Chapter 54: A Life Departed Early

I have thought back to the scene of the Second Battle of Centuria many times. I have imagined, if Fred had not suppressed the enemy with a swifter charge when the Winston Heavy Cavalry began to assemble for their own attack, but instead had adopted a cautious defensive tactic, would everything have turned out differently? Would Carlson—that commander of ours—not have had to sacrifice his life to save us?

My conclusion is that Fred made the best choice at that time. When the entire battlefield had already fallen into complete chaos without any order, if the Winston men had been allowed to launch their charge first, what we might have faced would not have been just a local disadvantage, but a complete collapse of our entire line like in the First Battle.

Fred’s decision saved more people.

But Fred did not think that way.

Because Carlson was dead.

The death of Carlson affected him too greatly, and he fell into deep self-blame because of it. That sorrowful event greatly confused his thoughts, making him convinced that all of it was caused by his own mistaken command.

He lay alone on his bed, staring at the ceiling, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. If not for occasionally responding to others’ advice with a word or two, he would have been no different from a corpse.

For three whole days, he did not leave his room even half a step.

“How can you be like this!” After I learned once again that he had refused to eat, ignoring the attempts of my companions to stop me, I kicked open the door and shouted at him.

“What exactly do you want? Do you want all of us to kneel here, grab your knees, and beg you with the last of our dignity and patience? Fine, if that can make you eat something, I can do it.” I knelt by his bed, looking at his face. His face was bloodless, pale like a loose patch of cloud, as if it could be blown away by a gentle breeze at any moment.

“Leave me alone, Jeff, please.” He still stared at the ceiling, his eyes vacant, speaking softly.

“Leave you alone? Besides these words, can you say anything else? You want to bear all the responsibility alone? You want to solve all the problems alone? What do you take us for? A group of servants who cannot think and only obey your every order?” I could not help grabbing his collar and roaring at his face, “We are also people, we also have feelings. The captain is dead. You are not the only one who is sad!”

At this point, I could no longer hold back, and two lines of clear tears flowed from my eyes.

“He is dead, Jeff, the captain is dead. I harmed him, it was all me…” His eyes still had no spark at all, but at the corners of his nearly dried-up eyes, two teardrops hung on his long eyelashes.

“If I had not attacked rashly, if I had not been surrounded, if I could have decided a little earlier, he would not have died. That was my fault…”

“Idiot!” I could not help punching him down to the floor.

“If the captain knew that the one he saved with his life was an idiot like you, he would definitely regret dying.”

“You are right, I am an idiot. I could not save his life, I could not even protect my own men, I failed the promise I made to him back then. The one who should have died there was me, not him.” A trail of blood flowed from his nose that had taken a heavy blow, but he seemed to feel no pain at all and simply ignored it. His voice was like a frozen lake in winter—so calm it was despairing.

“You stubborn blockhead! No one can protect everyone, including you, Fred, including you!” I could not help raising my hand, wanting to strike him hard once more on that listless face. At this moment, the companions who rushed in from the door grabbed my arm and pulled me away from him.

“Don’t stop me, I want to wake up this worthless fool who knows nothing. So many people are worrying about you, and you are thinking about such useless things! Captain Carlson gave his life for a man like you in vain, and this is how you repay him…”

“Sir, please stop.” A calm female voice spoke. It was Millia’s voice.

I panted heavily and sullenly lowered my waving arm.

Millia walked solemnly to Fred’s side, and then…

She did something that completely surprised us:

“Slap!” A loud, resounding slap struck Fred’s face. This was by no means just for show. Fred’s pale left cheek immediately swelled red, and five bright finger marks appeared on his cheek. This slap not only stunned me speechless and completely dispelled my anger toward Fred, it even stunned that seemingly lifeless Fred, who took a long while to recover.

“Please carry him to the bed.” Millia herself seemed a bit surprised by her own actions, and only spoke after a moment of hesitation.

We carried Fred onto the bed, then took our leave and walked out of his room.

“Miss, please tell him that the captain’s last words were that meeting Fred in this life was the happiest thing that ever happened to him.” As I stepped out of the door, I said these words to Millia—in fact, to Fred. When I finished speaking, I could clearly see Fred’s body on the bed tremble slightly.

I closed the door and walked alone into the courtyard. I did not resent the listlessness and despair Fred was showing now. My young friend had taken on too much and too heavy a responsibility. He had bravely shouldered every problem, trying to protect every one of us. I did not know if anyone could have done better than him. But under such enormous pressure pressing down without rest, his young shoulders seemed far too tender. This was war. People would always die like this, including our loved ones.

I thought of Carlson, that man who used his life to teach us how to become soldiers. He saved Fred, saved that most outstanding leader, saved his most prized subordinate and most respected commander, saved so many soldiers who were like sons to him. Without a doubt, his sacrifice was worthwhile.

But what about me?

I could not even help my friend gather his courage again.

This was truly humiliating.

I suddenly realized the reason I had treated Fred so roughly in his room. It was not that I hated his cowardice or resented his listlessness, but because I hated myself, hated my own powerlessness, unable to make Carlson’s sacrifice take effect on Fred.

And not just that. Red Flame, Dakla, Riley… my companions could always appear beside Fred at any moment, stand shoulder to shoulder with him in battle, and give him strong support when he needed it most.

But what about me? An ordinary, mediocre, unambitious bartender, an unqualified soldier who always needed friends to protect him, a coward who could only weep and leave while my commander fought on unyieldingly.

It was only at this moment that I realized I was truly such an incompetent person.

