Once they had found someone suitable to take the blame, Slavia's senior officers moved fast.
Before the young military overseer could react, they had already begun arranging a retreat "on the overseer's orders." The command center was even being packed up, ready to leave first.
Curiously, through it all, not one of them asked the old general, their commander-in-chief, a single question.
It was as though he no longer existed.
The old general watched them without a trace of anger. Instead, he smiled.
"Perhaps it's better this way," he murmured. "Slavia's blood should not be spilled for nothing."
The young overseer heard him and rushed over as if clutching at a life-saving straw. "You mean to say you also—"
Before he could finish, blood splashed across his face.
The old general had no intention of speaking to him. He drew his blade and slit his own throat.
The overseer stood with his mouth open, staring dumbfounded as the old general collapsed with a smile on his face and died on the spot. He had no idea what to say.
After a moment, he turned to the others. Everyone was busy with their own tasks. No one came to help; no one even glanced his way.
His face went pale. He could not say a word.
He was no fool, or he would never have been sent as an overseer. A moment's careless words had given the officers an opening, and they had used it to make the retreat his order. When the time came, the blame would naturally be his as well.
Worse still, the commander-in-chief had died right in front of him.
What had the old general meant by it? No one knew. But everyone had seen the old man remain silent until the overseer went over to question