Chapter 1 The Grim Reaper's Scythe (With Map)
I, who died easily in my previous life and was reincarnated into another world, now faced death once more.
"Fire!"
At the Platoon Leader's command, fifty line infantrymen simultaneously fired their muskets.
"Reload! Next round!"
The battlefield looked like it was straight out of the 17th century of my original world. The Age of Exploration was winding down, colonies were being established everywhere, and absolute monarchies ruled with iron fists. It was no different here, in the Schweidel Empire.
When you think of an empire, you imagine vast lands and power. But after more than a century of endless war, the empire had lost much of its territory, now barely bigger than neighboring countries. Yet the glory of the past haunted them, fueling their desperate fight to reclaim what was theirs.
This second homeland was a mess in every way. The worst part was that almost all neighboring countries were heretics and longtime enemies since the empire's founding. In truth, they were just different sects of the same religion, but that only deepened the hatred. That was why the war had dragged on for over a hundred years.
Enemy bullets whizzed past. The opposing line infantry belonged to the Agan Kingdom. I wanted to charge and end it fast, but their barrage was relentless. If we charged now, we'd be wiped out. I raised my command saber and shouted.
"Move your hands, not your eyes! Fire!"
Three or four soldiers collapsed under enemy fire, but the rest obeyed, firing in unison. The battlefield was engulfed in thick white smoke from black powder, blurring all sight.
The situation was unclear, but as Platoon Leader, I had a mission. If I failed to clear the enemy ahead, the disciplinary committee might end my military career. I gave the order again.
"Fire!"
Musketeers could fire about once every twenty seconds. Though there were no clocks, my body had learned the rhythm. I saved bullets for those still reloading, ensuring everyone took part in each volley.
"Damn it, the enemy isn't thinning out! More than forty remain!"
My assistant, a non-commissioned officer, peered through a telescope, spotting enemy shapes through the smoke. Another shouted,
"Captain, six hit!"
Two more had fallen.
Out of fifty soldiers, over a tenth were already down. In modern warfare, this would be the time to retreat, but this was the early modern period of another world. "Ninety percent remain," so retreat was unthinkable. That was how things worked in this era.
"Captain! It's impossible!"
A terrified soldier cried out, but I forced a smile, laughing through the tension.
"Hahaha! If we run now, we all end up in the punishment unit! You want to charge the front with a spear, huh?"
"Eek!? No more, please!"
The scared soldier kept loading his musket, hands moving automatically despite his fear—proof of his training. I patted his shoulder and shouted loud enough for all to hear.
"If we kill them, this is over! We'll be done before dinner! Capture the town ahead, and we can buy as much alcohol and women as we want!"
Ah, I hate this. I really do. I wanted to serve in a support role at the officer academy, so why am I fighting here?
Honestly, I hate war. I hate this world. I don't care what happens to the Empire. But if I don't fight, I'll die. So I keep killing—to avoid being killed. Both enemies and allies.
"Hey, shoot! Your guns are powerful and endless, right? Show those Agan bastards we have balls!"
A little crude humor lifts morale, so I throw in the jokes I rehearsed. It's stupid to joke when your life is on the line, but a bit of foolishness is survival.
The enemy's resistance is stubborn. A single platoon holds the road through the town. We have reinforcements behind us, so once they arrive, we'll bypass and wipe out the enemy. The resistance is just a delay.
Hm? A delay...?
A cold chill suddenly ran down my neck.
"This is bad!"
I grabbed the collar of a non-commissioned officer, forcing him to crouch.
Almost at once, the white smoke before me shattered, and something flew into our formation. A shell.
"Gyaah!"
"Whoaah!"
"Ahiieee!?"
Screams filled the air. Around ten were hit.
I stood quickly to assess the damage. The dead were unrecognizable, and I couldn't count all the wounded. Some moaned, bleeding heavily. I focused on those still alive, gripping their guns. Just over thirty remained.
"Th-thank you for saving me, Captain... How did you avoid that?"
The officer stood pale, so I helped him up. If we'd been a moment slower, both our torsos would have been shredded.
