Five years after the war ended, in the border town of Rudia, once a battlefield between two enemy nations, the streets are flooded with war orphans. Magic has faded into obsolescence, replaced by the smoke of factories and the roar of machinery. Amidst the town's desperate scramble for reconstruction, the orphans are nothing but a nuisance, ignored by a society that only wants to move on.
On the outskirts of this town, a former soldier named Aldo runs an orphanage. Once feared on the battlefiel
The War God of the Orphanage - The Star Shadow of Atonement, and Corruption Laughs in the Night
The courtroom of the Post-War Arbitration Bureau, in the municipal annex, was thick with humidity, sweat, and a faint stench of decay.
Gas lamps embedded in the walls cast a dim glow through soot-stained glass, eerily illuminating the murmur of the gallery. The elderly presiding judge, draped in black robes, paid the murmuring no mind, continuing the proceedings in a ponderous voice.
"Defendant Aldo. Regarding the charge of murdering a fellow soldier during the third siege of the Grenz Pass, I ask you once more."
Aldo, in the defendant's dock, sat with his back straight, staring silently ahead.
Two weeks since his imprisonment. His short, gray hair had grown out even more haphazardly, and the stubble covering his cheeks and chin now seemed to conceal his expression entirely. Only his narrow, brown eyes, deeply sunken, held a strange stillness as they were fixed on a single point in the gallery—Mira Wertz, and Galsh Beylan, seated beside her. His paralyzed left arm was suspended by a black cloth, and the severed stump of his right ring finger was cold and pale.
"Wait, Your Honor."
Roy Chrysler, standing at the witness stand, stepped forward.
His black hair was parted neatly in a seven-three ratio and slicked down with oil as always. Wearing silver-rimmed glasses, his complexion was so poor it was evident even in the courtroom's dim light. Yet a smile, as if pasted on with glue, clung to his lips. Fidgeting with the temple of his glasses with one hand, he spoke in a soft, yet strangely resonant voice.
"I will testify. ...Director Aldo was driven by an abnormal urge to kill on the battlefield. Wounded soldiers who couldn't move—he shot them dead, as if they were insects."
The air in the gallery went cold. Mira's small shoulders trembled with rage.
Roy continued. His hazel eyes wandered, unable to fix on anything, but his voice alone was eerily composed.
"I witnessed it up close. He had completely crossed the line as a soldier. That is why I—it was a painful decision—but I had no choice but to report him. To protect the orphanage, to protect the children."
(*Lies.*)
Mira bit her lip hard. Her curly, reddish-brown hair quivered as if bristling with anger.
(*You're not doing this to protect Aldo. You're doing it to hide your own crimes—*)
But before she could stand, one of the judges spoke.
"I see. Mr. Roy Chrysler's testimony is clear. The defendant will, of course, have an opportunity to refute—"
A heavy, percussive sound cut off those words.
—*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
The sound of crude, massive footsteps striking the stone floor of the courtroom. The rhythm was regular, but each step seemed to shake the ground. Everyone in the gallery turned their faces toward the source of the sound. The military police guarding the door parted silently to the left and right.
Galsh Beylan appeared.
His blond hair, streaked with white, was roughly swept back, his face adorned only with a mustache. His right eye, clouded white from a war wound, and his sharp, light-blue left eye—those odd eyes gleamed with ferocity. His massive, 195-centimeter frame advanced, the sound of his iron prosthetic legs echoing from below the knee, as if forcing the very atmosphere of the courtroom into submission.
In his right hand, he clutched a thick ledger and a small burlap sack containing something.
"Your Honor. I am submitting evidence."
His voice no longer carried the volume to drown out the clamor of a tavern. By suppressing his rage to its absolute limit, it had become a low rumble, as if crawling along the bottom of the earth, and that, in turn, silenced the courtroom completely.
The color drained slightly from Roy's face.
Galsh placed the ledger on the judges' desk, slowly, as if setting down a bomb. The cover was sooty, scorched, and damaged in places.
"This is a record of the witness, Roy Chrysler—"
Without turning around, he pointed a giant right thumb at Roy standing behind him.
"—from when he was a logistics adjutant for the 442nd Division during the war, documenting his diversion of military supplies. I hear you testified yesterday that the ledger was 'burned.' But before it was burned, your lackey made a copy. What was burned was the copy. This is the original."
Roy's mouth twitched. He repeated the motion of removing his glasses and wiping the lenses with a cloth. His fingertips were trembling.
"A misunderstanding, Your Honor! This is—this is a forgery! The Veterans' Association is trying to frame me—!"
"—Shut up."
Galsh's roar pierced the courtroom.
He slowly turned to face Roy, and this time, he upended the burlap sack in his right hand before Roy's eyes.
With a clatter, countless brass military uniform buttons spilled onto the wooden floor of the gallery.
All of them were warped by heat, melted, and no longer retained their original shape. Some were fused into lumps, others were just misshapen chunks of metal. They looked like souls dissolved by the hellfire of the battlefield and someone's personal greed.
"Winter, four years ago. Because of the shoddy buttons you diverted, the soldiers on the front lines lost the fasteners on their uniforms."
Galsh picked up one of the melted buttons and held it out, showing it to Roy. Roy took a step back, but his legs tangled and he bumped into the witness stand.
"The temperature was ten below zero. Every time the wind blew, their uniforms gaped open, and the cold seeped into their bones. Necrosis started in their little fingers, then their ears sloughed off. In the end, they died as if falling asleep. Do you remember how many died? I remember. I remember all of their names, their faces, their corpses."
Galsh's clouded white eye peered into Roy's hazel eyes from close range. Roy's face was already as white as paper.
