Chapter 477: The Southern Front, No Battle — Land Riddled with Craters
The land was a wasteland of craters, scarred by shells that had turned the ground into a patchwork of jagged holes. The trenches dug by engineers stood like deep, ugly scars across the earth.
Boom!
A shell landed near a group of soldiers, sending up a storm of dust and shrapnel. Several figures, their faces smeared with grime, collapsed to the ground.
"Artillery Barrage!"
A sharp cry rang out—instinct took over instantly. Every soldier dropped into the trench in a single, fluid motion.
Only those who weren’t yet accustomed to it—new recruits dragged in from the provinces, or the dead, whose bodies were already charred beyond recognition—failed to react in time.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Shells fell like rain, detonating again and again around them.
Only one man, struck in the back of the head, had his skull split open—his fate sealed by sheer misfortune. The rest, miraculously, escaped unscathed.
"Cease! The barrage’s stopped!"
"Thank the heavens!"
"Damn Cassander bastards—may they all burn in Hell!"
One soldier wailed from his foxhole, clutching his leg, which had been sheared clean off by the blast. He writhed in agony, rolling on the blood-soaked ground.
No doctors. No antiseptics. On this front, a wound like that meant certain death.
"Damn poor Busa," muttered an old soldier—though “old” was a generous term. He was barely in his twenties. But in this hell, he’d earned the title.
He’d survived here for over five months.
In that time, his comrades had come and gone—dozens of them.
And now, even though he was only twenty-three, the others called him “Veteran.”
Why? Because he’d lived longer than anyone else.
His real name was Baul Stanton—but home had long since stopped using it.
"God, it hurts!"
"Damn—this is worse than Hell!"
Busa lay on the ground, screaming. His eyes, blurred by tears, fixed on Baul with a look so complex it cut through the air.
Baul saw it.
It was a plea.
Let me die.
The silence that followed was absolute. The other soldiers turned to Baul, their eyes heavy with unspoken questions. Waiting.
"Damn it."
Baul spat.
He moved with practiced ease, chambered his rifle, and stepped forward. With the cold muzzle pressed against Busa’s temple, he said:
"May you find immortality in the Divine Realm of Amannata."
"Thank you."
Bang!
A clean, sharp gunshot. Brain matter and blood sprayed across the dirt.
Busa had been a merchant. A devout believer in Amannata. He rarely cursed. He’d been conscripted three months ago by Wilhelm’s draft order.
In his final moments, he screamed filth—every curse he’d ever repressed, every swear word he’d kept buried. Five seconds later, a single bullet ended his life.
"Busa was the longest-living of the second batch. He did nothing wrong. He just had bad luck."
That was Baul’s thought.
He turned, expression calm—but his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the rifle.
"Let’s move on. They’ve finished one barrage. But the battlefield changes in an instant. Who knows what comes next?"
"Like… this poor bastard with his leg chopped off."
The remaining dozen soldiers marched forward. The veterans were indifferent. But the new recruits—those fresh from home—had just watched a friend die. Fear clung to them like a second skin.
Life here was cheap.
For some reason, the air grew thick, heavy—like it had been soaked in thick, congealed blood.
After crossing the familiar, corpse-strewn ravines, they finally reached the safe zone.
Then, a voice broke the silence:
"Veteran… got any cigarettes?"
"Go to hell. I barely scrounged up a few packs. I need them myself. If you want one, go rifle the dead."
Baul snapped, his face grim.
He waved a hand, then slowly pulled out a crumpled, greasy paper box—treasured like a relic.
The others turned to him, eyes wide with longing.
"Whoa! Imperial Manufacture!"
"Veteran, you’ve been hiding this all along!"
The box bore the image of a vertical pupil and flames. The words “Imperial Manufacture” were barely legible.
The same mark was etched into the wooden stock of Baul’s rifle.
No one knew where it came from. No one cared.
They only knew: this cigarette was the best. The most potent.
