CHAPTER 463

THE WESTERN FRONT

Fields of green had vanished, withdrawing in the presence of scorch and soot, leveled cleanly with the earth beneath it. Occasional rock stood erect in the otherwise open field, providing tepid cover hardly worth a mention. Hundreds of corpses, some whole and some less so, lay strewn about, their disemboweled innards combined in the flowing rivers of blood and gore. An occasional shout of command echoed throughout the otherwise silent world, while the living slowly sorted somberly through the dead, combining pieces into a whole.

Ion stood to the side, garbed in silver-cast armor, holding an elongated, thin and sharp spear in his right hand. Crimson ran dried over his chest, a few strands of his hair plastered to his forehead, the rest fluttering in the hazy wind. Half his face was covered in thick, bushy beard, the other half marred with nearly six grating scars, eyebrows missing above both his eyes. He had long since lost his previous innocence and youthful looks, replacing them with grit and anger.

“Commander, reporting!” a young soldier walked up to him, saluting in a bow, barely standing still.

“Speak.” Ion tore his eyes away from the field and focused on the young man whose name escaped him.

“We have managed to chase the enemy General down,” the young man said. “Do you wish to interrogate him?”

“Lead the way.” Ion said simply, putting the spear and the helmet he was holding away into the void treasure before following the young man.

They passed through a recently-cleaned path, winding through piles and mounds of the dead, or at least of remnants of weapons and armors dyed scarlet. The grass had been trounced completely, seemingly having never grown here, while the horizon was entirely shielded by smoke.

Their journey wasn’t long, lasting barely a few minutes, until Ion came to a halt in front of a kneeling, caged Devil of ashen skin and destroyed horns. Dull, black blood flew freely, seemingly acidic based on the smoke rushing out of it. Surrounding the cage were a dozen soldiers clad in leather armor who immediately saluted when they saw Ion, withdrawing into the background as he stepped forward, crouching in front of the cage.

“… I’m getting really sick of these.” Ion said. “Aren’t you lot?”

“—sick of what?” the Devil grinned, meeting Ion’s gaze. “Of watching you cretins squirm and weep like newborns? Hardly.”

“You have lost all significant battles thus far,” Ion said. “It is clear your homeland doesn’t give a rat’s ass as to what happens to you. You’re a temporary distraction, a buffer, while they condense their forces elsewhere. How pathetic can you be to accept that role with a grin?”

“—ha ha, lad, save your preachery for some who may give a shit,” the Devil laughed, coughing a mouthful black blood in the process. “We’re a distraction? Good! We’re doing a great job, aren’t we? Dumbass. Why are you talking to me? Kill me already. Isn’t that what you’re good that?”

"I'm good at plenty things," Ion responded, smiling lightly. "Kissing my Master's ass, exploiting the fear of his wife to get my way, and I'm certainly good at ending the pointless lives of wretched morons like you. But, I won't be the one to kill you. There are plenty here angry, broken and torn enough to allow you to enjoy the last minutes of your wasted life in a rather particular fashion. Have fun, you scum."

Ion simply got up and walked away, shutting off whatever sounds may have come from the cage after. Though he may have believed in proper military conduct during the war, sometimes… it wasn’t enough. War was hardly a romantic tale of heroism, and him expecting every soldier to be similarly able to separate themselves from the horrors would hardly be reasonable.

He withdrew to the temporary headquarters, a medium-sized cloth tent centered around a large fence. There was only one other person currently inside, his second-in-command, Vyrove, who just recently came back to the army even though Ion hadn’t expected him to.

“Yo.” Vyrove smiled lightly at him and called him over to the map of the nearby area, stacked to bits with small figurines depicting soldiers from both sides.

“Any changes?” Ion asked, glancing at the figurines.

“No,” Vyrove replied, shaking his head. “Their movements are still the same. It’s definitely on purpose.”

“It’s fine. Just continue chasing and cutting.”

“Any news from the powers-that-be?” Vyrove asked.

“Nope,” Ion replied. “You can always go back, you know?”

“… I know,” Vyrove said, smiling lightly. “And if things truly turn dire, who knows, I just might leave your ass out here alone.”

“—who does it say about more, me actually believing that slightly?” Ion said, cracking a grin.

“Definitely you, definitely you. Anyway, I’ll go and start swapping the soldiers. You rest for a while. It’s been a long day.”

“… still shorter than many before it.”

“Long nonetheless. Take a nap, at least.”

“…” Ion said nothing as Vyrove sighed and walked away, leaving the tent and Ion alone in it.

