DECEMBER 20, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, THE GENERAL STAFF OFFICE AT THE IMPERIAL CAPITAL
The Ildoan HQ made it clear they would take in the refugees from the north. General Zettour could finally release the tension in his shoulders after confirming that Ildoa avoided mass panic, thanks to systematic support from the Unified States and the rest of the Alliance.
“I’m glad I placed faith in their sense of reason.”
Though Zettour never fancied himself a gambler, he’d won this particular bet. And it was the gamble of a lifetime. One that pitted the lives of Ildoan citizens as forbidden bargaining chips against the rationality and humanity of his enemies. And he had bet correctly.
“Yet another evil, detestable deed that will forever be associated with the name Zettour. It seems this will be my only legacy—one of evil.”
Zettour chose this path for himself, and he knew what he was doing by doing so. Though he could trick those around him, there was nothing to be gained from tricking himself about it.
Which made it strange. Despite having convinced himself he was ready to play the villain, there was a part of him that felt vindicated by the outcome.
“How…sentimental.”
His soul felt at peace. It felt as if he was exempt from feeling guilty. With a sigh, he reached for a pack of cigarettes to fill his lungs with some much-needed tobacco, when a strange idea struck him. Just as he’d murmured to himself only moments prior…having been saved from his guilt felt so sentimental.
But what exactly was saved? Was it his own conscience? Or was it the strategic interests of the Empire? With a nasal grunt, Zettour gave himself a self-deprecating chuckle.
“I’m no longer…my own man.”
I am the state. It would be easier if he truly thought this highly of himself, but he knew he would never be anything besides a humble career soldier. That said, there was a good possibility he was currently transforming into the ringleader of a military coup…but he was still a pathetic individual who was watching the sun set.
Zettour couldn’t become the sun. He was well aware of this, more than he wished to be. The most he could hope for was that the world would mistake him for it. This was the sole reason he was in the position he was in, and why he enacted the evils he did.
Zettour had sent large swaths of Ildoa’s refugees down south. His tactic, which turned the nation’s population against it the same way sieges forced castles to capitulate in the past, was as straightforward as it was cowardly and evil.
It was Zettour’s idea, and Zettour was the one who ordered it. In other words, it was all Zettour’s doing. Not the Empire’s.
“I can only wonder if I still have the compunction to genuinely pretend I was ever concerned about the well-being of the refugees.”
He chuckled… Since he was a soldier who had crossed the line, this was the only attitude he could have about it.
“But to think my variation of human wave tactics would take shape in such a heinous way and target the enemy’s stomachs. I am so wicked. God must truly despise me.”
Zettour was the offender. The honor and glory of being an Imperial soldier had dissipated. He knew they would—such was the only logical outcome, seeing as the Empire’s inevitable defeat was clearly looming on the horizon. The very foundation of his nation was unstable.
“Will I be able to finish my tread down this tightrope? The apprehensions that eat away at me are already such a massive burden on their own. There’s no utility in taking on more to worry myself over.”
A puff of smoke left Zettour’s grimacing mouth, carrying his sentiment with it.
“I only ever wanted to be a good person.”
He even thought he was, or at least, he once did.
“But these are the times we live in.”
A gun hung at his waist. All he needed to do was bite down on its barrel…and with a simple pull of the trigger…
“I’m sure it would make things easier.”
No more worrying about duty…
Then Zettour shook his head to dispel the thought. He was more surprised by his own weakness than the thought itself—surprised that he still had thoughts like this from time to time.
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