“Why aren’t you like the others?” The conscript flinched as he stuttered the words, the numerous beatings, whippings, chronic malnutrition, and numerous undiagnosed diseases have taken its toll on the young man, now more a walking skeleton with a thin covering of skin.

“Because I know what it felt like,” Subaltern Saul replied, “The lives of you and the others before your arrival.”

“How?” Came the question from a genuinely puzzled expression, as the conscript’s mind was too dilapidated to suspect of trickery. None of it matters. Officers don’t need to dally around to mete out sadistic punishments on the conscripts. Any reason, including no reasons at all, is a good reason to commence the beatings.

“Truck-kun works in mysterious ways.” Saul simply said, noting the other’s sudden surprised expression before continuing. “That’s enough proof?” The slack jaw expression from the conscript was enough of a confirmation.

He turned around, letting the conscript know that the conversation was finished. Moreover, he can't openly display anything even remotely akin to compassion to the fresh isekais, not if he wants to keep his position in the hierarchy. “You better get back to work, I think I see the regimental captain coming this way.” He whispered, trying what he could, knowing the futility of it all.

It’s something that he was disgusted at himself for, but also knows that there’s nothing that he can do about it. In the grand scale of things he’s just another cog in the machine. A machine of sadistic brutality with a thin veneer of moral virtue. A moral virtue as bankrupt as the king’s treasury.

It’s not that different from his previous life, in the fragments that he does remember. That’s the thing with a full reincarnation: a lot of things, well, not necessarily forgotten, became more myths than facts. Mostly details, hazy recollections of foods eaten, places visited, and random useless trivia.

He shook his head to clear those musings. Mulling about a different life lived in a different world does nothing for the life he lives here and now. Well, almost nothing. It does make him slightly more empathetic to the hordes of people that the mage guild has summoned for the war.

People. Few among his peers thought of those filth infested rabble as people. Then again, They don’t see the peasantry as people either, back when there were as many peasants as trees in the forests. Before the rise of the evil empire, before the calamities, before…

… and not a damn thing was learned through the trials. His peers, all of them, are still as arrogant as ever. With the peasantry spent, they simply moved on, drafting the unfortunate and the unlucky of another world. If anything, their arrogance has only increased, as many now styled themselves as being blessed by the gods, miracles coming at just in the hour of need.

Never mind that the only reason said needs occurred was of their doing in the first place.

Of course it was for noble purposes, for evil must be exterminated. The heroes and adventuring parties were to make the world a safer place… and once again the rationalizations crumbled in his mind, only for the whole meandering turmoil pushed aside.

It’s no use. The gods did not see him fit to worry his little head over those matters. They only demand him to fulfill his duty, and his duty is to fulfill his military obligations. It’s something that’s not readily explainable, not even to himself, or rather, the him of the previous life.

------

As far as a second life went, it wasn’t that bad in comparison to the life he had before, the lack of modern amenities were easily compensated by the fact that he was born into a family of some status, if they were even missed in the first place. Things such as the internet and electronic gadgets in general were a lot easier to forgo when there’s the knowledge that no one has them, and thus there’s nothing being missed out on.

As for the rest, it was something he didn’t want to dwell on too much upon. The voice in the back of his mind, the collection of the remnants of his previous life, his second conscience, rather unwanted and unwelcome. It’s easy to rail against the horridness of a world unenlightened by theories of basic human dignities and rights, but to actually make those changes… didn’t it take the countries of earth centuries to progress there? So much as a part of him wishes to make those changes, he knew, it wasn’t going to happen.

And so he simply lived life in this new world as was intended. Sure, there were occasional moments where he tried to nudge things forward, but to little avail. Random tidbits of trivia and gossip have no place or value. There’s also the little matter of him being the third son of minor aristocracy: There’s the heir, the spare, and then there’s him, the bargaining chip from the discount aisle.

It’s not a bad existence, even relative to that of his older [half] brothers. Much was not expected of him, little of the family drama, and even less of the greater drama with the rest of the aristocracy as the older brothers got shipped off to the royal academy. With less scrutiny comes more freedom, heck, he was mulling over when to propose to the daughter of the local tanner, something that’s unthinkable for his more fortunate brothers to even daydream of…

Then, of course, the war came, and with it the call to arms. The initial call to arms. A minor distinction perhaps, but one that makes all the difference for the participants, for not all who partake in wars fight equally, nor all glories shared as equally. If anything, there was an inverse relation between the two, but it would be rather unwise to make note of that.

Thus he went, promising to her that he will come back, and they will get married and live a happy life together. All fairytale stuff, some of which he had believed in even.

And then, at the mustering grounds, he saw the gaggles of the iskeaied ones, and then, the death began, and continued, and continued. The brutal reality of the world and country he resides in crashing into his face as he gazed at the raw suffering in all of its horrors.

