I Was Mistaken as a Great War Commander-Chapter 198

After the earlier commotion had quieted down, Daniel gave orders for the entire brigade to rest.

The reason was clear: if Bental gave up any intel, a forced march would follow. Until then, conserving energy was imperative.

Ironically, the one who had issued the order—Daniel himself—was unable to enjoy a moment of proper rest.

—“AAAAAARGH! Just tell me what you want! Just tell me what the hell you want already!”

—“Hmm? Didn’t I already say? What I want is for you to repent, Lieutenant Colonel Bental.”

—“There’s a limit to insanity, you psychotic bitch—!”

—“Using such vulgar language tells me you haven’t repented nearly enough. Hmm... shall we change tools and try again?”

—“What? Why are you pulling that out—no, fuck! Don’t come near me! STAY AWAY! AAAAARGH!”

The primary reason Daniel couldn't sleep peacefully was those screams.

Unfortunately for him, the interrogation site was located directly next to the field command tent. Even if he’d wanted to avoid it, he couldn’t.

Having spent the night listening to Bental’s howls, Daniel sat at his desk the next morning, unable to hide his fatigue.

The others in the command tent appeared just as sleep-deprived, going about their duties with haggard faces.

All was quiet as each officer carried out their morning responsibilities when Phelp, the intelligence officer, approached.

He was holding a steaming cup in his hand.

“Hard at it from early in the morning, I see. Would you like some coffee, sir?”

“Ah. Major Phelp... Coffee... yes, that sounds good.”

Daniel answered weakly, and Phelp let out a low chuckle, handing him the cup.

“It’s chicory coffee. It’s not quite the luxury stuff from the capital, but it’s the best we have here on the front.”

“I’m not picky enough to demand luxury in a warzone, am I?”

Daniel quipped with a wan smile, took the cup, and sipped the chicory brew.

As the warmth slid down his throat, he felt a faint surge of energy return to his body.

Even though it was a substitute, the flavor was close enough to real coffee to trick his senses.

“Much better. More importantly, how are the men holding up?”

“Yes. I just finished a sweep of the camp—morale is at its peak. Securing the bridgehead, identifying the anti-tank mines, and now the recon company’s victory over an enemy battalion... It’s been nothing but success.”

Every operation had been flawlessly executed. As a result, both the troops and officers now supported Daniel Steiner with a near-fanatical degree of trust.

It was a situation Daniel found troubling, though Phelp remained unaware.

“Thanks to the General’s deliberate pacing of the march, the troops are still fresh. That alone has given us significant advantage in—”

Before Phelp could finish, another scream rang out from the adjacent tent.

Unlike the earlier shrieks, this one was low and heavy, like a man crushed beneath his own despair.

Lieutenant Colonel Bental’s attitude had changed drastically.

—“Please! I’m begging you, stop! I’ll tell you everything—just please!”

—“Lieutenant Colonel? It’s only been half a day, you know. If you’re crying already, how do you plan to survive the rest?”

—“I’m sorry! I was wrong! Please, have mercy!”

Phelp clucked his tongue at the sounds coming through the wall.

“Nonstop torture... She’s terrifying. It’s a blessing that Lieutenant Frien’s one of ours and not theirs.”

“I agree. Facing her as an enemy... I’d rather not imagine it.”

Finishing the last of his coffee, Daniel set the cup down.

“His will seems broken. Bring him here.”

“Understood.”

Phelp left the tent to carry out the order.

After some time, he returned with Lieutenant Colonel Bental in tow, his hands bound.

Bental’s steps were slow and feeble as he entered the command tent.

On the surface, he appeared uninjured—Frien had clearly healed him before the transfer—but his hollow, lifeless eyes told a different story.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bental.”

At the sound of Daniel’s voice, Bental flinched.

Upon seeing Daniel seated at the head of the operations table, Bental dropped to his knees as though facing a predator.

“Enough! Please, enough! Just kill me! You can do it, can’t you? Order my execution already!”

Daniel pitied the man’s pitiful state—but mercy was not an option.

“I’m not going to kill you. And if you answer my questions properly, the torture will stop here and now. You’ll be treated with the dignity afforded to a commanding officer. If you understand, nod.”

