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Traveler – Part 06

Cold rain mixed with snow poured endlessly on the battlefield.

The ground had transformed into a sea of mud, and the smell of smoke, dirt, and melting snow enveloped the young soldiers. Under the shroud of a moonless, starless night, rain persistently drummed on the tent roof.

“Kujou!” roared a commanding officer.

“Sir!”

A sharp reply came from the tent, where young wounded soldiers, bloodied bandages wrapped around their heads, had formed a circle to play a word game.

With the rain pelting down on him, Kujou hastened to the superior officer and gave a crisp salute.

“We’ve captured a soldier from the New World’s army,” the officer briefed. “They clashed with a unit who arrived before us. The unit itself was nearly wiped out. Extract information from the captive.”

Kazuya nodded and entered the tent the officer indicated. The moment he stepped in, the smell of fresh blood, much stronger than in their tent, assaulted his senses.

An American boy around Kazuya’s age lay inside, severely injured and on the brink of death. He was trembling violently under the blanket.

Kazuya sat beside him and inquired about the battle. Surprised by the fluent English, the boy, with a round face adorned with freckles and curly brown hair, opened his eyes. He appeared unlike the typical nobles back in Sauville. Kazuya wondered if this was the face of the colonists, of the boys from the New World.

Enduring pain, the boy explained what happened in a quivering voice. When Kazuya rose to leave, the boy erupted in anger.

“Wait!”

Kazuya stopped in his tracks. The boy fixed him with a fierce gaze, fiery brown eyes sparking like flames.

“I might have ended up like this, but today, I killed about ten of you yellow-skinned people all by myself.”

“I see.”

“It’s freezing. Would you hold my hand?”

“…Sure.”

Kazuya turned back, complying, and tightly gripped the boy’s right hand that peeked from under the blanket.

His hand was covered in wounds and marred with blood—whether his own or another’s, Kazuya couldn’t tell. Kazuya’s palm quickly turned red. The tremors transmitted through the boy’s hand reached all the way to Kazuya’s heart, inducing an eerie chill. He bit his lip tightly.

The boy continued speaking almost deliriously. “I was incredibly strong. Praised by my superiors. Killed guys like you, little yellow monkeys, alone.”

“We’re not monkeys. We’re human, too.”

“Before the war,” the boy went on, as though not hearing what Kazuya just said. “I went to high school… Played baseball. Do you know baseball?”

“I do.”

The boy abruptly strengthened his grip. The chill he transmitted felt like it was piercing straight to the top of Kazuya’s head.

Shivering, Kazuya’s memory drifted to the spring of 1924—the Queen Berry incident with Victorique de Blois.

Victorique had revealed the truth behind the bizarre case—a dark tale where youths from various nations, armed and driven to paranoia, were made to turn on each other in a sinking luxury ship. They found weapons hidden all over the vessel and proceeded to shoot and stab each other, inciting more fear, and ultimately resulting in deaths. Some decided to trust and help each other.

Now, it felt like the entire world had transformed into that Queen Berry—people given weapons, sent to the battlefield, ordered to fight, and much like a ship sinking into the sea, the world was rocking wildly.

“It hurts,” said the American boy. He sounded like an innocent child. “My body is burning. Am I gonna die?”

Kazuya couldn’t tell how badly injured the boy was beneath the blanket. He just silently observed.

“When I die, where will I go?” the boy asked. “Hell? Will I burn there forever? I’m a really bad person, after all.”

The tremors erased Kazuya’s resentment.

“No. No, you won’t go there!” Kazuya told the stranger. “People who die in this war go to heaven. Good and bad alike. They make exceptions during wartime. I’m sure of it.”

“Heh, is that so? But then…” the boy smiled cynically. “Heaven will get crowded. Wars will break out again over territories. They’ll hand out guns again and order you to kill those monkeys.”

“Listen…”

The boy coughed painfully. His face turned pale, and the shadow of death quickly manifested. The Reaper was coming. The boy suddenly lost all energy.

“Will you… forgive me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“I do. I forgive you,” Kazuya cried.

The soldier on guard outside the tent heard the commotion. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Kazuya couldn’t respond. The boy stared at Kazuya with round, brown eyes.

“I see… If you say so, then it must be true.”

“Hang in there.”

“If I’ll go to heaven like you say… Then, I can see my mom again.”

“Wait…”

“Mom…”

Silence. Seconds later, the boy breathed his last.

Kazuya sat there for a while, not moving an inch. Then, he let go of the boy’s hand, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes.

He left the tent. Another insignificant death tonight, a scene Kazuya had grown accustomed to. That was all there was to it. After reporting what he learned from the boy to his superior, he emerged with heavy steps, sought a quiet spot in the darkness, and stifled his voice as he wept.

A moment later, he rose to his feet and returned to his tent.

Most of his comrades were already wrapped in sleeping bags, fast asleep. Two were sharing the light of a single lamp, reading a book and writing a letter. Kazuya sat in a corner of the tent for a long time, motionless and silent. Eventually, he decided to write a letter home as well and started rummaging for stationery.

Dear Ruri, he began, but his handwriting ended up shaky, wasting a precious sheet of paper. Taking out a second sheet, he tried to calm down first with a deep breath. Then, he closed his eyes once and opened them slowly.

He began writing the letter.

---

Dear Ruri,

How is everything at home? Are you and Mom doing well?

Things are the same here as usual. No dangers. With home being miles away, I can’t help but worry.

Sorry for always writing about Victorique in my letters.

I remembered something again today, and it was on my mind all day. One time, we were in this place, where the sluice gate opened and the seawater was fast approaching. Oh, this was from a while ago, so don’t worry. When I told Victorique to run, she wore this sad expression and said:

“How can I run for my life if I don’t even know why I was born?”

I really wanted her to survive, so I told her:

“Run and live for me.”

And Victorique agreed.

We made it out alive. Looking back now, it feels like a responsibility was given to me at that moment.

I need to live to protect her.

I hate myself for not being able to fulfill that promise, that I’d let her down. The weight of it all is hard to bear.

Even without her telling me, I know I’m just an ordinary guy with nothing special to offer. I harbored doubts about the values Father and our brothers hold—how a man should live, sacrificing oneself for the nation—but I couldn’t bring myself to express them. I’m weak.

The world around us has been torn apart by this war—burned villages, scattered housewares, human body parts. Skies blackened with smoke and despair. It made me realize how precious the simple things were: going to school, chatting with friends, having family meals, taking a stroll alone. These mundane routines, the irreplaceable lives of every single person, our simple lifestyle—all incredibly precious, and just as valuable as the entire world itself.

I’ve come to believe that there is meaning in putting myself to good use—to protect the people you love, your home, your town, your country, to strive to make sure that everyone can embrace ordinary happiness.

If, by some chance, I make it back from this battlefield alive, I wish to see Father again. I don’t care if he calls me a coward. I want to express my thoughts without shying away from his outdated values.

I will tell him that I will choose my own path—not the one he laid out for me—and become a respectable adult for the people I hold dear.

If I make it back…

I will…

I swear.

Let’s talk more, Ruri. I miss you so much, my dearest sister.

So…