Semi-Coercive Imperialist

Blub.

A bathtub filled with cold water. Bubbles rose between large chunks of ice.

Gurgle...

The water churned violently beneath the surface.

“Pwah...!”

Hanna Usar, a Senior Knight-designate of Sentinel, raised her head from the ice water.

“Is your condition any better?”

The doctor checked something on a form. Hanna touched various parts of her body. Her shoulders, thighs, calves, and the gunshot and stab wounds elsewhere.

“Yes. I’ve recovered.”

This was a recovery facility within Sentinel. Proper caloric intake, muscle relaxation, magical power replenishment, and treatment for possible injuries. It was an advanced recovery process designed to send a knight back into the sky.“That’s good.”

Every Sentinel employee existed solely for the knights.

Hanna had heard that raising and maintaining a single knight cost tens of millions of imperial dollars each year.

“I can deploy again as early as tomorrow.”

That was why Hanna took pride in herself. She also felt a sense of responsibility.

She had to demonstrate skill equal to the treatment, compensation, and respect she received.

She had to preserve her honor and dignity.

A knight who went against a knight’s duty, in other words, Knight Doctrine, could not be a knight.

Every member of Sentinel likely felt the same way.

...

In the first place, this was not an environment where anyone could become self-important.

Everyone here was strong, and everyone was a genius. They were talents filtered through being the best in their hometowns, the best in the capital, and among the highest ranks at Empire Point.

“The knight order’s command has ordered you to rest this week.”

“...Even so.”

“Sir Maximilian recommended it as well.”

“Then I suppose...”

Someone might have a great deal of money. They might possess high authority. They might have been born into a distinguished house.

But there was someone above them who stood at the peak of all those things.

No matter how great I am, I’m dust compared to him. How could I become arrogant?

“Is there anything you need?”

“A newspaper, please.”

“Yes.”

Hanna accepted the newspaper.

It was one of the papers issued by the Empire’s many news outlets. Public opinion shaped for propaganda, thoroughly censored and edited by Johann Georg.

She left the recovery room and read as she walked down the corridor.

[ Yursled Capital Falls ]

[ Bresla Fortress Wiped Out Six Hours After Sentinel Drop ]

They prominently covered Sentinel’s victory, and Hanna searched for her own name.

It was on the second line of the Bresla Fortress drop team roster.

“Hm.”

She proudly squared her shoulders.

But more than such achievements, or the medals and bonuses that would come from them, what filled her with pride was this.

“...There are so many.”

Her mailbox was full.

Lately, there had been so many letters sent to knights that Sentinel operated a separate post office.

[ Hello, Knight. I wanna see you come down from the sky too. When I grow up, I’ll become a knight like you. ]

The letters children sent from all over the Empire were Hanna’s pride.

[ My teacher wrote your name on the blackboard. You’re the proud knight from our hometown. Don’t get hurt an always win. ]

I was a commoner born and raised in a backwater, someone who had scraped by on the streets. Now I had become a knight, giving hope to children back home.

“Whew...”

This was the pride of the Empire’s Aran.

The bond of Aran blood.

A special solidarity felt only by Aran born and raised in the Empire, who shared the awareness that they belonged to the highest race, the bloodline of masters.

Every Aran wanted victory, so the Empire’s knights would surely win.

...

At the same time as the war, the Empire began putting its own house in order, and the Camps began operating in earnest.

First, the residential districts of minority races, including the Mer, Izenheim, and Kenshi, were restricted. All their property was confiscated, and everyone of working age, from sixteen to sixty, was compelled to work.

In addition, a Minority Ethnic Council was established in every district to make them manage themselves. Preparing registries and selecting workers were entirely the councils’ responsibility.

“Bring them in!”

At Maren Factory, its new owner, Halbert Goring, welcomed the workers with a broad smile.

Step. Step.

Several hundred Mer entered, looking frightened or resigned.

But the people coming in seemed somewhat strange to Goring.

“Are they all really Mer?”

“Yes.”

The Mer were supposed to have hooked noses, long beards, and sharp fingers and toes, but surprisingly, that was not always the case. Some were blond, and some had low noses...

Then again, even Eli had looked a little unusual.

“Check their family registers first.”

“Yes.”

They presented their documents at the reception desk.

The soldiers assigned there inspected every detail.

“...Once the identity checks are finished, tell them all to gather.”

The Mer assembled in the factory yard.

Halbert Goring stood on the second-floor balcony. With both hands on the railing, he looked down at them with an imposing gaze.

“Attention!”

Halbert’s voice echoed through the factory. The Mer in work clothes looked up at Goring with fearful eyes.

“From now on, as workers of the proud Maren Factory...”

Halbert continued solemnly.

“Work! Work, and become useful to the Empire!”

You bastards are going to make me money! Work your bones to dust and make me rich!

