The Royal Navy of the United Kingdom, flagship of the First Fleet.
Battleship H.M.S. Monarch.
The forty-thousand-ton steel monster did not so much as flinch before the rough waves. Yet, in stark contrast to its overwhelming majesty, the air on the bridge lay heavy and sunken.
“…It’s over.”
Admiral William looked down at the map spread across the table, his expression full of concern.
“To think the Republic’s defensive line, which held for centuries, was breached in a matter of days. They even crossed that Ashen Forest, didn’t they?”
“Yes. It was a route no one anticipated.”
Lieutenant Colonel Stirling of the intelligence bureau held out a document.
“This is the man. Lieutenant Colonel Max Jaeger. The true architect of this operation, and its spearhead.”
“A name I’ve never heard before. Not Falkenheim, but this greenhorn?”
“A year ago, he was only a second lieutenant. But within the Imperial Army, he is now called the ‘Ghost of Rosenheim,’ or the ‘Man of Miracles.’”
Stirling lowered his voice.
“The defense of Rosenheim, firing 88mm antiaircraft guns horizontally, the breakthrough of the Ashen Forest, and now the occupation of Soissons. Behind every one of the Imperial Army’s inexplicable recent victories, this man has been present.”
“He took out tanks with 88mm antiaircraft guns? Madness.”
“Madness, yes, but effective. The Republic’s René heavy tanks were pierced through like tin cans.”
Admiral William stared at Max Jaeger’s eyes in the photograph. In the young officer’s gaze, he could read a rare seasoned composure, and a reason so cold it was almost cruel.
“What is even more astonishing is his administrative ability.”
Stirling turned to the back page of the report.
“Immediately after its occupation, Soissons was on the verge of riots. But in just three days after he assumed the role of acting garrison commander, the city recovered its functions. Logistics have been normalized, and the citizens are cooperating with the Imperial Army.”
“Impossible. The Empire’s supply lines should be at their limit. You’re telling me they handed out bread without looting?”
“The intelligence is reliable. There are even reports that he repairs broken-down tanks overnight. Among defeated soldiers, rumors have spread that he uses magic.”
“Magic? Nonsense, of course. There can’t possibly be a technique that creates something from nothing.”
William snorted.
“But.”
His eyes were not smiling.
“If he is an officer capable enough to ignore the limits of supply… then one thing is certain. He is more dangerous than Falkenheim. There is nothing more terrifying than an army that does not starve.”
“The home parliament’s position is to maintain a wait-and-see stance.”
“Those foolish old men.”
William ground out his cigar in the ashtray.
“Stirling. Raise this man’s surveillance classification.”
“Not simple surveillance, but as a person of special interest?”
“No.”
The admiral shook his head.
“Designate him at the very top of the elimination priority list.”
Stirling doubted his ears.
“Admiral, that is a classification reserved for an enemy marshal. Isn’t that far too much for a lieutenant colonel only recently promoted in the field?”
It was certainly an order beyond common sense. But William continued to stare hard into Max Jaeger’s eyes in the photograph.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then…”
“But he bothers me.”
The admiral cut Stirling off.
“I remember that time. When I first saw that old war maniac, Ludwig von Stahlberg.”
“Th-that can’t be…”
Stirling swallowed dryly. To compare him to Marshal Ludwig, called a legend of the Northern Front. The mere mention of that name seemed to chill the air on the bridge.
“The existence of two such monsters in the Empire… would be a nightmare for us. They are not predictable fools like Henri, but variables that change the very rules of war.”
William turned his gaze out the window. Just then, a violent wave came crashing in, slamming against the battleship’s steel hull.
Kwaaang—
The spray shattering into white foam was soon completely obscured by the cigar smoke William exhaled.
“It is difficult to predict even one inch ahead, Admiral. Who could have imagined a genius like this would suddenly appear in the Empire?”
“Yes. It is an age where everything is uncertain. I only… hope that my premonition is wrong.”
William added in a low voice.
“Because if it is right, then we are standing by and watching the birth of a monster.”
*
The third week of Soissons’s occupation.
The streets of Soissons were visibly peaceful.
Only a fortnight ago, those streets had been thick with Molotov cocktails and tear gas smoke, but now, even when the Imperial Army passed by, the citizens no longer went out of their way to block the road or glare at them. They merely stepped aside with indifference.
Especially when military trucks loaded with bread appeared, crowds would gather as though that indifference had never existed.
“Huh, would you look at this. The flour’s pure white. Far better than our army rations mixed with sawdust.”
When a middle-aged man holding a loaf of freshly baked bread exclaimed in admiration, an old man beside him clicked his tongue.
“Shh! Lower your voice, man. No matter how hungry you are, isn’t this feed thrown to us by invaders?”
But the man snorted and took a large bite of the steaming bread.
“So what if they’re invaders? The Republic bastards blew up our bridges and ran when they fled. They’re the ones who drowned citizens in the river so they could save their own skins.”
“That was… a tactical retreat…”
“Tactical, my ass! The Imperial bastards fixed those bridges as soon as they arrived. And do you know what they paid the laborers with? Silver coins, silver coins! Not scraps of paper money worth less than toilet paper!”
At that, the women nearby joined in, their eyes shining.
“That’s right, that’s right. My husband went out to work on restoring the railway yesterday and came back with a whole box of canned meat. The children ate so well.”