And they knew—if Baul hadn’t pulled it out, he wouldn’t have offered it.
The men surged forward, laughing, hands reaching out—shattering the tension like glass.
"Back off! One per man—this is for Busa’s sake!"
"I haven’t gotten mine yet!"
"Wait, I’m still here!"
"Cut it out! I saw you grab one already!"
When the smoke cleared, the box was nearly empty.
Baul stared at the last stub of cigarette, face twisted in sorrow.
"Damn fools."
He pulled it out, cupping it against the wind with one hand, then flicked his lighter with the other. The flame caught. He took a long, deep drag.
Huh—
"Damn right. Imperial Manufacture. Real kick. Nothing like these cheap knockoffs."
Leaning against the earthen wall, Baul exhaled a thick plume of smoke. His mind drifted—just for a moment—away from the war.
He thought of Strongtown.
A small town in the east of Thrace. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Back then, he’d been just an apprentice smith.
He’d promised Jenny—his neighbor, the flower girl—that when he could run his own forge, they’d marry.
He remembered that night. Her flushed cheeks. Her shy, happy smile.
The memory was so vivid, so warm—it felt more real than heaven. He could almost smell the wildflowers on her skin.
Then—Boom!
An explosion. A dust cloud.
The image shattered.
He gasped.
The war had torn it all apart.
The young men of Strongtown were conscripted—Baul among them.
Jenny…
Is she safe?
They say Cassander cavalry has entered the eastern kingdom…
Maybe… maybe she’s still there…
The air was thick with gunsmoke and mist. The bitter taste of smoke coated his tongue.
Baul hated the smell of gunpowder.
But he loved cigarettes.
Because here, on this battlefield, it was one of the few things that eased the weight on his soul.
Each puff cleared his mind. His nerves relaxed.
For a moment, he wasn’t a soldier.
Just a man, dreaming of home.
"Damn war."
He inhaled deeply.
And then it hit him—War wasn’t just out here.
It had burrowed into every corner of his life.
Even in escape, he couldn’t outrun it.
Full-scale war raged across the land. Armies poured into enemy territory, burning, looting, slaughtering—routine, everyday cruelty.
And Baul? Just another common soldier on the Southern Front.
The only difference? He’d survived longer.
But he couldn’t change a thing.
"Veteran…"
A small, hesitant voice.
Baul turned.
A young face—dirty, wide-eyed, innocent—stared back at him.
Tommy. New recruit. Sixteen.
His uniform hung off him, sleeves rolled up, cuffs folded and wrinkled.
The men called him Child—not because he was weak, but because he looked like one.
Baul glanced at him.
"Child. No more smoke."
Tommy shook his head.
"No. That’s not why I came. I’ve had this question… I just… I need someone to answer it."
"What’s on your mind?"
Baul narrowed his eyes, exhaled a stream of smoke.
"I’ve been here the longest. Ask away. The more you know, the longer you’ll live."
"Busa knew a lot. But his luck ran out."
Tommy hesitated. Then, softly:
"Do you know… why we’re fighting?"
Baul froze.
He hadn’t expected that question.
Tommy continued:
"My father said the Holy Faedran Empire was always one. Thrace people, Cassander people—same blood, same pride. We were all citizens of a single empire."
"But now… we’re killing each other. Massacring. Why?"
"My father says Otis betrayed the Sun God. Became a servant of Hell. And His Majesty Wilhelm came to stop him."
The other soldiers had gathered, drawn by the conversation.
No entertainment here. No laughter. Just war.
Baul didn’t know.
He didn’t care.
He only wanted to survive. Go back. Marry Jenny.
He was about to shake his head—I don’t know—when something flickered in his memory.
A rumor. A joke.
From an officer’s lips.
So Baul smiled. Slow. Meaningful.
"Old Emperor left behind a golden throne," he said. "Our King Wilhelm wants to sit on it. And that wicked Otis… he wants it too."