But there was still one thing I could do, and I firmly believed no one could do it better than me.

That was, at my friend’s side, silently supporting him, obeying him, letting my humble and tiny dreams become part of his great wishes.

This was me, the innkeeper’s son, Jeffritz Gid’s lifelong belief and vow. I was proud that I could face this vow openly, without shame, unwaveringly.

…

A long time passed, and no more sounds came from Fred’s room. I tentatively knocked on the door, and when there was no response, I gently pushed it open.

Fred, my friend, was lying face down on Miss Millia’s lap, deeply asleep. In his sleep, he still occasionally sobbed. His sleeping face was pure and adorable, like a child clinging to his mother’s embrace.

Millia’s left arm held his head, and her right hand gently patted his shoulder, like a loving mother coaxing her child to sleep. The shoulder of her dress had already been soaked by tears. Clearly, Fred had opened his heart and cried his heart out.

For someone who had suppressed his grief for too long, this was a good thing.

Millia saw me enter the room and nodded at me gently. Her expression and movements conveyed many things, enough for me to understand that Fred’s knot had been untied, and when he woke from his sleep, we would once again have a commander and leader who was brave, wise, and able to lead us to victory.

I did not know what had happened between them, but I knew that if Fred could show the softest, most vulnerable part of his heart to someone like a child, laugh loudly in front of that person, and weep bitterly in front of that person, then that person had undoubtedly already walked into Fred’s heart.

Should I congratulate you, my friend?

Knowing when to leave, I withdrew from the room and found two attendants, telling them that no one was allowed to disturb the General’s rest. Outside the door, fragrant wildflowers bloomed in clusters among the lush grass, like many bright stars dancing in this season of hope. This was the time when their lives were at their most vigorous and vibrant. No one knew how many blooming flowers before this had withered and fallen on this land, but what did it matter? This season belonged to them. If they could bloom to their heart’s content when it was time to bloom, and spread their fragrance everywhere when fragrance was needed, then when they withered and fell, would it be necessary for us, who had nothing to do with them, to weep for them?

…

Just like all beautiful and stirring legends, the hero’s funeral always takes place on a rainy day.

At Carlson’s funeral, there was rain.

Just one day before, the sky above our heads had been perfectly clear. But when the funeral procession carried the coffin toward the cemetery, we unexpectedly ran into a fine, silent drizzle.

The rain soaked my clothes. That icy touch was like the grief in my heart—gentle and long, as if it would never stop.

Regrettably, we did not find Carlson’s body in the chaotic battlefield, but fortunately we found his two-handed sword. The blade had already begun to rust from bloodstains, no longer as bright and sharp as when it was in its master’s hand. Without the warrior who wielded it, it was just a heavy sword with nicks in the edge.

This sword took the place of its master, lying quietly in a specially made coffin. Fred, I, Dakla, Riley, Rodrick, and Roll—the six of us each grabbed a handle on the coffin and walked toward that cemetery.

We came to see our commander off on his final journey.

In front of Carlson’s grave stood a gravestone shaped like a longsword. This was the most exquisite work Dakla had completed with his own hands over seven whole days. But if he could choose, he would rather have never made such an exquisite gravestone, because beneath it lay the person he respected and did not want to lose.

Behind Carlson’s grave was a vast expanse of graves for the soldiers who had died in battle. Some of them could still have their identities identified; the names of others would never be known. No matter whether they had fought bravely on the battlefield, now they all had the right to receive the mourning of the living here. What our descendants would mourn was not the face and voice of any particular person, but this brutal war itself.

Five thousand soldiers lined up before the cemetery, bidding farewell to their comrades. Compared with those lying in the graves who could never stand again, they were fortunate. Their formation was neat and silent, so quiet that not even a breath could be heard. This showed that they were no longer a ragtag mob of miscellaneous troops. They had been tempered by the blood and battle of the battlefield. They were true soldiers, brave warriors.

“Today, we are here to bid farewell to our comrades in arms.” When everything was finished, Fred stood before the formation, expressing his feelings to everyone present with his emotional voice. His body was still weak, and his face looked even paler in the rain, but his eyes had already regained their former brilliance. Millia tried to hold an umbrella over his head, but he firmly refused.

“Among them, there is one person I want to mention alone. That is Sir Carstian von Dawson. He was once our commander, and most of you have seen him before. For me, he was my teacher, who taught me to become a true soldier.” As he spoke, those of us who had once fought alongside Carlson could not help but shed tears again. Red Flame, who had lost one eye, came here supported by Poirot and Eliot, paying tribute to the respected warrior who had saved his life.

“A long time ago, my commander once said a sentence to me: every warrior’s life is precious, and protecting them is the duty of an officer. That is exactly what he did, and so… so, we are still alive, standing here…” Fred’s eyes were red, and his voice lost control with trembling. It took a long time for him to calm down before he continued: “But not long ago, he told me an even more important lesson, with his life. He said: if a soldier must be sacrificed, then his sacrifice must be worth it.”

“Every person lying here in this cemetery…” Fred’s hand pointed toward the graves, “they have all obtained something more important than their lives. Glory, victory, pride… For dead warriors, these are far more valuable than the lives they lost. They have obtained a dignity that a coward can never obtain!”

“Let us…”

The fine rain dripped onto the branches, and the branches echoed painfully…

“forever…”

A leaf, unable to withstand the urging of the rain, drifted down in fright…

“remember them…”

I could see that the color on that falling leaf was a patch of green…

“Dismissed.”

That was a life that departed early.