The war was over. Or so they said. But for Kayan Bayern, it wasn't. The Emperor sought to confine him. Once a hero, he was now feared and watched closely. Marriage was the shackle. The partner was Dakota. A political alliance in name, but surveillance in reality.

But he was still on the battlefield. Blood soaked into the muddy ground, broken cannon wheels, gunpowder smoke fluttering like hair. Even the rain tasted of gunpowder and blood, and pieces of blood-stained uniforms littered the ground. When the enemy's ambush began, he led his soldiers to charge. Cannons roared, and smoke rose from the ends of musket barrels. Bayonets plunged, and lead bullets pierced flesh. With each explosion, severed limbs flew into the sky.

A soldier fell. Kayan instinctively caught him. But the soldier's abdomen was already shattered. He mumbled, spitting blood, but his breath gave out before he could finish his words.

At his voice, soldiers charged; at his gesture, hundreds fell. More thousands survived, so it was a successful tactic. Everyone praised him. But he remembered the faces of the dead. One judgment left hundreds of corpses, and he counted them. First with his fingers, then in his head. Until only numbers remained, and the people disappeared.

He had to do something. But then an explosion engulfed him. Hot, sticky blood ran down his face.

It was a victory. Everyone cheered. But Kayan couldn't escape it. At night, he still heard the sound of shells flying, and when he closed his eyes, severed corpses looked down at him. He needed alcohol. He thought he could forget if he drank. But the more he drank, the clearer it became.

The war was over. But he was still stuck in the middle of it.