Chapter 1
The Flower Left Behind in the Ruins
[Salvatorian Imperial Infernus Capital, Forse Air Raid Warning.]
The 32nd Infantry Company of the Salvatorian Empire, fighting at the frontlines, was heading towards Forse, a strategic military point located at the confluence of the Rhine and Moselle Rivers.
The Frontlines. 32nd Infantry Company.
The soldiers dedicated to their country were defined by just those two words.
The question of what the war was for didnât seem to matter to anyone in command, overseeing the leadership of the Salvatorian Empire.
Dozens of military vehicles sped through the desolate ruins. The man sitting in the passenger seat crumpled up a yellowed paperânow nothing more than a meaningless record of events pastâand threw it carelessly aside.
Screechâ
The military vehicle carrying the man in the front rank slammed on the brakes. A small child, arms spread wide, was blocking the middle of the devastated street. Perhaps due to the impact of the bombing, the child was dressed in rags, with not a single intact spot on their body. The childâs short blonde hair was matted with ash, and patches of white dust clung to their form.
Alone, the child chose to jump in front of the enemy’s military vehicle at the crossroads between life and death.
Such occurrences were not entirely uncommon, but tragically, the child was from the enemy.
“It seems to be an Infernus survivor from the bombing. We should send them to the internment camp immediately,” the lieutenant gave the order after reporting according to procedure. The man stared intently at the child, deep in thought. The child’s face, likely a boy due to the short hair, was drenched in rain, but his blue eyes subtly revealed that he was an Infernus.
The boy was certainly staring at the man. Though his emaciated limbs trembled uncontrollably as if they might collapse at any moment, those piercing blue eyes remained steady.
The lieutenant aimed his rifle at the child. It was a precaution against any potential threat. In wartime, women and children couldnât be dismissed; one moment of carelessness could lead to death by a hidden bomb. That could kill not just the individual but their comrades as well.
The lieutenant barked a short command at the child.
After a while, the lieutenant, with his rifle aimed at the boyâs back, led him back to the military vehicle. Two more soldiers dressed in dark uniformsâthe emblem of Salvatorâalso disembarked and tried to get the child into the vehicle. The lieutenant handed the boy over to them and ran to the window of the car where the man was.
A troubled expression clouded the lieutenant’s face, as if there were something more to say. He lowered the window.
“Captain. That child can’t speak.”
“…”
Children who had experienced the horrors of war often suffered from speech loss, likely due to the shock and fear of losing their parents. This boy was probably one of those many children. If sent to an internment camp, he would undoubtedly die. Even those in perfect health couldnât survive in such a place.
The lieutenant hesitated as he looked at the boy. He had heard that the lieutenant had a son of his own.
The man clicked his tongue.
He was one of those types who, despite trying to act tough, couldnât hide his compassionate nature.
After a brief body search, the boy climbed into the vehicle. The man placed his hand on the window, deep in thought, his finger twitching several times.
The boy. An enemy child.
The man turned and glanced at the boy. The boy was still trembling, his limbs bound, seemingly paralyzed with fear, but his eyes locked onto the man with unyielding focus. It was as if he recognized the highest-ranking officer here.
The boyâs eyes were unnervingly cold.
“Kid, do you want to die here?”
The captain asked. The boy still didnât speak, his face pale, fists tightly clenched, shaking violently. The man gritted his teeth and examined the boyâs cheeks, which seemed far too trivial to care about. He was also curious about the coldness emanating from those blue eyes.
The man reached for the boy, and fear immediately flickered in the childâs eyes.
“…Coward.”
The man muttered, watching the child shrink even further in terror. In the boy’s bound hands, a yellowed piece of paper and a pen had somehow appeared.
“Prove your worth. Then, Iâll spare you.”
Though he didnât believe the child would have any real value, the man was simply curious about the boyâs reaction to his raw anger. After a long hesitation, the boy began to scribble something with his trembling hand.