“Patriotism? Hmph, does that fill my children’s bellies?”
“Tsk! The end times, the end times! There should be a limit to selling your souls!”
The old man shouted, waving his cane, but all he received in return were sneers.
“Old man, if you’re that much of a patriot, go starve to death. We have to live.”
“Come on! My child’s about to starve to death right now, so if I shout long live the Republic, will bread fall from the sky?!”
In the end, the old man closed his mouth. Red-faced and flustered, he glanced around, then quietly leaned on his cane and went to stand at the very end of the ration line.
A shriveled stomach was always more honest than worn-out pride.
No matter how much people shouted about ideology or the homeland, in the end, what mattered most to the citizens was a warm piece of bread and a few silver coins.
Ding.
[The city of “Soissons” has reached a stable state.]
[Experience has increased slightly.]
A system window appeared before my eyes as I looked out the window. I leisurely read through it.
‘What a honey pot.’
When I was rolling around on the front lines, I had to risk my life to gain experience, but here, as long as I stamped documents properly, it came in steadily. If I held out like this for just another month, level 22 might be possible.
“Lieutenant Colonel, this is the censorship report from the post office.”
Hanna said, placing down a file.
“Anything unusual?”
“Director Jean Bernard is being very cooperative. He filtered out three suspicious letters, and after decryption, they turned out to contain the coordinates of weapon caches hidden by the remnants. The military police have gone to collect them now.”
“Excellent.”
I smiled in satisfaction.
“And the railway union strike has also been withdrawn. Mr. Pierre… apparently persuaded his colleagues with great enthusiasm.”
“Persuasion, is it? There is no persuasion quite as powerful as holding someone’s weakness as a spy.”
Everything was proceeding smoothly. The city’s administration, security, and supply. The gears turned as slickly as though freshly oiled.
If there was only one place making noise…
“…Major Frederica has requested an interview.”
Hanna’s voice became subtly stiff.
“Send her in.”
I set down my cup, pretending not to know anything.
Soon, the door opened and Frederica entered. An armored officer with an ash-gray bob cut.
But her expression was strange. Gone was her usual sharp, confident elite bearing, and she was clearly restless, like a puppy desperate for something.
“What is it, Major? The armored battalion’s refitting should be finished.”
“Ah, well… I came because I have something to report.”
She hesitantly approached my desk.
“The technical support team dispatched from the homeland returned yesterday. Vehicle No. 101… the repairs on my tank have also been completed.”
“That’s good. The technicians must have gone through quite a bit.”
During the last ambush operation, No. 101 had been struck by fragments from an enemy rocket launcher, damaging part of its armor plate and suspension. The engine must have taken an impact as well.
“So, how is its condition? Since the Empire’s finest technicians worked on it, it must be like new.”
At my question, Frederica’s brow furrowed slightly. She moved her lips, then opened her mouth very carefully.
“That is… the problem.”
“The problem?”
“Yes. The repairs are… apparently perfect. According to the manual.”
Frederica sighed and lowered her head.
In her mind, the argument she had with the technical officer yesterday flashed by.
*
“Major, just what are you dissatisfied with? Output normal, hydraulic pressure normal, and even the track tension is adjusted within a 0.5 mm margin of error!”
The technical captain from the homeland shouted as though wronged.
But every time Frederica sat in the commander’s seat and started the tank, irritation welled up in her.
Rumble, bang, bang.
“Do you hear that? That sound?”
“What sound do you mean? Isn’t that a very powerful engine noise?”
“No! When the third cylinder fires, it’s lagging behind by a tiny beat! And when it shifts, the gears feel… rough when they mesh. As if sand is being chewed between them!”
“Ha… Major. This is a tank that’s been run in the field. That level of vibration is natural.”
“No! It wasn’t like this before! Even just last week, it was smooth as silk! When I stepped on the accelerator, the tank glided forward as if sliding over ice! So why is it like this now?”
“Last week? Wasn’t the drivetrain half destroyed then? It must be your imagination!”
The technical captain treated Frederica like a case of mechanical germophobia and packed up his things.
“This is the Imperial Army’s standard specification, Major. Any greater precision is physically impossible.”
And so the technical team left. What remained was the “perfectly repaired” No. 101, and Frederica standing there alone.
She stroked the tank’s armor plate with a trembling hand.
It was cold.
And when she started it, that crude vibration transmitted through her seat.
‘This isn’t it…’
It had definitely not been like this before the operation. The No. 101 that Lieutenant Colonel Max Jaeger—no, that “mysterious technician”—had touched was different.
The engine had purred smoothly, and the gears had meshed without the slightest gap.
That sense of unity, as though the forty-ton lump of steel had become a part of her body.
It was no different from a curse.
Having tasted ultra-precise, high-end performance, her senses could never again return to the crudeness of standard-issue equipment.
“This is… a lump of scrap metal.”
To Frederica now, even a tank repaired according to the manual by the Empire’s finest technicians felt like nothing more than a rattling lump of scrap.
*
“…So, you’re saying you simply can’t ride it?”
At my question, Frederica blushed and nodded.
“Yes… The sensation is… far too different. Every time the driver shifts gears, it grates on me so badly that it sends chills down my spine. The turret rotation speed is also 0.2 seconds slower…”
She clenched her fists tightly.
“Lieutenant Colonel. Shameless as it is, I have a request.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Could you… call that technician again?”