The first day of the ceasefire saw both sides awkwardly fumbling through this strange new reality.
Until now, combat had been a daily — if not hourly — occurrence, with skirmishes sometimes numbering up to seven a day.
Now? A mandated three-day halt to all hostile activity. Except for minimal watch duties, everyone was told to relax, eat, and drink like regular folks.
“…”
“…”
Everyone stood around glancing nervously across the lines, simultaneously checking their own commanders.
“Are we really okay with this? Seriously, we’re not fighting today?”
Morning passed, followed by noon, then late afternoon, before the reality finally set in: the ceasefire was actually being honored by the top brass on both sides.
Once the realization hit that it was really safe, the soldiers started visibly relaxing. Both the Empire and Dedolant began preparing their own delayed New Year celebrations — better late than never, amirite?
Of course, military holidays aren’t exactly extravagant affairs; it mostly boiled down to eating, drinking, laughing and making noise. The troops gathered in clusters, sharing the kind of low-effort, lewd jokes that wouldn’t impress anyone outside their circle.
Before you knew it, the junior officers would chime in, tossing out a few light-hearted jabs of their own. If it weren’t for the war, this would’ve been the standard-issue, humdrum holiday scene at any military base.
But the first real change came on the morning of Day Two.
“Commander! One of our forward scouts just received an urgent dispatch!”
The aides hovering around Paelus instantly tensed up.
What now? Did those Empire bastards pull a fast one and plot something underhanded?
If that turned out to be the case, Leonite’s wrath would soon spiral into a galactic-scale mess—
“Empire wants to invite us Dedolant boys to a soccer match.”
“…soccer?”
“Yes, sir! Should we send any kind of response back?”
Are these guys losing their marbles? We barely handled their truce suggestion where they threw some supplies our way, and now they wanna play soccer smack in the middle of the battlefield?
“So that’s their version of an attack, eh? No combat actions, they say? Here we are with their soccer challenge.”
“Commander?”
“Talking to myself. Inform Empire that we gladly accept the challenge. Tell them to give it their all, since our troops have been stuffing themselves with the food supplies they’ve so kindly donated.”
“Sir! Got it!”
Thus, the impromptu inter-army soccer game was set.
The soldiers were initially stunned but quickly warmed up to the idea, cheering with newfound enthusiasm as they geared up for what was sure to become a legendary showdown. Losing side likely wouldn’t be able to show their faces for a long time, right?
“Dudes! Give it everything you’ve got! If we lose to the Dedolant team, heads are gonna roll!”
“We need to show those Empire guys what real talent looks like! No excuses, we can’t afford to let them win, even if we s*ck at war!”
Leonite had a conniption when he heard the news, but trying to stop the wave of excitement sweeping through the troops was about as effective as using fly swatters against a hurricane.
Because, honestly? In this moment, they weren’t soldiers. They were celebrating a belated holiday.
“Go, go, go!!! Run!!”
“sh**t properly, you morons!!”
First half 30 minutes, second half 30 minutes, and a tie game at 2-2 forced a tense extension. But cooler heads prevailed, and both sides ultimately agreed on a draw, figuring there was no need to ruin the good vibes by pushing it to a penalty shootout.
“Hey Dedolant hicks! You’re not half bad at this ball-passing business!”
“Hah! Who knew those Empire jerks were halfway decent?!”
“Great work, Dedolant!”
“Excuse me, I’m from Artria!”
“I’m from Dugal!”
“Wait, what the heck?! You’re not even Dedolant citizens, why the heck are you fighting alongside them?!”
“Dude, I lost count.”
Soldiers from different countries who had only days ago been aiming swords at each other — but at the end of the day, they were just dads, husbands, and sons out here trying to survive. It’d be weirder if they didn’t develop some sense of camaraderie.
The soccer match ended amicably, and Empire decided to roll out some extra supplies, distributing alcohol to both sides.
With nightfall, everyone let loose. What had moments before been a bl**d-soaked battlefield became a chaotic celebration zone. After all, they’d probably be shooting each other tomorrow, but why not enjoy tonight?
In some cases, soldiers even crossed the invisible line and gathered midway between the two camps. Westerners from Empire and Easterners from Dedolant shared tales and laughter over a few pints — all while technically armed for the ‘just in case’ scenario, but not a single brawl erupted.