He let the sentence hang.
Tommy’s eyes widened.
"So… that’s it? Thousands die. Homes burn. Families shattered… all for a chair?"
"So—what does it matter to us?"
Baul crushed the cigarette, the last ember fading.
"Damn right. It’s just a joke. We’re just killing each other—fighting to hand a throne to someone who already owns it."
He exhaled sharply, a long, weary sigh.
Tommy’s face turned red.
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
Then—
Hahahaha!
The soldiers burst into laughter.
"Still a child!"
"Keep living, kid. No matter what the Sun God says—just seeing tomorrow’s sunrise is enough for me."
Baul stretched, brushed dirt from his uniform, and smiled.
He spoke of war.
But in his mind, he saw Jenny’s face—red-cheeked, smiling.
That was his future.
Far away, the sharp crack of gunfire. The rumble of cannons.
Still echoing.
None of them knew—Baul, Tommy, or the laughing soldiers—
that their unit, stationed on the Southern Front, close to the Holy City, had been selected as reinforcements by General Miesel Benaseraf.
They were being sent to the most brutal of all battlefields—the Meat Grinder of the Holy City.
Now, laughing, joking, cursing—these vibrant, breathing men…
How many of them would return?
…
…
Isdalia, Claudew Military Industry Group – Thirteenth Factory
The factory roared like a steel beast, belching smoke.
Along the assembly line, under towering machine tools, hundreds of workers moved in mechanical silence.
Checking. Sorting. Assembling.
Like machines.
Hands never stopped.
"Pay attention!"
"Last batch had an 8% defect rate—what kind of fools are you?!"
"Can’t you even do simple work? The higher-ups are furious!"
The overseer’s voice snapped through the air.
The workers flinched.
Just a little longer…
Half an hour. Then it’s over.
Raj Pink thought, eyes heavy.
He sorted components—simple, repetitive work.
Six hours of nonstop labor.
Now, even the parts blurred in his vision.
"Hey! What are you doing?!"
A mistake. A flawed component slipped through.
The overseer spotted it instantly.
"I’m sorry, sir—I just… zoned out."
"Next time, it’s half your pay. And if I catch you again, you’re out."
Raj snapped back to life.
He worked here to survive.
Money.
Isdalia—Anzeta’s most developed city—was expensive.
Workers on the line made barely enough to eat.
Buying a home here? A foolish dream.
They were told these weapons would be sold in the South, each fetching a Golden Nael.
A Golden Nael—more than he earned in a full month.
And every month, thousands of rifles passed through his hands.
But where did the money go?
He didn’t know.
Probably into the pockets of the important ones.
The overseer had said: Without Dragon-Blooded Noble investors, we wouldn’t even have jobs here.
Raj and his coworkers believed it.
His idol? George.
A Dragon-Blooded Noble—once a peasant laborer from the Northern Regions.
Rose from the bottom, through sheer will.
His story was printed in the Imperial Daily.
Raj had bought the paper, cut it out, and taped it to his wall.
That was his dream.
The dream of every worker who came to Isdalia.
"Speaking of George… I saw his old coworker—Howard. He’s the overseer at the next factory."
"Maybe… I’ll meet George someday."
A sudden shout shattered his thoughts.
"Raj! You’re daydreaming again!"
"Of course! You’ve mixed up Component Two and Three!"
"I’m sorry, sir—I—"
Baul’s eyes flicked to him. Then turned away.
"No excuses. This is your second mistake this month. You’ll receive no Silver Ginnar this time."
Left standing, Raj’s face went pale.
He bent his head, hands trembling as he resumed sorting.
His dream? A small house in the outer district. A flower shop of his own.
But even the cheapest house in Isdalia cost over a thousand Golden Nael.
His salary? One Golden Nael a month.
This month? Half gone.
When would he ever make it?
—Please Vote for the Chapter—
(End of Chapter)
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