The latter glanced at the figurines once more before moving toward the corner and sitting on one of the tables, taking out a gourd of wine, downing half of it in one go. He hadn’t even realized how parched his throat was until then, nor how hungry he was. Taking out some dry rations, he gobbled them up rapidly before leaning back into the chair once more.

He’d been on the active front for over six years now, only ever returning twice; once for Aaria’s birthday, and once for Vyrove’s wedding. Though he missed the city life, he didn’t mind his current one either. Even if it was dark and somber, more often than not filled with rather depressing outcomes, he was the Commander with the least experience of everyone else, which he somehow had to make up for. Lino had put trust into him, and he couldn’t afford to betray it.

Most of the battles thus far were rather run of the mill, hardly any savant-like tactics being employed, mostly direct skirmishes. There was no need to think too much, as these battles were effectively grinders; those with potential unlocked it, and those without it perished. However inhumane it may sound, it was the best and safest way to build up a respectable army. Hopeful youths come to the front often, dreaming of making it big, having their names ascend through the crowd, only to die a few days into the battle. A story told often, really.

His own Legion had started weak, built up entirely out of new recruits, most of whom had never participated in a life-or-death battle. Now, six years later, only ninety-eight remained of the original ten thousand. All were hardened veterans by now, guiding their own squads, making up a Legion of over two hundred thousand souls altogether. Though it may sound like a lot, it hardly was; this was just one front, with at least six-seven simultaneous ones being open at any given time.

He was startled lightly, sensing the vibrations from his void treasure; quickly taking out a talisman from it, he frowned as he burned it. The other end quickly morphed into a depiction of a familiar face – Hannah. Most of the orders were usually relayed through the middle-men; there was simply no reason to contact Ion directly, and most social calls were done through other types of talismans… not through the military’s official ones.

“—Lady Hannah? Is everything alright?” Ion asked, his frown deepening.

“Are you alone?” Hannah asked cautiously.

“… I am.” Ion replied after a short inspection, as well as putting of a barrier around him. “What’s wrong?”

“—have you investigated the matter of the deserters?” she asked him.

“Yes,” Ion replied. “We’ve only had two cases in the past four years. Both simply terrified lads who couldn’t hack it.”

“—what’s so different about your Legion than the rest?” Hannah asked.

“… well, the biggest one’s probably that all of my men and women are ‘locals’ so to say,” Ion replied. “Meaning there are no Cultivators from other Holy Grounds or other powers we’ve absorbed. Mostly mortals and roaming Cultivators. Should I return and help with the investigation?”

“… no, it’s fine,” Hannah shook her head. “We can handle that on our end. How did the battle go today?”

“We won.”

“Casualties?”

“Four hundred and eighty-two, and counting.” Ion replied.

“Record them carefully.” Hannah reminded.

“I always do.”

“—also, if you can spare some manpower, start keeping records of all items, whether ordinary or especially rewarded and try to track where they go.”

“… there shouldn’t be any major skirmishes for a few weeks at least,” Ion said after a short thought. “I’ll get right on it. Is Master there?”

“—no, he’s out somewhere, with Aaria.”

“Could you ask him to contact me when he gets a chance? I’ve some questions for him.”

“Of course,” Hannah said, smiling lightly. “Don’t overexert yourself, alright?”

“… yeah.” Ion nodded somewhat meekly.

“Alright. I’ll see you soon. Bye!”

“Goodbye, Lady Hannah.”

The screen went dark and vanished completely shortly after as Ion slumped back into the chair once more. Frowning once again, he recalled the day he was given the strange task of trying to figure out whether there was a major surge of deserters within his Legion. Though he already knew the answer as he made it a point to at the very least memorize faces of every newcomer if not their names, he still went through all the records carefully in case he missed something – but there was nothing to be found there.

From the sound of it, now, however, it didn’t appear as though it was only just deserters; there was something more at play, something that was still slipping through their fingers.

In the end, he merely shook his head; it was not made for these sorts of inspections, he believed. Many smarter and better-suited minds were currently trying to decipher it all, and his contribution, if there would be any, would at most be minimal. His call was to fight and to win. These menial battles, he knew, would soon be replaced by actual ones – where he, and most others, would miss the days of having ‘only’ four hundred casualties. Until then, he wouldn’t lose. Western Front, though largely irrelevant, was important personally for Ion – it was the birthplace of Lino, and the beginning point of it all. He would liberate it, and return it to the reason he was here today. Still fighting.