Chapter 410: Because You Took the Money

"But, General, General Chai said his troops have already…"

"I know what he said." Fa Jinhan turned, his gaze like tempered steel, "But that's how war is, Hoffman. Someone always has to stand in the most dangerous spot, someone always has to die. The Sakura Nation people took the money, so they must pay the price. As for what the price is… that is their own choice."

The order was issued at two a. m. The telegrapher struck the keys, turning the cold words into radio waves, sending them toward the Verdun front five hundred kilometers away.

In a corner of the General Staff Headquarters basement, a young staff officer was sorting casualty notices. His name was Friedrich, twenty‑two, and three months earlier he had dropped out of the History Department of Berlin University to enlist. His job was to verify the information of the deceased, fill out the notices, and then send them to the families.

Tonight he has to handle the casualty list of the sea battle of the "Sederitz" ship. Fifty‑seven names, fifty‑seven lives, reduced to rank, name, unit number, and the line "Heroically fell in battle in the North Sea." The youngest was only seventeen—sailor Hans Meyer, from Kiel, who had enlisted three months ago.

Friedrich froze when he picked up the next document. It was a supplemental report from Verdun, listing more than a dozen Sakura Nation soldiers' names, rendered in crooked German transliteration: Yamada, Sato, Suzuki… Each name was followed by either "KIA at Hill 304" or "KIA at Dead Man's Mountain." The report ended with a note: "Identification difficult; most bodies are mutilated beyond recognition, confirmed only by dog tags."

He recalled a Sakura Nation poetry anthology he had read in university, which contained the line: "When the cherry blossoms fall, they drift like snow, leaving no trace."

These Sakura Nation soldiers were like cherry blossoms, drifting onto Faguo soil ten thousand kilometers from home, with no one remembering their names, no one knowing why they died here. They were merely a syllable on a report, a number on a map, a chess piece on the generals' war tables.

Friedrich shook his head, forcing himself to keep working. Outside, Berlin was sleeping, the streets empty, only the occasional footsteps of a patrol breaking the silence. The war kept on, death kept on, and all he could do was write on the notice, "Gloriously sacrificed for the Empire and the Emperor," even as he grew increasingly doubtful of how much glory such a sacrifice truly held.

Northeast Verdun, rear assembly area of the 3rd Division, 6 a. m. on July 13.

Rain had been falling since the early hours, fine and icy, turning the whole camp into a mire. Tents shivered in the wind, rainwater ran down the canvas edges, hammering countless tiny pits into the mud. Soldiers huddled inside the tents, wrapped in damp blankets, listening to the rain and the faint distant artillery—Verdun's fighting had never truly ceased.

Major General Chai Wulang stood outside his command tent, clutching the telegram received at dawn. The paper's edges were dampened by rain, the German characters a bit blurred, but the content was blindingly clear:

"Order: Temporarily reassign the 3rd to 10th Divisions of the 10th Army Group (Sakura Nation troops) to withdraw from the Verdun front immediately, and within four days relocate to the Somme River area, integrating into the 2nd Army Group's combat order. Transport trains have been fully arranged; the first batch departs today at 12:00 from Baledic Station. This order, Western Front Headquarters."

Rainwater ran down the edge of his steel helmet, dripping into his collar. Chai Wulang stood motionless, like a stone statue. Behind him, Chief of Staff Matsumoto and the other staff officers stood silently, awaiting his response.

In the tent area, soldiers gradually awoke. They climbed out of the tents, lined up in the rain to collect breakfast—each a bowl of thin oatmeal, a slice of black bread, a spoonful of jam. No hot water; coffee had been cut off three days earlier. Soldiers squatted in the mud, shoving food into their mouths with frozen fingers, their eyes hollow.

Sergeant Imamura's 1st Battalion of the 3rd Regiment had fewer than three hundred men left. They sat around on a slightly raised earthen slope—at least the water would run off here. Sergeant Yoshida inspected the weapons, while Kobayashi wound the French pocket watch—it was still ticking, though whether accurately was unknown.

"Sergeant, how long do you think we can rest?" Kobayashi asked, his voice tinged with cautious hope. "The soles of my boots are about to fall off; I need a new pair. Also, I want to write a letter home…"

Imamura gave no answer. He saw the division commander's tent on the other side, officers gathered together, the atmosphere off. A few minutes later, a runner trudged through the mud, his face wearing a look as if about to burst into tears.

"All companies, assemble! The brigade commander orders that all equipment be organized within one hour! Prepare to relocate!"

"Relocate?" Sergeant Yoshida stood up, "Where to? Back to the rear for rest?"

The runner lowered his head, his voice small: "To… the Somme River area. A new battlefield."

A brief deathly silence. Then Kobayashi's spoon slipped into the mud.

"No..." he murmured, "We can't fight any more... we can't fight any more..."

Imamura grabbed the runner's shoulder: "Are you sure? The unit's strength has been reduced by over forty percent; everyone needs rest! Division Commander Chai promised…"

"The order came from Berlin, issued directly," the runner broke free, almost fleeing toward the next company.

The news spread like a plague. The camp erupted. Soldiers surged out of the tents, crowding the officers with questions. Some wept, some shouted, many simply stood in place, like puppets whose souls had been pulled out.

"Liars! You're all liars!"

"What about the promised rest? The promised rotation?"

"You're sending us to die! You just want us all to die here!"

The officers tried to keep order, but their voices were drowned in a tide of despair. Major General Chai Wulang finally moved, walking toward the high ground in the center of the camp, rain gathering into rivulets on his deep‑gray Degjun coat.

"All—silence!"

His voice was not loud, but carried the authority of a division commander. The unrest gradually subsided, hundreds of eyes turned toward him—what lay in those eyes? Anger? Despair? Supplication?

"I know what you're thinking," Chai Wulang began, rain streaming down his grizzled temples, "I feel the same. I petitioned Berlin for rest, for rotation, for even a month of recovery time. But…"

He paused, each word forced out as if squeezed between his teeth: "War does not heed petitions. An order is an order. The Somme River area is about to face a large‑scale British Army offensive; Degjun forces are insufficient and need our reinforcement. That's all."

"But we're not Deguo people!" a soldier shouted, "Why should we die for Deguo!"

"Because you wear this uniform!" Chai Wulang pointed to the Iron Cross on his chest, "Because you took the money! Because you are soldiers! Soldiers have no right to choose the battlefield, only the duty to obey orders!"

His gaze swept over each face: "I know you're tired, I know you're scared, I know you want to go home. I want that too. But when we can't go back, we can only keep fighting. Because stopping is death, retreat is death, disobeying orders… is even death."