One of the Two Generals of the Holy Volachia Empire,
Lecher, womanizer, devotee of carnal desire—many were the words used to describe him.
For an Imperial military officer who needed to demonstrate his prowess and earn the respect of his soldiers and officers, such a string of unflattering titles would be quite the disgrace.
However, Zikr Osman himself was rather fond of this "woman-lover" label.
No—that was putting it mildly. He was, in fact, proud of it.
Why?
Because before he earned the title of "woman-lover," the epithet used to describe Zikr was one he found utterly unbearable.
As a soldier, being called by that name was an intolerable humiliation. That was precisely why he now wore the "woman-lover" title like a badge of honor—one that had made his soldiers forget that old epithet.
Of course, when one spoke of "woman-lover," the connotation in Zikr's case was quite different from the usual womanizing or looking down on women that so many men were guilty of.
The Osman family had produced Imperial soldiers for generations, but in Zikr's case, the bloodline had skewed, and for whatever reason, his family was entirely female. Born and raised among four older sisters and six younger sisters, Zikr spent his childhood without a single male sibling.
Surrounded by sisters from above and below, Zikr, like most people, had various preconceptions about women planted in him.
The difference between him and most others, however, was that while the presence of female family members caused most men to lose their illusions about women, Zikr instead sought ideals and fantasies in the women outside his home.
And so, when he finally parted from the sisters who mourned losing their adorable younger brother and gentle older brother, and set foot on the path of an Imperial soldier at a young age, he exploded upon his first contact with women from the outside world.
From then on, for Zikr Osman, women became something like ephemeral dreams existing in the narrow gap between ideal and reality—a forbidden fruit mingling love and hatred.
Raised amid a throng of female family members, Zikr was gentle toward women, and at the same time harbored a strong desire to be treated gently by them. He therefore devoted himself to women, and considered being devoted to in return the ultimate joy—and put that philosophy into practice.
This attitude, which differed from that of many domineering men in the Empire, overlapped with jealousy and contempt for his precise military tactics and consistent victories, ultimately connecting to the "woman-lover" label.
But as mentioned at the start, Zikr Osman was quite fond of that epithet.
"Woman-lover"—was that not perfectly fine? After all, men who liked women far outnumbered those who didn't, so this would give him more opportunities to converse with his soldiers.
Having made that mental calculation, Zikr's attitude was unwavering, and his subordinates, who knew of their superior's preferences, naturally came to respect him as their "woman-lover."
— "Woman-lover"—was that not perfectly fine?
The man who, despite being called that, rose to the rank of One of the Two Generals—this was Zikr Osman.
When the Emperor was driven from his throne, the political enemies who sought to finish him off chose the best candidate available within the limits of their authority. That candidate was none other than him.
This was Zikr Osman—the seemingly insignificant yet formidable general whom none would have expected to be called a "woman-lover."
△▼△▼△▼△ From the very beginning, Zikr had sensed that something was off about this expedition.
Every year, military exercises were conducted in the Badheim jungle on the Empire's eastern frontier and its surroundings. But this year, the exercises had been moved up, and Zikr—along with only a handful of other officers—had been given secret orders regarding the true purpose of the expedition: negotiations with "the Shudrak people."
"The Shudrak people, hiding deep within the Badheim jungle..."
An indigenous tribe known to have inhabited the Badheim jungle since ancient times, with a long and storied history.
They were also famous for rarely venturing outside the jungle, and Zikr himself had never encountered them. However, he had heard that it was a matriarchal tribe, and he had always wanted to see them with his own eyes.
Their way of life—living within the jungle, capturing men from the outside world to serve as tools for producing children—was also fascinating to Zikr. He imagined they must all be strong, robust women.
Women were wonderful. Strong or weak, gentle or stern—each had their own appeal.
In truth, they could never be lumped into a single category. His sisters, too, had their gentle moments and their strict moments, their sweet moments and their sharp moments.
If a single woman could display such boundless versatility, how could one possibly generalize about multiple women?
Therefore— "To demand they swear submission or face annihilation... What exactly is the Imperial Capital thinking?"
That had been the secret order given to Zikr in private before the expedition's departure.
From the Imperial Capital of
He had heard, however, that some sort of trouble was brewing in the Capital itself, and he could well imagine that it was connected to the purpose of this expedition.
That much was clear from the fact that he had been ordered to carry out the expedition while concealing its true objective from his soldiers and officers. —What exactly the Emperor was thinking, Zikr could not say.
"Though, I suppose no one can read the depths of that man's mind."
