Chapter 116

Chapter 116

From this moment forth, I once again pledge my eternal loyalty to His Majesty, the rightful ruler of Anbouaz. I shall now present the current military report.

This is Balrua Fortress.

It serves as the sole passage through the rugged mountain range in the central region of the Anbouaz Kingdom. Within the august council chamber of this fortress, King Merovingian Balua Anbouaz attentively received the report from his intelligence officer. Deep within him, a blazing anger smoldered. This was a newfound rage directed at his own kinsman who had incited a rebellion.

Javillon, that scoundrel

Javillon Flambeur Anbouaz, a member of the royal family with an ancestral lineage. He was also a Swordmaster, a rare and highly prized talent.

Indeed, he had been cherished greatly.

Especially because the royal family boasted only two Swordmasters.

Yet, how does he repay my generosity in such a manner? Truly?

Javillon had always been known for his ambition from the very beginning. Some ministers openly voiced their concerns, alleging that he harbored sinister intentions. They recognized his exceptional abilities but cautioned against bestowing upon him excessive authority.

However, the king held a distinct viewpoint.

He believed that the more ambitious a person was, the wiser it was to keep them close. Overestimating their value could potentially lead to rebellion, making them even more perilous. Instead, he advocated for granting them just the right amount of authority, a move that would inspire them to utilize their talents and, hopefully, moderate their ambitions.

Consequently, he had appointed Javillon as the commander of the eastern region. For a few years, this choice appeared sound. Javillon had conducted himself appropriately, leading the king to believe that this trend would persist.

But the kings judgment had been flawed.

As Ive reported, at present, aside from minor skirmishes in the northeast, there is no major conflict. It seems that the rebel forces are amassing here, targeting Balrua Fortress.

The words of the intelligence officer pierced the kings ears, causing his countenance to darken.

So, they are concentrating their primary forces here. It appears they have no intention of avoiding a confrontation with us.

It certainly appears that way, Your Majesty.

The king emitted a sigh.

The impending massive battle with the rebels weighed heavily on his mind.

Is there anything else to report?

Yes, Your Majesty.

Hoping for positive news, the king inquired, though with restrained expectations. Surprisingly, the intelligence officers demeanor brightened.

Recently, there has been a field hospital achieving remarkably positive results.

Remarkable results? From a field hospital?

Yes, Your Majesty.

King Merovingian shook his head.

A report about the achievements of a mere field hospital seemed inconsequential in light of the impending clash with rebel forces. He couldnt grasp its significance. What impact could one field hospital possibly have? However, the intelligence officers subsequent report seized his complete attention.

In the last two months, the survival rate of the wounded there has exceeded 70%.

What?

70%?

The king nearly choked in disbelief. It was an astonishing statistic.

So, out of ten wounded individuals taken there, seven emerge alive?

Thats correct, Your Majesty.

Is that truly the case?

Yes, Your Majesty. Initially, I had my doubts as well. Considering that the typical survival rate in field hospitals is around 10%, this result was remarkably good. However

However?

Upon conducting our own investigation, we confirmed that this figure is an unaltered, transparent fact.

Is that truly the case?

Yes, Your Majesty. In fact, rumors about this particular hospital are rapidly spreading among soldiers of various ranks in our kingdoms army.

Rumors?

The belief that, no matter how you are injured in battle, if you are taken to the 21st Support Battalions field hospital, you can survive, has spread. Soldiers have even coined a nickname for it.

A nickname?

Yes, Your Majesty.

The intelligence officer smiled in response to the kings question.

The soldiers are calling the 21st Support Battalion

A Healing Camp?

Yes.

Why is that exactly?

I beg your pardon?

Whats your name, sir?

Its Shandre.

The officer who disclosed his name still bore an overly confident expression. He resembled someone who orders Jjajangmyeon at a Chinese restaurant and then complains about the absence of complimentary dumplings. Raciel found himself even more incredulous.

Officer Shandre? May I pose a question? Do patients wait for doctors?

Excuse me?

Imagine theres a patient teetering on the brink of death. Would that patient patiently await the arrival of a doctor?

What are you talking about?

We have wounded soldiers here, dozens of them at deaths door, and youre talking about the right to rest?

Raciels voice took on a stern tone. His frustration surged, and understandably so.

Im already swamped! My bonus lifespan is dwindling!

He had an overwhelming workload.

Instead of attending to the wounded on his rounds, he was wasting time arguing with this individual. Time was of the essence. Yet Shandre, oblivious to Raciels irritation, proceeded to make an even more perplexing remark.

Among the wounded who are at deaths door, there cant be many aristocratic officers, can there?

What?

Aristocracy?

What are you getting at?

Shandre persisted, Aristocracy. Youre not segregating them, are you?

Of course not

Tsk tsk. You cant even get that right. Im disappointed.

When someone becomes excessively absurd, words fail you. Raciel simply shut his mouth. He sensed that if he were to open it, a torrent of curses would pour out.

Shandres nonsensical diatribe persisted.

Officer Rihan? Despite my presence here for training, theres something I must convey. There are two categories of wounded soldiers: nobles and non-nobles. Those who must be saved and those who neednt be. Thats the gist of it.

Theres a rationale behind categorizing the wounded. We have limited medical personnel and an overflow of patients. Thats the harsh reality of a battlefield camp.

So, who should we prioritize saving? Who will yield us substantial rewards? Obviously, its the nobility, isnt it? Saving a dying aristocratic officer could bring significant recognition and even sponsorship from their family.

On the flip side, if you save a common soldier, what do you gain? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You might even suffer a loss by expending precious time and effort that could have been used to save an aristocratic officer.

So, heres my advice. Youre lacking in the basics. Phew, we narrowly averted a major problem. The lord would have been terribly disappointed had he learned of this unfortunate situation. Fortunately, we arrived here and pointed it out.

Officer Rihan?

Why are you silent? Ah, are you surprised? But this is the unvarnished logic of the real battlefield. It seems you still lack experience, so

Stop. Enough with the nonsense.

Pardon me?

Shandres eyes widened.

Nonsense? Stunned by the sudden outburst, he was baffled. He believed he was offering valid and helpful advice. Why was this red-haired, portly officer suddenly resorting to curses?

But Shandres musings halted abruptly.

Smack!

!

Raciels punch, fueled by pent-up anger that had exceeded his monthly limit, erupted. Shandres head spun around, and his body executed an elegant triple axel in the air. A tooth soared out of his mouth, glinting in the air.

The pupils of the other officers quivered like dancing eels.

(To be Continued)

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