His mind was almost as foggy as the fighters, with his thoughts slipping through his fingers like sand.

He had never actually seen sand, he came from Germanic and like just about everyone else he had grown up in a town, not in some port or fancy city.

In fact, even though the others called this place a town, to him it was more like a city, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a settlement this large.

He couldn’t recall a lot of things anymore, like why he was here, why was he dying to the people he was meant to protect.

Oh Seer, he was meant to protect them and yet he had killed dozens of them, what if they could be saved?

How many mothers, fathers and children had they killed, this wasn’t what they were supposed to do!

They were meant to fight the Coalition, break the chains of oppression, purge the filth that was nobility and save humanity.

Francia was destined to end the age of magic and the tyrannical aristocracy that held sway over the common folk of the world.

Thinking of nobles made Bertrand remember boot camp, they had a saying called noblesse oblige which essentially meant that nobility extended beyond mere entitlement and that people holding status had to fulfil their duty to the people instead of just taking from them.

If you collected tithes you had a duty to use those tithes to help ease the lives of your citizens, instead of just using that wealth to build elaborate hallways.

Although the saying was mostly used to insult the deceased nobles, it was also used as a reference to the trust fellow skirmishers were meant to have in each other and their officers.

There might have even been an oath to do with noblesse oblige, where everyone swore to protect the populace of Francia and uphold the ideals of liberty but he couldn’t quite remember that properly so perhaps he was just imagining it.

He wondered if his instructors would be proud of him, he was never the best at any of the tests or lectures they did, he wasn’t even average.

He was on the brink of failing at worse and just barely above average at best for most of these tests and lectures and yet here he was, still alive and kicking even after over half of the legion had been annihilated and that was just being conservative.

As the intense pain started to steadily fade away thanks to him reminiscing about the past, he almost felt lucky, then he realised he could feel his consciousness receding alongside it. He wasn’t in less pain thanks to being distracted, he was in less pain because he was dying from bloodloss and brutalised organs

So perhaps they wouldn’t be so proud after all, he only was really alive because of luck and other people's help, the moment he ran out of luck and had to deal with a zombie alone he was partially eaten.

They should at least be proud of his spirit though, right?

He felt like he had been complimented on that by one of them, it was probably a backhanded compliment though since they didn’t exactly give out praise easily.

In fact they didn’t give it out at all, Bertrand couldn’t even recall them ever saying well done to the top ranks, Seer perhaps he was just imagining that compliment.

Surely if they saw him now though they would say well done and congratulate him.

He had done his duty, upheld his oaths and soon he would be offering Francia his life as well. Good soldiers weren’t the ones who were experts at combat, or able to go head to head with Collation mages, they were the ones who followed orders.

These were the sort of soldiers that the instructors wanted and strived to turn them into, so they should be proud of him.

This line of thinking was just a distraction though, he didn’t truly care for the instructors opinions anymore. He had become a skirmisher, that was proof enough of his skills, he didn’t need anyone's approval anymore.

He was just thinking about whether the instructors would be proud of him or not to avoid thinking about if he was actually proud of himself.

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Objectively he had done well, he had lived an average but good life and made far more friends than enemies, there was nobody in this legion that disliked him as far as he was aware.

He hadn’t exactly helped the sick or poor but at the same time he sort of had. He was a soldier, so indirectly he helped them by protecting Francia.

But that was where his sense of failure came from, he hadn’t protected anyone, all he had done was kill what used to be civilians.

It didn’t matter if one of them had literally torn his guts out he was still duty bound to save them.

He supposed it was justified though, by killing the twisted citizens they prevented further losses amongst the populace.

But that justification was flawed, there was no data about there being any farmsteads or hamlets in the surrounding area around the town so logically speaking all the zombies had to have been transformed from before they arrived.

But their information had been proven wrong over and over again so if they truly cared about the civilians they should have sent search parties.

The officers might have had their reasons but how smart were they really? Didn’t someone say something about how they were more logisticians than officers?

Sure they might have made a seemly sound decision to bunker down and wait for reinforcements but it had failed, they had failed, an entire legion armed with the best weaponry half a continent could supply and they had failed to beat simple flesh and bone.

It was understandable that they lost, they simply lacked information, if they knew what they were going to be facing the whole legion would have been mainly composed of newly trained linemen who would have been taught how to wield a beamer.

Instead, they were armed mostly with muskets and went up against monsters that could take multiple hits from these muskets of theirs and still keep moving so long as their spine and head were left intact.

Information was always the most important factor in warfare, that was why Napoleon prioritised scouting alongside movement speed for the legions.

Information alongside their scouting was how the revolutionaries had won the civil war, mages had been in power for millennia so naturally their tactics and powers were well documented and by scouting carefully Napoleon could figure out where best to strike the more powerful loyalists.

It had still cost them greatly of course but such was the price of victory, soldiers lives were the currency used by countries, revolutions, and by the Seer and so the death toll truly didn’t matter, not when the chains were broken thanks to their sacrifice.

The nobles were dead now, their pathetic bloodlines culled, Francia was finally free but it was also the reason why war with the Coalition was all but guaranteed.

For in foreign lands cousins and relatives of the deceased Francia nobles resided, swearing to avenge their ruined noblesse families and place the people of Francia back under the boot of aristocratical power.

Even if that wasn’t the case though war would still claim this continent, the oppressors had to be purged and a loving hand would replace the iron fist they used to rule.

It was funny, he was never one to really care about politics, he just did his duty and he strived to do it well.

And now here he was, about to die and all he could think of was the dammed nobles.

He only had to take a few more steps forward and he would reach the end of the roof, it was foolish of him, he had zoned out and walked over here like an idiot.

He glanced down at his hand, Seer he could hardly see it through the fog that was claiming his mind but what he could see upset him greatly.

He had dropped his bayonet and with it his only means of defence, not that he was really in any state to defend himself.

After a bit of struggling he managed to turn around, it was utterly exhausting to do as he had to force every last bit of awareness he had into his ligaments and muscles to muster up the energy to turn.

He could actually feel himself in that instance, the feeling of almost crystal clear pain helped him regain some clarity and he become ever so slightly aware of his surroundings.

There was someone walking towards him, someone human?

Seer it was Césaire, Césaire was walking towards him.

If he had any energy left he would pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, instead he stared slack jawed as they approached.

He tried to say something to greet them but just like with his fingers he couldn’t find the energy to speak.

Finally after what felt like an eternity, Césaire stood in front of him, their raggedly yellow beard swaying in the breeze and stained with blood looked almost alive to Bertrand, its swaying movements reminded him of a pet worm he once had.

He was so overwhelmed with joy at Césaire’s appearance that he felt himself crying, he also felt a sharp pain erupt along his neck as well.

Seer, he had just had his neck sliced open by Césaire.

Of course, that thing wasn’t his comrade, it was just a disguised adapter that looked like his friend.

At least that's what he thought but as he collapsed onto the rooftop and began to limply slide downwards towards the ground he heard them speak.

“Heretic.” was the single word Césaire muttered under their breath and it was also the single most hurtful word Bertrand had ever heard in his life.

The last sensation he felt was falling, he must have slid off the roof, then there was nothing.