The pressure was like an invisible mountain, crushing the breath from his chest.
In that suffocating silence, a somewhat hoarse voice—not loud, yet extraordinarily clear—broke the stillness.
"I think... we should go save them."
Everyone in the tent turned as one toward the source of the voice. It was Otto, battalion commander of the Third Regiment's Second Battalion. He was a veteran soldier, his face weathered and scarred. He was not particularly tall, even slightly stooped, and a man of few words. At past military councils, he had often been the most inconspicuous figure in the corner, frequently saying nothing at all, giving people the impression that he lacked initiative and only knew how to follow orders.
His sudden words now caught many by surprise.
Karl slowly turned his head as well, his gaze settling on Otto's plain, honest face.
"Commander Otto," Karl said, his voice somewhat dry, "go on."
Otto raised his head. His eyes were not especially bright, yet they carried the calm forged through blood and fire. He did not look at the map, nor did he strike any impassioned pose. He simply spoke slowly in his plain, slightly accented tone:
"My Lord, generals. I haven't read many military books, and I don't understand many grand principles. I only know that we are all soldiers of Carnford. Commander Roderick, and all those brothers under him, were acting under orders when they went ahead to clear the way and scout for the main army. Now they're surrounded by those savages, fighting to the death without retreating. Our main force is only thirty or forty li from them. If the cavalry rides hard, they can get there in two hours. How can we stand by and watch our comrades fight alone there, bleeding out their last drop?"
He paused,