The year 479 BCE.
Amidst the battle, a second divination took place, and at last, a favorable omen was obtained. The trust of certain victory was bestowed.
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---O gods, O king, behold.
---Behold the steadfastness of our battle, O ruler, Lakédaimon.
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The endurance has paid off.
Now is the opportune moment.
A loud voice resonates across the battlefield.
The command for attack— at that moment, a simultaneous roar erupts, regardless of age, from both the old and the young.
The atmosphere, the earth, trembled with the roar.
Heavily armored infantry—those armed with bronze shields with a diameter of about 1 meter, breastplates, and spears exceeding 2 meters—reorganize their formation.
Shields up, defending their left side while entrusting defense of their right side to the shield of the soldier standing to their right—a formation commonly known as the Phalanx.
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"We, once young and valiant."
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In the ranks, soldiers who could be considered old in terms of their role, yet they chant with a fierceness that shows no sign of calming with age.
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"But now, we are what we are. If there is hope, let us test it."
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Following this declaration, soldiers in the ranks, now in their prime, chant vigorously, boosting their morale and chanting while gazing at the disoriented enemy.
12 men in a row. Forming three columns of 36 men, creating a vertical formation, the smallest combat unit known as an Enōmotia.
Two Enōmotia form one Pentēkostys, and two Pentēkostys form one Lochos—veteran warriors organized into battle formations, chanting in unison as they advance.
They stand out from soldiers of other city-states. They are born and bred soldiers.
Trained and disciplined soldiers raise their shields, boost their morale, and advance. The pressure is more than enough to make the remnants of the invading enemy tremble.
Mercilessly, the order to charge is given. Soldiers obeyed the command shouted from behind, rushing forward with swords and spears raised.
Towards the shields that spread without gaps in their field of vision.
Those pierced by the thrusting spearheads meet their demise, or those who successfully attempt to break the shields are instead repelled. As they fall backward, they taste the sharpness of the spear.
The ground is filled with the corpses of enemy soldiers, and the blood that flows moistens the earth.
—A white horse stands out among the enemy. There, the enemy commander rides. There is no mistake.
Soldiers who have identified him as the enemy commander charge while maintaining their formation.
Protected by over a thousand guards, and those soldiers must have been trained as well. However, it can only be said that they picked the wrong opponent.
To protect the general, they raise their shields and confront. However, as the shields clash, the formation crumbles at the intense impact, and a gap appears.
A formation disarrayed like scattered hemp—collapse has begun. The moment of the heavily trained soldiers being trampled by the robust soldiers trained since childhood approaches with each passing moment.
In the midst of one after another, the escort soldiers are being crushed, shields and clad armor shattered, meeting their demise.
—From somewhere, a stone is thrown towards the enemy commander riding the white horse. Struck by it, the enemy commander meets his demise—falling off his horse.
The commander's death—when the soldiers witness it, time seems to freeze, and the moment they accept the truth is also a moment when their morale breaks.
"—Kill them all! Show no mercy!"
"—No mercy!!"
Realizing defeat, there is no choice but to turn their backs and flee.
The heavily armored infantry, true to their name, are armed with armor, shields, spears, and swords, making their movements sluggish—indeed.
Although we are tired, the enemy must have accumulated fatigue from the battle as well. There shouldn't be a pursuit that goes too deep—also correct.
Thinking of retreating to the rear formation— from the back of a soldier who thought of this, a spear pierces through the abdomen.
"—My spear was faster."
Unfortunately, it was indeed the wrong opponent.
Numerous soldiers are pierced by thrown spears. Accurately pierced, it appears as if spears are sprouting from their backs, like a scene where spears grow from a human bed.
Wearing a distinctive helmet with slits and with black long hair faintly visible, the soldier retrieves the thrown weapon as arrows come flying and casually deflects them with a wave of the spear.
"…O king… O father…"
Unable to accompany in last year's battle—afflicted by illness, unexpectedly taking ill.
Trying to accompany despite the illness, but it was not allowed by the king and father.
One must not become a hindrance. Therefore, the plea to be allowed to join was not granted.
Still young, left in the country, the young man did not enter the ranks of the 300 warriors who set out—unable to witness the king's last moments, unable to fight and die together.
Regret drives the young man, fueling an inexhaustible fighting spirit.
