I Was Mistaken as a Great War Commander-Chapter 147

Daniel could not ignore the division commander’s summons, so he followed Major Phelp.

Leaving the trench and arriving at the forward command post, Daniel immediately drew the attention of the numerous officers inside.

To the outside observer, Daniel was the genius Chief of Staff who had pierced the enemy’s weak point the moment he was assigned.

Some officers even murmured quiet praise in passing as he walked by.

“Chief of Staff.”

“That was a brilliant operation.”

“Please continue to lead us from here on.”

Every word they spoke only weighed heavier on Daniel.

But it wasn’t as if he could go around shouting, “It’s all a misunderstanding! I did give the order, but I didn’t actually think there’d be anything there!”—so he simply kept a dignified expression and nodded.

After passing by several more officers, Daniel finally reached the command tent.

“The division commander is waiting inside,” Phelp said.

Daniel gave a nod and let out a small sigh before stepping into the tent.

Division Commander Mordon was examining the operations map when he turned at the sound of footsteps. Upon spotting Daniel, his expression brightened immediately.

“Oh! Our Chief of Staff! Good to see you!”

Gone was the cold demeanor from their first meeting—Mordon was now smiling like an old friend.

“You were right! The Allied rats really did cross the lines and hide in a cave near the division’s woods! They weren’t joking when they said you were an elite from HQ!”

“...You're too kind.”

“Too kind? Hell, I haven’t even started complimenting you yet!”

Laughing heartily, Mordon slapped Daniel on the shoulder and walked over to a small table.

On it were two glasses and a bottle of expensive whiskey.

Taking a seat, Mordon opened the bottle and gestured toward Daniel.

“I heard you like whiskey. Come on, have a seat.”

“I do enjoy whiskey, but drinking on the battlefield is...”

“I get it. Just sit down. I don’t like repeating myself.”

Knowing refusal was pointless, Daniel walked over and pulled out a chair.

Once Daniel sat, Mordon poured a drink into one of the glasses.

“This is Lantemille 32-Year. Not an easy one to get your hands on.”

“Lantemille...?”

“Yeah. Made by my family. We’ve been in the distillery business for generations. Honestly, everyone in my clan is a bastard to deal with, but we make a damn good drink. You’ll like it.”

After all that, it would’ve been rude not to try it.

“In that case, I’ll take just one sip.”

Daniel raised the glass and let the whiskey touch his lips—and was quietly surprised.

“...It’s incredibly clean.”

Mordon chuckled at the concise praise.

“You’ve got good taste. That’s why we can still do business with picky drinkers. It’s not first-class, but it’s a solid second. But more importantly...”

After pouring a glass for himself and setting the bottle down, Mordon looked straight at Daniel.

“You pulled off something huge. I’ll be honest—I didn’t believe it at first. But maybe all those stories about you being a war hero aren’t so exaggerated after all.”

“I was just lucky.”

“No need to be modest. Even if it was luck, the results are real. And you must know—we might even be able to turn their operation to our advantage.”

Mordon drained his glass in one go and let out a low breath.

He stared at the empty glass for a moment, then gave Daniel a knowing smile.

“They had a Morse transmitter in their packs.”

After a brief pause, Daniel replied.

“They must’ve planned to send coordinates using Morse to avoid interception. Even if it were intercepted, the messages would be encrypted, so by the time we decrypted them, the attack would already be underway.”

“Smart guy. So I assume you also know how we can extract their encrypted Morse codes and operational frequencies in a short time?”

“Coercion would be best. But considering they risked their lives to cross the lines, it likely won’t work. That means... you’re thinking of torture?”

At Daniel’s serious question, Mordon gave a casual shrug.

“I know it’s inhumane. But we don’t have a choice—it’s war. If we can’t get the intel, our men will be the ones dying out there.”

He wasn’t wrong.

War wasn’t a place where you could rely solely on humanitarian methods.

And the Allied Nations had, overtly or covertly, tortured and executed Imperial prisoners. Both sides were guilty.

“...Is the torture already underway?”

At Daniel’s question, Mordon nodded.

“There’s an officer I trust with this kind of thing. Confident in the field. He also helped apprehend the enemy squad. Oh, and—turns out, he’s someone you brought in.”

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com.

Someone I brought in? Daniel furrowed his brow, curious.

Seeing his confusion, Mordon added:

“You should know him—you’re close. Second Lieutenant Freyen...”

