal. To think that the nation could be protected through such an approach alone

was foolish. To select only military means when all approaches were called for was to foolishly limit one's hand, plain and simple.

All options had to be on the table. All options, in every sense of the word. All options brought to bear for the fatherland, for the Empire. The only thing they could do now was pad their hand as much as possible and see this damnable game to its end.

"Farewell, my high-minded sentiments!"

He was now long past complaints and regrets.

"This is the crucial moment. This is the year I must become the enemy of the world."

But first, he needed to win, so win he shall. General Zettour laughed slightly.

"What a freeing sensation. This must be what is meant by being content with what you have."

General Zettour, the enemy of the world. General Zettour, mastermind of the Empire.

In the end, he would deceive the world. As a single cog. As a fool. As a monster. As a symbol to be overthrown.