Chapter 71

Bell and Add descended south without delay. Though Menes was gone, with forces preoccupied by Bean and the Spirit, they were able to break through without further combat.

As soon as they escaped enemy territory, Bell immediately ripped off her mask. The air in the no-man’s-land, unlike the enemy’s ranks teeming with Variants, wasn’t so toxic that it couldn’t be breathed raw.

The barrage of lightning that had painted the dark, ornate sky had ceased long ago.

He didn’t even know when Bean and the Spirit had returned. The situation had unfolded with such urgent intensity, there hadn’t been time to look at the sky.

Explosions echoed through the oppressive silence. The bodies of the fallen lay strewn haphazardly around them as they traversed the no-man’s-land.

*Thump!*

A booming noise ripped through the stillness. Hot air rushed past, shaking everything around them. A mine had detonated not far away.

Had someone from the Coalition stepped on it, or a Variant?

He didn’t know. Perhaps it was merely a malfunction.

Bell and Add had neither reason nor obligation to find out.

After all, a mine existed to explode on the battlefield, and whoever stepped on it existed only to die.

“Upon returning to the fort, I will take you to the Saintess directly, so you may receive treatment as quickly as possible.”

Bell spoke, rubbing his arm through his robe. To him, today was simply a day where he carried out a mission slightly more dangerous than usual, nothing more.

“…Why didn’t you do anything?”

Ed spoke, his voice involuntarily sharp.

“They must not learn of the existence of a mage. You know I am not to participate in combat under any circumstances, it was covered during the briefing.”

“…Didn’t the situation change? We were discovered, forced to engage in battle. Was that also part of the plan? Something you told us during the briefing?”

Ed found Bell’s composed tone grating. It felt as though those who had died today meant nothing.

“They were people who didn’t have to die. You, the renowned Bell Artua, are you not? With a single flick of your finger, you could have reduced those mutants to ashes.”

“The fact that a mage had infiltrated must not be revealed to the enemy, no matter the cost. Furthermore, if they realized the infiltrating mage was a General, the Archons themselves would have moved. In that situation, my inaction was the best course.”

Bell calmly and coolly recounted the situation.

His judgment was correct.

For the sake of the mission, and for the survival of the soldiers.

It was all perfectly logical, and Ed had no particular counter-argument.

That was why he felt more suffocated, something bubbling inside him.

“…The General abandoned his men.”

Just like a child, a baseless accusation fueled by emotion, devoid of logic or reason.

Making such a meaningless accusation did nothing to soothe his feelings.

“Yes, abandoned them.”

Bell replied softly to the accusation.

Ed was left speechless.

A feeling of unease settled deep within.

No words seemed capable of lifting it.

Bell was too rational.

Frighteningly so.

Even as subordinates perished before his eyes, as men dissolved, he betrayed not a flicker of emotion.

“…Were you always like this?”

“Perhaps.”

Bell retrieved a pipe from within his robes and placed it in his mouth.

He didn’t light it. Not yet safe, not with the risk that smoke might draw a rain of bombs.

He chewed on the pipe’s end, paused in contemplation, then carefully parted his lips.

“I doubt I began this way either.”

“…”

A cold shiver ran down Add’s spine at Bell’s offhand reply.

…It felt as though he had glimpsed the bare face of the hero he yearned to be.

The thought that his striving might lead only to becoming such a desolate being drained the meaning from all he had built.

It was as if a chasm, previously hidden, now yawned before him. The conviction struck him hard, a blow to the back of the head: he had neither the strength, nor the reason, to walk further.

At that same moment, the image of a boy adorning the sky flashed before his eyes.

That boy, riding upon the back of a thunder-calling spirit, delivering divine retribution to the demons against a backdrop of lightning.

Yes, not all generals were like this.

Weren’t there those who, like that boy, graced the battlefield with beauty and splendor?

‘What I want to be is someone like General Bean…’

“…You still believe you can be a hero?”

Bell, who had been walking far ahead, turned back and asked that.

“…”

An icy silence settled between them.

Beneath the cool shadows, only Bell’s ragged breaths could be heard.

His shoulder throbbed, and his fingertips trembled.

Ed couldn’t bring himself to answer Bell’s question.