The moment the name left Mordon’s lips, Daniel blurted out:

“That’s not acceptable! It could get dangerous!”

Mordon raised an eyebrow at the abrupt reaction but then gave a knowing chuckle.

“You’re a damn loyal superior, I’ll give you that. Don’t worry—the prisoner’s tied to a chair, can’t move an inch. Your Lieutenant Freyen isn’t in any danger.”

Mordon smiled and poured himself another drink, but Daniel was already sweating cold bullets.

Because Daniel wasn’t worried about Freyen.

He was worried about the prisoner being tortured.

Letting a rabid nationalist like Freyen handle the interrogation of an Allied officer...

Was like handing a cat a fish soaked in catnip.

****

Temporary Field Interrogation Site

“Kh...!”

United Nations platoon leader Dahamen groaned, bound tightly to a chair.

His head was still reeling in confusion.

The Empire’s forces, who should have had no idea what was going on, had suddenly launched a reconnaissance operation and stormed the cave without warning.

By the time he realized something was wrong, they had already surrounded the area. Escape was impossible.

And so he was captured, dragged all the way to the 7th Division, and reduced to a prisoner.

“Goddamn it.”

Naturally, the Empire would attempt torture to «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» extract information.

But Dahamen glared with eyes burning with hatred, teeth clenched tightly.

“As if I’d break under torture.”

He’d rather die than utter a single word that could harm the Allied Nations.

Just as he was hardening his resolve, a female officer entered through the interrogation tent’s entrance.

She had light brown hair neatly braided into a bun and calm, deep black eyes.

“What is this? Trying to put me at ease?”

Her youthful and gentle appearance didn’t match the word ‘torture’ at all, and that alone made him suspicious.

The woman spotted Dahamen and greeted him with a soft smile.

“Hello. I’m Second Lieutenant Freyen, currently serving under Colonel Daniel Steiner, the Chief of Staff.”

“...Daniel Steiner?”

Hearing a name impossible not to recognize, Dahamen let out a bitter sneer.

“Fuck. I was wondering what lunatic came up with such a deranged operation—it was the Empire’s demon himself.”

Now it all made sense.

If it was Daniel Steiner—the genius strategist infamous for his devilish actions—of course he’d seen through the Allied Nations’ operation.

“I still don’t get how that bastard figured it out, though...”

He trailed off mid-sentence.

The woman who introduced herself as Freyen was now staring at him with eyes gone completely cold.

“That’s strange. I don’t recall giving you permission to insult the Saint.”

The air grew heavier, but Dahamen just scoffed.

“The Saint? Don’t tell me you’re calling that demon bastard a saint. Looks like Steiner’s not the only psycho in the Empire.”

Freyen silently stared down at Dahamen... then suddenly smiled and walked over to the corner.

There, atop a wooden table, lay an array of torture tools.

“Before we begin our real conversation, I believe you—heretic and beast that you are—require a bit of re-education. It’ll be a rather... intense exchange, but that can’t be helped, can it?”

She picked up a pair of pliers and examined them slowly.

“Do you know why pulling out fingernails is such a common method in torture? It’s because there’s a dense cluster of sensitive nerve endings beneath the nail.”

“...”

“And nails aren’t just attached to the surface. They’re anchored deep in the root. So when you forcefully rip them out, the nail bed and root tear apart—causing severe bleeding and tissue damage.”

She opened and closed the pliers with a soft click.

“During that process, a chemical called prostaglandin is released. It makes your nerves hypersensitive... and amplifies the pain dramatically.”

“You...”

“Ah, right. To give you a metaphor—it’s like taking a scalpel to your flesh and then smashing it with a hammer. I’m sure it’ll hurt like hell.”

Satisfied with the state of the pliers, Freyen turned back and began walking toward Dahamen.

“You know, usually after all ten fingernails are pulled out, there’s no more pain to inflict. The subject either passes out, or their pain threshold rises.”

“Wait. Stay back—don’t come any closer...!”

“But you don’t have to worry about that. See, I’m actually quite skilled in healing magic. I can regenerate your nails over and over... and pull them out again.”

Dahamen’s breathing became ragged.

His body began to tremble with each step Freyen took toward him.

“Don’t you wonder now?”

Darkness clouded Dahamen’s face.

“How many...”

Freyen looked down at the man paralyzed by fear and smiled softly.

"I wonder... which nail will finally break you?"