Facing the hated enemy, there is no mercy or pity for those who flee and beg for their lives.
Drenched in the enemy's splattered blood, blood dripping from the helmet, the soldier does not even wipe it away, instead readies the shield and spear once again.
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In the year 479 BCE.
The location—Plataea, Greece.
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Approximately 2600 years have passed since then. An eternity-like period has flowed.
"—The Battle of Plataea concludes with the overwhelming victory of the Greek allied forces, including Sparta and Athens. What were the consequences of this battle?"
"—Sparta avenged the death of Leonidas I in the Battle of Thermopylae, and thereafter, Thebes was conquered by the Greek allied forces, successfully clearing Persian influence from the Greek mainland. The Achaemenid Persian Empire's invasion of Greece ended in failure. What's next? Perhaps the Battle of Salamis, connected to the Persian Wars?"
In the middle of the wilderness—covered in optical camouflage, a spacious garage within the internal structure of the ground base Eden, its full appearance invisible from the outside.
Occasionally, in a corner where flashes occur, there are two figures.
A tall young man wearing a cloak—only in appearance—is looking down at the young man working with a borrowed welding machine, his arms crossed.
Both of them were conversing while wearing light-shielding surfaces to protect their eyes from the flashes that burst like first-class stars before them.
"...Do you know Herodotus's 'Histories' to some extent?"
"...Certainly, Professor Herodotus is considered the father of history, and he left valuable materials for ancient history research, but..."
"...Hmm, he's not exactly a pure military scholar or leader. He just wrote down the number of troops. It doesn't matter if the Persian side's troop numbers are exaggerated or not."
Johann, the young man wearing the cloak, shrugs his shoulders. Without paying any attention to that, the other young man, causing flashes with a welding machine, snorts.
They had recovered a discarded armored vehicle, but it had stepped on a landmine, so they were repairing the damaged parts.
Eventually, the repair of the damaged parts is complete. The young man, Moore, removes the light-shielding surface protecting his eyes and turns off the switch of the welding machine.
"...How is it?"
"...Not bad. After all, it's an amateur repair. When we return to the Ark, I'll have to apply for proper repairs..."
It wasn't a complete rupture, but there were noticeable cracks in various places in the undercarriage. The cracks were filled, but it was just a temporary repair.
Moore sighs, puts away the borrowed tools, and takes out a soft pack from the pocket of his combat pants. He takes out a cigarette, tries to light it with an oil lighter, but—
"...Do you smoke?"
It seems uncomfortable to be stared at. Facing the senior who gazes at him with ice-blue eyes, Johann, as a junior courtesy, lightly extends the cigarette while letting it jump out.
"I don't have the habit of smoking, but... I'll accept it."
The cigarette, picked up with mechanical fingertips, is bitten. Acknowledging this, Moore opens the lid of the oil lighter, lights the fire, and offers it to Johann. Having ignited the tip of the cigarette with the flame, he takes a light drag, and wrinkles his forehead slightly.
"...Is it supposed to taste like this?"
"Is it your first time in a while?"
Finding it unusual that Johan is smoking such a thing, he lights the cigarette he's holding and looks sideways at Moore, who is enjoying a smoke after finishing his job.
"...Where did you learn military history? It shouldn't be at the officer's school. They probably prioritize mental education in the curriculum."
There was a possibility that heroic deeds in military history were taken up, and mental education was conducted in the process, but they probably wouldn't delve into it in such detail.
"...It's a hobby. I like studying history."
"Oh?"
Unusual indeed. Inhaling the purple smoke and—once again creasing his forehead with vertical wrinkles, Johan ponders.
In this day and age, reflecting on the past, even going as far back as ancient times, is a commendable hobby.
"...Ahh, right. I did tell Harran his too. To truly understand the achievements, mistakes, prejudices, and discrimination of humanity, studying history is the best way."
"I see. ...I have a few books in my possession. All of them are related to history. They were published in ancient times."
Starting to talk about something out of the blue, when Moore senses Johan glancing sideways, Johan shrugs his shoulders slightly.
"If you're interested, I'll give you one or two books. It's a gesture in return for the cigarettes."
Still as conscientious as ever.
Moore, snorting lightly, takes out a portable ashtray and offers it to Johann while holding it.
He tosses the half-smoked cigarette into it.