* * *

Operation Name: Fish Trap

Status: Successful

Survivors: General Bell, Private Ed

Missing: Corporal Citadel Kraya

Killed in Action: Lieutenant Menes, Sergeant First Class Kerner P., Staff Sergeant Mills, Staff Sergeant Alex G., Corporal James K. Silva, Corporal Hutchison, Private Brandon.

Special Notes: None.

* * *

As soon as Bell finished writing the report, he packed the newly supplied tobacco leaves tightly into his pipe.

A hint of bitterness and sweetness touched the tip of his tongue before rushing straight to his lungs.

An indescribable freshness and a slight bitterness filled his chest. It was a heavy, deep flavor that was incomparable to the cheap tobacco leaves supplied for military use.

He sat in front of the bonfire burning behind the barracks, staring blankly at the flickering flames. Officers and soldiers rushed around him, but his eyes saw nothing.

For a time, he stared blankly into the fire, before quietly pushing up the mud-streaked sleeve of his left arm.

Concealed beneath, his forearm bore several gashes, jagged and raw.

Without a word, Bel retrieved a thin dagger from within his robes. A mage had little reason to carry a dagger… but Bel had uses for it.

He held the blade to the roaring bonfire. Flames licked at the back of his right hand. A light burn, yet Bel’s expression remained unchanged.

As if a machine. Even normally, pain did not disrupt his breathing, and he rarely lost his composure in the face of fear.

He sat there, smoking for two hours straight.

The tobacco began to taste burnt thirty minutes after he lit it. But Bel, unconcerned, repeatedly scorched the dry ash.

He felt neither hunger, nor did his legs tremble.

His heart was perfectly still, and his mind was endlessly occupied, ceaselessly calculating what needed to be done to win this war.

A coldness, inhuman in its depth.

Bel did not know how he’d become this person. He felt certain he hadn’t been this ruthless before becoming a General.

…Or perhaps he’d been this way all along.

Those who remembered his childhood were all dead, so no one could recall when he had become this man.

He carefully brought the blade of the dagger, long since heated in the flames, to his left forearm.

Hot.

It was hot, but not enough to elicit a moan.

He pressed the red-hot blade against his skin and dragged it downwards.

The blood that seeped out sizzled upon contact with the burning metal.

There was no scent of blood. Perhaps it was masked by the stench of corpses that permeated everything, or perhaps Bel’s blood possessed no scent at all.

The truth, no one could know.

Bell spent a long moment, staring blankly at the new wound blooming on his arm.

It didn’t hurt.

A normal person would be reeling, sharp stabs of pain radiating from where the blood welled, but oddly, he felt nothing.

“…What are you doing?”

The cold voice cut through the air behind him as Bell stood, lost in the sight of the injury.

He didn’t bother turning. He already knew the voice’s owner.

“Watching the flames, smoking.”

Bell wiped the blood from the blade, then slid it back into the recesses of his robe.

He let the rolled-up sleeve fall back down. The wine-colored fabric now hid the marred flesh.

Grisha settled silently beside him, extending a hand. She likely knew what he’d been up to.

“I’m fine.”

Bell pushed her hand away gently, answering her silent offer. He didn’t want to trouble her, not when she was already working over twenty hours a day with worse injuries than this.

“If you get infected, I’ll have to pick up your slack. Handling the injured is already killing me, so give me your arm.”

“I cauterized it with fire.”

“You’ll get a scar.”

“So?”

Bell relit his pipe, asking the question through the exhaled smoke.

What did a scar on his arm matter? He didn’t understand Grisha’s concern.

“…Then at least eat something, you haven’t had anything for thirty hours, minimum.”

Grisha shifted, retrieving two wooden bowls filled with soup and holding one out to him. Judging by the two bowls in her hands, she had intended to feed him from the start.

Belle regarded the soup Grisha offered, her expression curious.

It smelled tempting, that soup.

Meat, too, nestled within.

A strange thing, indeed.

That little Vin had arrived with the supply wagon brimming with all sorts of things… fresh vegetables and meat must have been among them.

“Not really in the mood.”

Despite the enticing aroma, Belle wasn’t particularly hungry.

…Rather, beyond not being hungry, her stomach felt faintly unsettled.