The party stretched on until someone, somewhere, inevitably started humming Lily Marlene. A song that had originally been a calculated propaganda piece to shake Dedolant confidence but had since turned into a universal anthem for love and longing.
“They’re not invaders or monsters, just people missing the ones they love, huh?”
And so, the last day of the ceasefire dawned. Everyone gathered together for one final round of farewells before retreating to their respective lines.
Wishing them luck would be cruel; after all, one side’s good fortune is the other’s downfall.
Paelus silently watched the soldiers return to their posts and retreated to the command tent. There, heated debates raged as Leonite and the hardliners berated the truce’s decision.
“We need to strike first thing tomorrow! If Empire presses again, we’re doomed with our weakened forces!”
“Morale among the troops is collapsing. This isn’t the fiery spirit the Deo people are famous for!”
“Accepting a ceasefire was never part of the plan — it was a trap from the Empire!”
Watching these hypocrites squabble after having gladly shared drinks just yesterday made Paelus grind his teeth, biting back every sarcastic retort bubbling in his throat. Instead, he let his silence deliver a sharp middle finger.
But the next development left even Paelus speechless.
[We officially denounce Commander Paelus’ handling of the ceasefire. How could you agree, huh? You must hand over all command authority to General Leonite immediately to restore our momentum.]
Oh, so here we are sacrificing the very troops you used as scapegoats to escape the siege, huh? Even a fleeting hope for survival is apparently too much, is it?
Paelus forced down the rising anger and managed an icy tone.
“My command was appointed by His Highness, Prince Georg. If you wish to forcibly transfer command to General Leonite, then perhaps you should first secure the prince’s explicit permission.”
[Prince Georg is unavailable. Proceed with the handover.]
“Unavailable to formally acknowledge a transfer of authority over a 40,000 strong army?”
[Yes.]
So Prince Georg had apparently lost his drive at some point, abandoning all pretense of leadership. The command ignored every detail about the prince’s retreat into solitude and attempted to hide this fact from Paelus.
[Command order. Commander Paelus. Restore momentum immediately, or relinquish your position.]
“Not possible.”
[Didn’t the three days of rest help you recuperate? Maybe an attack would stir up new opportunities?]
“…”
[Deo people don’t surrender easily. A plan will manifest! Surely!]
Things had shifted, hadn’t they? No, maybe this was just showing the ugly truth beneath. Where had Dedolant’s grand and proud leadership gone? The same voices that once boasted of their invincibility now sounded absurdly reckless.
What’s Prince Georg doing? Where has he disappeared too? You drove us all this way with your silver-tongued promises — now’s not the time to chicken out!
[What’s your call, Commander Paelus?]
No doubt about it; if command were passed to Leonite, the first course of action would involve executing dozens of skeptical soldiers, followed by brutal intimidation to subdue the junior officers. All in the name of restoring “discipline.”
“…I’ll do it.”
[Good luck, Commander.]
The three-day break was officially over. The ceasefire ended. Once again, it was time to k*ll or be killed.
Yet, strangely enough, Empire made no move to resume the assault. Nothing. Not even minor skirmishes or strategic reconnaissance missions. Complete silence.
Instead, the hauntingly familiar tune of Lily Marlene carried across the air.
Everyone, from the lowliest soldier to Paelus himself, found themselves humming along unconsciously, caught in its universal melancholy.
“Whoever just sang along with that song — find them!”
“k*ll them! Hang them by their neck! That traitor undermines the Deo fighting spirit!”
But a few hard-liners still spiraled, committing acts of savage brutality. It wasn’t rational. Or practical. But it was war.
“Commander?”
“…”
“Commander?”
“Yes. I heard you, aide.”
“When will you give the attack order? General Leonite is asking.”
At this, Paelus paused for just a moment to glance over the soldiers standing before him.
Grief. Agony. The fleeting traces of such emotions crossed his eyes before vanishing almost instantly.
“They send our men out to d*e for Dedolant, don’t they?”
“Commander?”
But my Dedolant…is right here.
Right here in front of me.
“Chief of Staff, Dedolant’s Commander Paelus is formally requesting surrender.”
See? Wasn’t that easy?
