Chapter 4: A Woman of Vast Influence and Remarkable Power

Morin felt entirely numb.

Ever since he had transmigrated, his worldview had been shattered, rebuilt, and shattered again repeatedly.

First, he was subjected to a brutal beating, then came the "golden finger" system, followed by the appearance of super-powered "canned" soldiers—men clad in plate armor and wielding greatswords, capable of taking direct fire from firearms at close range. Now, even the "International Brigades" had surfaced.

How could these left-wing fighters, clearly leaning toward Communism or Anarchism, be mixed up with the Saxon Empire, an entity that screamed of right-wing militaristic feudalism?

The trajectory of this world line was absurd. It was like watching Kaiser Wilhelm II and Lenin holding hands while singing "La Marseillaise"—a scene brimming with magical realism.

Before Morin could even clear his head, he was hoisted up by the iron-clad soldiers beside him, stumbling along with the main force as they retreated. He was in excruciating pain and lacked the energy to delve into the ideological complexities of this world. Right now, survival was the only priority.

The unit traveled through the night and soon reached the outskirts of Seville. Behind a thick cluster of bushes, several military trucks with quite retro designs were parked in the shadows. Nearby stood numerous bicycles and tall warhorses, with sentries holding the reins and keeping a vigilant watch on their surroundings. The entire scene carried a peculiar atmosphere, a blend of industrial and agricultural elements characteristic of the First World War.

Upon arrival, there was no delay. Morin, Lieutenant General Mackensen, the few rescued wounded, and the heavy-armored soldiers were prioritized and loaded into the rear trailers of the trucks. The remaining Saxon soldiers and the armed personnel of the International Brigades nimbly mounted their horses or hopped onto their bicycles. With a roar of engines and the neighing of horses, the mixed force galloped away from the city.

There were no seats in the truck trailers. Morin had to lie half-prostrate on the cold, hay-covered steel floor beside Lieutenant General Mackensen, swaying with the jarring motion of the vehicle. By the moonlight, he stole a glance at the General. Mackensen’s complexion was poor, and the blood at the corner of his mouth had already dried, yet he kept his back straight, his gaze sharp as he stared at the night scenery flashing by outside the trailer.

Morin noticed that the General’s eyes occasionally drifted toward him, carrying a new depth, no longer the purely clinical appraisal of a superior looking at a subordinate. Just as Morin was struggling to recall the memories of the body’s original owner to figure out his connection to the General, Mackensen spoke.

"The last time I saw you was at a banquet in Dresden."

Mackensen’s voice was weary. He did not look at Morin, his gaze fixed on the distance. "Back then, you were no different from any other fallen aristocrat’s offspring, living off the protection of your ancestors, your eyes filled with nothing but hollowness and numbness."

Morin’s expression flickered slightly. It seemed this General was an old acquaintance of the original owner—or perhaps, of his ancestors.

"But today, your performance surprised me." Mackensen finally turned his head, his eyes burning as he looked at Morin. "I had expected that once the Britannians' fists landed on your face, you would have spilled everything you knew within three blows."

Morin twitched his lips but remained silent. What could he say? That he truly didn't know anything at the time? That his only thought had been, "Just kill me and get it over with, don't keep me waiting for reincarnation"?

If he said that, the General would likely kick him off the truck on the spot.

Mackensen seemed to take Morin’s silence as a form of tacit admission. He nodded, a hint of approval in his tone. "It seems the blood of your forebears still flows in your veins—that grit of a Saxon soldier, merely buried for too long by your decadent past."

However, Mackensen’s next words made Morin’s heart skip a beat.

"But that does not mean I will lower my standards for you." The General’s tone turned cold again, laced with undisguised anger. "Just a day before the military observer group departed, a telegram from the capital bypassed every layer of the chain of command and landed directly on my desk."

"There is a certain 'noble lady' with immense influence..." Mackensen emphasized the term with palpable scorn and disdain. "She hoped I would 'take care' of you, preferably by transferring you to a rear-echelon clerical post to ensure your safety."

At this, Mackensen let out a cold snort. Enduring his pain, he forced himself up and leaned closer, his face inches from Morin’s, and articulated every word: "What does she think the military is? Her private garden or a sanitarium?!"

