The sky was dark, and Gael, the commander of the left route division, was groggy, his gray-white hair messily tangled.
He forcefully propped his head with his hand to prevent himself from plunging into the stack of documents piled higher than his helmet.
For an elderly man over seventy, even with the support of breathing techniques, getting up in the middle of the night to handle military affairs was torturous.
"...Based on my experience in the Thousand River Valley War, there are at least five hundred men on their side.
So far, when I returned, I didn't see any comrades, and the beacons hadn't been lit. I speculate this is the beginning of a large-scale assault..."
In front of the table, Pierre, covered in blood, spoke anxiously and uncomfortably.
Gael nodded slightly, his fingers sliding over a worn and greasy copy of the "Falan Army Code", eyes half-closed like a cat just waking up.
"You are a deserter, aren't you?"
"Ah?" Gael's first words left Pierre stunned.
