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    Summary

    The Russians have a few; barely distinguishable from their fellow soldiers—cheeks black and sunken, eyes rolling redly in their sockets. You’d know they were saints if you killed one, then saw him again the next day, wandering around moaning with his head half missing, or his skull cradled under one arm. Pastel tatters of organ unspooling from his belly to trail in the mud. Supposedly, some could do miracles, but these seemed limited to laying on hands in field hospitals and making crosses appear in clouds. Of course, their emperor had only been ordained by a god. On the Japanese side, he’d been born one. Their saints are something else.

    Imperial Divinity is real. A god's power lays in that banner, and having taken up the flag, Yuusaku is slowly turning into something more than human. Ogata can't quite decide how he feels about that.

    Or: a saint and his brother in the trenches of Port Arthur.

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