The Hardest Duty

At the northwestern border buffer zone of Nation. Even five days after Stratos's failed raid, Lunamaria and the 4th Legion were still struggling to support the 12th Legion after they endured relatively heavy losses. Inside the strategy tent, she stood before the simulation screen, red light beaming into her eyes, as if forewarning a grim future. At that very moment, an allied unit was pleading for aid through the emergency communication channel. That unit, the reconnaissance team of the 19th Legion, was being encircled by Nation forces at Oliv Hill on the northern mountain slope—a strategic checkpoint for supplies, near the garrison area of the 4th and 12th Legions. Yet, the situation now hardly favored a rescue. The 12th Legion was reeling from losses after suffering a surprise assault days earlier; they lacked the resolve to prepare for combat. Moreover, her own forces were stretched thin, aiding the 12th Legion's recovery while defending key strongholds. Thus, sending troops to assist meant splitting her forces, further weakening those left behind. Hence, her choices at this moment—each second ticking by as a matter of life or death—would foretell the fate of the reconnaissance team or her own legion.

"We cannot let emotions cloud the long-term strategy," Lunamaria whispered, as if admonishing herself. She didn't turn when an officer entered, swiftly reporting the situation with a quivering voice.

"If we don't reinforce, they'll be wiped out in less than two hours."

Her gaze remained fixed on the screen. Oliv Hill loomed like a double-edged sword—a gateway to save the reconnaissance team, yet a fatal flaw for the entire strategy if her soldiers kept being divided. She knew well that the Nation Guard forces in the North, though not directly under Stratos's command, remained a perilous army. Sending troops to help would be tantamount to signing a death warrant for those men. At last, she was compelled to decide.

"But, Commander!…" The officer before her froze, his eyes brimming with evident discontent.

"We cannot save everyone," Lunamaria cut in, unshaken by that stare.

"Sacrifice a small group to safeguard the greater good."

After that verdict, no one dared protest further. The order was issued, and the camp's atmosphere turned icy. She keenly felt the eyes upon her—not with reverence, but with doubt, questioning whether this commander possessed a heart. Silently, she turned and stepped into the command tent, alone.

Early the next morning, she emerged from the tent into the misty dawn, the chill slicing her skin like unseen blades. Her eyes bore dark circles, traces of long, sleepless nights, yet retained their coldness—as if that alone kept her upright. News from the North had arrived, heavy as a death knell. The reconnaissance team had fallen entirely. All had perished.

A young officer approached, his steps hurried, though his legs seemed to falter under the weight of this tidings. He halted before her, striving for calm, but his voice betrayed a trembling fear.

"They… failed. No one survived."

That statement, though anticipated, still struck like a sharp spear through her chest. She stood silent, motionless as a statue amid the winds. No emotion crossed her face, but deep within, something shattered. They—those soldiers—had fought for their faith in the Organization, for the promise of a brighter future the nation bloc had sown in their minds. And now, not just their unit, but other units and the entire nation bloc had chosen to betray them, forsaking them as part of a grander strategy. Their lives were mere pawns in an endless chess game.

She looked up, her icy gaze meeting the young officer's.

"We must press forward, continue supporting the 12th Legion," Lunamaria said, her voice low and firm, as if those words could fill the void just carved from her soul.

"We will triumph, and not let those sacrifices be in vain."

Then she turned, walking slowly toward the simulation screen in the tent. Each step grew heavier, bearing the burden of irredeemable sacrifices.

Outside, the wind mingled with the scattered footsteps of soldiers, like a dirge for the fallen. She drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to ease the agony clawing at her chest. War, she thought silently, never demands less than the lives of those who trust in it.

At the same time, at Nation's royal palace. Stratos stood in the Emperor's grand hall, bowing to receive orders. The old king's eyes probed every faint expression on his face, but he maintained his usual calm.

"You, depart the Western front at once," the Emperor's voice resounded, majestic yet cold.

"General Lockon has requested aid at the Southern front. You will lead troops to assist and obey his every directive."

He briefly frowned but swiftly masked his displeasure. He knew Lockon well—the general famed for rigid tactics and authoritarian command. Working with him was far from his wish, but orders were orders.

"Understood!" Stratos replied, his tone free of defiance. He knew the Emperor's commands were absolute; none could defy his words, not even his sons.

Stratos, with his team—the 17 loyal soldiers of Section W—arrived after two days of relentless flight. Before them stood General Lockon, a middle-aged man of heroic bearing, sharp-eyed, clad in a black military uniform.

"You're late," Lockon said bluntly, devoid of courtesy.

"We came as fast as possible," Stratos answered, striving to keep his voice steady.

