I Was Mistaken as a Genius Mage in a Game-Chapter 71

"Bell and Ed immediately headed south. Though Menes was absent, the forces were concentrated around Bin and the spirits, so they were able to clear the way without further combat.

As soon as they escaped the enemy lines, Bell immediately threw off his mask. The air in the wilderness was less toxic than the enemy-infested areas, so he could safely breathe it in without the mask.

The lightning that had adorned the dark sky had long since ceased.

He didn’t even know when Bin and the spirits had returned. The situation had been too urgent to even glance at the sky.

Between the deadly silence, the sound of explosions echoed. Scattered bodies lay around them as they moved through the wilderness.

Boom!

The silence was shattered by a tremendous noise. The air trembled with hot waves. A mine had exploded not too far away.

Had one of the allied forces stepped on it, or was it a mutant?

No one knew. It could have been a malfunction.

Bell and Ed had no reason or obligation to check.

After all, mines on the battlefield were just waiting to explode, and anyone who stepped on one would die.

"When we return to the unit, take her straight to the saint. Make sure she gets treated as quickly °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° as possible."

Bell spoke while rubbing his arm over his robe. For him, today was just another day carrying out a slightly more dangerous mission; there was no deeper meaning to it.

"...Why didn't you do anything?"

Ed spoke, unknowingly in an irritated tone.

"The fact that there’s a mage shouldn’t be discovered by them. They should know that I don’t participate in combat, that was explained during the briefing."

"...The situation has changed, hasn't it? We were discovered, and we had no choice but to enter combat. Was that part of the plan too? Was that discussed during the briefing?"

Ed's frustration grew. Bell's calm voice was grating to him. It felt as if Bell was dismissing the deaths of those who had just fallen.

"They were people who could have survived. You're the famous Bell Artua, aren't you? With just a flick of your finger, those mutants could have been turned to ash, couldn't they?"

"The fact that a mage infiltrated the enemy lines must never be discovered, no matter what. On top of that, if they realized the mage was a general, the grand lords themselves would have moved. In that situation, it was best that I did nothing."

Bell calmly recalled the situation.

His judgment had been correct.

For the mission, for the survival of the soldiers.

His reasoning was flawless, and Ed couldn’t argue with it.

That made Ed’s frustration boil over.

"...The general abandoned his subordinates."

It was a senseless accusation, made with the emotion of a child, with no logic or reason behind it.

That kind of baseless criticism wouldn’t ease his emotions.

"Yes, I abandoned them."

Bell responded quietly to the accusation.

Ed had no words to retort.

He was not feeling good.

No words seemed like they would make him feel any better.

Bell was so rational.

Unsettlingly rational.

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He didn’t flinch as subordinates died in front of him, or when people melted away in front of his eyes.

"...Have you always been like this?"

"Maybe."

Bell pulled a pipe from under his robe and placed it in his mouth.

He didn’t light it. It wasn’t safe yet, as the smoke could attract bombs if it rose into the air.

He chewed on the pipe's end, thinking for a moment, then cautiously spoke.

"I probably wasn’t like this in the beginning."

"..."

Ed was suddenly creeped out by Bell’s indifferent reply.

It felt like he had just seen the true face of the hero he had hoped for.

Now that he thought about it, everything he had worked for seemed meaningless if it was to become someone like this pathetic human.

It felt like he was standing at the edge of a deep cliff that he had never seen before, with no strength or reason left to move forward.

At the same time, the image of the boy soaring through the sky appeared before his eyes.

The boy riding on the spirit that summoned the thunder, casting divine punishment on the demons.

Not all generals are like that.

There are those who move through the battlefield beautifully and grandly, just like that boy, right?

‘I want to be like General Bin...’

"...Do you still believe you can be a hero?"

Bell, who had been walking ahead, turned around and asked that question.

"..."

A cold silence settled between them.

Under the chilly shadow, only Bell's heavy breathing could be heard.

His shoulders ached, and his fingertips trembled.

Ed couldn’t bring himself to answer Bell's question.

Operation Name: Trap

Status: Success

Survivors: General Bell, Private First Class Ed

Missing: Private First Class Citadel Kraya

KIA: Lieutenant Menes, Sergeant Connor P., Sergeant Mills H., Sergeant Alex G., Corporal James K. Silva, Corporal Hutchinson, Private Brandon.

Special Notes: None.

After finishing the report, Bell immediately packed his pipe with the newly supplied tobacco leaves.

The bitter and sweet flavors gently touched his tongue before moving down to his lungs.

An indescribable freshness and slight bitterness filled his chest. The deep, rich taste was a stark contrast to the cheap military-issued tobacco.

He sat by the campfire at the back of the barracks, staring at the flickering flames. Though officers and soldiers hurried around him, nothing was visible to his eyes.

After a while, he silently rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, stained with mud.

On his arm, several scars from blade cuts were visible.

Without a word, Bell drew a thin dagger from under his robe. Mages typically didn’t carry daggers, but Bell had a special use for one.

He held the blade near the burning campfire. The flame touched the back of his right hand. A light burn, but Bell didn’t show any reaction.

He was like a machine. Even in pain, his breathing didn’t falter, and he rarely lost his composure, even in the face of fear.

He sat there for two hours, smoking the pipe.

The tobacco started to taste burnt after about 30 minutes, but Bell ignored it, repeatedly lighting it until the dry ash was burnt away.

He wasn’t hungry, nor were his legs trembling.

His chest remained calm, and his mind was busy thinking about what had to be done to win the war.

It was a cold, rationality beyond that of a human.

Bell didn’t understand how he had become this way. Before becoming a general, he didn’t think he was this kind of person.

...Or maybe, he had always been like this.

Everyone who remembered his childhood was dead, so no one could say when he had become this way.