—The seventy-seventh Emperor of the Holy Volachia Empire: Vincent Volachia.
That was the name of the one who ruled this Empire from its pinnacle—a man who never allowed others to glimpse the depths of his thoughts, the most brilliant mind of the modern age.
Emperor Vincent, who was said to oversee the vast expanse of the Empire from the Crystal Palace in the Capital of Lupugana—Zikr, despite his position as One of the Two Generals, was stationed far from the Capital and had few opportunities to see the Emperor in person. But his wisdom and reputation traveled the distance to reach Zikr's ears.
An imperialist worldview where the strong devouring the weak and greedily climbing was taken as a given.
In a world where various tribes uprising in revolt and the seeds of civil war burning were everyday occurrences, Vincent had crushed every problem before it could grow into a conflagration.
In the eight years since his reign began, the Holy Volachia Empire had been in a state of remarkable peace.
Blood was still shed, flames still rose, and lives were still lost.
Even so, the current era was the most tranquil the Holy Volachia Empire had ever known.
That was precisely why the uncompromising stance toward "the Shudrak people" furrowed Zikr's brow.
The Emperor, who was born for battle yet somehow shied away from it. Was that not because the Emperor did not abhor war, but rather deemed it beneath him?—Zikr had let his imagination run wild with such thoughts.
Was the bitterness he felt now a result of having those expectations betrayed?
"No, no need to worry, General Zikr. I understand His Excellency's thinking perfectly well. Even as a lowly foot soldier, I have my own thoughts about various things."
The one who spoke with such an endearing smile was an ordinary soldier.
This was happening at a tavern in Gwaral, the fortress city that would serve as their base of operations for the expedition. Zikr preferred to spend nights not accompanied by women drinking with his subordinates like this. And not with the senior officers of his entourage or the Third General—but with lower-ranking common soldiers.
Of course, most soldiers would probably rather not drink with their superior officer.
Still, Zikr liked to grasp the thoughts and preferences of the soldiers who would accompany him, and on every expedition he cherished this ritual. —Though, on this particular night, he may have talked a bit too much.
The soldier he shared drinks with that day was uncommonly articulate and an engaging conversational partner.
While drinking, he constantly surveyed his surroundings with keen curiosity, and when asked what he was thinking, he would joke about things like preparing for the unlikely scenario of the tavern suddenly becoming a battlefield.
His readiness for battle at all times, and his fearless attitude toward a superior officer—these qualities, combining Imperial pride with personal warmth, led Zikr to say things he probably shouldn't have.
He had not spelled out the secret order regarding "the Shudrak people" explicitly, but the soldier had managed to extract enough to make the picture clear.
Had this man been a spy for another nation, it would have been a grave lapse in judgment on Zikr's part.
"There's no need to worry, sir. Tomorrow or the next day, I'll be heading to the front lines on His Excellency's orders... Well, I'm sure the higher-ups have their own schemes, but that's no concern of mine."
As the alcohol wore off and Zikr returned to his senses, the soldier offered these reassuring words.
And true to his word, he departed for the camp situated at the expedition's front line—the encampment adjacent to the Badheim jungle.
Confirming this, Zikr remained in the city and confronted the weight in his chest once more.
The Capital's order for an uncompromising approach to "the Shudrak people"—submission or death. But to the extent possible, Zikr intended to maintain a posture of persuasion.
He believed this was closer to the Emperor's true convictions.
But then— "—You're telling me our camp was attacked by the Shudrak and burned to the ground?"
Receiving this unexpected report, Zikr was stunned in the requisitioned city hall.
Just the night before, he had been contemplating ways to extend every possible courtesy to "the Shudrak people," hoping to incorporate their tribe without resorting to combat.
Multiple encampments spread along the western edge of the Badheim jungle had been attacked by "the Shudrak people," and the Imperial soldiers had been routed with no chance to fight back.
Shot in the back as they fled, the casualties had mounted—over a hundred lives lost.
"Impossible..."
He could not tell himself whether that muttered word was directed at his own judgment, the actions of "the Shudrak people," or the reality before him.
All he knew was that the gentle plan he had been constructing in his mind had crumbled, and that "the Shudrak people" had become enemies of the Imperial soldiers—no, enemies of the Emperor himself.
"This is a bitter pill, but we'll wait for reinforcements from the Capital and then strike down the rebels in the Badheim jungle."
After taking in the soldiers who had barely escaped the Shudrak attack and restoring the expeditionary force's formation, Zikr came to that decision.
With their current strength, there had been the option of marching into the jungle and engaging "the Shudrak people" in battle. But the jungle was their domain, and any advantage in numbers would be neutralized.
