Chapter 84: Demotion
In the year 516 of the Solar Calendar—
The Kingdom of Lunoa declared war upon both the Kingdom of Friez and the Rosha Empire. With a lightning-fast invasion launched at the very same moment as that declaration, a great war—one not seen for a hundred years—erupted across the continent.
In time, people would come to call it simply: the World War.
It was on a summer’s day that the armies of Lunoa first crossed into Friez territory.
Their intent had been nothing less than decisive victory in the opening blow—to crush the Kingdom of Friez before it could even properly react.
But reality proved far less cooperative.
The Lunoa offensive stalled.
As autumn arrived, reports came in that the Rosha Empire had begun massing troops along the eastern front. In response, Lunoa redeployed its western forces eastward.
That single decision stripped the western front of the strength needed to attack.
And so, the war in the west devolved into a grim stalemate—two armies facing one another across trenches, locked in a slow, merciless exchange of lives and resources. A place where progress was measured not in distance gained, but in how much blood had been spilled.
Unlike the stagnant west, however, the eastern front told a very different story.
There, victory followed victory in rapid succession.
The Lunoa army liberated the majority of the former territory of the Kingdom of Poln, reclaiming lands long lost and restoring them to their rightful rule. Spirits soared, and for a time, it seemed as though the war might be decided there.
But then—winter came.
And with it, the iron halt of nature itself.
Further offensives became impossible. Snow and cold bound the armies in place, forcing the Eastern Army to abandon any thoughts of advance and instead divert their strength toward governing and securing the territories they had already taken.
The year turned. Solar Calendar 517.
With the thaw of spring, the plan had been clear: launch a counteroffensive in the east, where they already held the advantage, and press it to a decisive conclusion.
At the very least, that had been the vision held in the mind of General Newsbeck.
But events did not follow that vision.
Under the command of Marshal Carland, the Lunoa army instead initiated a grand offensive in the west.
If one were to crudely compare it to a war of another world, it would be akin to attempting, in 1915, the kind of offensive the German Empire launched in 1916—the Battle of Verdun.
A battle that had already proven a failure, even for a power that had prepared extensively for it.
And yet, the Kingdom of Lunoa, lacking even that level of preparation, had charged forward regardless—driven by haste, by ambition, or perhaps by fatal misjudgment.
Success was never truly within reach.
“…I-I humbly report, Your Majesty, that the progress of the western offensive… has not been favorable.”
“I see. I have heard as much. Now, speak the details yourself.”
“…Yes, sire.”
The Kingdom of Lunoa had launched a full-scale assault against a Friez fortress. The plan had been simple in concept: overwhelm it with the army’s famed offensive strength and seize it outright.
But the reality was far harsher.
The Friez forces resisted with unyielding tenacity, and the Lunoa advance soon ground to a halt before their defenses.
Worse still, seizing the opportunity while Lunoa forces were fully engaged in attacking the fortress, the Friez army launched its own offensive to the north—along the banks of the Sol River.
The operation had failed.
That much was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes to see.
Under normal circumstances, the correct decision would have been immediate: abandon the assault on the fortress and send reinforcements to counter the attack at the Sol River.
But Marshal Carland chose otherwise.
He continued the offensive.
As a result, the Lunoa army did succeed—on paper—in capturing the fortress city they had set as their objective.
But the cost…
The Friez army had simply abandoned the fortress, concentrating their forces instead along the Sol River—where they achieved a crushing victory.
They shattered the Lunoa trenches, surged forward without pause, and poured into Lunoa territory itself, seizing the vital mining region in the west.
To summarize it in a single sentence—
It was a catastrophic defeat for the Kingdom of Lunoa.
A local victory meant nothing. Strategically, it was ruinous.
“Marshal Carland. This is your failure.”
The words fell like a sentence of death.
“…Yes.”
Carland answered in a voice so faint it was scarcely more than a whisper.
In that room—where the supreme commander of the Lunoa army stood face-to-face with the king himself—the setting felt almost insultingly modest.
Only the two men stood at its center, with two guards as minimal protection. A handful of ministers, including the chancellor, and a single general completed the gathering.
It was a meeting small in scale—yet unbearably heavy in consequence.
“You will be relieved of your position as marshal. You have no objections?”
“…None, Your Majesty.”
Such a defeat could not be forgiven.
Carland’s removal was inevitable.
And yet, the decision to announce it in this small, private setting—rather than a grand public forum—was, in its own way, an act of mercy from the king.
“However, your past achievements cannot simply be erased. Even if you leave military service, in time—”
“Your Majesty… this failure is mine alone. I do not deserve further words.”
“…I see.”
Thus, Carland’s punishment became an extraordinary one.
Not only was he stripped of his rank as marshal, but he was also cast out from military service entirely.
He would return, not as a soldier, but as a retired noble—to the House of Carland.
“You may leave.”
“…Yes, sire.”
With a slow, heavy nod, Carland turned and walked out of the room. Each step seemed to carry the weight of everything he had lost.
“And now… Carland Mar—no, that is no longer correct.”
The king paused briefly, correcting himself.
“What of General Newsbeck, who has taken his place? I want the latest report.”
After confirming Carland’s departure, the king directed his attention to the general present in the room.
“Sir. The Western Army, under General Newsbeck, is—”
■■■■■
“We’re winning.”
Inside the Western Theater’s operational headquarters—
Standing before a wide-spread map in the office of General Newsbeck, she declared it without hesitation, without the slightest trace of doubt.