"No matter. The plan is set. Your troops will coordinate with Battalion VI-B. Then, as the vanguard, strike the enemy stronghold at Ashgel Valley. We'll turn this stronghold into a springboard for advance." Lockon waved a hand to command, signaling he'd hear no excuses.

He glanced at the map, instantly spotting the danger. Ashgel Valley's complex terrain could easily become a deadly trap if ambushed. He knew a direct march meant survival hinged on the saints above. This place echoed his nightmare at nineteen—a mass grave.

"General, a frontal assault risks heavy losses. I suggest splitting the troops into two wings, encircling from the East and Northeast to reduce risks. Then, we could form a pincer—"

"Are you questioning my plan?" Lockon tapped the table, cutting off his proposal, his eyes flashing irritation.

"Yes! I don't want to relive what I've endured," Stratos shot back.

"You think I don't know how to protect my fellows?"

"Obey orders! I don't need advice from a greenhorn in command, especially a brat like you," he nearly roared.

He pursed his lips but ceased arguing. He knew he couldn't sway Lockon, nor defy the Emperor's orders, and time for debate was nil. Were it not for the Emperor's mandate to follow Lockon's every word, he'd have sent him to the medics already.

Soon after the order, he and his comrades took charge of Company VI-B—a unit of young soldiers, barely eighteen or twenty, marching to battle driven by heart and loyalty to the homeland. He knew a direct assault on Ashgel Valley would scar these youths' minds deeply.

At the attack's outset, as he foresaw, it went far from smoothly. The enemy had prepared, and his force stumbled into an ambush.

"Retreat to the North!" Stratos shouted, striving to reform ranks amid blasts and panicked cries. He charged through the encirclement himself, his sword ceaselessly felling foes in his path.

Lockon, perched on a nearby hill, merely watched, issuing no aid. When an officer urged reinforcements, he smirked.

"Small fry like him don't warrant effort. Let him fend for himself."

Under his lead, the Nation troops gradually withdrew from the valley, though battered. Yet misfortune seemed ever their ally. A rear assault blocked his retreat, forcing him and the battalion back into the valley. The army was surrounded on all sides.

"Form a circular formation, hold the defense," Stratos ordered, his voice steady yet his face weary.

"Are we going to die here?" a young soldier's anxious voice rang out.

As such questions multiplied, he sensed an unseen fear slowly cloaking Company VI-B. These youths weren't wrong—the battlefield was never theirs. Not born soldiers, but mere citizens, they carried the nation's heart and the sweet promises from above. And he knew part of this was his fault, as a leader. He inhaled deeply, steadying his breath, as if bracing for a trial.

"Graham, Aker, Ash, bolster the spearhead."

"Zadra, Ed, Alex, shift to the left flank."

"Darkon, John, Rex, Zeris, guard the right one."

"All rest, cover the rear; we'll smash through this place!" He calmly issued orders to his squad, though his voice betrayed growing fatigue.

"Take orders, switch to formation 3! We'll break this damned front!" He bellowed, as if commanding the whole army.

Doubtful glances spread through Company VI-B. They knew advancing was suicide. The young soldiers feared death, yearned to retreat, to surrender—but dread held them. They longed to stab their commander for a chance at life, yet couldn't. Conversely, Section W's members grasped his intent; they not only followed orders but compelled others to comply. Within a minute, formation 3 stood ready.

"Her Highness Theresa is blessing upon you…" Stratos murmured, as if wishing for his fate after planting his sword into the ground.

The magic gem on the hilt blazed brightly before cracking and shattering. The fragments fell, melting into dark red energy streams, spilling like blood from a mortal wound. They coiled around Stratos, shrouding him in a lethal magical aura. The blade in his hand trembled fiercely before splintering into countless sharp shards. They didn't drop but hovered around him, whirling like blades of death.

Without a moment's pause, he fixed his gaze on the enemy's dense defensive line. The assault formation was set, and he knew only bloodlust could pierce this wall of despair. He charged, striking straight at the foe, as if daring death's patience.

His form moved like the wind—appearing, vanishing—leaving only red streaks of blood across the battlefield. Gunshots roared like chaotic drums, blending with the whoosh of spinning shards around him.

He didn't halt. Each sword stroke ended a life. Each shot felled an enemy. Magic bullets pierced armor, lodging deep in foes' flesh. The shards encircling him were like keen scalpels, slicing through all in their path. Blood sprayed, staining the space red, and he pressed on undeterred.

Alone, he plunged into the enemy's thick ranks, unflinching. Each step forward breached a defensive wall. Screams rang out, terrified eyes tracked the monster cloaked in a magical vortex—a living nightmare on the field.

"The one-man army…" Section W's members whispered, then led the battalion to reinforce, fully rupturing the enemy's defensive line in their shock.

Lockon, still standing there, watched the fray, then told his subordinates.

"Victory is ours." He turned and departed.