To achieve a decisive victory, they needed not a marginal advantage, but an overwhelming one.
And the elite soldiers needed for that purpose would have to be those who had abandoned the lukewarm posture of seeking negotiation.
"They were foolish enough to reject the hand we extended for peace. In that case, we must follow His Excellency's orders and exact punishment upon the rebels."
With that resolve, the leniency of "woman-lover" Zikr Osman vanished entirely.
Even if the enemy was the matriarchal tribe of "the Shudrak people," he would have to annihilate every last one of them and cut off any future threat.
For that purpose— "Make sure the main gate is sealed. I hear the Shudrak excel with bows, but the walls of this fortress city cannot be breached. Leave no gap for them to slip through."
Having heard the details of how the front-line camps were burned from the soldiers who returned, Zikr pivoted to a complete defensive strategy, keeping in mind that the Shudrak attack had been a raid by a small elite force.
Based on the Shudrak's known lifestyle, it was unlikely their entire tribe was very numerous, and it was hard to believe that everyone—including children and the elderly—could fight.
If the enemy force was roughly a hundred strong, their only option for engaging the Imperial soldiers would be a nighttime surprise attack.
But such tactics only worked as a first strike against an opponent whose vigilance had lapsed due to lack of attack.
"Plug every gap! Even a fortress city's walls are not impenetrable. Given enough history, there are sure to be passages connecting the interior to the outside that bypass the gates. Don't overlook any tunnels!"
"About that, sir—some of the soldiers who returned from the burned camps have already been sealing tunnels they found, to guard against another attack from outside."
"Oh? It's reassuring that there are soldiers beyond just the Generals who can see ahead. Once this matter is settled, I'll see about promoting them. But for now..."
"—Yes. Until reinforcements arrive, we maintain a fully defensive posture."
Hearing Zikr's instructions, the Third General beneath him bowed deeply.
If this had been the stance of an ordinary General, it would have been mocked as passive. In fact, Zikr himself had once been subjected to such ridicule.
But Zikr had already taken a devastating blow from "the Shudrak people," and upon returning to the Capital, he would certainly face some form of punishment.
He was already backed against the wall. In such a situation, there was no room for anything but the optimal move.
His subordinates knew this, which was why none of them mocked Zikr's stance.
And then— △▼△▼△▼△ "...What was that?"
During the siege at the fortress city of Gwaral, Zikr raised an eyebrow at a subordinate's report.
In the midst of maintaining heightened tension while waiting for reinforcements from the Capital, the report brought an oddly out-of-place impression to Zikr.
Because it was— "Yes. It seems that over the past few days, a troupe of traveling performers has become quite the talk of the city."
"Traveling performers..."
The report from his subordinate was remarkably serene and pastoral in nature.
It was a report wholly unsuited to the tense wartime situation, but there was no reason to reprimand the soldier who delivered it.
It was Zikr himself who had, from the outset, been reluctant to impose a wartime mentality on the citizens.
Cities garrisoned by the military were already prone to building up discontent. In some cases, the inability to control the residents' emotions had led to outright collapse.
With this in mind, Zikr had deliberately avoided heavy-handed measures to suppress civilian sentiment.
While maintaining vigilant watch for the city's perimeter and ensuring his soldiers searched tirelessly to prevent Shudrak infiltration, he allowed the citizens to carry on their lives as usual.
He was aware of the contradiction, but it was the compromise point between his good judgment and his sense of duty as a soldier.
In any case, because of this approach, daytime entry and exit from the city—the checkpoint at the main gate and the handling of itinerant merchants—remained unchanged.
Thus, there was room for a troupe of traveling performers to slip into the city, but— "What exactly do you intend for me to do with this information? If you're suggesting I crack down on them, I'd rather not. Given the current situation, I can understand the citizens wanting to welcome a performance."
More than a few soldiers were patrolling the city alongside the guards.
Many of the soldiers who had escaped the attack and entered the city had heightened hostility and vigilance toward "the Shudrak people," and despite orders to exercise caution, clashes with citizens were unavoidable.
In such circumstances, a traveling performing troupe arriving in the city would no doubt provide the citizens with a small measure of comfort. And if they were to shut it down— "The citizens' resentment would explode. Surely you see that."
"Of course, everything you say is correct, sir. That's why I'm not suggesting a crackdown. It's just..."
"Just what? You're being rather evasive."
At the subordinate's hesitant manner, Zikr raised one eyebrow and urged him to continue.