He carefully pressed the heated blade against his left arm.

It was hot.

But it didn’t hurt enough for him to groan.

He drew the blade across his arm with the bright red-hot edge.

The blood that poured out sizzled as it touched the red-hot blade.

There was no smell of blood. Maybe it was because it was masked by the scent of the corpses around them, or perhaps Bell's own blood had no smell at all.

The truth was no one knew.

Bell stared blankly at the new wound on his arm, spending time without feeling pain.

If he were a human, he should have felt pain in the bleeding area, but strangely, he didn’t feel anything.

"...What are you doing?"

Bell, lost in thought as he stared at his wound, heard a cold voice behind him.

He didn’t turn around. He knew who the voice belonged to.

"Fire-gazing, smoking."

Bell shook the blood off the blade and put it back inside his robe.

Then, he lowered the robe sleeve that had been rolled up. The wounded arm was concealed by the wine-colored robe.

Grisha quietly sat beside Bell and reached out her hand. She seemed to know exactly what Bell had been doing just moments ago.

"It’s fine."

Bell gently pushed Grisha’s arm away, answering without words. He didn’t want to trouble her with a small injury when she had to deal with the wounded for over twenty hours a day.

"If you get infected, I’ll have to deal with your work too. Managing the wounded is already hard enough, so give me your arm."

"I’ve disinfected it with fire."

"It will leave a scar."

"So what?"

Bell asked as he lit his pipe again.

What’s the big deal if it leaves a scar? Bell didn’t understand why Grisha was so concerned.

"...Then eat something. You haven’t eaten in at least thirty hours."

Grisha briefly moved and brought a wooden bowl of soup, offering it to him. From the fact that she had two bowls in hand, it seemed she had planned to bring Bell food from the start.

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Bell stared at the soup with a curious expression.

The soup smelled delicious.

There was meat in it too.

It was strange.

Bin, the little guy, had apparently filled the cart with all sorts of things, including fresh vegetables and meat.

"I’m not really hungry."

Despite the appetizing smell, Bell didn’t feel hungry.

...No, it wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry, he felt slightly queasy.

"Just eat."

"You’ve got quite a foul mouth for a saint."

"I’ve been on the battlefield for ten years. This much should earn me the title of a saint."

"If the goddess hears that, she’ll cry."

"At least she’s in a better situation than us, bleeding right now."

"..."

Reluctantly, Bell accepted the soup Grisha handed him.

It was warm. The smell was pleasant.

But he still didn’t feel any desire to eat.

"Uh... Are you eating?"

While Bell was staring blankly at the soup with meat in it, a white-haired boy appeared from beyond the campfire.

In his hands was an acoustic guitar, which seemed a bit too heavy for his fragile arms.

Normally, it seemed like he would avoid any heavy lifting, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to mind holding the guitar.

"The officers said generals should eat separately, so... this is the dining area, right?"

"Yes. Please sit down."

Grisha pointed to a clean log on the opposite side of her.

The boy thought to himself, ‘It’s supposed to be where generals eat, but there isn’t even one chair.’

Bell, however, still just stared at the now cold soup.

The flame flickered, teasing his eyes.

He still didn’t feel any pain in his left arm.

He didn’t even feel like eating.

Bell suddenly doubted if he was truly human.

"...What’s with the atmosphere? What happened?"

The boy seemed to notice the heavy atmosphere around the campfire.

"It’s just the usual."

"It’s a war."

Bell and Grisha replied flatly.

"Well, then."

The boy didn’t seem to care much about what had happened today.

He wasn’t the type to care about others, and dealing with his own problems was enough for him.

"Is it okay if I play some guitar?"

The boy had already placed the guitar on his lap, rolling up his sleeves, and then asked.

Maybe the reason he came here wasn’t the soup, but the warmth of the fire.

No one would need to explain that playing guitar by the campfire was more enjoyable than playing it alone in the barracks.

"...I don’t mind."

Bell glanced between the boy and the guitar before answering casually. Honestly, he wasn’t in the mood for music, but the boy clearly wanted to play, so he responded that way.

His mood wasn’t as important as the boy’s.

Considering what the boy would have to do for the people of the continent, it was the natural thing to do.

Ding—

The sound of the guitar strings vibrating reached Bell’s ears.

Soon, the thickest string at the top of the guitar started to shake, and the low sound spread through the campfire.

The notes formed into a measure, and the measure soon turned into a melody.

The melody became a song, which entered Bell’s ears and tickled his chest deeply.

Soon, the boy could no longer hold back and began humming a small song.

As he listened to the boy’s voice, Bell imagined a woman dancing to jazz. The voice was loose, pure, and simultaneously plaintive.

The song’s lyrics seemed like an apology to someone.

At first, it seemed like an apology to a lost lover, but the next line felt like an apology to someone like a parent, a benefactor.

...It also sounded like an apology to the subordinates he had to abandon today.

With every shake of the guitar strings, Bell’s tactical thoughts began to fade away. Every time the thin strings shook, Bell’s frozen pupils trembled.

He stared blankly at the boy singing.

The slow, low tune continued for about three minutes.

"My throat’s going to give out. I should have brought some honey water."

The boy finished the song with a small voice, and muttered in a slightly cracked voice. He would have liked to sing two or three more songs, but with his delicate voice, even singing one song properly was difficult.

"Oh, why?"

After the performance ended, the boy noticed Bell staring blankly at him and asked, puzzled.

"...No, it’s nothing."

Bell realized belatedly that he had been staring at the boy with a stupid expression.

He quickly turned his gaze elsewhere, and in that instant, a sudden pain shot through his left arm.

Without realizing it, Bell placed his hand over his left arm.

His arm throbbed. Blood poured from the wounded vein, and it was vivid even through the robe. And that blood... it was burning hot.