Bwahaha! Hahaha!

* * *

Rattle. Rattle.

In the back seat of the shaking car, I closed my eyes and recalled memories from before my return.

Rattle. Rattle.

War had produced great generals.

Hailand, Prozen, Lobrus, Finnomia, and more. Surprisingly, nearly every country except Balkania had produced generals who upheld their nation’s fate.

Rattle. Rattle.

Of them all, the Empire’s Schweitzer was an unusual case.

As he claimed, Schweitzer won every battle. He had not lost even to the Allied Forces’ most renowned generals.

Rattle. Rattle.

But his talent was limited to himself alone.

His offensives came from intuition that worked only in his own mind, something that could not be drawn out and taught to others.

The voices now flickering through my thoughts belonged to those who possessed systems called advanced and became history’s victors.

“Do not order them how to do something. Tell them only what must be done, then trust them. They will find the method themselves.”

Hailand General Edwin Collins

This was Mission Command, established by Hailand before my return. It granted autonomy even to junior officers, leaving judgment in the field to them. It began with the premise that headquarters approval could not keep pace with changes at the front.

“If the specifications of trucks, ammunition, and fuel are unified, supply efficiency rises dramatically.”

Lobrus General Vasily Kornilov

This was the standardization and unification I had achieved with great difficulty.

It was the most effective optimization, nearly doubling supply loading efficiency compared to before.

“A system for replacing soldiers is necessary. Rather than withdrawing a damaged unit in its entirety, send replacements in. The unit remains intact, and its experience is passed on.”

Prozen General Raymond Garnier

I had implanted the future knowledge I had sometimes heard on the radio and sometimes read in newspapers into the Imperial Army.

“Combat fatigue must be managed. Let frightened soldiers rest in the rear before sending them back. Punishing mental breakdowns only increases desertion.”

Benikia Inspector General Thomas Linden

Perhaps they had already given me the answer.

Perhaps the reason I had returned, the reason those memories of the future remained so clear, was not simply the virus.

“Treat your NCOs better, you fucking idiots. When there’s already someone who has spent years getting dragged through battlefields, and you suddenly put someone who only studied at a desk above them and tell them to do as they’re told...”

Imperial Army General Schweitzer

As Dieter Schmidt had once said.

Because my existence was inevitable...

“Sir Knight. We’ve arrived.”

I opened my eyes. Beyond the car window stood Bolska’s Presidential Palace.

“...”

After straightening my clothes, I got out of the car.

Imperial flags hung along the main road.

Tanks stood beside both sides of the main gate, and Schweitzer grinned when he saw me at the entrance.

“I hear the so-called president has already run away.”

I nodded at Schweitzer’s greeting.

“They say Lobrus is coming from the east. What do you think? Do you think we’ll win if we fight?”

“Not yet, but we soon will.”

At the word soon, Schweitzer could not contain his chuckle.

“Lieutenant General. Let’s go up.”

“Gladly.”

I climbed the Presidential Palace steps.

As Schweitzer had said, the president had already fled. The ministers who had failed to escape were being detained.

“They say this is the president’s office.”

Schweitzer stepped aside at the entrance, signaling for me to enter first.

“...”

I entered.

Step.

I trampled the president’s office beneath the heels of my boots.

Step.

Standing on the balcony, I looked down over Bolska’s capital.

Some structures and parts of the main roads had been destroyed, but the city was not burning. Corpses were not scattered everywhere, either.

Only the top of the clock tower had been smashed.

“What do you think?”

A voice came from behind me.

He pretended otherwise, but he wanted praise more than anyone. A man who had abandoned the methods he used before my return and left the city wholly intact because he wanted my approval.

I smiled at Schweitzer.

“Perfect.”

“...Ahem.”

Schweitzer cleared his throat without a word.

His face even seemed slightly red. I hoped that was merely an illusion caused by the sunlight, because it was rather disgusting otherwise.

“By any chance, General Schweitzer, do you want a Camp as well?”

Bolska and Yursled had high proportions of minority races, especially the Izenheim and Mer.

“No. Why would I want one of those?”

“Perhaps you have an adjutant who wants to retire.”

“I already got rid of people like that long ago.”

I smiled slightly.

From now on, Camps would be built throughout Bolska and Yursled.

The Izenheim Camps would be handed over to the Imperial Guard. The Izenheim property being confiscated would be handed over to them as well.

They would gladly accept it, then clean them out as the Emperor ordered.

Click.

A shutter suddenly sounded.

A reporter was photographing my face from the street directly beneath the balcony.

Imperial soldiers drew their pistols and rushed over, but I lightly gestured for them to bring the reporter to me.

Before long, the reporter was dragged into the Presidential Palace.

“Are you a Bolska reporter?”

“...?!”

The reporter looked utterly astonished at my question.

