Chapter 961: Chapter 15 Empire Soldier’s Break

Andreas didn’t know how many times he’d been on the night shift and then saw a man dressed as an officer stumbling toward him from afar.

“Halt!” He unlocked the safety on his assault rifle, “Don’t come any closer! Which unit are you from?”

Andreas had a flashlight, but he didn’t want to reveal his position too quickly, so he shouted from the darkness.

“The 600th Guard Division, our unit was wiped out. It took me two days just to get through the Anteans’ occupied zone. I need to see your commander!”

The newcomer’s Prosenese was very fluent, but Andreas didn’t dare lower his guard and asked again, “Where are you from? When did you enlist?”

The other immediately replied, “I’m a local from Plowsonia, I’ve been enlisted for eight years, participated in the Battle of Melania and the Battle of Carolingian. If I weren’t a local, I couldn’t possibly have bypassed the enemy’s troops!”

Andreas thought for a moment and asked, “What’s the best pub on King Street?”

“You can’t fool me, there aren’t any pubs on King Street.” The other said as he continued to walk forward.

Andreas turned on the flashlight, illuminating the other man, carefully examining his attire: a dirty Prosen Officer’s uniform, with medals that matched his claims.

Andreas turned off the flashlight, “Congratulations on escaping alive.”

“Have I really escaped alive? Being captured obediently is escaping alive, isn’t it?” the officer mocked, “Got a smoke, soldier?”

Andreas took out his own rolled cigarette, “Only hand-rolled ones, we haven’t had manufactured cigarettes in a long time, just loose tobacco.”

The officer remarked, “The logistics are at this stage now, when will this war end?”

As he spoke, the officer took the cigarette, held it in his mouth, and began searching for matches.

Andreas took out his matches, striking five or six times without success.

The officer finally found his matches, taking one out and striking it lightly, kindling a flame to light his cigarette.

Andreas looked curiously at the officer’s matches. From the packaging, they looked identical to the rationed matches he received, but their performance was clearly unusual.

They looked very much like the Antean matches seized from deserters by the Constitutional Guards.

The officer, seeing Andreas staring at the matches, slapped the whole box into his hand, “Take it, buddy.”

“Oh, thanks,” Andreas replied.

The officer then asked, “Where’s your commander?”

“In the two-story building behind,” Andreas pointed to the building, “the regimental command is on the second floor.”

“Alright, thanks for the info. One more question, if you’re not on duty, where do you go to pass the time? There’s got to be a pub or some such place, right? Or do they not exist anymore?”

Andreas glanced at the Constitutional Guards’ posts, then lowered his voice, “Of course, there’s a pub. Even though brewing alcohol with grain is a serious crime nowadays, some people still secretly brew beer. Go down one block, to Flora Street, and the basement of 110.”

The officer nodded, “Alright, after I report to your regimental commander, I’ll take a look.”

With that, the officer waved farewell and walked toward the building where the regiment was stationed.

His figure soon disappeared into the darkness.

Andreas picked up the matches given by the officer, pulled out a match to examine closely, finding the stick quite sturdy, with a very ample head.

He gave it a gentle strike alongside the matchbox, a bright flame immediately appeared.

Andreas stared at the flame, increasingly feeling that something was off about that officer.

There wasn’t a trace of fatigue or despair on that officer’s face, his eyes were bright and spirited, worlds apart from the lifeless, hopeless eyes Andreas had become accustomed to lately.

“I should report this to the Imperial Ministry or the Constitutional Guards,” he murmured softly, watching the match burn away in his hand, “Yes, I should report — but…”

But what if his report was remembered by this “officer”?

What if, after the war, this person became a leader of the new Prosen state and began purging those who betrayed him?

The flame in Andreas’s hand went out.

Whatever.

He tossed away the burnt match, pocketed the remaining matches, and then switched the safety back on his assault rifle.

——–

Flora Street, basement of 110.

The moment the hostess opened the door, the conversations in the room fell silent.

Everyone looked at the officer at the door, confirmed he wasn’t carrying the crescent-shaped dog tags of the Constitutional Guards, and then resumed their lively chatter.

“Half the recruits in our company are just kids. The day they arrived, I told the deputy company commander: Wow, we’re running a kindergarten now!” a Captain remarked.

The Sergeant sitting across from the Captain took a big gulp of beer and sighed, “Earlier, I gave my rationed bread to residents near the front, they’ve been eating cabbage for so long, their teeth are stained green from it.

“Who knew people could survive on just vegetables? Humanity is truly resilient.”

No sooner had he spoken than someone chimed in, “Why’d you give the bread to the residents? Bread from our rations fetches gold bars and watches on the black market. I calculated, it’s worth about 500,000 marks pre-war!”

Another person said, “And not just gold bars and watches, I hear you can get a girl you fancy with a basket of bread. I heard our division’s General has three ‘typists,’ feeding them bread every day.”

Someone immediately joked with the pub’s hostess, “Lili Marlene, if I bring bread, can I sleep with you?”