770
"Not bad at all."
Medici rested his chin on his hand as he watched the seaside banquet. The sight of Half-Giants and humans mingling and enjoying themselves made him a little nostalgic. "But since you refuse to go, I can only stay here and drink in the sea breeze with you."
Watching the lively scene below, the Red Angel also felt an urge to sigh. He thought of his "Red of War"-not the current one, but the one from long ago.
It was not that Medici did not value his current troops. It was simply that time, once gone, never returned. That legion that had once truly shared his heart and mind, those subordinates who had raised the sacred banner alongside him-he had lived and died with them, charged and retreated with them. He had heard every one of their thoughts, and he had also heard their howls of anguish and fury as they were wiped out after his death.
People always had one misconception: that a God of War must always be victorious. But Medici remembered how many times he had fought powerful enemies to the bitter end and been forced to retreat. In the beginning, he had treated soldiers as tools, urging them to die for victory. Later, he had begun to treat them as comrades, as companions, cherishing his troops rather than expending them recklessly for victory. Eventually, he had learned how best to command his legion, becoming a general who could eat from the same pot as his soldiers and share drinks and laughter with them, while also being a cold, merciless god.
That final crushing defeat had undoubtedly left the deepest mark, giving the old "Red of War" a special place in Medici's heart.
"Do you really not want to go down?"
Medici spoke