These days, people reacted like that as soon as I spoke. Was it really so incredible and strange to hear their own language coming from my mouth?

“Y-yes. I am.”

“The film.”

I held out my hand. Trembling, the reporter handed it over.

I exposed it to the light and erased it.

“Take it again.”

“...Pardon?”

My appearance had already been revealed across the continent, but composition mattered.

The face of the Empire looking down upon them from Bolska’s palace. Powerful evidence of their fall and occupation.

“Take it from the square, with the balcony railing in the bottom third of the frame. Use backlighting, with the sun behind me, and keep the focus sharp on the right side of my face.”

So that a diagonal side profile would be captured.

I had confidence in my own sense of beauty, so I roughly knew what sort of composition a photograph needed.

A picture like a photograph. A photograph like a picture.

“Y-yes.”

The reporter went down again.

From the position I had indicated, the reporter photographed my profile exactly as I had instructed.

Click!

* * *

[ The Empire Descends on Bolska! ]

The photograph of Maximilian arriving in Bolska appeared throughout the continent.

The view looking up from the square. The balcony railing cut across the bottom of the frame, while Maximilian’s profile looked down over Bolska’s capital. A knight so handsome that anyone could see it.

“Is this bastard some kind of model?”

The paper reached Lobrus’s capital as well. Foreign Affairs Committee Member Belov crumpled it in one hand and threw it away with a click of the tongue.

“Tch. That face does not suit a butcher like him at all...”

In any case, the Empire had kept its promise.

Lobrus received half of Bolska as stipulated in the treaty. Not a single shot was fired. Bolska’s remaining forces fled east to avoid the Empire, encountered Lobrus, and were disarmed on the spot.

Knock. Knock.

At that moment, a secretary entered.

“Minister. A reply has arrived from Finnomia.”

A few weeks earlier, Lobrus had proposed that Finnomia join the Eastern Union to stand against the Empire.

Finnomia refused.

Lobrus then offered to purchase part of its territory.

Finnomia refused again.

“...We must prepare for war.”

The Empire had moved and swallowed Bolska, and Yursled would soon fall as well. Lobrus needed to move quickly too.

Afterward, Lobrus’s core figures gathered at Winter Palace.

With the Supreme Leader presiding, the Foreign Affairs Committee Member, the Defense Committee Member, the Chief of General Staff, and the man newly seated in Zerof’s place sat around a long table.

It was past midnight, and bottles of liquor sat on the table before the maps.

“It is still too early. We need around two months for the military system to improve...”

The Chief of General Staff cautiously raised the matter of occupying Finnomia.

“To attack Finnomia?”

Foreign Affairs Committee Member Belov asked. At the same time, Belov watched the Supreme Leader’s expression.

The Supreme Leader also seemed unwilling to wait too long. Belov understood that look.

“Do you think we are facing a great power? It is Finnomia. Just Finnomia.”

“...”

The Chief of General Staff fell silent, and they made plans to occupy it far sooner.

The ideal deadline was three weeks.

They would hold a military parade in Finnomia’s capital for the Supreme Leader’s birthday.

...

Bang!

Before dawn, in a mountain range somewhere in Finnomia.

The sniper Toibo Hakae shot a deer several kilometers away. Its horned body fell onto the snow, scattering white powder.

Phew.

Crunch. Crunch.

Toibo Hakae ran over the snow to check it. It was a large stag.

“...We’ll fill our bellies today.”

A plump one like this, caught from time to time, became a special meal for the unit. Its hide became a warming mat for winter, its antlers became military eating utensils, its organs became bait for traps to catch other animals, and its bones were boiled down and drunk like medicine.

Nothing went to waste.

Toibo Hakae cut the deer’s throat, drained the blood, and slung it over one shoulder.

Crunch. Crunch.

Toibo Hakae cheerfully headed down the mountain, the deer on one shoulder and a sniper rifle strapped across the back.

Thump.

A faint tremor suddenly tickled the skin.

“...Huh?”

Toibo Hakae narrowed his eyes and looked toward the distant border.

Whoooooosh!

A fierce wind swept through, raising dust mixed with snow.

“What is that?”

In the dim darkness, black dots seemed to be approaching in a line along the snow-covered border road...

“?!”

Toibo Hakae’s eyes widened.

The silhouettes soon took the shape of enormous steel machines and countless people.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Tracks tore up the road, throwing dirt and snow into the air. Behind them came an endless procession of trucks and infantry.

The forest shook with the rumble of engines.

Rumble!

This was not something Toibo Hakae had seen incorrectly. His eyesight was too exceptional to measure.

“...Fuck!”

Toibo Hakae ran at once.

With the deer on one shoulder and the sniper rifle strapped across the back, Toibo Hakae reported to the guard post.

His voice traveled through communications to Finnomia’s headquarters.

The war on the continent had spread north.