Far from his family’s estate, far away from the fantasy world. Yet for all that he had only gazed at the horrors of reality, not being part of it more by luck than anything innate within.

It’s something that he’s keenly aware of, if only for the pain it brings upon him in his mind.

------

“Forward, march!” Saul yelled over the din of battle, while trying to hold back tears and coughs from the thick smoke of gunpowder. The bugler and drummer began their playing, passing on the message to the rest of the 26th штрафбат/Isekai regiment. The block of men-like creatures, emaciated shadows of men, fueled by the fires of primal emotions within trudged forward, pikes held at the ready.

Forward they went, braving through the smoke, the fires, the screams of the damned and the dying, the hail of cannon balls and arquebuse shots. Many were cut down by the enemy fire,and as usual the rest trudged on, having long since grown accustomed to the spectral of violent death.

Death, the sweet release of a dutiful death, though that notion is usually dispelled for most of those who were actually in the throes of death. Physical pains do not care for high minded abstract notions. The serenity of acceptance was a privilege reserved for the few, who those might be more a matter of chance masquerading as fate.

All good stuff and all, but irrelevant to the still living and walking, though how much they’re actually living is debatable. The important thing is that they’re still walking and carrying their pikes. As they came closer to the enemy line of pikes, the trudge slowed to a crawl as the human instinct against getting closer to sharp pointy things asserts itself despite the endless beatings to break said instincts.

All too soon those fears became bloodstained reality as the masses of pikes slowly crashed into each other, and the screams of pain became much closer. Again and again he hacked with his sword, cutting through the shafts of the enemy pikes. Yet like a fountain more simply came out, replacing what has already fallen.

Inevitably his luck ran out. He first felt the stab of pain, and as he looked down he saw a large and growing red patch on his side. Before he could react, something or someone pushed him aside, and soon the world turned red, then to black…

……

The return to the world of the living took a bit longer, though somewhat less painful. It must have been the alcohol that somehow found its way into his bloodstream. He had no recollection of consuming any, but must have during the time in which the apothecary and the surgeon had done their healing arts on him. Pity that the after effects are still about in his body. As always, none of the benefits but all of the consequences.

It was then he noticed his surroundings, that he was lying in some sheets on top of a stack of hay on the back of a wagon. A wagon that’s moving on a rutted dirt road if the bumping was any guide.

“What- what has transpired?” He managed to croke out, before a painful coughing fit consumed the next handful of seconds, though it felt much longer.

“For your bravery in battle, and the wounds you have taken there,” A neighboring voice replied, “You have been granted the privilege of recuperation at your family’s ancestral estate.”

“Praise be to the ancient ones.” Saul muttered, knowing the real reason that he had been sent back. It was not of mercy, but rather of expediency. The wounded cost supplies while contributing nothing, and often a drag on the speed of the army. Still, he knew he was lucky: wounded conscripts are often simply left behind to die, especially the ones from another world.

After all, it’s cheaper to summon new ones rather than fixing existing ones, and the lessers, they were no more important than dust on the boots.

He closed his eyes again, wondering about the war, the cause he has dedicated his life and honor to. Was it all a lie, an illusion?

Does he have a choice even if it is?

------

It was not a hero’s welcome he received once back at home. Rather, it was the return of an embarrassment. A reminder of the cruel realities of war, instead of the heroic grandeur of honorable combat.

Yes, reality, the greatest enemy of the war at home. For the enemy can only reach where his armies march, but gossip and rumors… or even things they see with their own eyes. That is a problem indeed, for those do nothing but only capture a fleeting moment, and wars are much longer than that… or rather, the hopes of something at the end of the tunnel, something to make good of all the sacrifices that have already been committed, and will be committed still.

Who is correct? What is correct? He could not tell, and feared the answers even if he could. Perhaps that’s why he stayed put in the family estate as he recuperated. Not only of the injuries of the body, but also that of the mind and soul.

If only it was that easy.

The quiet peacefulness, the tranquility of these lands so far from the trauma of war. They gnawed on him as the days passed by. The knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands, are suffering and dying in great misery.

And there’s nothing he could do about it, either back here or out there. Yet his honor demands it, the pursuit of moral virtue cares not of the consequences, but only that of intentions. Yet no one in this world cares for intentions, only results.

Such are the contradictions of life.

Lives. It wasn’t as if his life before this one was any simpler, or more straightforward. The troubles are that of man and his nature, not of unexplained forces. Moreover, he was still chained as ever before, if not more so. Worse still, he knows he could not voice about them to anyone: his peers aren’t burdened in the same manner and thus won’t understand, and the other isekais… Well, it’s not good optics to whine about such high minded matters to those who couldn’t even get enough dirt to eat each day.

