"General Mackensen, we have shown you ample respect, and we hope you will extend the same courtesy to us."
The questioning middle-aged officer stared at Mackensen, his expression darkening as he spoke: "At the very least, when referring to my nation, please use its full name."
Mackensen let out a cold laugh. "Full name? The Sacred Britannia Empire? What connection do you have with 'sacred'?"
"Neither sacred, nor an empire."
Well, this was another sharp-tongued contender.
Their exchange, however, provided Morin with a flood of new information in a short span. The mysterious voice in his mind chimed again, updating the "Information" interface.
[Current Information Collection: 9%]
[Sacred Britannia Empire, capital located on the Britannia Isles, controls vast colonies worldwide, a despotic state ruled by the emperor's bloodline.]
Even without the system's hint, Morin could guess from the name alone—this had to be an alternate-world Britain. Though he couldn't discern its link to some ancient ACG work's "superpower," one thing was clear: relations with the Saxon Empire were likely strained.
For some reason, both empires had deployed military forces to the current "Aragon Kingdom," though open conflict had yet to erupt. These Britannia soldiers, it seemed, had pulled off a feat reminiscent of a certain "alternate-world Li Yunlong"—ambushing a Saxon military observation group and capturing Morin and his companions.
Meanwhile, Mackensen's biting remarks earned him a swift "warm" response.
Several heavy punches landed, and with a clatter, the general, chair and all, was knocked to the ground.
The three Britannia—fine, Sacred Britannia—officers didn't overlook Morin either. After a similar barrage of fists and kicks, he too was sprawled on the floor.
Next, two pistols were pressed against the groins of Morin and General Mackensen.
"Our patience has limits. This is your final chance—are you Saxons planning to intervene in the Aragon Kingdom's civil war? What are your military deployment details?!"
"Just kill me already—I genuinely don't know a damn thing," Morin rasped weakly, hoping for a quick end to avoid further torment, especially the dread of a "chicken-flying-egg-smashing" fate.
To his surprise, the Britannia officer lowered his gun, a cold smirk playing on his lips.
"Excellent. Your loyalty to your country has earned my respect~ However, that only convinces me you're hiding valuable intelligence."
Lying on the ground, Morin felt a mix of amusement and despair. He spat out a mouthful of blood and muttered, "Seriously, what are you thinking? I'm just a lowly lieutenant—how could I possess the military intelligence you want!"
"Precisely because you're a mere lieutenant, it's all the more suspicious!"
"If you're not some key figure or privy to critical information, why would you be in an officer group where the lowest rank is a major?! And riding in the same vehicle as a lieutenant general?!"
"Wait… is that how it is?"
Thud!
Another brutal kick landed, leaving Morin's vision swimming with black spots.
"Keep playing dumb. Once you're taken to the rear interrogation room, I'll give you a proper 'welcome.' I hope your mouth stays as tough then," the Britannia officer sneered, baring a menacing grin.
Before he could add more, the cellar door burst open. A young officer stumbled down the stairs in a panic, reporting urgently in a language Morin had never heard.
Yet, astonishingly, Morin understood it.
The tone and pronunciation bore a resemblance to English from his pre-transmigration world. Closing his eyes, he focused, and his mind automatically translated the jumbled syllables.
"Major! The outer temporary defenses are under attack! It's the Saxons—and another group… unidentified armed personnel!"
The young officer's voice trembled with panic.
As he spoke, muffled explosions and sporadic gunfire filtered through the open cellar door, far clearer than before.
The cellar's atmosphere tightened instantly.
The lead Britannia major's face darkened. He kicked Mackensen's chair.
"Move them to the rear immediately! Now!"
"Yes, sir!"
The young officer saluted and turned to climb the stairs, intent on fetching help.
But as he stepped onto the first rung, a deafening blast rocked the cellar.
Boom!
The entire structure trembled, dust raining from the ceiling.
The young officer stumbled, tumbling down the wooden stairs with a scream.
Before he could rise, a towering shadow leaped from the entrance.
The figure landed with precision, a heavy-booted foot slamming into the young officer's chest.
Crack! The sound of breaking ribs echoed.
The young officer's scream was cut short as the shadow's rifle aimed at his head.
Bang!
The close-range shot exploded in the cellar, stinging Morin's eardrums.
The young officer's head burst like a watermelon, blood and brain matter splattering everywhere.
Three or four more shadows poured in.
Their movements were swift and synchronized, devoid of unnecessary noise.
The remaining two Britannia officers reacted, raising their weapons and firing at the entrance.
But beyond the gunshots, only the sharp clangs of deflected bullets and fleeting sparks in the darkness sounded.
In the next instant, three shadows charged with uncanny speed.
They held round shield-like defenses, absurdly blocking the close-range pistol fire before ramming into their targets with force.
Thud! Thud!
The sound of blades tearing through fabric and flesh followed.
The three Britannia officers collapsed into pools of blood without a whimper.
The major who had beaten Morin and Mackensen, issuing threats, twitched as he fell beside Morin, eyes wide in disbelief, staring at him even in death.
Morin had no time to dwell on the corpse.
His full attention was riveted on these sudden assailants.
The fight ended in mere seconds.
Only now, by the flickering oil lamps, did Morin discern their attire.
The attackers wore field-gray uniforms matching his and Mackensen's—good news, suggesting they were likely allies.
Yet over their uniforms, they donned metallic chest plates, shoulder guards, and arm armor.
The plate armor covered their torsos, shoulders, and arms, its archaic design radiating strength and weight.
Their heads were encased in full-coverage, can-like helmets.
What shattered Morin's worldview further was a soldier pulling a blood-dripping one-handed sword from the major's corpse, wiping it casually on the body before sheathing it.
Bolts, plate armor, cold weapons—what kind of mess was this?
Even medieval heavy knights had entered the scene?!
But Morin couldn't dwell on it. After a brief moment of shock, he rasped weakly to the armored soldiers, "I'm fine! Save the general first!"