In order to prevent any needless confusion, the 1st Armored Division remained under the command of the staff officers, with Lena only taking command over the Spearhead detachment. Since the detachment was formed by nearby units that had followed Shin, its chain of command and affiliations were a mess. As he listened to Lena’s voice while she rapidly rearranged the detachment, Shin breathed out softly… To think he’d left the chain of command all messed up like this.
“…Raiden, thanks. You helped me.”
He couldn’t switch his Para-RAID settings from Lena, so he used the radio to tell him that.
“You know it.” Raiden scoffed at him. “Lena was going to give you that kick instead, but I stopped her. You should thank me for that, too. You’re lucky I was the one to hit you, because if you’d have been careless enough to shout at Lena, you’d have gotten depressed in the middle of battle and never recovered.”
“…Yeah.”
Looking back at how he conducted himself, he was frightened to acknowledge he’d actually acted that way. The Eighty-Six, his allies—they weren’t fools. Only they were weak, powerless, and better off gone.
And that thought was the very source of the division that angered him so much. He’d made the base, unsightly simplification that the people he marked as different were fools. It was an unconscious self-justification. One that would tell him they were discarding people for self-preservation—making him turn a blind eye to the arrogance, callousness, and narrow-mindedness of discrimination.
But he had that tendency within him just the same.
Them was such an ambiguous word. It could let anyone discard other people, brand them as evil, hostile, and harmful, all for having the one trait that everyone other than oneself had—the fact that they were different.
Without even realizing it, Shin had been doing the same thing the Republic did when it branded him and his comrades as Eighty-Six—the act of stripping away one’s name and face.
Words lied. People lied. And he—he, not anyone else—constantly lied to himself. He kept trying to gloss over his weak, unsightly sides, and he showed off his foolish, intolerant, and cruel base nature like it was a form of justice and love instead.
“That’s right. I am…weak, a coward, and a dumbass.”
He’d said it about himself once before, and he’d forgotten it. When push came to shove, he was foolish enough to forget.
Raiden chuckled. “Looks like you’re back in form… The next one isn’t just your prey. Tachina was pissed that you gobbled that one up on your own, and I was ticked off, too. Focus on recon, you hear?”
“Yeah… Sorry.”
✦ ✦ ✦
What lay fifteen kilometers ahead was hidden behind the horizon while viewed from the surface, but from high elevation, it should have been visible. And so the two climbed the steps of a church’s steeple on the outskirts of the ruined city, hoping to at least glimpse Neunarkis from afar.
It was an old, steep, worn-out spiral staircase. Yuuto knew there surely wouldn’t be any self-propelled mines lying in ambush atop a steeple in an abandoned church. He let Citri—who nearly stumbled over her feet—go ahead and stood ready to catch her if anything happened.
In the end, none of the girls made it. They all wished to go home, believing they could make the trip. But it wasn’t to be. If only Citri could last one more day, but fate wouldn’t afford her that extra bit of time. Perhaps she should have just given up, but not now, when it was within her reach.
It was a long, steep staircase. Yuuto could make the climb without exerting himself too much, but being on the verge of breaking, Citri was gasping for air. When it looked like she was about to sink to the floor, Yuuto finally reached out to support her, knowing she wouldn’t want this.
“Want me to carry you?”
“No. Let me walk—to the very end.”
But that said, her legs wouldn’t move anymore. So he lent her his shoulder, supporting her weight. The staircase was narrow, and there was hardly enough footing for both of them to stand side by side, but her body was light enough that it wasn’t an issue.
As she gasped for air, her long hair drenched with sweat despite the cold weather, Citri painstakingly climbed up one step at a time.
“…Hey, Yuuto.”
She spoke between labored breaths, her voice thick with pain. She didn’t want to get anyone involved.
“If I tell you to go back, hurry and climb down the steps. If it comes to that, it’ll be too late for me, so don’t say anything and run down right away.”
Don’t get caught up in this. She was so terribly pressed for time that she had to say this. Yuuto pressed his lips together. He could only hope she’d at least last the climb.
✦ ✦ ✦
As he took the prescribed drugs that would stave off his fatigue and gulped down the terribly sweet liquid rations that would restore the minimum fluids and calories he’d require, Gilwiese prepared to move to his spare unit. As breaks went, this was a travesty.
His unit, overworked from countless battles, had to be serviced, and the front line didn’t give him the time to refuel and reload his ammunition. The newly formed Harutari reserve position was being attacked by Legion from every direction, and the troops were desperately fending them off.
“You don’t have to come to the next battle, Princess. Head back along with the injured soldier.”
“…Y-yes, Brother.” Svenja didn’t retort and nodded, her face clearly exhausted and her lips red from her biting them too much.
She knew she’d only slow him down from here on out, and she lacked the strength to insist and argue.
Gilwiese’s Mock Turtle and the other indigo-colored Vánagandrs were swiftly towed into the maintenance station for service, resupply, and cleaning the mud out from their joints… Though at this point, having their armor tarnished with filth was hardly a concern.
However, the Vánagandr he boarded next was a stainless crimson, like it hadn’t experienced any combat or participated in any battles. Its proud luster looked foreign and out of place in this losing battle, and it made the faces of the defeated soldiers passing by chill with disgust.
His audio sensor picked up on slurs being thrown their way. Damn nobles. Now wasn’t the time to care, though, so he ignored them. On the other hand, the Para-RAID brought a report from the artillery team in the rear. This, by contrast, was something that demanded his attention. The artillery unit was prepared to shoot and commencing suppressive fire.
—Good news. Hearing this, they set out.
“All units, we move out. While those scrap buckets are stopped by suppressing fire, we strike them from the flank.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The small window carved into the thick stone wall showed the sleet raining outside. Despite the season, it wasn’t a blanket of snow that covered the battlefield and all the death it held, but sleet that melted as soon as it fell, forming black mud.
His hand, touching the stone wall, became covered in dust, his fingers tearing through old cobwebs. A bird perched by the window flew off, leaving filthy feathers in its wake. Something squeaked—perhaps a rat—as it fled.
Citri’s face, pallid and sickly, her complexion pale even compared with the glow of the snow, was the only thing that remained beautiful on this spiral staircase.
“…Yuuto. Listen.” Her peaceful, serene face felt like it was letting him peer into some distant, divine land. “Thank you—for coming with me. For helping me every step of the way. For telling me we’ll go together. I was happy. Really. I’m glad I met you. I—really was happy.”
“…Citri.” Yuuto cut her off with a word.
He couldn’t stand to hear this. If she was speaking this way because he was here with her—if it was his fault that Citri had to say such pretty words at the very end—then he didn’t want to hear it.
“If you actually feel that way, that’s fine. And I do think you really feel that way. But is that honestly what you want to say now?” asked Yuuto.
…I wouldn’t, if I was in your shoes.
He’d heard the cries and lamentations of countless Processors from the Eighty-Sixth Sector, and he’d heard the wailings of the Legion through Shin’s ability. None of them had such pretty words. So he wanted to give her at least this much. He could only bring her to the edge of her true homeland, the place she was born in, so at least—if he couldn’t truly help her, truly save her, then he at least wanted her to have this much.
“I couldn’t do anything for you. So at the very least, I can listen.”
At that moment, Citri turned to face him, and her pale expression crumpled and contorted to that of an infant on the verge of tears.