Chapter 21: Scum Exists in Every World

Morin’s gaze swept across the system map, where the small, moving icons representing enemy patrols were clearly visible within his field of vision. This one-way transparency of information was their greatest advantage.

"No, we continue forward," Morin decided, surprising everyone.

"Sir?!" Corporal Bowman’s voice cracked.

"Follow my orders." Morin’s voice was quiet, yet it carried an unquestionable resolve. "We won't take the main road. We’ll cut through these country paths and woods, moving closer to the city outskirts to assess the situation." He pointed to the gaps between the patrol icons on the map, mapping out a new route in his mind. "Everyone, hide your bicycles. We proceed on foot. Remember, not a single sound."

The soldiers exchanged glances, but ultimately chose to obey. Led by Morin, the six-man squad began to move like ghosts through the outskirts of Seville. The closer they got to the city, the thicker the tension in the air became. Morin kept almost all his focus on the mini-map in his vision.

Suddenly, several moving red diamond icons flickered at the edge of the map.
[Kingdom Army Patrol (Strength: 12)]

"Stop! Take cover!" Morin waved his hand sharply, his voice barely a whisper. Everyone immediately dropped into a waist-high irrigation ditch nearby; it seemed abandoned and overgrown with weeds, providing perfect concealment for their positions.

Half a minute later, a squad of lethargic Kingdom soldiers walked past on the ridge not far from their hiding spot, cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They were grumbling about something as they walked, completely unaware of the danger lurking just feet away. Not until those red dots moved far away on the map did Morin let out a breath and signal for the group to continue.

Corporal Bowman looked at Morin with even deeper admiration. The platoon leader seemed to possess a third eye, always able to predict danger in advance. What they didn't know was that this seemingly god-like intuition was, to Morin, nothing more than having the "entire map" revealed. The enemy’s movements were almost transparent to him. Relying on this informational edge, they bypassed several patrols without incident and successfully infiltrated the suburbs of Seville.

***

When they successfully snuck into the outermost residential district of Seville, the scene before them gave Morin a new understanding of the depths to which this army had sunk. On the streets, clusters of Kingdom soldiers were leaning against walls, soaking in the sun. Some even swaggered into roadside cafes, "taking" coffee and pastries from the terrified shopkeepers without paying a single cent. Near a street corner, several soldiers were gathered, playing cards and shouting loudly. This looked nothing like an army facing an impending battle; they were clearly a pack of bandits occupying a city.

Just then, an even more outrageous scene unfolded. Four men in finely tailored officer uniforms laughed as they forcibly dragged three young women off the street. Ignoring their screams and resistance, they hauled them directly into a nearby two-story building that had apparently been requisitioned. The surrounding soldiers were unfazed, some even whistling and bursting into laughter. When the girls' families and several furious citizens rushed forward to protest, the soldiers immediately leveled their rifles. The dark, hollow muzzles were aimed squarely at their own unarmed countrymen, keeping them firmly at bay.

This sight deeply shocked Morin, who hailed from an era of peace. He found it difficult to associate these bullying, lawless thugs—who turned their guns on their own people—with the word "army." Or rather, he could only think of the dark ages of his motherland in another world; perhaps the warlords and reactionary troops of that time were just like this.

Amidst his fury, a bold idea stirred in his heart. These arrogant, off-guard officers were a perfect, ready-made opportunity. He noticed that while the soldiers were blocking the civilians, none of them dared to approach the two-story building. Clearly, they did not want to disturb their superiors' "amusement." This meant the building was now a relatively isolated and secure target.

A cold glint flashed in Morin’s eyes. Having seen the light, how could he tolerate the darkness? He signaled Corporal Bowman and the others, pointing toward the rear of the small building. The men understood immediately. They silently bypassed the street, using the cover of the buildings, and soon arrived at the back courtyard. As Morin had expected, there were no guards here. The wall was low, and they climbed over with ease.

***

In the back courtyard, only a few hens huddled by the wall; they showed no reaction to Morin and his men, as if they were complicit in what was happening. The cries of the girls and the raucous laughter of the men coming from upstairs fueled the rage in the hearts of Corporal Bowman and his squad, while also providing the perfect cover for their movements.

Morin made a gesture, signaling everyone to sling their rifles across their backs. He shortened the strap of his Gew. 98 rifle to the minimum, pulling the weapon tight against his back, and held it with his hand to minimize any clatter or noise during their advance. This nearly 1.3-meter-long rifle was a precise tool for killing in open terrain, but in this narrow indoor environment, it was a burden. The others followed suit immediately.

"Bayonets!" Morin commanded in a breathy whisper.

*Shhh-clack.*

Several faint sounds of metal rubbing against metal echoed. All six of them, Morin included, drew their S1898 bayonets from the sheaths at their waists. The standard-issue bayonet of the current Saxon Imperial Army was over half a meter long. It was less of a knife and more of a short sword, gleaming with a cold, sharp light in the dim environment. Morin knew well that this world had not yet been traumatized by trench warfare, so the development of cold weapons for the average infantryman was effectively stagnant. Before the advent of professional combat knives or military daggers, this was the best weapon they could use for indoor close-quarters combat.

He led the way to the back door of the building, finding it only slightly ajar. He pushed it open just enough to peek through, listened for a moment, and confirmed that there was no one on the ground floor before slipping inside. A stench of stale alcohol and cologne hit them. They crept up to the second-floor stairwell, where the noise from above grew louder.

"What are you struggling for? With your lot as country folk, you wouldn't even make it into my bed back north!"

"It is your honor to serve us; you should learn to be grateful!"

"We’re out here fighting the rebels and the Saxons for you lot—we’re risking our lives! You’d better serve us properly!"

Listen to that. Is that even human talk?