Chapter 75
The dock at Sermer Harbor was crowded with countless people.
Rows of soldiers stood neatly aligned, each one dressed in crisp white naval uniforms.
The sea, where a massive ship bearing the flag of Bermark was anchored, shimmered with the brilliance of summer.
“Baren! Oh my god!”
“Peter!”
Families, friends, and lovers rushed forward with faces radiant with joy, calling out the names of their loved ones as they ran to greet them.
Spectators who had gathered to watch the scene couldn’t help shedding tears or clapping as they witnessed soldiers embracing those they had longed to see again.
The Bermark Navy had returned safely from the war.
***
Knock, knock.
“Come in.”
At his superior’s permission, a man entered with perfectly measured steps.
The room was simple—too austere to belong to a high-ranking officer.
When he saluted, his movements were so precise that not even the slightest detail was out of place.
“Captain Henry Bailey of the Bermark Navy, reporting for duty. I have just returned to Sermer after completing my mission in the Caldria Republic.”
“Well done, Captain Bailey.”
General Carl accepted the salute of his subordinate with respectful composure. His eyes held a trace of admiration.
Henry lowered his left hand and reached into the satchel at his feet, taking out a neatly folded document. He unfolded it and presented it to his superior—it bore the official seal of the admiral.
Carl glanced between the report and the young man’s right arm before receiving it with a gentle smile.
“I see. Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll see to your leave personally.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Normally, a soldier had to submit a formal leave application written by a medical officer before it could be approved. But if the admiral hadn’t personally inspected the frontlines, that rule might have still applied.
The admiral, however, was a man who had dedicated his entire life to the navy—a commander who deeply cared for his men.
The moment he arrived at the warfront, he had gone straight to the infirmary. There, he personally granted leave to each of the injured soldiers who had been wounded during the civil conflict.
At that time, Henry was one of them. Though an officer, his injuries were more severe than most. His arm, abdomen, back, and thigh had all been pierced by bullets—wounds sustained while shielding his men on the battlefield.
When the admiral heard of his condition, he immediately promoted him to captain, even promising him an honorable discharge if he wished.
But Henry only learned of all this after he awoke from a critical state.
“Are you sure about this, Captain Bailey? You’re still young. There’s much you could do even outside the service.”
“No, sir. I’m happiest when I’m a soldier.”
Despite his near-death experience, Henry had firmly declined to retire. He couldn’t imagine a life outside the navy.
Even so, the medical officer had urged him to take an extended leave due to the lingering aftereffects of his wounds.
Though reluctant, Henry eventually accepted, knowing full well that he wasn’t yet fit to return to duty.
There was pride in his eyes—a quiet, unshakable pride that could only belong to a true soldier.
Carl, his own arm bound in bandages, smiled and extended his left hand for a handshake.
“It’s an honor to have officers like you, Captain Bailey. Take care of yourself and return in good health.”
“It won’t take long, sir. But thank you.”
They shook hands firmly.
“Will you be heading home right away?”
“Yes, sir. It’s only a city away, so I’ll visit often.”
“Hah, I doubt your men will miss you much,” Carl said, bursting into laughter.
It was true—having such a strict yet loyal superior was a blessing for a commander, though not always for the subordinates.
But Henry understood. Carl’s words were a kindness meant to ease the guilt he felt for not being able to return to service right away.
“I’ll come by whenever I can, sir.”
“Good. Once you’ve recovered, visit me. I’ll make sure there’s a fine bottle of whiskey waiting for you.”
Carl’s grin widened, and Henry couldn’t help smiling back.
***
Piiik!
“The train is departing!”
The station platform was bustling with people.
Henry tightened his grip on his bag and exhaled slowly.
It finally felt real—he was home.
Yet something about it felt strange.
After all, the memories of the battlefield were still vivid—bullets whizzing past, grenades exploding, screams echoing through the chaos.
And now, everything was so… peaceful.
“…Hoo.”
His vision swam for a moment, nausea rising in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a long, steady breath.
Post-war stress disorder—it was common among returning soldiers.
As he calmed his breathing, one face suddenly came to mind.
Riena Bronte.
A year and a half ago, they had ridden a train together to his hometown, fleeing from danger.
She had never written to him, not once. Yet she surfaced in his thoughts so naturally.
When the nausea subsided, Henry adjusted his grip on his bag and squared his shoulders.
He boarded the train bound for Florian, a short half-day’s ride from Sermer.
Settling into his seat, he looked out the window as the train began to move.
The blue expanse of the Sermer sea glimmered outside—but his unfocused gaze saw something else entirely.
His blue eyes darkened with emotion.
He could still see her standing there—the image of Riena at the platform, waving him goodbye, burned into his memory.
Of course, he didn’t expect her to be waiting for him now. She hadn’t sent a single letter. For all he knew, she might not even be living in Florian anymore.
Henry clenched his fist.
Everything else, he could accept—but if by any chance…
If she had been discovered while he was gone.
If she had fled to some place where no one could find her.
If he could never see her again…
His eyes fluttered closed, the ache in his chest heavy.
Ever since the civil war broke out unexpectedly, delaying his return, that same anxiety had haunted him every single day.
Henry drew in a long, uneven breath, trying to calm his racing heart.
There was still time, and aside from his lingering injuries, he was alive and well.
Everything would be fine.
***
The late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily across the master’s room.
Tsk.
Dante clicked his tongue and sank deep into the sofa.
Earlier that morning, while Callis handled the remaining paperwork, Dante had already completed his inspection of the main estate.
He was exhausted.
Greeting familiar faces who had eagerly approached him on his way back had drained the last of his patience.
No—not his energy. His patience.
“Damn it.”
To put it bluntly, he was out of tolerance.
He had even stopped smoking cigars—the ones he used to light up whenever he needed to think.
Every time he inhaled the smoke, he remembered the scent of the sea, mingled with the faint sweetness of flowers… the scent that always reminded him of her.
Riena Bronte.
That woman who would never come to him unless given an excuse, and who never sought him out first—she was driving him mad.
Even when he’d gone so far as to lie about being sick just to lure her to him, she had remained distant.
Dante’s fingers tapped irritably against the armrest.
No. This couldn’t go on.
He had waited long enough.
If she wouldn’t come to him, then—
“I’ll go to her.”
His golden eyes gleamed sharply beneath his furrowed brow.
