The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 69

Of course, no one would know that she made the decision.

The records of troop redeployment can be changed to routine rotations, and the gaps in the defensive line can be explained as defensive collapses. No battle report will ever mention the name Perfit Brandlis.

There wouldn't be any blood on her hands, or at least it wouldn't look like there was.

But she couldn't fool herself.

She couldn't simply dismiss the incident with a "necessary sacrifice," couldn't close her eyes with a clear conscience in the nights to come, and couldn't pretend nothing had happened when facing the soldiers who had followed her out of the horde of zombies someday.

Belfast stood silently behind her, as still as a stone statue.

Perfit didn't install a language module on her; all the alchemical doll could do was respond to the mechanical logic instruction set's recognition of the current environmental parameters.

The head maid did not answer her.

All she could hear was the sound of the wind, the distant cannon fire from the defensive line, and her own silence.

The education she received in her previous life was now churning violently within her chest.

No one should be the price someone else pays to save.

This is not just a slogan; it is a belief that countless people in the world she lived in before transmigrating had spent thousands of years of civilization carving into the bottom line of social contracts.

And put yourself in her shoes, what if she were the one who was sacrificed?

If she stood in the village where the defenses had been breached, holding her child, watching the black horde of zombies roll in from the north, and then someone told her: "This is for the greater good"—

Could she accept it? Would she, like those Ross soldiers, cry out "For Mother Ross!" before dying and then face death with equanimity?

No, she won't.

She knew she couldn't.

She would feel fear, she would feel anger, and she would question those who made the decision about why she had to trade her life for someone else's.

She will want to live.

Then what right does she have to make choices for those who are about to be placed at the table of this cruel gamble?

Perfitt's fingers, which had been tightly gripping the edge of the stone wall, gradually loosened, leaving deep and shallow marks on his palms from the rough stone bricks.

She didn't cry.

From the first day she transmigrated to this world, she forced herself not to shed tears in front of anyone, but now, standing alone atop the spire, with only the sound of the wind all around, she allowed herself to break down in her heart for a while.

She allowed herself to ask the question in her mind, facing the stone wall in front of her: What should I choose?

No one answered her.

Behind her was only Belfast, the silent head maid standing quietly in the shadows at the top of the tower, the hem of her long maid dress swaying slightly in the cold wind, her doll-like eyes quietly watching her back.

Perfit did not install a language module on Belfast when it was made.

Belfast can brew a cup of black tea at the perfect temperature, and without hesitation, she can extend her arm blade to shield herself when enemies approach. She can use her seemingly weak arms to lift her from unconsciousness and run wildly through the entire horde of zombies—but she cannot speak.

Perfit never needed her to speak; a perfect alchemical doll could simply execute commands. Language was a superfluous decoration.

But now, standing atop the spire, with her back to the one who knew her best and had been with her the longest, she felt for the first time a void that no alchemy could fill.

She needs someone who can answer her.

No.

All she could hear was the sound of the wind, the distant cannon fire from the defensive line, and the quiet, steady operation of the Belfast.

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Perfit didn't sleep a wink all night.

The cold wind from the spire blew on her all night, and Belfast stood silently behind her all night. When the pale morning light of the east peeked through the gaps in the clouds, she removed her cane from the parapet and turned to walk down the stone steps.

She walked into the Elector's command post again, sat down in the same chair, and faced the same Elector. Her face was paler than yesterday, and her eyes had a faint bluish tinge from a sleepless night, but her gaze was clear, and her voice was without the slightest hesitation.

"I cannot agree to your plan. I am not qualified to make this decision for those who will be sacrificed, even if the decision is correct."

The Elector remained silent. He sat behind the table, his hands folded over his military cap, gazing at her with his deep-set old eyes, waiting for her to continue.

"But I won't give up." She sat upright, her cane resting on her side, and every word seemed to have been repeatedly tempered before being pushed out of her throat. "Since the report can't convince them, the envoy can't convince them, and the corpses on the front line can't convince them, then I will go myself."

I will bring the living infected to Romulus's capital, to the Emperor and the Parliament, so that they can see for themselves what the infected really are!

Not the printed words in documents, not the envoy's recounting of his experiences, but the living, breathing infected people standing before them, trapped in chains and iron cages, yet still desperately biting.

Let them smell the stench, let them see the black, thread-like things wriggling in the blood vessels, let them hear the sound of bones being crushed by an infected person!

The Elector looked at her silently. The silence lasted for a long time.

"From Wild Boar Ridge to the capital, across half the empire—it's a risky journey." He spoke slowly, his voice hoarse, neither objecting nor agreeing, simply stating a fact.

"I know." She looked back at him without dodging the question, "But if it's done, the emperor can sign the mobilization order on the spot."

The Elector did not try to persuade her further. He looked at her as if she were something he had long believed existed but had rarely actually seen.

Then he stood up and told his adjutant to call Ludwig.

"I don't support your choice, but I won't stop you either." He paused, then turned his gaze to Ludwig, who was standing in the doorway. "This isn't the first time I've bet my entire fortune at the gambling table."

"I will have Ludwig cooperate with you. He is my son and the successor to the Elector. He will accompany you to the capital and make sure those people are willing to listen to you."

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When Ludwig stood before her, Perfit had already reopened the pine box and was personally inspecting every plate of the steam knight's armor.

She shoveled the burnt-out ash from the furnace, filled it with a new piece of compressed smokeless coal, then straightened up and turned to Belfast, who was standing behind her.

"Belfa." Her voice wasn't loud, but every word carried an unyielding weight. "Put on your armor. I want you to catch some alive—pick a few with intact limbs and high aggression, and lock them in iron cages!"

"I will bring them before Emperor Romulus, so that his councilors may see for themselves what the enemy they are still hesitating to mobilize really looks like."

Belfast silently stepped onto the edge of the box and inserted her arms into the operating sleeves inside her arm armor.

The steam core restarted, its deep, steady hum vibrating through the cold air.

She didn't speak, because she didn't need to. Her differential engine had already broken down Perfitt's instructions into specific tactical parameters—target lock, threat assessment, force control, and target survival.

The chainsaw sword didn't activate. This time, there was no need to saw anything off. She only needed to use her palms to press the struggling, biting infected into the iron cage, and use her steel fingers, which were immune to infection and fear, to break off the arm joints that were trying to scratch the armor plates one by one. Then she locked the iron cage and dragged it back.