[Blue Archive] I am the Trinity Checkpoint Chief – Chapter 137

In 1901, my father fought in the Boer War.

The British Empire was losing at places like Spion Kop. People were furious at the German Emperor’s actions, heedless of my grandmother’s kindness. The war’s tide eventually turned.

Months before my father reached Transvaal, it was winding down. The Union Flag flew proudly.

General Kitchener seemed capable enough. From The Scotsman left at home, I pieced together my father’s time under him. The concentration camps were a stretch, though.

Mother said she worried endlessly about Father risking his life so far away. Was he eating? Was he shot? Thankfully, he returned unscathed.

Before a coal mine illness claimed him, he’d share war stories.

Like Boer ambushes at night or gazing at stars while standing watch. As I grew, the stories turned grim—he spoke of losing a friend to an ambush during a march.

He was a cheerful man. I always wish he’d lived longer, but now that feels like a bad thought.

On a tranquil Scottish night, Father pointed to the Milky Way crossing the Borders’ sky, recounting bittersweet Transvaal memories. Suddenly serious, he told me:

Son, the world’s full of horrors, but the hell called war is beyond compare. No matter what—even if God starts a war to end all evil—take your mother and hide deep in the world.

At school, taught pride in the Union Flag, I didn’t grasp his words. Not even after his death.

The Scotsman, 24 July 1914

“Ultimatum Reaches Belgrade Government!”

• His Majesty’s Address on the 28th Incident
• Serbian Envoy to Russia Dead, Austrian Envoy Claims Innocence!
• Reporting on Zagreb’s Radical Protests

The Austrian Archduke was killed. By a Serbian who despised his family.

Brussels was trampled by military boots, and war reached Westminster. Hundreds of miles away, I heard the King’s call to arms at home: Unite for the homeland, we fight for justice and honor.

Conscription came. As part of the United Kingdom, Scotland couldn’t escape, and right after my birthday, I was dragged to the continental front. 29 November 1915—the Somme River, Napoleon’s homeland.

Father, should I be glad Mother didn’t outlive your next memorial?

The front was hell.

Wounded soldiers carted off daily—how it pained me when friends appeared among them. Hiding half a day to dodge limb-shattering, chest-bursting shellfire. Fear gripped me in the dark.

Winter 1915, while Austria reclaimed Galicia—my Polish friend sent news—the Western Front saw no change. But how many died daily, without battle, without glory?

Comrades vanished, replaced by new faces. What do you call it? A life with an expiration date.

Past Christmas, through the years, the trenches stayed the same. Only the thawing winter mud flooding the trench floors and some of our battalion sent back with trench foot changed.

Spring brought a chance to move. But good news? Hardly—who’d relish telling a family their loved one died? I’d raised my hand for a hellish journey.

Half a day to leave the Somme, two to cross the Channel to Glasgow. Knock, knock. I reached my comrade’s home.

I faced his family.

I delivered the news of his death.

I was slapped.

His mother wailed, slamming the door. His father lit a cigarette, silent. I stood in the city center, Red Cross flags waving, until they took the letter—for a long, long time.

Not absolute, but it felt like forever. Maybe longer than all the time since the war began.

After dozens of minutes, the woman’s screams stopped. The door creaked open, and the father, holding a nearly burnt-out cigar, quietly took the letter, offering brief thanks. Young man, same unit? Thanks.

I’ll never forget those words. I’ll never forget the eyes of a man who lost his son.

Returning to the front by train, I sank into thought.

Do I have family left to say that?
Do I have anyone left to grieve me?

My legs are scarred. Last Sabbath, a shell from far off obliterated part of our battalion. Not even an offensive—just a random, simple artillery strike. That’s all.

But why did my comrade die, plunging his parents into despair? Why so senselessly?

What is a human in war?

Was our battalion just a number game?

Then what am I—

Why am I fighting this war?

***

2 July 1917.

Until a machine gun bullet pierced my chest in the Somme, I never found the answer.

But,

“…I understand why you want to wage that war. But it’s wrong.”

To children who’ve never seen such horrors,

“For revenge on Gehenna—”

“Lose your friends for revenge?! The Arius operation was nothing, and I opposed even that. I only went along because my junior earnestly said it was right and supported her.”

To children who must never step into hell,

“The Arius operation was nothing. Have you seen people carried off with severed limbs? Dozens dying to a single machine gun nest? No—you shouldn’t see it!”

I can tell the story of a youth who should’ve been dreaming.

“Never, ever say that again. I won’t hold back. This is advice from your senior.”

Drip, drip. Shedding tears like chicken droppings, His Majesty’s loyal subject declared in the name of Kadenokouji Inori. If Kirifuji Nagisa is watching this hearing, I hope my intent reaches her.

She’s a leader I admire. Sometimes blinded by power, but a rational student council president. Above all, she trusts Hikari, my junior.

In Kivotos—a city with surprisingly high women’s rights—she’s a remarkable leader.

Before Hikari, I worked years at the Border Checkpoint—though that poor girl’s soul and memories won’t return. I have my gripes, but why cut budgets for the Eden Treaty?

Anyway.

All capital is a gem forged from workers’ blood. All wars are black pudding congealed from youths’ blood.

Its dark red flesh looks soft and tasty but rots easily if mishandled. The Irish—not saying they’re war-crazed—might eat it, but would any Scot?

Charging to bagpipes and whistles paints a heroic battlefield. But reality? Was Russia’s Brusilov Offensive or Italy’s Trentino a happy time?

I don’t think Gehenna’s weak. Sorasaki Hina—Hikari’s friend—is seen as their strongest.

They’re all fragile, tender beings. A few years’ difference might not let a boy in his youthful prime say this, but my battlefield experience is unmatched.

I’ll say it boldly: Pater faction—kids, don’t misuse that term. A youth drenched in the blood of millions stands before you.

Amen, amen, this soul declares to you: do not test the British Empire’s patience.

So,

Madam Chair, Setsune’s authority was built by opposing executives. It was a regime on hollow economics, ending in disaster! They’re left with nothing but a collapsed political sphere and Pater’s infighting!

Just shut up and get swept up in the People’s Assembly’s mood.

Let’s see what’s here. Tax cuts for high-income students? Gone—

“…Haha.”

Crying, I could now laugh listening to a girl’s story.