Chapter 3: You Said Your Column is Called What?

There was more than one armed operative who stormed into the cellar, so there was no question of who to save first. Sometimes, however, maintaining a "proper" attitude is of the utmost importance.

Before Morin had even finished speaking, a sharp dagger sliced through the ropes binding his wrists. A "tin can" soldier offered no wasted words, hoisting him directly off the ground. On the other side, Lieutenant General Mackensen—who had been beaten quite severely for his foul mouth—was hoisted onto the shoulder of another tin can soldier with even greater efficiency. Judging by his limp form, he was clearly badly injured and likely unable to walk.

Supported by the soldiers, Morin stumbled twice, gritting his teeth against the bone-deep pain that left him feeling as though his body were falling apart. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the four corpses of the Britannian officers on the floor, and a thought suddenly crossed his mind.

"Wait a moment, please."

He pulled away from the soldier’s grasp and, fighting through the stabs of pain from every part of his body and drawing in sharp breaths, crouched down. He first rummaged through the pockets of the major who had been issuing threats, quickly finding his officer's ID. He then proceeded to search the other three for their identification, and finally, he slung the young officer’s fallen briefcase over his shoulder. Since he had been able to increase his so-called "Information Collection Progress" after obtaining key intelligence, perhaps the documents or maps inside this bag would also prove useful.

Having done this, he returned to the tin-can soldier and signaled that he was ready. The soldier did not ask questions; he simply braced Morin once more with an arm clad in iron plating. Morin noticed that there seemed to be a faint, imperceptible blue light flowing across the soldier’s armor and round shield. Before Morin could ask anything, the soldier, whose strength was clearly far beyond that of an ordinary man, carried him out of the cellar.

The scene outside was even more gruesome than the cellar. It appeared to be the lobby of a residential building, but the previous violent explosion had reduced everything to powder. Wreckage of furniture and fragments of the structure were churned together, and the air was thick with the scent of cordite and dust. Scattered across the floor were over a dozen bodies and severed limbs of Britannian—or rather, Holy Britannian—soldiers; the heavy stench of blood was enough to choke one.

Morin suppressed the nausea rising in his throat and followed the rescue party out of the building. It was night, but the streetlights were not lit; only the cold moonlight and the glow of fires in the distance provided any illumination. By this dim light, Morin took in the situation. Aside from the tin-can soldiers who had stormed the cellar, there was another half-squad of the same heavy infantry standing guard in the shadows of the street.

The strength and stamina of these "can" soldiers were clearly different from those of ordinary troops. Despite wearing full heavy armor, they carried swords and shields on their backs while wielding rifles of a larger caliber. One of them was even carrying a machine gun that looked suspiciously like an MG08/15.

The surrounding Saxon soldiers, who were keeping watch in the same field-gray uniforms Morin wore, had a much more conventional appearance. There were about thirty of them, armed mostly with bolt-action rifles, currently establishing a makeshift defensive line anchored against the buildings on either side of the street.

Beyond them, there was another group. Their attire was eclectic—some wore old military uniforms, others work clothes, and some even wore shirts and vests—and the weapons they carried were just as varied. Morin immediately recalled the report from the young officer he had overheard earlier: "another group of unidentified armed personnel." It seemed these were the ones.

Just then, a Saxon soldier sprinted over from the end of the street, crouching low. He rushed straight to an officer who appeared to be the commander and reported in a hushed voice: "Captain, the Britannians have reacted! They are disregarding the feints on their flanks and are shifting their main force toward us! Our blocking unit is about to be pinned down!"

No sooner had the words left his lips than the sound of intense gunfire erupted from the distant streets, the distinct whistle of ricocheting bullets cutting through the night air. The nearby Saxon soldiers immediately leveled their rifles toward the source of the fire, and the atmosphere grew tense to the breaking point.

"Understood." The commander, addressed as Captain, remained remarkably calm. "Tell the blocking unit to hold a little longer. As soon as we pull out of here, they are to break off contact and withdraw along the original route! If the Britannians are dead-set on coming to reinforce this sector, they won’t bother pursuing them!"

Soon, Morin was hoisted up once more, following the main force as they began to weave rapidly through the alleys, retreating toward the outskirts of the city. Along the way, he saw several other officers in field-gray uniforms being carried on stretchers in the middle of the column. It seemed they were also survivors of the military observer mission; he just didn't know where they had been held.

The group sprinted for about two city blocks when, suddenly, Morin heard a heart-stopping shriek overhead.

"Whoosh—"

"Boom!"

Before he could react, a shell detonated with a roar back in the town they had just fled. By the time they had run another distance, a second roar echoed behind them. Morin stole a glance backward; the light from this explosion was clearly closer to the block he had just left.

*Range-finding? It seems they have observers guiding the fire... but where are they observing from?*

"Boom!"

By the third roar, Morin had already turned his head to watch the direction they had come from. This time, the impact looked to be extremely close to that residential building.

*Will they continue to adjust the range? Or is it...*

The question flashed through Morin's mind, but he didn't have to wait long for an answer.

"Whoosh—whoosh-whoosh-whoosh—"

A series of piercing whistles tore through the air overhead. Moments later, a thunderous, continuous roar erupted—a barrage of this intensity, lasting for five full volleys. Even though they had already run quite a distance, Morin felt the ground beneath his feet trembling slightly. He instinctively looked back, seeing only fire reaching toward the sky, and felt a lingering sense of terror.

The Captain raised his hand to check his pocket watch by the light of the fires and said in a calm tone, "Those artillerymen are actually quite punctual for once."

The remark made Morin’s skin crawl. He instantly understood the plan of these Saxon soldiers. If the rescue operation had failed, or even been a minute or two late, he, Lieutenant General Mackensen, and all their captured colleagues—perhaps even the rescue party itself—would have been wiped off the face of the earth along with the enemy by this "punctual" barrage.

*That is cold-blooded. They were willing to write off a Lieutenant General just like that...* Morin mused silently.

The column did not pause because of the shelling, continuing its rapid march in formation toward the safety zone. At that moment, the Captain walked over to the group of eccentrically dressed armed men and found a middle-aged man with a thick beard who appeared to be their leader.

"Thank you very much for your support, friends." The Captain’s voice held sincere gratitude. "But we need more time. I hope you can provide cover for a while longer; we must ensure General Mackensen reaches the rear safely."

Morin pricked up his ears, his curiosity about this mysterious armed group reaching its peak. He heard the commander continue: "Please convey to your headquarters later that the Saxon military will remember the invaluable assistance the 'International Brigade' provided tonight."

*Wait, what did you just call them?*

When the words "International Brigade" entered Morin’s ears, he felt as if his brain had been struck by a 150mm heavy artillery shell. With a dull buzz, his mind went blank.

If his meager knowledge of history was correct, this Saxon Empire he found himself in looked every bit like a replica of the German Empire—a dual-monarchy federal state.

Then... how could they be fighting side-by-side in the same trenches as the "International Brigade," a force so clearly aligned with the political left?!

Is this World War I or World War II? What kind of absurd direction has this world taken?!