After a brief silence, the subordinate seemed to come to a decision and lowered his head. Pressing a fist to his palm—a gesture of respect toward his superior, signaling no ill intent—the soldier took a breath and said, "Actually, that troupe... their dancer is truly extraordinary. What do you think? Perhaps you might like to see for yourself, sir."
"Me? A dancer... I won't say that doesn't pique my interest..."
At the unexpected proposal from his subordinate, Zikr widened his eyes in surprise.
This was a man he had served with for a long time, who had weathered the same battlefields. It seemed unlikely he would make such a suggestion without reason.
But the true motive behind wanting to show Zikr this dancer was hard to fathom.
"Sir, I shouldn't say this too loudly, but there is growing discontent among the soldiers as well."
"Mm..."
As Zikr's suspicion deepened, his subordinate straightened his posture and made his confession.
At this less-than-gentle opening, Zikr's gaze sharpened. When he silently urged the man to continue, the subordinate lowered his voice slightly and said, "There's the Capital's reluctance to send reinforcements, of course. But the soldiers also seem to have issues with you, sir, for keeping them cooped up in the city in a defensive posture. And then there was the incident with the burned camps..."
"I see. No—I suppose that's only natural."
Receiving the subordinate's candid assessment, Zikr felt a heavy weight settle in his chest.
The soldiers' resentment, their growing distrust of Zikr—these were inevitable. It was Zikr's failure that had allowed the Shudrak's preemptive strike, resulting in the deaths of many soldiers.
And now, even the soldiers who had regrouped were being denied any chance at redemption. It would have been strange if they had not turned their frustration toward Zikr.
"Among the less scrupulous tongues, they call you, sir—"
"—Don't."
"—I... I beg your pardon."
Zikr cut off the subordinate's words and pressed a hand to his forehead.
He could well imagine what foul insults dissatisfied soldiers would hurl at a commanding officer in such a passive situation. Even so, the insults he could imagine were ones that would be truly hard to bear.
Even attaining the rank of One of the Two Generals, there were certain slanders he simply could not swallow.
But thinking that far, Zikr also grasped the intent behind his subordinate's proposal.
"I see. So you're suggesting we provide an outlet for the soldiers' discontent."
"Yes. And I thought the dancers could serve that purpose. If they could see those wonderful songs and dances, many of the officers and soldiers would..."
"Oh my, my—quite the vivid description. As if you'd seen it with your own eyes?"
At Zikr's probing gaze, the subordinate coughed and avoided a direct answer. But that very attitude was the strongest proof that his suspicions were well-founded.
In any case, being caught between the officers and the men was the soldier's painful position.
Criticizing him for seeking a way to ease that burden would be rather petty.
Moreover, the fact that a subordinate who had actually seen this dancer was making such an earnest recommendation carried weight.
"This dancer of yours must be quite beautiful, from the sound of it."
"She truly is! Ah, no—I'm certain she would be to your taste, sir. And the dancing, the musicians' songs and performances are all extraordinary..."
"Hmm, hmm. That certainly raises expectations."
While responding in kind, Zikr privately thought the subordinate's description was somewhat exaggerated.
Nevertheless, he was genuinely pleased that his subordinate had looked out for his position and future, and there was no particular reason to refuse stubbornly.
Zikr himself had been busy and burdened with stress lately, and had not had a woman by his side in his quarters.
He could not impose that same deprivation on his soldiers either.
"Very well, understood. I'll let myself be persuaded by your silver tongue on this occasion. Invite that traveling troupe and arrange a venue to honor the officers and soldiers."
However— "—Don't forget to have them searched to make sure they're not bringing in any weapons."
△▼△▼△▼△ Once Zikr gave his approval, his subordinates moved swiftly.
Whether from sheer thirst or hunger—or perhaps both—they quickly set up a banquet hall on the first floor of the city hall, prepared food and drink, and gathered women to serve.
Then they summoned the traveling troupe in question and invited them to the top floor of the city hall.
"Allow us to present—gracing us from beyond the Great Waterfall, a dancing princess of exquisite beauty! With lustrous raven hair that swallows the sunlight, flawless white skin blessed by the spirits, and peerless beauty to make even the angels weep—tonight, she shall dance for your pleasure!"
After the musician's grandiose introduction, with slow, deliberate fanfare, the veil was removed.
An all-female traveling troupe—what the musicians had concealed beneath their spread veil was the dancer who had become the talk of the city. As her form was revealed, Zikr's eyes went wide.
"————"
Exposed white skin, long raven hair flowing freely down her back, breathtaking beauty—it was a sight that made the musician's prior introduction seem insufficient. Yes, that description fell far short of capturing this beauty.