"I've had a long relationship with the Grim Reaper."
Maybe because I died once before, I can sense death's approach—a cold, blade-like chill down my neck. I don't know why, but I call it the "Grim Reaper's Scythe." Without it, I wouldn't survive here as someone from the modern world.
Still, if we take more shells, the platoon is finished. It's a small-caliber field gun, but at this close range—where muskets are exchanged—its power is brutal. No time left to hesitate.
But I put on a calm face, drew my command sword, and ran forward.
"Alright! They've used their trump card! This match is ours! All units, charge!"
The non-commissioned officers behind me shouted in shock.
"Huh!? Captain──"
"──Don't let the captain die!"
"Y-yes, all units, charge! Charge!"
For infantry, a charge order is absolute.
"Whoaahhh!"
The musketeers dove into the white smoke. Their guns fitted with crude bayonets—pointed iron stakes—to stab and kill.
I led the charge too. Without the leader moving, the platoon won't follow. It's reckless, but I have the "Grim Reaper's Scythe."
Running through the smoke, I stepped instinctively to the right. A sharp whistle screamed past my ear—another bullet.
Breaking through the smoke, enemy infantry waited in ambush.
"Fire!"
Their commander's order rang out, and gunfire exploded, filling the air with flame and smoke.
But the Grim Reaper said nothing. I did not fall.
Muskets have poor accuracy—the powerful springs strike flint, but no rifling means unstable shots, plus the barrel's shaking from recoil. Dodging is pointless.
"Yoooooohh!"
I slashed with my command sword as my platoon closed in.
"Dieeeeee! You bastard!"
The enemy probably expected our charge, but smoke ruined their aim. Once a shot was fired, the fight turned to stabbing with bayonets.
"Kill! Kill!"
Driven wild, I cut through enemy non-commissioned officers. We stop soldiers from fleeing; once gone, the enemy would break. Come on, run!
Sporadic gunfire from our allies sounded—likely shots fired at close range after charging with loaded guns. They did well.
Suddenly, enemy movement stopped. About twenty corpses lay scattered. The rest fled. Ten of our comrades died.
"Captain, the enemy fled. Our strength is down to twenty."
My subordinate reported.
"We took heavy losses..."
Some survivors clutched wounds, crouching. The officers didn't count these as survivors. No proper medical care here—wounds like that mean certain death. At least I want to honor their last moments with victory.
I raised my sword and shouted.
"My platoon has exterminated the enemy and retaken this post! Victory is ours! Well done, everyone! Seize the enemy's field guns! Hold this position until reinforcements arrive!"
"""Ooooh!"""
Wounded soldiers, barely alive, raised their guns weakly and cheered. I gripped their hands, offering encouragement.
"You fought bravely. You are heroes of the Imperial Army, the pride of our homeland."
"Hehe... We did it... we did our best..."
I dislike this militaristic attitude, but it's the age of militarism. Without honoring fallen soldiers, survivors lose will to fight. And they truly fought bravely. Who else but me, the Platoon Leader, would praise them?
As the wounded slumped, another platoon passed through the terrain gap—comrades from the same company. Their Platoon Leader rode by on horseback and saluted. I returned it.
More platoons arrived—cavalry and transport wagons that couldn't bypass the pass. They'd handle the next fight.
I saluted the fallen, then ordered the twenty or so survivors.
"Treat the wounded and bury the dead. Bury the enemy too—we don't want complaints from locals."
I adjusted my peaked cap and grinned.
"After that, it's all about alcohol and women."
Ah, how vulgar.
Notes:
• Schweidel Empire - A once-powerful empire that has lost much of its territory after more than a century of war. It is located in a continent where absolute monarchies are at their peak, and colonies are being established. The empire is currently fighting to restore its lost lands. It is surrounded by neighboring countries that are heretics and long-time enemies, despite being different sects of the same religion.
• Agan Kingdom - A neighboring country to the Schweidel Empire, engaged in a long-standing war. It is one of the heretic nations, despite being part of the same religion. The Agan Kingdom's infantry is described as tenacious, holding their ground against the Schweidel Empire's forces.
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