WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Abood

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Friedrich's Battlefield

Chapter 35: After the Victory

“We won, Friedrich”

"Yeah... Thank goodness. It worked."

Exhaling in relief, Friedrich sank to the ground.

He'd been confident enough. The plan's framework was his, and Oliver had executed it flawlessly. The odds had seemed favorable.

Yet doubt had gnawed at him. He'd defeated overconfident bandits and mercenaries before, but would his strategies hold against a proper army?

They had, and they'd won. As a retainer of House Hosenfeld, now a knight in the royal army, he'd proven himself worthy of the title.

This was another step forward, another stride toward becoming someone.

"Friedrich, should we join the others?"

"...Right. We should help Oliver."

Even after the battle, work remained.

Corpses to clear, wounded to tend. Arrows to salvage, abandoned weapons and armor to reclaim. Reports to deliver to those who'd held the camp, preparations for reinforcements. And with the enemy not yet fully withdrawn, sentries and defenses had to be maintained.

Already, troops moved through the pass, mopping up. However green this debut as a soldier, he couldn't idle forever.

With that thought, Friedrich rose and descended the slope.

He approached his comrades and there, confronted war's reality.

"It hurts! God, it HURTS! AAAAAAGH!"

"Stop thrashing! You, pin his legs! I need to bind this wound!"

A soldier thrashed as others pinned him down, his leg mangled, bone visible through torn flesh. One man wrapped the wound with cloth and yanked it tight. The injured howled.

"I don’t want to die... Mother... I want to see Mother..."

"You fought well. We’ll tell your family. You’re going to God’s embrace. There’s nothing to fear now."

An older soldier clasped the hand of a younger one as his guts were spilling and tears streaming.

"Hey! Your bride’s waiting! Open your damn eyes!"

"Stop. He’s gone. Let him rest."

The soldier clutched his friend's shoulders, the corpse still impaled through the chest, shaking and sobbing until others pulled him away.

Everywhere, scenes of carnage and grief unfolded.

"......"

Friedrich stared, numb.

Last year's bandit skirmish had left Volga's militia unscathed. A few minor injuries, no deaths.

But today, here, he witnessed it for the first time.

The cost of his strategy: comrades screaming. Comrades dying.

"Hey, knights go there. Separate from the infantry."

The voice drew Friedrich's gaze to a corner of the pass where allied corpses lay in rows, a temporary measure until wagons arrived for the dead.

Most still littered the battlefield; only a few had been moved here. Mostly infantry, but one knight among them.

Approaching, he recognized Knight Noela.

She'd died leading the hundred-strong unit that lured the enemy into the pass. What remained barely resembled her.

A sword or spear had torn through her jaw and throat, leaving bone and muscle gouged out. Her tongue lolled from the wreckage, eyes open and vacant.

They'd been acquaintances. On his first day with the Ferdinand Regiment, she'd ruffled his and Yurika's hair in jest. Later, they'd spoken often.

"I have a fiancé," she'd once said.

"—!"

Bile rose. He clamped a hand over his mouth.

"...Friedrich."

Yurika's voice called his name, her hand settling on his shoulder. He couldn't bring himself to face her yet and just focused on steadying his breath, forcing down the bile.

"Friedrich. You alright?"

Oliver's voice now. Friedrich turned numbly toward him.

The man was wounded. A brutal gash ran from his nose down his left cheek.

"What's with that look? Exhausted? ...Ah, this? Washed it out. I'll disinfect it with strong liquor later. Won't die."

Oliver touched his still-bleeding cheek, casual. That was all he said of the scar that would likely mark him for life.

Then his gaze dropped to the corpse at Friedrich's feet.

"...Noela was a loss. A damn fine knight. But she didn’t die for nothing. We won."

Friedrich stared blankly at Oliver’s profile as he spoke.

"Our casualties stand at a dozen dead. Maybe twenty by the end. Against triple our numbers, that’s near miraculous. Friedrich, this is all thanks to you."

“...!”

All thanks to you.

The words struck terror into him. His legs buckled as Yurika caught his shoulder.

"Right, lads?"

Nearby soldiers voiced agreement.

Well done, Friedrich. We won because of you. Defended the kingdom, and earned glory.

Their praise reached him as if through water, Distant, and distorted.

"They’re grateful, Friedrich. Without you, we might’ve been wiped out… Hey, you okay?"

Oliver frowned at Friedrich’s ashen face.

"It’s his first time seeing allies die. Last year, against the bandits, everyone from Volga survived."

Yurika said.

"...I see."

Oliver nodded slowly.

"Friedrich. Go back to camp with Yurika. Rest in the tent."

"...But—"

"Now. We’ll handle the rest. You’ve done enough."

Friedrich nodded silently.

Leaning on Yurika, he turned east toward camp.

As they left, someone approached Oliver.

"Seems the kid’s more than just clever, drafted a strategy that held up in real combat."

Said Knight Yarg, the detachment’s senior veteran who’d commanded the hundred-strong unit while Oliver led the ambush.

"Agreed. Count Hosenfeld’s judgment in recruiting him was sound... Now it’s on him to stomach this."

As Oliver spoke, his eyes on the dead, another body was carried past.

・・・・・・

Emerging from the pass's eastern end, Friedrich staggered into his tent and collapsed to his knees.

“...!”

The tremors hadn’t subsided, they’d worsened. His pulse hammered unnaturally fast; each breath came labored. Vision swam.

Dead. They’re dead.

He’d known them briefly, yes. But they’d trained together and eaten together. During overnight drills, they’d slept side by side. He remembered their names, their voices, how they’d laughed.

Now they were corpses.

Because of my plan.

His strategy had forced them to stand against overwhelming odds, to charge into certain death without retreat.

I killed them.

Yet no one blamed him. Instead, they’d praised him.

Even Oliver. He’d spoken as if the outcome were good, despite the scar carving his face. He’d commended Friedrich, urged him gently to rest.

What is this?

Is that normal? Is that carnage just... what soldiers accept?

No, he’d known. He hadn’t been naive enough to believe victory came without corpses. He’d stepped onto that pass fully aware.

But knowing and seeing were different.

The deaths of comrades up close bore no resemblance to the sterile numbers in history books or the glorious tales of epics.

They’d been people he knew, screaming, bleeding, spilling entrails, missing limbs. That was war. The reality soldiers supposedly embraced.

So should he have rejoiced with the others? Praised his own strategy while standing over familiar corpses? Counted lives like chess pieces and boasted of his ‘miraculous’ low casualties?

The thought made him nauseous. His mind frayed at the edges.

"No... Just no..."

Fear, a bottomless terror, threatened to drown him.

"—Friedrich."

At that moment—

He looked up. Yurika stood before him.

She knelt, pulling him into an embrace, his face pressed against her chest.

"Cry. Cry all you need. Don’t hold back. I’ll bear it for you. It’s all I can do... but I can do this."

“......”

He clutched at her, the dam breaking.

The terror defied reason, the dread endless. For now, weeping was the only way to endure it.

Footnotes:

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