The boy showed what he had written to the man.
[Thereâs a mine just ahead.]
It was in the common language. The neat handwriting and meaningful content made the man furrow his brows in surprise.
“How do I trust that?”
In response to the manâs question, the boy lowered his head and began writing again. Soon he handed over another paper.
[A large vehicle that passed a week ago stepped on a mine and exploded. The front line is likely a minefield.]
The boyâs note was passed to the lieutenant outside the vehicle. Immediately, several military dogs and soldiers began to comb through the entire ruined city, searching thoroughly. The man left the vehicle and stood outside.
After some time, the soldiers finished their search. The man stood motionless until they all gathered in formation.
When the search was finally complete, the faint mist that had enveloped Forse had disappeared with the rain. The smells of gunpowder and blood, which had been suffocating, had also been somewhat diminished by the downpour.
The report came that an enemy transport truck had been discovered, blown upâmuch worse than expected. It had been hit by a large anti-tank mine. The man smiled softly as he looked at the boy still sitting in the vehicle. Who in the cityâs heart would have thought to place mines like that? Such traps wouldnât trigger with just a few people passing through, but it would be a different matter if large groups of civilians moved through.
Anti-tank mines had enough explosive power to disintegrate a person completely.
The Infernus army had chosen to prioritize pushing the Salvatorian forces rather than ensuring the safety of their own people.
The boy survived the bombing. Now, the man understood why the child had been so cautious and why he had dared to jump in front of the enemy.
To survive, willing to use any means necessary.
The man walked over to the boy, opened the door, and sat next to him. The boy looked up at him with a confused expression, trembling uncontrollably, and kept glancing nervously.
“Are you stupid or just clueless?”
The manâs words made the boy widen his eyes in shock.
The child clutched his hands tightly on his lap, so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Donât show the weapon you’re holding to the enemy until weâve made a deal. Thatâs one of the dumbest things you can do.”
“…..”
With no response from the boy, the rest of the infantry company climbed back into the vehicles. Passing through Forse was clearly problematic now. They would be stuck here until the mines were cleared. It looked like they would be staying for at least a week.
“Captain.”
The lieutenant, now in the driverâs seat, called out to him.
The man understood. They couldnât march forward to the next battlefield now.
“Yeah. Weâll stay here for a while,” the man replied.
The boy, still staring down, looked up at the man, and their eyes met. For some reason, the man felt he could understand the kind of fury that burned in those eyes.
It was a mix of resentment, anger, oppression, hatred, fear, chaos, and terror. The kind of emotions one would feel as the last survivor of such carnage.
“The little oneâs a bother.”
The man muttered, watching the boy. Though the boy had helped them avoid a crisis, there was no need for the man to take responsibility. After all, he was an enemy child. Sending him to an internment camp would solve everything.
Yet, for some reason, the man didnât want to do that.
The boyâs long eyelashes trembled, wet with either rain or tears, and his untidy hair was the same.
Throughout the journey, the boy kept glancing up at the large man sitting beside him with his big blue eyes, blinking as if his very survival depended on it.
“Your name?”
The manâs dry voice felt like it might stop the boyâs heart.
He must have been the leader of this group. The boy knew that much.
In some ways, he was the enemyâthe one who had ordered the bombing of Forse, which had taken the lives of the boyâs parents and Theodore. The mere thought of them made the boyâs chest tighten.
In their last moments, his family had said, “We hope you survive.” Their spirits, their names, would remain in his memory for a long time.
They had embraced him tightly as the flames of destruction swallowed them whole, never to wake.
The boy, the only survivor, had clung to that tiny hope.
The name Selene Nikomache lingered in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to write it down.
The boy was exhausted, barely having eaten or slept for over two weeks. But he couldnât afford to collapse here. He had to survive. That faint hope kept him going, and it was only then that he thought he could find some peace.
He was holding onto whatever desperate hope he could grasp.
