And with confidence, of course. As for himself, he could now only sit back, relax, and wait to reap the rewards of their counterattack. At this point, there was very little to be done in the rear. “I guess I’m just an old man now, good for nothing but drinking tea,” he mused. And so on and so forth.
With a calm, laid-back attitude and a few artful touches to alter how the truth was digested, it was easy to get people to misinterpret the facts. Likely, no one would imagine that their counterattack had only barely succeeded, and they’d had one foot already in the grave.
Add in a few smug additions—“unfortunately the muddy season is arriving early, and we are worried the roads will get worse…” or “the reason the counterattack was less effective this time, despite being so dramatically effective during Iron Hammer, must be due to the difference in the natural environment”—and who wouldn’t be convinced?
People believed what they wanted to believe, especially in the Empire, who were habitual users of the drug known as victory—a medicine that ought only to be taken in a single dose. By this point, rejecting the illusion of victory was almost akin to denying the very tactics that underpinned it.
While it was sad in a way, as the Empire’s faithful nursemaid, Zettour continued to sow such dreams. Even against an overwhelming accumulation of truth, people were prone, through the power of interpretation, to view the future through rose-colored glasses. But one day, they would loudly protest, it was Zettour who had deceived them!
And when it came time to play the victim in this manner, they would mean it. Yet the dust had been thrown in their eyes because they had asked for it.
“Let us just hope the world agrees,” he murmured. Truly, that was what Zettour felt, nay, wished for, deep in his heart.
Would the world come together as one to throw stones at this enemy of the world? Only those without sin may cast the first stone. In that case, let the entire world come for him. Let them insist he is the one laden with sin as they toss their stones.
It was why he had to put on this show, to make it seem as if he had produced a miracle. He humbly bragged that there was nothing he could do back here in the capital, but little did they know how true that was: it was his subordinates who were out there wearing themselves down to the bone; actual men on the ground, like Lergen, who had given their blood, sweat, and tears. Meanwhile, Zettour maintained his mask, keeping up the farce that he alone was the star upon the stage.
In truth, events were now in the hands of those who stood on the battlefield. An old man like Zettour could only pray that they somehow proved victorious.
As a result, Zettour—whose sense of involvement in the direction of war was strangely lacking, and who always felt adrift, as if he had lost sight of his place in the world—found himself having to sell himself as a prodigy of tactical direction. He made rounds in related departments to consult on the fuel situation (for the sake of a large-scale counterattack, of course), calling various numbers in search of much-needed meteorological data. He was, in short, busy pretending to work, completing completely pointless tasks.
Once things had settled down slightly, he retreated to his own roost in the inner depths of the General Staff Office for a brief smoke.
The violet smoke hung in the air as… Well, there was no need for literary flourish. It was just smoke, swaying lazily as he exhaled, and he seemed to see his own feelings in the drifting shapes.
“Hmph… There’s already so few left.”
Half of the cigars that the old fool Rudersdorf had left behind were already gone. Unlike Rudersdorf, who had only nibbled at them—as out of character for him as that was—Zettour showed no restraint, working through the stock at a much faster pace.
“He must be turning over in exasperation now in his grave. Or maybe just in rage. I’ll have to ask him when I get there. If there’s any way to know if we’ll meet again, mere human as I am.”
Either way, Zettour needed to keep sprinting until the end. He couldn’t stumble now. As a knock came at the door, the determined old man placed his thick mask back over his vulnerable true face and leisurely bid the visitor to enter.
“Come in.”
“Excuse me, General Zettour. Colonel Uger, reporting. I have an intercepted transmission with me… It is quite curious. I thought you might enjoy it as well.”
Zettour raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Colonel, I’m afraid you’re not being very clear. What do you mean by ‘curious’?”
“It is, well, amusing, I guess you might say. I thought it might please you.”
Zettour had worked Colonel Uger hard for a long time and had never regarded him as one for such sycophancy.
“Well, this is unusual. I don’t usually expect such officiating from you, Colonel…”
Colonel Uger bowed his head, yet insisted on presenting the intercepted message. “If you would, General. It is from Baruch Bridge.”
“What?” Zettour snapped, snatching the message from Uger’s hand and skimming its contents.
It read: We are the aerial mages of the Empire! No one can stand against us! Repeated, shouted over and over. What bellicosity. What over-the-top bravado. What a stunning diversion. What strength of spirit. When only despair awaited those who were clear-eyed, these warriors had purposely chosen to intoxicate themselves with defiant cries instead, strutting shamelessly upon the stage.