The undead never seem to end, no matter how many we kill. We are clearing them out by the King's command. The sheer number of them is exhausting. The commanders of other regiments have already fled to their estates; only our regiment remains in sight. Perhaps there are others still alive, but who knows. Supplies are still plentiful—enough to last a year if rationed carefully. But we cannot be complacent; supplies will eventually run out. Months have passed, and the number of undead shows no sign of decreasing. They rarely come this way, but to protect the remaining civilians, we have cleared a fair number. I never imagined there would be so many. We finally managed to trap them in a corner. The barricades made of sturdy debris seem to be holding for now. But that isn't the main issue. Those barricades could break at any moment, so we must retreat to another position first.

The situation is dire. I need to find the right moment to give the order to retreat.

Damn it, damn it... damn it! The situation is far more extreme than I anticipated. The moment I gave the order to retreat, the men seemed to mistake the word 'retreat' for 'desertion,' and their resentment flared up. They are questioning if I am defying the King's orders, and the tension within the regiment has reached a breaking point.

F... Fuck! The soldiers' condition has grown even more horrific. Especially that Sharpshoot fellow. Was he always like that? He's becoming increasingly violent, and his speech is riddled with profanity. And even more terrifying... that soldier threatened to gouge my eyes out and feed them to the undead, or hang me from the iron fence outside the building. It sounded like a curse. Looking at him, it didn't seem like a joke; he looked like he would actually do it. I've temporarily moved to a basement-like space in the building to avoid him. His anger might subside after some time. Praying to my father that those words don't become reality... I pray to survive another day.