Volume 7 Chapter 3 Mud, Rumors, and the Fading Light
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
February 15th (Sat)
I left the main gate of Nordval this morning.
Gretel’s face won’t leave my head. I want to see her. I want to hear her voice. But she is already far away.
The load on my back was heavy from the start; there hasn’t been a single moment where it felt light. Every step, the bones in my shoulders creak and my breath shallows. My shoulders ache. They ache—they ache so much.
When I reached the Square at Nordval station, the air was thick with the scent of iron, leather, and the panting of horses. Instead of bravery, a sense of dread, heavy like damp mud, clung to the air.
I’ve left the fortress, but the work only increases. At the military loading yard, I force the train to swallow crates and barrels. There are no people on board. Only the cargo goes ahead.
Soot remains in my throat. Every time I swallow, my saliva feels black. It makes me feel sick. Disgusted, I feel like I might vomit.
I press the seals, balance the numbers in the ledger, and retighten the sagging ropes. If I’m rushed, my hands slip. A mistake here inevitably invites trouble later. I don’t want to be scolded.
Kessler, the master technician overseeing the loading, spoke with a clipped, professional air. “Keep the pace steady, technician. Precision is paramount,” he noted. Instead of shouting, he simply closed the distance. When the gap closed, my fingers were forced to move faster.
The Military Police are close. Just resting my hand on the cargo draws their gaze like a needle. It’s terrifying.
Rudolph, the staff officer, gave a light laugh. “My, what a dreary look for a soldier, don’t you think?” he chuckled. The way he laughs is too light. The lighter the laugh, the heavier it feels later.
In the evening, the infantry and the rail logistics crew parted ways. At the farewell, Peter, one of the transport managers, sighed. “Reckon it’d be a sight easier if we could just ride the train, wouldn’t it?” he said. Because we both know we can’t, the rumors become sweeter. Along with the rumors of the forest, I hear them—even though I don’t want to.
Anna Müller, the corpsman, silently counted the cargo beside me. Her mouth didn’t move. Only her fingers. No wasted motion.
…I’m jealous.
I wish I could move like that.
But I am clumsy. No matter what I do, it’s awkward.
February 18th (Tue)
Night. I’m summarizing the last three days since we departed.
The soot from the first day still clings to my throat, and the mud from the second day is still wedged in the soles of my boots.
My hands hurt. My fingers have been numb this whole time.
The morning before last, the road was hard. By afternoon, the same path had thawed into mud, and yesterday, that mud froze before softening once more.
The time spent stuck is longer than the time spent walking.
I am positioned behind the artillery, ahead of the supply train. When you are in a place where you can see the reasons for stopping, you realize that a march isn’t about moving forward—it’s about swallowing delays.
I’m already tired of this. I want to go home. …But writing it doesn’t change anything.
Dietrich, who watches the artillery’s towing equipment, was striking the fasteners. Many people think that if you hit it, it will fix itself.
Staff Sergeant Johann stopped him briefly, his voice low and firm. “Leave it. Report the structural issue to the engineer,” he commanded, signaling to me with his eyes. I took out my tools and looked only for the cause of the slack.
Just looking makes my hands cold. When they get cold, my fingers dull, and when they dull, I apply unnecessary force. Unnecessary force kills the parts.
At the night camp, we were told to keep the fire small. When the fire is small, people huddle closer, and when they huddle, their mouths grow coarse.
Karl, on mess duty, was silently guarding the pot. He wasn’t guarding the food, but the order. If the order collapses, a fight breaks out, and if a fight breaks out, the Military Police come.
Maria, from the technical side, looked at my hands with concern. “They aren’t cut, are they?” she asked.
I’m not. Part of me wishes I were.
Heinrich, a veteran of the artillery maintenance, touched the gun carriage’s wheel just once, then immediately pulled his hand back. The touch was brief. It’s the touch of someone who understands. He does nothing unnecessary.
February 23rd (Sun)
Night. Writing down the last five days or so.
We’ve had days where we can see the lights but can’t stop. There are roofs, smoke, and human voices, but we cannot enter.
The cold is twice as biting just because of that.
It’s sad. Why can’t we go under those roofs?
The day before yesterday, Klaus, a manual laborer, was careless and dropped a part. The sound of it hitting the ground didn’t sink into the mud; it rang out, and the area went quiet.
Staff Sergeant Johann didn’t shout. “Pick it up,” “Wipe it,” “Return it to the kit,” he stated. People move with just those short words.
He doesn’t refrain from shouting out of kindness. He only knows that shouting disrupts the line.
Klaus’s fingers are always black with oil. Despite that, his fingernails are strangely white. Looking at that whiteness, I have a feeling they will break. The feelings always come true.
Anna is good at distributing hot water at the camp. No waste.
