Specter 18: Corpses Piled High
The aftermath operations were far more arduous than anticipated.
After completing the routine tasks, I collapse.
Thanks to my status and skills, physical exhaustion is manageable.
Mental fatigue, however, is severe.
This is because my duties involved verifying casualty lists and preparing condolence payments for families.
The Eighth Army I commanded suffered heavy losses.
More than half were driven by me into enemy lines under duress—essentially sacrificed in suicide attacks.
Every time I read a name, I could almost hear their accusatory voices directed at me.
And the families clinging to recovered corpses.
To them, I must deliver condolences without sincerity.
Sincerity is forbidden.
I do not possess the right to offer it.
I must be a cruel superior who forced them into a death trap.
Normally, even this moment of mourning is forbidden to me.
I moved forward with post-battle cleanup, suppressing all thought.
The fortress where I fought had collapsed under my command, rendering it strategically useless for occupation.
Occupying a pile of rubble serves no purpose.
Yet I had to recover the corpses of both armies left behind after the battle, and the supplies stored within the fortress.
Left unattended, battlefield scavengers would strip it bare.
Most supplies within the fortress had been rendered unusable when I destroyed it, but those that had escaped the collapse unscathed were salvageable.
More difficult than anything else was the recovery of the corpses.
The task fell to the surviving members of the Eighth Army and newly hired personnel.
Almost all were individuals who had known the deceased.
There were multiple instances when workers discovered the body of someone they knew, broke down in tears, and ceased work entirely.
This was the scene I had created.
Words failed to form.
Yet I could not remain silent.
To the weeping workers, I threw harsh words: “Move. Don’t cry.”
To those who glared at me with resentment, I returned an even more piercing stare.
Their defiance collapsed under the weight of my gaze. They lowered their heads and submitted.
The Eighth Army had never been anything more than a disparate assembly with no prior connection to me.
Loyalty to me had never existed from the beginning.
It had transformed into enmity and fear—forced into a deathtrap, losing many comrades, the resentment against senseless death growing ever stronger.
Hatred toward unjust death.
Yet resistance is impossible.
The suffocating weight of that resentment presses through.
Exactly like the tyrant general who binds subordinates with fear.
No justice exists anywhere.
But this path was chosen by me.
There is no turning back now.
A deep breath. I rose from the chair in my private quarters.
A meeting with the legion commanders is scheduled for later today.
I exited my private quarters, heading toward the conference room.
On the way, I collided unexpectedly with Melazofis.
“Good day.”
“Good day.”
Brief greetings exchanged, minimal words.
Melazofis is Sophia’s attendant.
Because of this, since I became commander, he has taken on the role of senior commander, overseeing me in various matters.
Quiet by nature, not one to speak without cause, yet today his presence feels heavier than usual.
Likely, he’s burdened by a reason similar to mine.
His usual pale complexion appears even more ashen today.
We proceed in silence toward the conference room.
Upon opening the door and entering, the commander of the Dalaro forces is already seated, radiating the same oppressive atmosphere.
Yet, where others show mental strain, Dalaro’s fatigue manifests physically.
Unlike me or Melazofis, Dalaro is an ordinary demon.
His stats reflect this—lower than average.
Probably, the exhaustion from war has compounded with the strain of post-conflict administration.
“Hmph. Melazofis and Lars, I see.”
No usual vigor in his voice.
Clearly, he’s worn thin.
“Good work.”
Unintentionally, such words escaped.
“Hmph. Still look worn, I see?”
“Yes, quite.”
No use hiding it. Speak the honest impression.
“Disgraceful. Lost at a moment of great significance, then displayed such humiliation during aftermath resolution. This incident has only eroded confidence.”
The Dalarod regiment commander offered a faint, weary smile.
At that moment, the Kogou regiment commander entered the room.
The towering commander, sensing the atmosphere, hesitated awkwardly before taking his seat.
Kogou also looked unwell.
Regardless of degree, regiment commanders are under extreme strain.
I take my seat and await the meeting’s start.
After a pause, Shiro enters the room.
When entering the room, I may be imagining it, but it felt as though Shiro had glanced toward the commander of the Kokou Regiment.
Shiro’s eyes are closed, so it’s difficult to tell where he’s looking.
“Ah. You’re all here.”
In the moment I was distracted by Shiro, Ariel had already entered the room.
The regiment commander is not present, but the rest are absent by default.
More pressing, however, is the state of Balt standing beside Ariel.
His complexion is the color of dried earth—on the verge of collapse. Is he well?
“Everyone, thank you for the post-battle cleanup. Now, I’m sorry to impose, but you’ll need to continue working. We must accelerate the reorganization of the army ahead of the next battle.”
No one voiced it aloud, but I suspect we all thought the same thing.
Please, just let us rest.
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