Chapter 6: The Shadow of Truth

“Yes, we won a great victory!”

Fran joyfully rushed to the old man, recounting the details from the front lines. He even read the newspaper headlines aloud to him.

Gradually, Fran noticed the old man’s demeanor softening. A radiant glow returned to his face, and he gazed at Fran with a kindness he hadn’t shown in days.

It was remarkable to see such a transformation in an old man who had been paralyzed just yesterday. He gripped Fran’s hand, then turned his gaze towards the Arc de Triomphe outside the window.

“Good… good…”

His stammering voice once again reminded Fran of the old man’s frail condition. Fran shook his head, tidied the bed, and gently closed the door behind him as he stepped out of the room.

Outside the door, Alina and the Councillor had been waiting for a long time. Fran glanced at his teacher before settling into a chair in the corridor.

A long silence stretched between them.

“His illness, after I told him about the victory at the front, he’s much better.”

Fran couldn’t comprehend Alina’s sorrowful expression. Why such sadness when they had won? He wanted to say something to lift their spirits, but then…

Alina glanced back at the door, then turned and sat beside Fran. She lowered her voice, explaining with great reluctance, as if she barely had the courage to speak.

“Everyone has just learned the true situation on the front lines. It wasn’t a victory; it was a defeat—a complete and utter defeat. The general fled in disarray, and the Ninth Army was annihilated.”

They exchanged glances, the earlier joy of victory instantly shattered, replaced by a bitter, despondent smile.

What were they to do?

Should they tell the old man the truth?

Fran immediately shook his head, dismissing the thought. ‘How could I? Could I possibly deliver another blow about the dire war situation, piercing the heart that had just begun to beat with renewed hope?’

No, absolutely not.

But…

What else could be done?

To help him recover, to keep him happy, to weave an illusion that might bring him back from the brink?

This would require Fran to weave a perfect web of lies, serving as the plaster and bandages for the old man’s recovery.

“Alright, as long as it helps him get better, a few lies won’t hurt.”

The old man’s son, the Councillor, stated this.

This arduous task of lying to the old man naturally fell upon Fran, who was responsible for his care.

Lying might seem simple. Indeed, telling a single lie is easy. However, spinning a continuous web of falsehoods, ensuring they remain coherent without logical flaws or contradictions, would prove considerably more difficult.

If this chain of lies were confined to military affairs, especially concerning a newly erupted war, it would become an almost impossible feat. To ask Fran, a complete novice with no battlefield knowledge, to manage this was even more preposterous.

Initially, it wasn’t so bad. The old man’s mind wasn’t entirely clear, and he was as easily appeased as a child. But after Fran finished reading one fabricated war report after another, and as the old man’s mind grew sharper…

“Fran, tell me the movements of both armies!”

“Fran, why isn’t the Ninth Army outflanking to the north?”

“Fran, why are the battle reports so vague?”

One question after another pressed down on Fran, leaving him with a wry smile. He could only spend his late nights poring over maps of Francis and Teuton on the Western Continent, repeatedly marking positions with tiny flags.

Alina watched him from the side, occasionally offering guidance on the Francian army’s advance routes and predicting the Teuton forces’ next moves.

Thus, through their combined efforts, one fabricated war report after another was delivered to the old man’s bedroom: the Ninth Army advancing towards Purburg, the Seventh Army moving south along the Rhine River, and the Fifth Army besieging Teuton’s vital northern port.

As Fran pointed repeatedly to every western location on the Teuton map before the old man, relaying these fabricated victories, the old man nodded incessantly, his excitement palpable.

This was precisely the route he had taken years ago, following His Imperial Majesty of the Second Empire of Francis during their advance into Teuton territory. These were the very paths he had trodden!

He exclaimed excitedly, “Yes, yes, Fran! This is exactly how it should be! Push them back, push them out of the lowlands, and drive them into their own territory!”

With renewed fervor, he marked several cities on the map, shouting, “Next, they’ll strike here! And here! Of course, Poz is also a key target to be captured!”

“Ah, yes, yes…”

Fran secretly noted the locations the old man pointed out, ensuring he could fabricate even more fitting war reports for the next day, making each of his predictions come true.

Ironically, the person contributing most to this carefully woven dream was the old man himself.

However, Fran found himself in a predicament: the old man’s appetite for victory was insatiable. Each day Fran recounted the war, the old man demanded a new triumph. Even if Fran conquered cities and swept through territories on the map, proving invincible and unstoppable, he simply couldn’t keep pace with the old man’s desired speed.

“Hmm… at this rate, we’ll soon occupy Purburg!”

He clapped his hands excitedly. Fran offered a wry smile beside him, saying, “How could it be that fast? Capturing a nation’s capital wouldn’t be so easy, would it?”

“Ha, it’s merely a matter of time!” the old man chuckled. “We will soon relive the glorious victories of the Second Empire. It’s time to discuss peace talks!”

“Hmm… like His Imperial Majesty did back then, dividing Teuton into three nations and ceding some land?” Fran asked, pretending to understand.

The old man shook his head, calmly instructing the young man before him:

“No, mere war reparations will suffice! What good is occupying a few territories? Can we truly transform Teutons into Francians? We made precisely that mistake in the past, which ultimately led to our defeat in the war…”

He launched into a lengthy discourse on various precautions: be lenient with the Teuton populace, ensure they feel no danger or burden, respect property, treat women courteously. It was practically a military code of conduct.

He became exceptionally lively, even instructing Fran to prepare his military uniform. He awaited the triumphant return of his nation’s army, intending to greet them as an old veteran, dressed in his uniform.

As for the true war situation, Fran continuously bought newspapers. The situation grew progressively worse, with some speculating that the Teuton offensive in the lowlands was merely a feint.

Gradually, he could no longer find news related to the front lines. Newspapers ceased reporting on it, or mentioned it only in veiled terms.

A ominous premonition slowly began to stir within him. Yet, Fran tried to reassure himself: ‘It’s fine. Francis has so many soldiers, so many generals. Even if the war truly goes poorly, surely they can hold out for a year?’

‘Moreover, Francis isn’t fighting alone. The island nation to the west, the Kingdom of Brittany, stands with us. Perhaps in a few more months, other countries will join, and the situation will change again.’

For now, he still had to keep it from the old man. Once his health improved, he certainly couldn’t handle any more shocks.

As he was deep in thought, Alina suddenly rushed up from behind him, anxiously. She sharply slapped Fran’s head, urgently exclaiming:

“Something’s happened! Just heard the news—Teuton’s armored divisions, Teuton’s armored divisions, have broken through the forest and are heading straight for Purburg!”

“What?!”