“Shut up and eat.”

“For a saint, you’ve got quite the mouth.”

“Ten years on the battlefield, and I’d say I’ve earned the right to be called a saint.”

“The Goddess would weep to hear that.”

“She’s in a better position than those of us currently bleeding.”

“…”

Belle accepted the proffered soup from Grisha, resigned.

It was warm. Smelled wonderful.

But her appetite remained dormant.

“Oh… are you eating?”

As Belle stared blankly at the soup swimming with meat, a white-haired boy emerged from beyond the fire.

He carried an acoustic guitar in his hands, but even that seemed too much for his fragile arms to bear.

He usually seemed to avoid any task requiring exertion, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to mind carrying the heavy guitar.

“The officer said it might be better for the generals to eat separately… This *is* the place to eat, right?”

“Yes. Sit.”

Grisha gestured towards the clean-cut log opposite him.

The boy thought to himself, ‘Considering it’s supposed to be the generals’ dining area, there sure aren’t any chairs.’

Bell… just kept staring blankly at the now-cold soup.

The flickering flames, dimming then growing bright again, played tricks on Bell’s eyes.

He still couldn’t feel anything in his left arm.

He didn’t even feel like eating.

Bell suddenly wondered if he was even human anymore.

“…What’s with the atmosphere? Did something happen?”

The boy seemed to belatedly notice the heavy air around the low campfire.

“Just the usual.”

“It’s war, after all.”

Bell and Grisha answered nonchalantly.

“Well, alright then.”

The boy didn’t seem particularly interested in what the two of them had experienced today.

He wasn’t the type to care much about others in the first place, and he was already overwhelmed just trying to solve his own problems.

“Mind if I play some guitar?”

The boy had already placed the guitar on his lap and rolled up the sleeve of his robe, asking the question almost as an afterthought. Perhaps the reason the boy had come here wasn’t the soup, but the warm campfire.

It hardly needs saying, does it? That strumming a guitar by the fire is far more delightful than doing so in a vacant barracks.

“…Doesn’t matter.”

Bell glanced between the white-haired boy and the guitar for a moment, then answered nonchalantly. Truthfully, he wasn’t in the mood to enjoy something like a song… but the boy, one could tell at a glance, clearly wished to play. So, he spoke those words.

The boy’s mood before him held more weight than his own feelings.

Considering the tasks the boy would have to perform for the sake of the continental people in the days to come… it was only natural.

*Thwing-*

The sound of a thin guitar string vibrating filled Bell’s ears.

Soon after, the thickest string at the top of the guitar shivered, and a low note rode the bonfire’s warmth, blanketing the surroundings.

Individual notes gathered, forming measures, and the measures soon flowed into melody.

The melody became a song, entering Bell’s ear and tickling him deep within his chest.

Before long, the boy couldn’t contain himself and began humming along in a small voice.

Listening to the boy’s voice brought to mind a woman dancing with a jazz backdrop. His voice was languid, clear, and yet, tinged with a deep sadness.

The song’s lyrics contained an apology directed toward someone.

At first listen, it seemed like an apology towards a lost lover, but the following verses seemed to be for a benefactor, someone like a parent.

…Or perhaps, it sounded like an apology to the subordinates he’d had no choice but to abandon this day.

With each quiver of the guitar strings, one of Bell’s tactical strategies vanished from his mind. With each tremble of the thin strings, Bell’s rigid pupils wavered.

Bell stared blankly at the singing boy.

The slow, low performance continued for about three minutes.

“My throat gives out quickly, doesn’t it. I should have brought some honey water.”

Having finished the song in a small voice, the boy muttered with a slightly cracked throat. As much as he wanted to hum along to two or three more songs, even singing one properly was difficult with his frail voice.

“Huh? Why?”

The performance had ended, and sensing an awkward air, the boy noticed Bell staring blankly at him. He asked the question with a puzzled look.

“…No, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

Bell belatedly realized he’d been gazing at the boy with a vacant expression.

He quickly averted his gaze, but at that very instant, a sudden, sharp pain flared in his left arm.

Without even thinking, Bell raised a hand to his left arm.

His arm throbbed. He could distinctly feel blood gushing from the wounded vein, even through his robe. And the blood…it was far too hot.