Six weeks since the start of Operation Geisterdämmerung, 1930 — Velmure Riverbank, 37 kilometers from Luciarde, the capital of Noirval.
The Velmure River—broad and calm like the eyes of an old man who's seen too many wars—cut across the eastern plains of Noirval like a natural trench, a barrier that didn't just divide but bore witness to the rise and fall of civilizations. Its name, Velmure, came from an ancient word meaning "wall"—a fitting title for what had become the last bastion before the heart of the capital. From here, only thirty-seven kilometers separated the Felsburg forces from total victory. And if this river was crossed, there would be nothing left to stand between them and Luciarde.
That's why the Felsburg high command—including Erzregen, the architect of the operation—had marked Velmure as a critical point in their grand design. To him, taking this river wasn't merely tactical; it was symbolic. In his mind, Noirval's unconditional surrender was no longer a matter of if, but when—and how fast the current flowed.
Yet the southern banks of the Velmure painted a scene in sharp contrast to the urgency of war. The Felsburg troops stationed there looked anything but combat-ready. Some lounged against tree trunks, lazily puffing on cigarettes, while others fished at the river's edge, chuckling softly like they were on an extended holiday. The specter of war seemed to blur in the golden afternoon light, and more than a few had stripped off their uniform jackets, rolling up their sleeves like they were back at a training camp—not a front line.
They had been told, again and again, that victory was in hand. Noirval, tired, besieged, and cut off from supplies, was supposedly just waiting to collapse. That was the message the officers kept hammering home, and it had grown into a quiet certainty among the ranks.
Paul sat beneath the drooping canopy of an old willow that leaned out over the Velmure's edge. Its curtain of hanging branches shielded him from the setting sun's glare. In front of him, his men splashed in the shallows, laughing and roughhousing like the world wasn't burning around them. Every now and then, they flung water at each other, casting off the burdens that had weighed too long on their shoulders.
With a cigarette smoldering between his lips, Paul reached into the pocket of his dust-streaked uniform. He pulled out a small, folded piece of paper—creased and soft from being handled too many times. A slow, reluctant smile crept across his face, unfolding like the first bloom after a long winter. It was a letter. From his daughter.
Not far away, Hans—his loyal aide—noticed the rare expression and walked over, curiosity lighting his features.
"Captain," he said lightly, though always respectfully. "You seem like you're in an unusually good mood today. Is that… the letter from your daughter? The one you mentioned before?"
Paul gave a small nod, his gaze still fixed on the envelope in his hands. "That's the one. Since you're already here, Hans, would you mind reading it for me?"
Hans blinked. "Would that be alright, Captain?"
"Of course," Paul said softly. "It's not an order. You can say no."
Hans nodded and took the letter carefully, unfolding it with the same reverence one might reserve for a relic. Paul sat up a little straighter, closing his eyes as if trying to listen not just with his ears—but with something deeper.
Hans took a breath and began reading in a gentle voice.
"I'm doing fine, and so is Mom. I heard about the string of victories our country's been having, so I guess all I can say is… congratulations. Still, I really hope this war ends soon, and you can come home."
Hans glanced at Paul and smiled faintly. "You're a lucky dad, Captain."
Paul smiled, eyes still shut. "Seems like it."
Hans continued, and his tone shifted ever so slightly—restraining a chuckle.
"I really hope you come home soon… because Mom has officially gone crazy. Lately, she's been attacking me almost every day—with tickles! She says she wants to hear me laugh. But Dad, I swear, it's starting to feel like daily torture. Seriously, I need backup!"
Hans raised a brow, smirking. "Tickling, huh? Sounds like your wife and daughter are pretty close. My wife and second daughter? Keeping them in the same room for ten minutes without a fight is a miracle."
Paul furrowed his brow slightly, as if hearing something foreign. "…Tickling? That's a new hobby for Inge?"
Hans turned, puzzled. "Captain?"