In contrast, Peter, who talks for no reason, exhausts me. “Hey there! How’s it hangin’?” he called out. He loves remembering people’s names and calls mine often. Every time he calls it, my shoulders stiffen.
My coat won’t dry. My leather gloves are hardening. Stiff leather betrays my fingers in the morning.
I kneaded my fingers and checked the seal again. The seal isn’t warped. It isn’t the seal that warps; it’s the one pressing it.
The skin on my hand has peeled. It hurts. But I don’t want to look. If I look, it will hurt more.
February 28th (Fri)
Night. Summarizing the last few days.
The way the air stabs has changed. The piercing cold is thinning, replaced by dampness. Dampness that won’t dry sticks to the tools before it reaches the skin.
A rest day meant a line for inspections.
Theodore, the medical assistant, isn’t used to the front. “Oh, my apologies, is this area… meant to be touched?” he stammered. He touches where he shouldn’t. When I caution him, his eyes dart around.
I don’t shout. If I shout, my hands will stiffen. Stiffened hands mean I’ll cut deeper next time.
Clara, another magic engineer, was checking the seal on a Magic Stone box. Our eyes met, and she gave a small nod.
Nodding is convenient. So convenient it feels like a lie. I nod back. Even if it’s a lie, I need it right now.
Clara wipes her fingertips with a cloth. She knows there is powder that won’t come off even if you scrub. The hands of those who know don’t try to be pristine. They clean only what is necessary.
In the distance, the Butatsu1 were read. Lieutenant General Zeck, Colonel Weiss, Lieutenant Colonel Müller—the names on the paper echo in the sky.
I don’t know their faces. They are people at a distance I have no need to know. But only the names remain in my ears.
Liese, from administration, runs while clutching the supply ledgers, her breath white and rapid. It’s the way someone runs who isn’t used to it. I’m the same, so I understand.
When administration runs, the order of supplies changes. When salt runs low, morale drops before the taste of food ever does.
I can’t sleep. It’s cold. My body aches. Tomorrow will be a repetition of the same. I don’t want to do this anymore.
March 5th (Wed)
Night. It’s been raining for the last few days.
Rain changes the nature of the cold. It’s not a piercing cold anymore. It’s a clinging one. The damp chill stays in my bones.
Mud. It catches our feet. The boots are heavy. I can’t walk. The line… it’s breaking.
When the line breaks, the caravan slows to a crawl, and when it slows, the artillery carriages cry out. It’s the metal that cries, yet it’s the people who scream.
Yesterday, Rudolph hurt his foot. “It’s nothing, just a bit of a tumble,” he tried to joke, but the joke was thin.
Anna frowned, and the subject of a stretcher came up.
A stretcher isn’t a break. It’s the gateway to never coming back. It’s terrifying.
At the night camp, the kindling was damp, and the fire wouldn’t catch. We couldn’t make hot water. Without hot water, both my throat and my heart are dry.
Everyone silently searched for something dry. Dry things have become a luxury now.
Klaus patted his chest. “Don’t worry, my kindling is solid,” he boasted, before immediately coughing. It was a shameful way to cough. No one laughed.
The rumors have multiplied. The forest makes no sound. Your eyes rot and fall out.
The rumors change shape. I don’t know the truth. But I don’t know, and yet it stays in my ears.
I think the blisters on my feet are festering. But I don’t look. I don’t want to see.
March 12th (Wed)
Night. Summarizing these last four or five days.
…Is it really Wednesday?
I don’t know. Perhaps the days don’t have meaning anymore.
The wind is slightly sweet. Despite the cold, there’s a scent of soil mixed in. It doesn’t feel like spring is coming; it feels like winter has just changed its shape.
We stopped at a town once in these last few days. The cobblestones were relatively even, and there were many human voices.
The bread I bought there was soft.
Just the softness made my throat tighten. I was surprised. I had grown accustomed to the hard rations of the fortress.
Getting used to things is terrifying. Once you get used to them, you forget what you’ve lost.
Heinrich was holding a ledger. “The humidity… it’s shifted, hasn’t it?” he remarked. He must mean the forest.
Even I, who don’t know the forest, understand the awfulness of that dampness. It rots the metal, weighs down the cloth, and weakens the fire.
Maria gave me a scrap of cloth. “Here, this should help with those blisters,” she said softly.
I thanked her. My voice was quiet. I’m not good at speaking to people.
It’s kind. …But I’m afraid to accept it. Once you get used to kindness, you can’t endure it when it’s lost.
Clara snapped the sealing string with her finger to check the tension. The sound was small. The smaller the sound, the more relieved I feel.
Last night, someone said, “Tools break in the forest.” Reflexively, I tightened the mouth of my tool bag.
It’s not just the tools that break, I thought to myself, but I couldn’t say it aloud.
