Traitors were executed.
Deserters were executed.
Disobedience was met with execution.
The discipline of Russia—self-proclaimed and widely regarded as Europe's second great power—was ruthless.
Even so, no country treated soldiers and officers the same.
Defeated generals were not automatically punished.
If a defeat lay beyond a commander's control, it could end with only a light reprimand. And if one had the Emperor's favor, it was not uncommon to escape punishment altogether.
However, there were defeats one could never escape.
A loss caused by incompetence or negligence—or one that decisively altered the course of the war—would at minimum result in career-ending consequences.
Given the era, outright execution was rare.
But being dismissed, only to die later in some "unfortunate accident"… was that really any different?
Which was why the Russian officers had little doubt what awaited Gennady upon his return.
"In times like this, a prisoner exchange… Should we consider it fortunate, or unfortunate?"
"It likely means his condition is critical. That's why they're sending him straight to our fortress."
"Still, telling us to bring a prisoner into a fortress they're actively attacking… absurd."
If the fortress fell, would Gennady simply become a prisoner again?
With his condition reportedly severe, escape would be difficult. In a way, his fate was thoroughly tangled.
Admiral Pavel Nakhimov, commander of Sevastopol, felt conflicted.
Due to Russia's poor intelligence network, he still didn't fully understand how the Asian front had collapsed.
With reinforcements dwindling and the fortress under siege, how could he possibly know what was happening all the way across Asia?
All he knew was this:
Britain and the nations of Northeast Asia had joined forces to strike Vladivostok—and the commander had been captured by Asian forces.
That alone was enough.
Captured by Asia, of all places… Not just Britain, but Asia too. There's no excuse for that.
Nakhimov was confident he himself would not face severe punishment, even if the war was lost.
Before the Anglo-French intervention, he had crushed the Ottomans. Even after losing control of the sea, he had stubbornly held the fortress.
Without that resistance, Russia would have already lost Crimea and Ukraine.
But not everyone would be so fortunate.
"Admiral! As soon as Commander Gennady arrives, we must begin intensive treatment immediately!"
"Indeed! We cannot allow a Russian commander to die in British hands!"
"…True. But can this fortress even handle a critical patient?"
"If necessary, we should demand medical supplies from the British. His condition worsened under their care—they can at least provide medicine."
"…Very well. We'll make that demand before the exchange."
There was no sense of noble camaraderie in their urgency.
It was transparent—painfully so.
No one believed this war would end in victory.
Though none admitted it openly, they were already thinking about how to save themselves after defeat.
But not everyone could be spared.
Someone had to take responsibility.
Someone had to be sacrificed.
Blaming brigade-level officers had its limits.
They needed a scapegoat—someone to bear the full weight of failure.
And who better than Gennady, who had suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of Asian forces?
He had to return alive—
to stand as a shield for the Emperor's wrath.
It was no coincidence that those insisting he must not die were themselves officers with blemished records.
If he died fighting the enemy, tradition dictated leniency.
So he could not be allowed to die.
Watching the near-manic desperation of the command staff, Nakhimov shook his head in disgust.
To think they had already accepted defeat and were only concerned with their own survival…
It was revolting.
And yet, given the state of the war, he could not simply blame them.
Why did His Majesty start this war…
The thought never made it past his lips.
How had things come to this?
All he could do was watch, helpless, as the Russian army slowly sank.
The Crimean War—more a small-scale world war than anything else—was nearing its end.
Both sides were exhausted.
Frustration toward their leaders was beginning to surface.
Among the gathered journalists, many quietly hoped this prisoner exchange might become the turning point that ended the war.
"Your Highness! Conducting a prisoner exchange before the war has ended—does this signal an olive branch toward Russia?"
"Russian journalists are present to ensure objectivity—can you confirm there was no mistreatment of prisoners?"
"How long do you believe this war will continue?"
As expected, with this many reporters, the place was pure chaos.
Ordinarily, it would have been irritating noise.
Now, it sounded almost like music.
"Her Majesty and the generals of the British Empire are doing everything in their power to end this war as quickly as possible. Let me repeat—Russia started this war. If Russia acknowledges its mistakes and comes to the negotiating table, we are always ready."
"So Russia's stance is the key?"
As Allied reporters eagerly scribbled, the Russian journalists stepped forward, clearly displeased.
"What is your response to allegations of prisoner abuse? There are widespread suspicions that Commander Gennady's health deteriorated due to torture."
"A baseless accusation. This entire event was arranged to dispel such claims. Commander Gennady himself will speak shortly—you may ask him directly."
"Does that mean Britain bears no responsibility for this war?"
"War, once begun, makes all parties culpable. Blood has been shed. Families have been torn apart. No one is free of responsibility—only degrees differ. I, too, feel this deeply. I would gladly take more questions, but this is still wartime, and we cannot keep the Russian officers waiting."
The Russian journalists wrote with complicated expressions.
Though called journalists, many were little more than state mouthpieces under strict censorship.
Still, ironically, the technological limits of the era meant control was not absolute.
This was a battlefield.
Those who came here had, at the very least, some degree of journalistic spirit.
At least a third of them would try to spread what happened here today.
When we arrived at the designated exchange site, the tent was already filled with Russian officers.
Admiral Nakhimov was absent. Instead, several high-ranking generals and brigade commanders sat inside.
Both sides had been thoroughly searched—no weapons were allowed.
"Thank you for coming all this way in the midst of battle."
"It is nothing, if it means bringing back Commander Gennady. Where is he?"
"He is on his way."
No sooner had I spoken than the tent flap was pulled open.
Gennady Nevelskoy entered, pale and frail, supported by others.
Anyone could see it—I'm gravely ill—written all over his face.
The Russian officers frowned.
"Your Highness. Commander Gennady appears to be in poor condition. This suggests negligence in your prisoner management."
"Not at all. His condition has actually improved. When he first fell, he couldn't even walk."
"Even so…"
The Russian general glanced at the reporters before continuing his complaints.
They wanted headlines—anything to paint Britain in a negative light.
Understandable.
They were desperate.
But there's a saying—
Those who have power are always more ruthless.
I subtly lowered my right hand.
Gennady caught the signal and began to speak in a strained voice.
"Since everyone here is curious… allow me to say a few words."
"Commander! You must have suffered greatly. From now on, we will take care of you. Though our facilities are limited, we will do everything to ensure your recovery."
"Thank you. But before that…"
Gennady looked between both sides and spoke slowly.
"There is a truth about this war that must be told."
"Wait, Commander. We were not informed you would speak on such matters. This is strictly a prisoner exchange—"
As I cut in, feigning urgency, the Russians immediately intervened.
"Is there any rule that he must only say what was agreed upon? Or is there something you wish to hide?"
"No, I simply mean—"
"Then he should speak. Who knows what he endured here?"
I scratched my head and sat back down.
If they insisted on hearing it, what could I do?
The Russians, thinking I had dug my own grave, eagerly waited.
And then—
Gennady spoke.
His voice rang out, resolute, like a man heading into battle.
"Our Russian soldiers… are being sacrificed—because of His Majesty the Emperor's stubbornness!"
"…?"
On the day of the prisoner exchange—
Gennady had opened the floodgates.