"No, it's nothing," Paul said with a faint, amused smile. "It's just… surprising. Erina rarely laughed as a kid. Even when we played hide-and-seek, she'd stay completely silent—watching with eyes like a little general. So the idea of her laughing like that… I'm not sure how to picture it."
Hans let out a small, awkward chuckle. "Maybe she finally feels safe enough to laugh, Captain."
Paul nodded slowly, his expression softening. "If that's true… then Inge knows exactly how to keep her alive."
Hans gave a small nod. "Alright then. I'll keep going."
He straightened the page and scanned the next few lines before reading again, voice steady and warm.
"In your last letter, you asked what I wanted to be when I grow up… Honestly, I didn't know until you asked. That word—'dream'—felt weird in my head. But for some reason, the word 'singer' just popped out of nowhere. I know it sounds random. Even I was surprised."
Hans glanced at Paul, who remained silent, listening intently.
"The funny thing is, Mom got more excited than anyone. Since I said it, she's been exploding with ideas. Now she wants to take me to see a famous diva in concert—I forget her name, but I think it was Marlene. Mom says it could be inspiring, though I'm still not sure. So Dad… don't get your hopes up just yet. But maybe… just maybe, this is a small step toward something. With love,
—Erina"
Hans folded the letter with care, as if afraid of disturbing the quiet emotion woven between the words. He handed it back to Paul, who was still staring at the sky, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
Paul's expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—pride, maybe. Or nostalgia. Or both.
"Singer, huh?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Didn't see that coming… but somehow, it fits."
Hans grinned. "Guess I should ask for your autograph now, Captain. Who knows? A few years from now, your daughter might be a famous diva. I could make a fortune off that signature."
Paul chuckled, exhaling smoke into the amber sky. "Don't get ahead of yourself. She said she's not sure yet. But…" He paused, eyes distant. "I hope she finds her path. I really do."
"Haha! That's the spirit, Captain," Hans said, laughing softly.
For a moment, their laughter danced along the banks of the Velmure, a gentle warmth in a place otherwise dulled by war. But the peace didn't last.
Hans glanced at the darkening sky, his face shifting into something more serious. "Still… have you heard anything about when we're moving out again?"
Paul shook his head, cigarette still dangling. "No. I haven't received any new orders."
"Damn…" Hans rubbed the back of his neck. "Wasn't this supposed to be a blitz? We've pushed deep into enemy territory. If our supplies get cut off, we're dead meat."
Paul's tone was flat. "Exactly. But things aren't that simple now. Aberia and Portoval to the south are acting strange. High Command won't take the risk. They've split the forces to guard our flanks. If we charge Noirval without securing the sides, we're inviting a counterattack."
"But didn't Erzregen say they're on their last legs from the civil war? Aren't we just kicking a corpse at this point?"
Paul gave Hans a long, unreadable look, then turned his eyes to the horizon. The sky had begun to glow with the soft blush of dawn, washing the war-torn land in a light far too tender for what lay ahead.
"And that," he said quietly, "is why we stay sharp. War isn't just about bullets, Hans. It's about who's going to stab you in the back when you're not looking."
Silence settled between them. The breeze carried the scent of metal and wet earth, rustling the wild underbrush that lined the river. A small bird fluttered past—seemingly the only creature in the world untouched by human conflict.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, came footsteps—fast and heavy, thudding against the ground like the rhythm of a frantic heartbeat. The sound didn't come from the patrol route or the main path. It came from behind the bushes still torn and scorched from old blasts.
Paul and Hans turned at once. Their hands moved instinctively to their weapons.
Leaves rustled. Branches parted.
A soldier stumbled out of the shadows, body swaying but upright—kept standing only by sheer will. His face was pale as the last snow of winter, his breath ragged and sharp, like death itself was chasing him. His uniform was filthy, smeared with dirt and blood. One side of his helmet was dented inward as if he'd only just escaped the jaws of death.
He didn't speak right away. He just stood there, shaking, eyes wide with something between terror and disbelief.
Paul stepped forward, voice snapping like a whip.
"What happened?"