Eberron's silent reaction gave Cole an answer; he clicked his tongue and sighed.
"I see. How cruel... But the person who sent you must have their own plans. They must have high hopes for you."
High hopes?
Ah, maybe.
Eberlen didn't want to explain, nor was there any need to.
But is it really just a matter of whether or not one can accept something so simple?
As he was thinking this, Eberron suddenly noticed Cole's eyes.
The eyes were bloodshot and looked somewhat cloudy.
!
!
Inside, she felt a strong will.
A jolt of electricity seemed to run through his body, and Eberron instinctively straightened up, looking at Cole's scarred, stubble-covered, and weathered face.
This is a middle-aged man weathered by time; beneath the numerous scars on his face, it is difficult to discern any trace of his youthful features.
No, that's not how it works.
He is not a decadent middle-aged man.
Cole, he is a soldier.
They are warriors who fight to the last, and who refuse to surrender to the enemy even if it means their own death.
"From the moment we stepped onto the battlefield, we were fully prepared."
Cole smiled at Eberron and repeated the statement in a calm tone.
"All the preparations, of course, included the option of our death."
“We were not forced to come here, and we are not the useless cannon fodder you arbitrarily assume we are.”
He said:
"Because this is a war for each and every one of us."
Looking directly at the young and naive clerk, the veteran, a survivor of countless battles, spoke gently:
"We are warriors who protect this world, and that is why we are here."
With pride, Cole spoke calmly yet forcefully.
"So... madam, please don't take it upon yourself to grieve for us."
Please don't.
Please do not mourn for the soldiers without authorization.
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