86 - Volume 3 - Chapter Pr

They called it pride. 

At the time, pride was all they knew. 

—FREDERICA ROSENFORT, RECOLLECTIONS OF THE BATTLEFIELD 

The crimson of those coquelicots that blossomed as far as the eye could see, illuminated by the sunset that burned all to nothing, was as beautiful as sheer madness. 

The Republic’s Eighty-Sixth Sector was located in the northern part of the continent and would often get chilly after sunset. Feeling the dusk wind snuff out the flames of war that had long burned across the battlefield, Shin watched the sky grow dim. 

It had been a year since he was sent to the battlefield as a Processor of the Republic’s unmanned drone—the Juggernaut. He’d grown used to this stillness. Once combat ceased, both friend and foe were equally reduced to nothing. This held true for every unit he had ever been a part of. The only thing that never changed was the silence left behind by his comrades who had fallen in battle. It had been like this for a year. He’d gotten used to it by now. 

The smell of gunpowder and the roar of cannons scared away every animal in the vicinity, and so the silence of the battlefield was complete. Not a single creature’s cry could be heard. Not even the chirping of crickets was audible as the world was bathed in evening light. The ghosts’ unending wails still echoed in his ears, but even those felt distant now. 

The Legion had retreated to their territories and would remain there again today. Being defenseless on the battlefield like this was an act of recklessness, but Shin wished to stay like this a while longer. He may have grown used to battle, but he was still only twelve. His body was still underdeveloped, not having reached adolescence yet. Fighting the Legion, especially after all his consort units fell halfway through the battle, was exhausting. 

Undertaker. H-how many of you will be returning…? 

Shin’s gaze narrowed as the voice of that hypocritical Handler, unaware of their own status as a wretched white pig, surfaced in his memory. 

It was a question that didn’t need to be asked, much less answered. 

In this battlefield without casualties, the death of the Processors—the death of the Eighty-Six—was natural law. It was Republic citizens, white pigs like this Handler, that ordered the Eighty-Six to fight and die in place of real humans while fortress walls and minefields obstructed their path of retreat. And should they survive in spite of their harsh conditions, they would be ordered to march to their deaths in the end. 

Their parents and siblings died early, leaving them to grow up without the guidance and protection children desperately needed. The only universal constants were the meaningless deaths that awaited them and the scorn and hatred of Republic soldiers. Even from a young age, the Processors knew they were expected to die, and so they grew accustomed to the glare of encroaching death—be it a mere moment or five years away. 

It was a bitter truth they had no choice but to accept. 

If we gotta march to our deaths anyway, at the very least, it might not be so bad with our trusty Reaper there to guide us. 

And with those words, each and every one of them left him behind. 

Yes. 

That might be right, he thought, his scarlet, bloodred eyes narrowing as they overlooked the heaven and earth that shared their vivid color. 

The first unit Shin was assigned to was wiped out, leaving no one behind except for him. And the same held true for his next unit and the one he was assigned to right now. He was always the only one who survived. He’d become known as a monster that heralds death and hears the voices of ghosts, and he’d gotten used to that label. After all, it was probably true. 

It’s all your fault. 

It was just like his brother once told him. 

And though he’d said something so cruel, the final memory Shin had of him was of his back shrinking in the distance as he left Shin behind. 

Shin reached a lonely hand up to the evening sky, knowing he could never reach it. 

Brother… Why…?