A week had passed since the unprecedented large-scale offensive. After wrapping up both the battlefield cleanup and tactical analysis, General Katsutoshi Ogata, commander of the Second Division, had left Kyushu to deliver his report in person at the National Defense Forces headquarters in Ichigaya, Tokyo.
“I see. So his final tally was ten large classes, nearly fifty mediums, and over a hundred smalls?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ogata responded. “Technically, the correct procedure would have been to confirm the effects of the incendiary shells before launching a full bombardment, but under the circumstances, he prioritized making sure that no enemy escaped. I’m convinced Colonel Shibano made the right call.”
“Right. Well, we would have to agree there… We don’t intend to downplay individual achievements, but the whole thing would have been pointless if Shibano had let the enemy get away to pad the boy’s kill count. Prioritizing monster elimination was the right choice.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
The figure whom Ogata was bowing to was General Ryoko Asaka, supreme commander at General Headquarters and a member of the imperial family.
Technically, both were of equal rank as generals. However, Asaka’s status as royalty and her position as the head of General Headquarters, as opposed to Ogata’s role as a division commander, meant that etiquette demanded Ogata defer to her.
For context, in the National Defense Forces, the head of General Headquarters and the chief of the general staff were both members of royalty, as was the minister of defense, the highest-ranking military official.
This structure had evolved over time. Each division had essentially become its own faction, heavily tied to its regional base of power. Appointing someone from one of those divisions as supreme commander risked biased decision-making and intrafaction conflict. Past power struggles had worn out even the most senior officers. Eventually, a consensus emerged among the exhausted high-ranking officials—only royalty, who could act with impartiality, should command the entire military. It certainly wasn’t a democratic process, but over time, it had become formal policy.
Of course, even the royals had their biases—favoring the Kanto region, where they lived, and the Kinki region, where the ancient capital Kyoto was. But placing importance on major economic zones like the capital was hardly controversial from a national defense perspective. And more importantly, the royals in these posts were all undeniably competent military administrators. So far, no one had raised any serious complaints.
But military hierarchy and its politics aside.
“I understand your perspective from the field, and we’re not dismissing his accomplishments,” Asaka continued.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’re planning to officially make him an ensign, then immediately promote him to special lieutenant.”
“Ensign, ma’am?”
That would mean that after he graduated from the academy, a full promotion to lieutenant was all but guaranteed—an extraordinary decision for someone who was still a student.
“There will be jealousy from the other cadets. But an organization that muddies the line between reward and punishment isn’t healthy. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course. However…”
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure how he himself will take it.”
“Hmm?”
Ogata had no objection to promoting Keita. In fact, considering everything the boy had done, it would have been absurd not to promote him just because he was technically still a student.
The issue wasn’t whether he deserved the promotion.
It was whether he would want it.
From what Colonel Shibano had reported after speaking with Keita postbattle, and from what Takafumi—Keita’s sort-of minder—had observed, he was the type who didn’t like standing out.
“He isn’t like the other students. He isn’t chasing after glory or rank.”
Of course, Keita was human. He wouldn’t mind a promotion. But that didn’t mean he wanted the spotlight that came with it—though at this point, avoiding that spotlight would be practically impossible.
“Then what does he want?”
“Money. And a peaceful life with his younger sister.”
“Well… Given his circumstances, it’s difficult to call that shallow.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
If a prince or a noble officer had said something like that, both Asaka and Ogata would have shot them a contemptuous look, and their career would have been over.
But Keita wasn’t a prince. He wasn’t part of a powerful military family whose influence came from spilling their own blood in battle. He was just an ordinary civilian, thrown into the fight by fate and a knack for piloting.
For a kid who had lost his parents and was trying to raise his little sister on his own, wanting enough money to build a stable life and wishing for peace was normal. In fact, it was the duty of royalty and military officers to provide that kind of stability to someone like him.
Once you saw it that way, it was impossible to hold anything against the boy.
But whether they could give him that was another question entirely.
“I understand the ensign’s wishes. But I’m afraid we can’t grant them. Not at this stage.”
“Understood.”
Keita had the firepower to one-shot large-class monsters, the mobility to dodge their counterattacks, and the reflexes to follow up immediately. And even after all that, after ten large-class monster kills, he could still keep fighting. You didn’t throw away talent like that.
So a peaceful life? That wasn’t happening.
And as for the money—well, that was complicated, too.
Not because they didn’t have money. If throwing billions of yen at Keita was all it would take to keep him in the military, both Asaka and Ogata would happily cough up ten or twenty billion from their personal accounts. Other factions would probably do the same.
After all, it cost twenty billion yen just to build one standard-issue Kusanagi-type unit. Given how much Keita and his hybrid mech had accomplished, his value easily exceeded ten of those.
To military high command, paying even a hundred billion wouldn’t have been unreasonable.
So why not pay him? Because the moment Keita got his hands on that kind of money, there was a real risk he would lose motivation—or worse, leave the military altogether.
The truth was, Keita was only in the academy because he needed the money. If he had enough to put his sister through college and live comfortably, he would have no reason to stay.
And to make things worse, there was no law preventing a student from voluntarily dropping out.
Yes, they could slap a gag order on him. And yes, once he was a commissioned officer, even if he left school, he would be treated as a reservist and could be recalled in the event of an emergency.
But still, a soldier who stepped away from the front lines lost their edge. That was just military fact.
And it wasn’t only the pilot who suffered. The mech did, too.
Even if Keita’s unit was effectively his, official ownership still belonged to the military. If he dropped out, the unit would be wiped and returned to the academy’s arsenal.
But to reset a mech that had killed over ten large monsters and nearly fifty mediums? Anyone with half a brain would know that was madness. No one in the military would want to make such a foolish call.