Thud!
"What is the true purpose of your military observation group in Seville?!"
Morin snapped fully awake after a solid punch landed squarely on his face.
As his vision cleared, he stared at the towering white man before him—dressed in an outdated military uniform, his expression fierce and menacing. Morin's mind reeled in confusion.
"Where did this come from? Did I finally get a break, climb into bed, and fall asleep while gaming?"
Such thoughts flickered through his mind, but the throbbing pain in his cheek and jaw quickly dispelled any notion of a dream.
He'd just been genuinely walloped!
The menacing white man then launched into a rapid string of words in a language Morin had never heard, chattering away. Oddly, Morin understood it as if it were his native tongue—and could even sense the man's unfamiliarity with it.
Now, he was utterly baffled.
He was clearly a trainee—when had he become a lieutenant? Even if he were to adopt the military ranks from Slavic Original God, a 98th-level general would be more fitting! And this "Seville"—he'd never heard of such a place!
Buzz!
As Morin's thoughts lingered on the name, a cold, electronic female voice echoed in his mind.
[Current Information Collection: 5%]
[Intelligence Management System Activating]
His vision flickered, and a game-like UI interface overlaid his sight.
The main feature was a vast map resembling Europe, though most areas remained unexplored. The only partially charted region was a large town at the map's center, labeled "Seville"—the very place the officer had mentioned.
Morin estimated its location roughly in southern Spain, as he knew it.
He tried zooming out, revealing a detailed street map with a golden star marker—likely his position.
On the map's left, several tab-like buttons appeared, currently on the "Map" tab, with options like "Information," "Intelligence," and a few marked "???".
Attempting to click the "???" tabs with his mind yielded a prompt: [Insufficient Current Information Collection, Unable to Access].
Shifting focus to the "Information" tab, new content emerged.
The right-side map switched to a document-like interface with sparse details:
[Seville, capital of the Andalusia Autonomous Region, population approximately 110,000, the fourth-largest city in the Aragon Kingdom.]
[Saxon Empire, a dual-monarchy federal state in central Europa, ruled by the Saxon Wettin Dynasty, a powerful empire.]
"Damn, Aragon and Saxony? Isn't that just Spain and Germany?!" Morin exclaimed internally.
He then opened the "Intelligence" tab, finding even less:
[Your military observation group was attacked, currently captured, detained in a basement of a civilian house in Seville.]
As he read, related memories flooded Morin's mind, piecing together a hazy past.
This body's original owner, also named Morin, hailed from the Saxon Empire, neighboring the Aragon Kingdom. His identity was a young officer cadet, freshly graduated from the Richtfeld Central Military Academy. Ten days ago, he'd been commissioned as a lieutenant, en route to report to his unit.
[Current Information Collection: 7%]
As Morin sorted through the chaotic memories, intending to revisit the "Information" tab, another punch struck him while bound to a chair.
Smack!
He, chair and all, crashed to the ground.
The interface forcibly closed, reverting to normal vision.
[Detected current dangerous state, system interface temporarily disabled]
"What the—doesn't this system have a time-stop feature?!"
Thump!
A military boot slammed into his abdomen, eliciting pained whimpers from Morin.
He couldn't fathom it—moments ago, he'd been gaming, and now he was tied up and beaten.
"Even if I sneaked back on leave to play as a low-tier grasshopper, avoiding high ranks and collecting war zones, this punishment seems excessive!"
The menacing officer roughly righted his chair, then stepped to a table, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.
Only now did Morin survey his surroundings.
As the map suggested, this seemed to be inside a building—low-ceilinged, windowless, lit by oil lamps. In the dim, unlit distance, a wooden staircase loomed faintly. Likely a basement or cellar, he deduced.
Behind the officer's table sat two others in matching uniforms. To his left, another officer in field-gray attire, uniform with his own, was also bound.
Morin pieced together his situation.
Unless this was some cosmic prank, he'd likely transmigrated—straight into a "captured by enemy forces" hellish start.
The officer tossed the sweat- and blood-stained towel onto the table, its stains glaring under the lamplight. He returned to Morin, his heavy breath—reeking of tobacco and sweat—bathing his face.
Thud!
Another fist crashed into Morin's left cheek, ringing his ears with a metallic taste.
"I'll ask again—what is the Saxon military observation group's true mission in Seville?"
The officer's roar exploded beside him.
"Are you Saxons planning to break the agreement and formally intervene in the Aragon Kingdom's civil war?!"
Morin grimaced in pain, cursing the officer's lineage in his mind.
Are these people insane?
I don't even know what you're talking about, man!
He wanted to shout back, but reason warned that speaking would only invite more blows.
The original owner's memories were a jumbled mess, offering no clue about this "mission"—a total blank.
His only option was to keep silent, playing the part of a mute gourd.
The two officers at the table glanced briefly, then resumed smoking, indifferent to the violence.
"Losing your temper on a lieutenant—what skill is that?"
A hoarse yet resonant voice came from beside him.
"If you've got issues, come at me."
Morin strained to turn toward the source.
It was the elderly officer in the field-gray uniform.
Blood trickled from his mouth, his face bruised, yet he sat upright, unbowed despite captivity.
The white officer released Morin's hair, a sinister grin spreading.
"First time hearing such a request."
He turned, strode to the elderly officer, and delivered a punch to his face without hesitation.
Thud!
The chair scraped the rough floor with a grating sound.
The elderly officer's head jerked aside, blood seeping from his lip, but he remained silent.
Unsatisfied, the white officer raised his hand for another strike.
Finally, the two officers at the table intervened.
Extinguishing their cigarettes, they approached. The higher-ranking one raised a hand, halting the aggressor.
He circled the elderly officer, scrutinizing the field-gray uniform and shoulder insignia.
"August von Mackensen."
The officer spoke, his voice steadier than the other's.
"To capture a Saxon Empire Army Lieutenant General like you here is unexpected."
Morin's heart skipped. This old man was a general?
No wonder his earlier confidence.
Wait—this name feels familiar!
Before he could place it, a new question arose: why was a lowly lieutenant like him captured with a general?
The general, Mackensen, lifted his head slowly. Despite his battered face, an innate arrogance persisted.
He even twisted his bleeding mouth into a scornful smirk.
"Knowing my identity, you should understand the observation group's nature."
Mackensen's tone remained calm.
"We were invited by Aragon's legitimate ruler, King Ferdinand VII, with diplomatic immunity. Your blatant attack on our group is an open provocation to the Saxon Empire—can it be construed as an act of war?"
"Diplomatic immunity?"
The later officer chuckled, as if hearing a grand joke.
"General Mackensen, this is Andalusia, not Madrid. Given Aragon's current state, the king's orders hold little sway here."
He paused, his tone softening, losing its edge.
"We hold no enmity toward the Saxon Empire. But, Your Excellency, you and your men appeared where you shouldn't. We merely seek to know why."
He spread his hands, adopting a reasonable demeanor.
Mackensen studied the officer, then let out a cold laugh.
"Oh, we appeared where we shouldn't?"
"Then why are Brittany's troops here too?"