A Wish to Grab Happiness

The weather is clear. The wind lets its body blow thoughtfully, and the sunlight has a shine no different from normal times. Just like that. It was in the Sanio Plains that the crest army and the archdiocesan army, the two, raised each other's fangs.

A line of sounds, barbaric or even odd, screams on the battlefield. Everyone remained unable to grasp the identity of the sound.

The axe drags out his bowels and sprinkles blood, choosing meat as the axe wraps around the smell of iron. Soldiers' lives and deaths go hand in hand, creating an unusual place called the battlefield. Will the comrades on the other side still be alive or are they waving their swords? Oh, I don't even know if I'm alive at all.

Swords, spears, shields. They start playing battlefield specific music with teeth up and meshing and chisels overlapping with each other.

Everyone peels their eyes and greedily devours enemy soldiers as their fighting instincts desire. There was a place where life could be given the cheapest price tag.

Both the creed and the archdiocese develop their full force within each other's plains. Soldiers who want to go up to 30,000 if they add it all together, play battlefield music and sing.

If God dared to embed something called struggle instinct when he created man, it must be to listen to this music.

"- Bad flag color, huh? Naturally, I suppose. I'm never happy, but I can't help it."

Philos Urban Soldiers pushed to the vanguard. In the meantime, Phyllos-Treit grumbled to divulge his stupidity. Under the monocular glasses, white eyes illuminated by sunlight are brilliant.

Enemy soldiers, crest soldiers, are waving their spears hard with their fingers at a winning opportunity that is only slightly visible amid their disadvantages. That's how it leads to the witch Mattia and the wicked man Rugis. If you ask, you will roll people with that tongue and blindly make them believe, I hear they are the bearers of such power.

Is it the cause of being led by such a human being? The enemy soldiers rush under the Philos soldiers with turbulent momentum, as if they had been fascinated by something. On the other hand, there can be no similar momentum or temper in the Philos Urban Soldiers. I'm just putting up a shield and sticking up a spear like I was ordered to, and I'm just patient so I don't get pushed in somehow.

If you only say it in a manner that breaks the other's neck, the Philos soldiers may, of course, win the crest over the Archdeacon soldiers if they do poorly.

Unexpectedly, Philos struck his tongue in his mouth. That's why I think Philos did that soggy old general imitate such a pioneering push. Abominable.

The fierce fury of the soldiers bites Philos' skin. The experience where the core of the body was about to be threatened by people's voices was the first time for any of us to speak of a bouldering philosophy. Was the voice of man so powerful?

"Dear Philos, a few more tricks. If you're just standing there poking around, I'd be glad to drop you down to the Catholic position. You're gonna die."

The captain, who leads the city soldier, says in a voice that contains a slight hint. Between his eyebrows, the wrinkles more gently pierce Phyllos with the poison contained in his tongue.

As usual, Philos raised an eyebrow when he did not know that he would block his mouth with reluctance or care.

But I guess this is no longer like healing. Anyway, this man even had this attitude when he was entrusted to the captain and commander of the city soldiers. Perhaps a human being like him would be dead if he didn't put what he thought in his mouth.

Well, but it's a lot easier than keeping getting poisoned in the stomach. Philos answers, with his lips up.

"I can't do that. 'Cause I'm the commander-in-chief of this unit. You told them to die and send them off to the battlefield, so you can't be squatting in a room. I hope you say the ideal commander."

The captain responded with a humming nose to Philos' conceited words. It wasn't a word I liked very much. Philos was terribly jealous that he remained free or that he could put everything in his attitude the way he wanted.

The ruler of a city is a long way from being free, etc., than I thought. Even Philos thinks he wants to teach his old self.

Oh, shit. Well, then, there isn't. There is no salvation in his throne, no matter how much he pursues it.

"Now I can still stand it. Its inner center will be unplugged. Well, as an enemy army, you're going to have to aim for it."

The captain mutters as he sounds his anger and commands from time to time. There was no such thing as a sense of crisis or impatience in its voice colour, and there were signs of objectivity. I told him I would try to do what I could. Philos doesn't really know what a battlefield is, but if you take it as this captain, maybe that's what the battlefield is all about.

Gaze white eyes and watch the flag swing.

Indeed, if you look closely, as the captain says, the flag of the enemy army is shaking well in the centre. On the other hand, the left and right wing are only spearing to endure. Even so, I just said I felt that way when the captain told me.

In other words, the number of enemies is small, so they are trying to stretch their fangs to the main ecclesiastical formation by concentrating their troops in the center and eating this side. On the other hand, we can prevent them, and if the armies of the left and the right swallow them, we can win.

Originally, the job must be where the Philos Urban Soldiers, Heavy Infantry, are best at it. Protect, prevent, and win. The question is, is Philos not leading enough troops to hold off the enemy forces that have gained momentum here and now?

There's no choice in all of this. The maximum number of troops that a city can face against the Catholic Church without causing damage is less than this thousand.

First, Philos has nothing to gain even if he wins this battle. It wouldn't be so easy to say if you could devour Gallu Amalia's rights. What could greatly divide the city's power in such a battle? Even though they say they're running out of food because of the terribly cold weather.

As Philos wetted his lips, his barbaric voice rang his flying middle throat.

"So much so that the soldiers are not only dead. Give strength to the Catholic Church so that it can excuse itself, and then leave the soldiers."

Philos said in such a voice that no one else but the captain could hear him, as to make him sway. What Philos needs is not to triumph, but to dilute the damage as much as possible. Besides, there are 20,000 intact Archdiocesan armies holding back behind us. If we disintegrate somewhat early, it will not affect our victory or defeat.

That old general of the Catholic Church and all that must be interwoven. Then let him do what he should have done.

To Philos' narrative, the captain says, with his back facing forward.

"... if you can. Oh, let's do that."

Here, for the first time, something nervous about the captain's voice was born. The voice color itself does not change that much. However, a slight discouragement had disappeared from his voice. Philos stares at the battlefield with his big back in front of him.

A horse is running on the battlefield. That's as if, with the momentum to rip even the cloth.

It was like one unit. One unit in the enemy army stupidly protrudes and appears to be flying out of the front line.

Normally, such troops are cut to death by enemy forces in an instant. Isolating in the battlefield means dying. Everyone knows that, so move on, move on, move on with the consolidation of the army.

But that little unit, after time, after time, will not try to disappear. Rather, it looks gradual towards this one, even approaching. At that point, the other enemy soldiers began to turn their feet forward so that they could follow them.

"Dear Philos, well, you're not coming here. They're impotent. Master Philos is out of the way, so run for your ass so you don't die."

The captain says depressingly, but sweating on his neck. That's how I slowly pulled out the sword that I could carry on its hips.

Was it from the upset that Philos seemed to take a slight step back while the soldiers around him set up a barbaric shield?

In Philos' white eyes, that crawling threat appeared.

Wearing a green military uniform, he moves forward with his horseshoe to crush the soldier's head, the man. I remember hearing that. I remember having that figure in my head. I remember putting a sentence in my eyes that spoke of the man.

- God-fearless disobedient behavior in the eyes with malice itself.

Oh, there won't be a mistake. There's been a mistake. Its eyes, in the battlefield, which trample and kill people without moving a single eyebrow, its outrageous behavior, which does not attempt to show a single color of fear.

Philos' white eyes clearly captured the man.

- That's the bad guy. Heroes of the crest, Rugis.