The armed personnel who stormed the cellar weren't a lone force, so there was no need to prioritize who to save first.
But sometimes, displaying a "proper" attitude was crucial.
Before Morin could finish speaking, a sharp dagger sliced through the ropes binding his hands.
A "tin can" soldier—encased in heavy armor—offered no idle chatter, simply hoisting him up from the ground.
Meanwhile, General Mackensen, battered for his sharp tongue, was unceremoniously slung over another armored soldier's shoulder.
His limp form suggested severe injuries, likely rendering him unable to walk.
Supported by the soldier, Morin staggered two steps, enduring the bone-deep ache to steady himself.
He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the four Britannia officer corpses. A sudden thought struck him.
"Wait a moment, please."
He shook off the soldier's support, grimacing through the pain as he crouched down.
First, he searched the major who'd issued threats, quickly retrieving the man's officer ID. Then, he collected the identification from the other three.
Finally, he slung the young officer's fallen document pouch over his shoulder.
Since gaining key information boosted his "information collection" percentage, perhaps the maps or documents inside could prove useful.
Only after this did he return to the armored soldier, signaling his readiness.
The soldier asked no questions, using an armored arm to steady him. Morin noticed a faint blue glow pulsing across the soldier's armor and round shield—odd, but he had no time to inquire.
With strength far exceeding a normal human's, the soldier swiftly escorted him out of the cellar.
The scene outside was even more harrowing.
This appeared to be the ground floor of a civilian house, now reduced to rubble by the earlier explosion—furniture shards and building debris intermingled, the air thick with gunpowder and dust.
Dozens of Britannia—Sacred Britannia—soldiers lay dead or dismembered, their blood pooling with a stench that clogged the nose and throat.
Morin swallowed the nausea rising in his gullet, following the rescue team's steps out of the building.
It was night outside. The streetlights remained dark, with only the cold moonlight and distant flames providing illumination.
In the dim light, Morin assessed the situation.
Besides the armored soldiers from the cellar, another half-squad of similar heavy infantry guarded the street's shadows, rifles at the ready.
These "tin cans" exhibited strength and stamina beyond ordinary soldiers. Clad in heavy armor, they carried sword-and-shield combos and wielded rifles of a larger caliber. One even hefted what resembled an MG08/15 machine gun.
In contrast, the Saxon soldiers in field-gray uniforms—about thirty strong—patrolled normally, armed with bolt-action rifles, using the street's buildings to form a makeshift defensive line.
Then there was another group.
Their attire was a chaotic mix—old military uniforms, worker's clothes, even shirt-and-vest combinations—wielding an equally eclectic array of weapons.
Morin recalled the young officer's report: "another group of unidentified armed personnel."
This had to be them.
At that moment, a Saxon soldier darted low from the street's end, rushing to an officer who seemed to be the commander.
"Captain, the Britannians have caught on! They're ignoring the feint on their flank, redirecting their main force toward us! Our ambush team is nearly overwhelmed!"
As he spoke, a volley of gunfire erupted from the distance, the whizz of stray bullets piercing the night air.
Nearby Saxon soldiers swung their rifles toward the sound, the tension spiking.
"Understood."
The captain remained composed.
"Tell the ambush team to hold a bit longer. Once we withdraw, they're to disengage along the original route. If the Britannians focus on reinforcing here, they won't bother with them!"
Soon, Morin was supported as the group began a rapid retreat through alleys toward the city outskirts.
Along the way, he spotted several more field-gray officers on stretchers, likely other observation group survivors, though their prior detention remained unclear.
The team sprinted, covering two blocks, when a heart-stopping whistle sounded overhead.
Whoosh—
Boom!
Before Morin could react, an artillery shell exploded in the town they'd just fled.
After another stretch, a second blast followed.
Glancing back, Morin saw the fireball closer to his recent position.
"Spotting rounds? Someone's guiding them… but from where?"
Boom!
As the third explosion echoed, Morin preemptively turned to watch. The impact was perilously near the house they'd left.
"Will they keep adjusting? Or…"
His question was answered swiftly.
Whoosh—Whoosh whoosh whoosh—
A series of shrill whistles overhead preceded a thunderous barrage—five rounds of concentrated artillery fire.
Even at a distance, Morin felt the ground tremble.
Instinctively looking back, he saw towering flames, a shiver of dread coursing through him.
The captain raised his hand, checking his pocket watch by the firelight, and murmured calmly, "Those artillery boys are right on time for once."
Those words sent a chill down Morin's spine, raising every hair.
He grasped the Saxon plan.
Had the rescue failed or been delayed by a minute or two, he, Mackensen, the captured comrades—and possibly the rescuers—would have been erased alongside the enemy by that "timely" barrage.
"Ruthless… discarding a lieutenant general like that," Morin mused silently.
The team pressed on, maintaining their column's pace toward safety.
The captain then approached the motley-armed group, addressing a bearded middle-aged man who seemed their leader.
"Thank you for your support, friends."
His voice carried genuine gratitude.
"But we need more time. I hope you can cover us a bit longer—we must ensure General Mackensen reaches the rear safely."
Morin perked his ears, his curiosity about this mysterious force peaking.
The commander continued, "Please relay to your headquarters that the Saxon military will remember the 'International Brigade's' invaluable aid tonight."
Wait—what did you just say?
When "International Brigade" hit Morin's ears, it felt like a 150mm howitzer fired point-blank at his forehead.
His mind blanked with a buzz.
If his scant historical knowledge held, the Saxon Empire—resembling the German Second Empire, a dual-monarchy federation—shouldn't be shoulder-to-shoulder with a left-leaning "International Brigade"!
Was this World War I or II?
What bizarre path had this world taken?!