The beautiful dark hair, the white skin visible through her thin costume—both certainly possessed a bewitching power to captivate. But those elements were only a fraction of the dancer's true allure.
If one were to call the charisma that captivates not just dancers and musicians but many people a talent, then this dancer's presence and bearing had something terrifyingly close to it.
Most of all, what hit Zikr the hardest was the dancer's eyes.
Long and narrow, framed by long lashes—they were not merely situated in the center of her well-proportioned face, but occupied what might be called the most perfect point of the golden ratio.
That his throat went dry was because his instincts craved her.
Whether it was the dancer herself or her surrounding charisma that drew him in, even Zikr could not tell.
But if a dancer who could deliver such impact without even dancing had now begun to move to song and music, he could not begin to imagine the force of it.
And Zikr craved to be overwhelmed by that unimaginable impact.
"—Please, grant us the honor of presenting our dancing princess's performance."
In place of the silent dancer—no, dancing princess—another long-haired musician, this one with dark hair, bowed her head.
The two musicians, one raven-haired and one golden-haired, were beautiful in their own right, but to Zikr, who was transfixed by the dancing princess, they were merely accompaniment. Normally, he would have been self-critical about dismissing women so lightly, but in this state, such thoughts did not even occur to him.
He had never been so acutely aware of the "woman-lover" epithet.
In truth, Zikr must have always been a "woman-lover." —Facing beauty of this magnitude, maintaining composure was simply impossible.
And so, still in that feverish state, the banquet commenced.
Naturally, Zikr's seat as commander was at the far end of the banquet hall, where the assembled "Generals"—officers above the rank of common soldier—gathered to enjoy food and drink.
But the main attraction was, of course, the traveling troupe's performance.
What had originally been intended as a way to reward the soldiers and let them vent their frustrations had been forgotten by Zikr, who held his breath waiting for the dancing princess to appear.
He raised a cup to his lips to quench his thirst, moistening his tongue, lips, and throat, and drew breath again.
His heart had been that thoroughly stolen.
"—Tonight, we present for your enjoyment a dance from the homeland of our dancing princess, beyond the Great Waterfall. A dance from the uttermost edge of the world—please, enjoy it to your heart's content."
The musician's singing voice rose, and the plucking of strings wove into a languid melody.
As the unfamiliar tune began to play, the "Generals" who had been noisily conversing moments before fell silent, holding their breath with flushed faces, unwilling to look away from the dance about to begin.
And then— "————"
And then, the beautiful "dance" of the slowly emerging dancing princess began.
"————"
Using her long limbs to their fullest, swaying her raven hair as she moved, no one could find words.
They forgot to breathe, entranced. —No, the word was "enchanted." To witness a dance of this caliber and remain mentally intact—something was wrong with you.
That was nothing more than the sensibility of a beast incapable of understanding the value of dance.
The Imperial soldiers were a pack of wolves, but they were not beasts without reason or language.
And so the "Generals," too, held their breath, forgot to breathe, and were enchanted by the beautiful dancing princess's dance.
Everyone was struck mute, captivated by the dancing princess.
Mesmerized by her ink-black hair, her flawless, snow-white skin, or the magical allure of a beauty so perfect it would make artists want to cut off their own dominant hands.
But what truly captured Zikr's gaze, his awareness, his heart—was none of those things.
—Her eyes.
As always, he could not look away from the dancer's eyes.
Her narrow pupils surveyed the stage as she danced, fixing their gaze on Zikr at the far end of the hall.
Those unblinking eyes that never once wavered were what gripped Zikr's brain directly and refused to let go.
At last, the dancing princess slowly traversed the length of the hall and stepped forward before Zikr.
She gently knelt before him, extended both hands, and asked for his sword.
Zikr understood, naturally, that this was a gesture requesting his sword.
The dancing princess's dance grew hotter, more vivid, seizing control of the world as it transitioned to the next phase—a sword dance. The dancing princess desired a sword.
There was no option for Zikr to refuse.
No one could stop it. Neither subordinates nor Generals—no one could interfere with the act.
It was so natural, as though it had been ordained.
And so— "—You lose, Zikr Osman."
Even as a drawn blade was pressed to his throat, even as those cold words were declared, Zikr Osman could not comprehend that he had been defeated because of his "woman-lover" nature.
"————"
Even then, he could not tear his eyes from those of the dancing princess.
That cold, captivating charisma—somewhere, he had seen it before—and that sense of déjà vu burned endlessly in the brain of the defeated general.