My nail split. My hand… it feels like it isn’t mine anymore.
March 19th (Wed)
…Is it really Wednesday?
How many days has it been? 14? 15? I’m tired of counting.
This past week, the air in the unit has changed. The closer we get, the quieter it becomes. Jokes have decreased, and eyes look more often. When there is more to see, people go silent.
The supply officer pointed at a map. “According to the intel, this sector belongs to Kahn, one of the Eight City Union,” he noted.
The day before yesterday, Anna was searching for a needle she had dropped. You can’t find a needle on the dark ground.
When people search for things that can’t be found, they go silent. Everyone was just looking at their feet.
I found myself thinking it was good that it happened now. If she dropped a needle in the forest, it wouldn’t end so easily.
I saw the cavalcade of inspectors in the distance. Someone said, “It’s the Chief of Staff.” I can’t see his face. Only the air changes.
Important people only appear where the congestion is worst.
Corporal Alfred Bach, the disciplinarian, went around to the cavalry. “Keep your reins short. Do not slacken,” he commanded. If you hold them short, you won’t fall. But apparently, your hands hurt if you do.
He doesn’t show that kind of pain on his face. “That is all,” he finished. Hearing it makes my spine straighten.
The word “captured” has started rolling around like a joke. The more they laugh while saying it, the more terrified they are. I can’t laugh.
At night, there was the sound of metal scraping just once. No one put it into words. Because if you put it into words, it becomes reality.
I can’t sleep. The darkness of the forest is visible even behind my eyelids. I feel like something is there.
…It isn’t. There’s no way it’s there. We haven’t even entered the forest yet. But, I’m scared.
My period hasn’t come. It should have been here ages ago. Maybe my body has already given up.
March 28th (Fri)
Night. Summarizing the last ten days or so, just before the entrance.
I can see the Magic Forest.
It’s not dark because it’s night. It’s as if the forest has been dark from the very beginning. It’s terrifying.
For the last few days, there has been constant repacking and checking of seals. I’ve tightened the mouth of my tool bag over and over.
Tightening it is a habit. Habits are the shape of anxiety.
Anna distributed the hot water. No waste. Having someone around with no wasted motion makes me feel a little bit settled.
Maria signaled with her eyes, “Drink it up.” I drank. It’s warm. But it cools down immediately.
Heinrich was looking into the distance, so I looked, too. I stare even though I see nothing. Only the rumors grow thicker.
There are monsters in the forest, a beast appears, the fires go out, there are those who never return.
I don’t know if it’s true or a lie. I’ve come this far without knowing.
There is little I can do. Because there is so little, I have no choice but to do it with certainty.
Magic Stone sockets, seals, wear, residue. The order of inspection is the only thing that won’t betray me.
Clara’s fingertips are black again today. She touches the white sealing string while they remain black. She has a habit of shallow breathing, as if to keep the black and the white from mixing.
I placed the inkwell where it won’t be knocked over. On nights where I can only protect small things, I find myself wanting to protect small things.
I have a feeling that from tomorrow on, the shape of what I want to protect will change.
I want to see Gretel.
I want to see Mother.
I want to go home.
But I can’t go back.
—
Summary:
The protagonist, a logistics worker embedded with an artillery unit, documents the grueling progression toward the ominous Magic Forest through a series of diary entries. Physical exhaustion, the constant need for equipment maintenance, and the stifling atmosphere of the march erode the protagonist’s mental state. Despite the camaraderie of figures like Anna and Heinrich, the fear of the encroaching environment and the loss of individual agency haunt every interaction. The unit stands at the threshold of the forest, where the threat of the unknown hangs over them like a permanent darkness.
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Trivia:
The protagonist is explicitly tracking the “order of inspection” for equipment to maintain a sense of control.
Logistical delays in the supply chain are a constant source of tension and reveal the unit’s lack of true progress.
The protagonist has developed a trauma-induced dissociation regarding physical pain and bodily functions.
The “Butatsu” references indicate an official process of naming officers to roles, which serves as a detached, high-level administrative layer looming over the soldiers.
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Translation Notes:
Notes:
• Gretel – A blonde-haired female soldier who acts as Erika’s roommate. She is energetic and attempts to maintain a sense of normalcy in the barracks.
• Man – A roughneck wearing a hat who participated in a group assault. He suffers the loss of his right arm and later his left arm during an experiment by the protagonist before being stored.
• Johann – A sergeant with pale eyes who relies on Erika for the maintenance of his equipment.
• Karl – A mechanic with a hunched back who works in the underground workshop alongside Erika.
• Zeck – Commander of the Empire’s Eastern Expeditionary Force. He wears a luxurious military uniform and carries a saber, favoring heavy artillery bombardment as a solution to problems.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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