It was during one of those afternoons of fruitless musings when one of the servants interrupted his lonely silence with a message: That it is time for him to get married.

But he wasn’t ready, or fit. He protested.

It doesn’t matter, neither was she. Was the response.

He could read between the lines as well as the next person, but like many things in the worlds, knowing what’s to come meant little when there’s nothing that could be done to stop it. The worst type of predestination.

------

For a wedding, it was a small, discreet ceremony. Out of sight, and thus hopefully out of mind. Of course, it has to be. For it is a union of convenience and social acceptability, in a world where perception is more concrete than observable reality. The noticeable baby bump on her belly was the main reason, but what haunted Saul was her eyes: gone were the sparks of hope and wonderment, replaced by the pitch black endless depths of despair.

And the reason for those changes, he could see it clear as day. For off in a corner sat a large mountain of lard, radiating pure disgust. How much of that perception was the person in question being a money lender and merchant Saul could not answer, but even without those traits and ignoring his physical appearances, the circumstantial evidence is damning enough.

And of course there’s nothing he could do about it. Of course, technically there’s nothing physically stopping him from picking up a sword and slicing that fat bastard’s guts out… but of course, it’s not that simple. The power of money, or rather the debts that his family had accrued, in which said fat bastard holds all of it.

So wallowing in his self pity and impotent simmering rage that he even missed the cue to kiss the bride, though no one really noticed either, as there was an air of impatience: everyone knows the farce, and wishes it to end as quickly as it could be.

All in all, Saul was just glad to have healed from his injuries, which means back to the familiar and comforting surroundings of war.

With a start he realized in horror that he was looking forward to what he had in the recent past abhorred, but a lot of things have changed since then.

There is no place for him to go but back. To where he could do something about something.

------

“The 26th штрафбат regiment will advance. Forward, March!” The now captain Saul repeated the orders given to him. As usual, it’s simple: the 26th штрафбат/Isekai regiment will be the first wave to storm the entrenched enemy field fortification on an otherwise unremarkable hill, that it wasn’t even dignified with a name.

But of course as always, simple does not mean easy, as the plan calls for them to march straight into the teeth of enemy artillery and arquebuses. The age old gambit of wearing down the enemy with sheer bodies.

After all, there’s more bodies where that last batch came from. A fact that Saul was painfully aware of as he looked around: there wasn’t a single familiar face in the regiment from when he last saw them, nor any of those present remember any of them. A handful of months was enough to wash away thousands, through the sword and the cough the grim reaper takes his due.

Of which he is certainly doing with great relish, as the thundering booms annouenced the arrival of cannonballs. First came the solid shots, smashing limbs like twigs. Some flinch, but Saul noted that most simply shrugged, if they reacted at all. Unfamiliar faces they might be, but jaded veterans many of them are already.

However, veterency meant nothing in the face of artillery, and as the regiment advanced further more cannon shots smashed into them, the masses of smaller balls from canister and grape joining the more regular solid shots. The whizzing of the projecties so many that they melt into each other, creating an endless buzzing.

In the handful of minutes again and again the lines shattered as scores of men simply collapsed and disappeared into the clouds of dust and smoke, and again and again the survivors formed back, only to be smashed apart…

Suddenly, he was on the ground, the agony of a thousand pains stabbed through all over his body. As he looked around, there were only the dead and the wounded, the latter’s screams all but drowned out by the booming cannons and the distant drums of the other штрафбат regiments, those presumably will all suffer the same fates as he and his men did.

So this is how it ends. He thought to himself. Unexpectedly, he felt a sense of comfort from that thought, as if a weight had been taken off his chest. Perhaps it’s all the bloodloss, or just a finality he could grasp. He has done what could be done, what should be done, and has been done. What happens after is in the hands of forces beyond the understanding of mortals. As the darkness of death fell upon him a second time he smiled, finding his personal peace in the heart of a raging battle.

Just another unremarkable death among thousands that day, and many days like it. The war goes on unabated. The ranks refilled, again and again, with the dregs sent by the all mighty Truck Kun.

------

Haman the merchant and money lender crackled maniacally as the slaver’s wagon clattered away, the wailing of its contents melting into and with the creaking of the ancient wagon. For him, those screaks of despair are music to his ears, the music of profit. Especially sweet is the sounds of a certain widow and her newborn child.

Life is good, profits are greater than ever before. The war has been nothing but a boon for him and those like him. Those decadent fools spending and borrowing more than ever, and those with the spine to trouble him sent off to die glorious yet utterly forgettable death, far away and out of sight and of mind.

As the sounds fell away into the quietness of a normal day he turned around, making his way back to his house. He idly mused to himself, already thinking of the future, and the endless possibilities of ever more money to be made.

He smiled. War is such a blessing from the gods, may the wars be endless and so with it the flow of money…