Bental, with no other options remaining, nodded his head.

“Good. Let’s start from the beginning. Explain where the city’s defensive line has been established.”

Bental hesitated.

Betraying his comrades was still a line he couldn’t easily cross.

But silence would mean returning to a personal hell of endless pain.

Not wanting to revisit that nightmare, Bental finally spoke between quiet sobs.

“Our defensive line is set along the railway on the city’s outskirts. The high ground to the northeast... that’s our primary stronghold. You could say the bulk of our forces are concentrated there.”

“I see. That explains the ambush with your battalion.”

The enemy operation was simple.

The plan had been to wait until Daniel’s brigade triggered the anti-tank mines, then strike during the confusion. After dealing a critical blow, they would retreat.

If Daniel’s brigade gave chase, that would complete the trap.

The pursuing forces would be drawn into range of the heavy infantry and artillery batteries positioned on the high ground—resulting in massive losses.

But the moment Daniel had identified the anti-tank minefield, the entire plan fell apart.

Daniel drummed his fingers on the table as he spoke.

“Even with a delaying strategy, you’d have to concentrate forces to confront a brigade. Dispersing troops would risk a breakthrough along a single axis, which could collapse your entire line. That [N O V E L I G H T] said, it’s not a perfect solution.”

His fingers stopped.

“So, if most of your strength is concentrated on the northeastern high ground... then there must be a weak point somewhere else. Where is it?”

Bental stayed silent.

This was a line of conscience he didn’t want to cross.

Daniel stared at him, unblinking.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bental. I do not like repeating myself.”

The quiet finality in Daniel’s tone pushed Bental to the edge.

Realizing he could no longer resist, Bental let out a breath and lowered his head.

“...The warehouse district in the southeast. There are some old freight yards and dilapidated storage buildings. The trenches are poorly dug, and troop presence is minimal.”

It was natural. With limited regimental strength, the enemy had concentrated forces on their critical axis of defense.

Which meant everything outside that axis was effectively a dead zone.

Daniel stood from his seat.

“Operations Officer.”

The officer who had been silently listening beside him bowed.

“Yes, Brigadier General.” freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Daniel didn’t look at him as he gave the order.

“Send a small recon detachment to the southeastern warehouse district. Verify whether Lieutenant Colonel Bental’s claims are true.”

His gaze remained fixed on the operational map spread across the war table.

He still didn’t understand why things were going so smoothly. But as brigade commander, Daniel had no other choice but to act.

“If Bental’s information is accurate...”

He sighed inwardly, but on the surface, wore the grim expression of a textbook general.

“Then we will break the enemy’s defensive line—and occupy Fenbark.”

****

Several days later — the Fenbark defensive line.

Outskirts of the southeastern warehouse district, temporary observation post.

“It’s probably because it rained yesterday... the fog’s thick today.”

At the observation soldier’s comment, Post Commander Sergeant Melat furrowed his brow.

“Yeah. I hate days like this—foggy days.”

“I feel the same. Who actually likes this kind of weather?”

“No, it’s not just that simple...”

Melat started to explain but stopped short.

A strange sensation crept over him—like something was flickering just beyond the fog.

“...What the hell?”

At the edge of his vision, vague shapes began to take form.

Faintly, as if from a dream—or a nightmare—he could hear the sound of treads crushing dirt.

The observation soldier, sensing that something was wrong too, began to sweat cold.

“No way... is that...”

Before the soldier could finish his sentence, Melat lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck and scanned the forward area.

He inhaled sharply—dry, breathless.

Tanks, half-tracks, and armored vehicles were emerging through the mist.

Swathed in fog, they advanced in silence.

Etched into their sides was the emblem of an eagle.

No mistaking it—they were Imperial.

Behind them, the formation of soldiers stretched endlessly into the white haze.

Melat’s breathing turned shallow. His lips cracked with dryness.

He lowered the binoculars, staring in stunned silence as he mouthed the words—

“They’re coming. This way...”

With the name Daniel Steiner ringing in his head, Melat whispered, like a man already condemned—

“Hell is coming.”