"I'm going to read out the names of all those soldiers now. The names of the comrades you killed. Listen well."
He drew a deep breath.
"—Wil Glasner. Father of two. Froze to death on the front lines."
Roy's shoulders gave a small jolt.
"—Euan Metzler. Wrote letters to his mother every day. His frozen fingers could no longer hold a pen, and his last letter was written in blood."
"Stop... please stop..."
"—Peter Weber. Even after losing his left leg, he carried a comrade on his back and retreated. The metal fittings of his frozen prosthetic rotted the flesh of his stump. The army surgeon gave up on treatment, weeping."
"I-I—! I had no choice! Everyone looks out for themselves! What's wrong with protecting yourself in that war! Diverting supplies—everyone was doing it! Why only me—!"
Roy screamed. His glasses slipped off, falling to the floor and shattering a lens. Ignoring them, he tried to grab Galsh, but tripped over the prosthetic leg and fell on his own. On all fours, he continued to spew words.
"That's right! Yes, I diverted supplies! And to hide it, I reported Aldo! But I had no choice! I'm the victim! That war, this system—made me do it!"
The courtroom held its breath.
The children from the Harz Home, sitting in the gallery, looked down at Roy with eyes of disbelief. The adult who had been a "good person" until now was crawling on the floor, sobbing and screaming self-justifications.
Among them was Lina.
Mira's former friend, the girl who had believed Roy's lies and betrayed Mira. Her lips were trembling now, opening and closing as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Mira looked at Aldo, in the defendant's dock nearby.
Aldo—let out a small, very small breath.
There was no anger on his face. No joy of revenge, no exasperation. Only a deep sadness, like that of a gravely wounded beast, welled in his sunken eyes. He was looking at Mira. More precisely, at the star-shaped badge she always wore on her chest—the one Roy had trampled, now bent out of shape.
(*The place you gave me. The proof you gave me that I was allowed to live.*)
Inside her pocket, Mira clutched Aldo's scorched dog tag.
The presiding judge broke the silence.
"...The evidence is clear. The murder charge against the defendant Aldo is recognized as a false accusation, and this case is hereby dismissed. Release is ordered, effective immediately."
—*Bang!*
The gavel struck heavily.
The veterans in the gallery let out a collective roar of triumph. Mira stood up, trying to shout something, but her voice failed her, and she could only tremble.
But in her line of sight—as the iron bars of the detention cell opened and Aldo emerged, pushed forward by a guard, there was still no smile on his face.
***
Two hours after his release.
The sky over Rudia had been covered by thick, gray clouds since morning, and now a cold rain was lashing the city.
Aldo, emerging from the service gate of the detention center behind the municipal annex, stood alone in the rain. Outside the gate, Galsh and Mira were waiting. Mira was soaked through, her reddish-brown hair plastered to her cheeks, her large green eyes fixed intently on Aldo. Galsh leaned against the wall, his prosthetic legs crossed, silently smoking a cigar.
Aldo looked at the two of them.
But his feet seemed nailed to the stone pavement of the gate, unable to move.
"...Galsh."
The voice he produced after so long was hoarse and thin.
"I'm sorry, but I—can't go back to the orphanage."
Mira's face stiffened.
"I couldn't see through Roy's true nature. Because I trusted him, I handed the children over to a traitor. I don't have the right to face them."
He twisted his body, as if shielding his paralyzed left arm. The rain traced the old bayonet scar running down his left cheek and dripped from the missing fingertips of his right hand.
"What are you saying?!"
Mira stepped forward. But Aldo averted his gaze from her and began walking aimlessly toward the city.
"...For me to find happiness would be to give up on settling my sins. I haven't... settled anything yet. To those who died on that battlefield, I still haven't—"
His words were swallowed by the sound of the rain.
Something deep in Mira's chest ruptured.
"Don't screw with me!!"
The twelve-year-old girl's scream echoed through the rainy street.
She broke into a run. Unfazed by the rain, soaked to the bone, splashing mud, she chased after Aldo's back. Then, circling around in front of that broad back, she thrust out both hands.
Resting on her small palms were—the scorched dog tag, and the remains of the star-shaped badge, trampled by Roy, warped, and shattered clean in two.
"Let's go home! Aldo! To our home!"
Aldo's feet stopped.
"You gave me this! When I was freezing to death on the street, you said, 'You did well'! Because I had this badge, I felt for the first time that I was allowed to be here! The place you gave me—it's my everything!!"
By the end, Mira's voice was a mess of tears, almost a scream. Her face was drenched with rainwater and tears.
Aldo's eyes widened.
At that moment.
"...Uncle Aldo."
A small, thin voice came from within the rain.
Behind Mira—further beyond the detention center's service gate.
There stood three children, led by Lina. Their ages: seven, nine, and eleven. All of them were children from the Harz Home, the ones who had followed Roy and betrayed Mira.
Lina's face was crumpled with tears. Sniffling, she bowed her head again and again.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Uncle Aldo! Tricked by Roy's lies, I said bad things about Mira... and bad things about you, Uncle Aldo... I'm really, really sorry!"
"Uncle... we're sorry..."
"We were scared of Roy... but, but, we really want you to come back..."
The children, standing in the rain, just kept apologizing, saying "I'm sorry" over and over.
Aldo stood rooted to the spot.
He couldn't say anything.
He just looked, alternating between the figures of the children, the broken badge on Mira's palm, and the dog tag.
And then—
His shoulders trembled.
Small at first, but gradually growing larger. As if clutching his paralyzed left arm, he fell to his knees on the spot. The cold of the rain-soake
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