"I despise those who treat the military as a place to gild their reputations! And those fools who try to interfere with military command through nepotism!"

He stared fixedly at Morin, the pressure nearly making it impossible for Morin to breathe.

"So, I refuse!"

"Not only will I not transfer you to the rear, but I will put you on the front lines! And in the foremost combat unit of the attack sequence!"

"I want you to experience for yourself what war is really like! Let’s see if those bones of yours, softened by alcohol, can harden once again!"

The truck jolted violently, and Morin’s heart trembled along with it. He didn't speak—partly because Mackensen’s presence was too overwhelming, and partly because, in his memories, the original owner’s parents had long since passed away. Even if they were alive, given the family's decline, his mother could hardly be considered a "noble lady," let alone someone with the power to send telegrams directly to the front line. He had no idea who the General was talking about.

After finishing his tirade, the old General hissed through his teeth in pain and settled back into a semi-reclined position.

The convoy continued along the bumpy dirt road in silence. Feeling the awkwardness, Morin turned his head and saw several massive, dark silhouettes floating quietly in the night sky. They were giant airships, hidden in the darkness; one could barely notice them without a careful look. It seemed the precise and lethal artillery fire from earlier had been guided by these eyes in the sky.

After traveling about a dozen kilometers, the convoy finally slowed and pulled into a large, makeshift camp. Morin looked around; the camp was established against a hillside and a forest, and its scale was quite impressive.

Soldiers in field-gray uniforms walked between tents, and in the distance, the barrels of towed artillery could be seen, though they were not currently deployed. From the chatter of the nearby officers, Morin gathered that this was the Saxon Empire’s forward assembly area and temporary command post in the region.

Once the truck came to a stop, Morin jumped off the trailer and turned to help the old General. But the old man was hardy; ignoring Morin’s outstretched hand, he leapt down himself. Seeing this, several staff officers rushed over in excitement. Mackensen ignored Morin entirely and walked toward the largest tent in the center of the position, surrounded by his staff.

The surrounding soldiers and officers were busy and tense. A medic found Morin, treated his wounds briefly, and hurried away. For a moment, the confused Morin became the most leisurely—or perhaps, aimless—person in the area.

However, Morin knew how to keep himself occupied. Finding a corner to sit in, he took out the officer’s ID and document pouch he had scavenged from the Holy Britannian Empire officers earlier.

The text on the ID was in English, which Morin was familiar with, but the content made him uneasy.

"MI9... Intelligence personnel from Military Intelligence Section 9?"

"4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers... and he was a Major?"

As for the documents in the pouch, while they didn't reveal much critical information, they gave Morin a rough understanding of the enemy’s situation. As he browsed through them, notifications flashed in his mind.

[Information Collection: 10%...]
[New 'Intelligence' collected, please view under the relevant entries!]
['Information' updated, please view under the relevant entries!]

After confirming all information was gathered, Morin walked to the entrance of the tent where General Mackensen and his staff were, and asked a guard to deliver the items inside. He then returned to his corner, lay down, and began "clearing the red dots."

In the process, he quickly grasped the current situation and awakened many of the original owner’s memories.

The guy, also named Morin, was, as Mackensen had said on the truck, a descendant of the Junker military aristocracy. Morin’s grandfather had even served with Mackensen in the "Death’s Head Hussars," and the two had formed a deep friendship. Even after Morin’s grandfather died in battle, and the family fell into decline due to his father’s squandering and eventual death from alcoholism, Mackensen had always looked after the remaining relatives, including Morin. He had even recommended Morin to the military academy—he had certainly done more than enough.

Morin had not wasted the opportunity the old General provided. After graduating from the military academy with decent overall marks, he was assigned to the 33rd Infantry Regiment, 16th Infantry Brigade, 9th Infantry Division of the Saxon Imperial Army.

Under normal circumstances, Morin would have become a platoon leader in a battalion of this regiment, just like his seniors, a low-ranking officer of the Saxon Empire.

But the problem lay in the unit he was assigned to.

Almost as soon as his transfer order was issued, his 16th Infantry Brigade received orders to move south with full equipment and strength into the neighboring Kingdom of Aragon...