Morin was utterly numb.
Since transmigrating, his worldview had been repeatedly shattered, reconstructed, and shattered again. First, he'd been brutally beaten, then came the golden-finger system, followed by superhuman "tin can" soldiers clad in plate armor and wielding greatswords, capable of shrugging off gunfire. Now, even an "International Brigade" had emerged.
How could these clearly left-wing warriors—steeped in communist or anarchist ideals—team up with the Saxon Empire, a feudal state reeking of right-wing militarism? The timeline's trajectory was absurd, like imagining Kaiser Wilhelm II and Lenin holding hands to sing La Marseillaise—a surreal blend of magical realism.
With his mind a jumbled mess, Morin was hauled along by the armored soldier, stumbling through the retreat with the main force, too pained to ponder ideological quirks.
Survival was the priority.
The group moved under cover of night, soon reaching the outskirts of Seville.
Behind a dense thicket, several vintage military trucks idled in the shadows. Nearby, bicycles and sturdy horses stood ready, with guards keeping watch, leading the mounts with vigilance.
The scene exuded a peculiar mix of industrial and agrarian vibes, quintessentially WWI-era.
Without delay, Morin, General Mackensen, the rescued wounded, and the armored soldiers were prioritized into the truck beds. The remaining Saxon troops and International Brigade fighters mounted horses or pedaled bicycles.
With the rumble of engines and whinny of horses, the mixed convoy sped away from the city.
The truck bed offered no seats. Morin and Mackensen lay half-reclined on a layer of straw atop the cold iron floor, jostled by the ride.
By moonlight, Morin stole glances at the general.
Mackensen's complexion was pallid, the blood on his lips congealed, yet he sat ramrod straight, his sharp gaze fixed on the rushing nightscape.
Morin noticed Mackensen's eyes occasionally settling on him, carrying a nuance beyond the usual superior-to-subordinate scrutiny.
As Morin sifted through the original owner's memories to decipher their connection, Mackensen suddenly spoke.
"The last time I saw you was at a ball in Dresden."
His voice carried a weathered tone, his eyes still fixed ahead.
"You were no different from those down-and-out noble scions back then, coasting on your ancestors' legacy, your eyes hollow and numb."
Morin's expression shifted slightly. It seemed this general had history with the original Morin—or rather, his forebears.
"But today, you surprised me."
Mackensen turned, his gaze piercing into Morin.
"I thought Britannia's fists would have you spilling everything within three blows."
Morin forced a wry smile, staying silent.
What could he say? Admit he truly knew nothing? Confess his thoughts were along the lines of "just kill me and let me reincarnate"? Such words might get him kicked off the truck by this stern general.
Mackensen took Morin's silence as tacit agreement, nodding with a trace of approval.
"It seems your veins still carry your forefathers' blood—the spirit of a Saxon soldier, long buried under your past decadent life."
Yet his next words made Morin's heart sink.
"But that doesn't mean I'll lower my expectations of you."
The general's tone turned icy, laced with undisguised anger.
"The day before the observation group departed, a telegram from within the empire bypassed the command chain and landed on my desk."
"There was this remarkably influential 'lady'…"
Mackensen emphasized the term, his voice dripping with contempt and disdain.
"She requested I 'look after' you, preferably reassigning you to a safe rear staff position to ensure your safety."
He snorted coldly, enduring his pain to lean closer, nearly nose-to-nose with Morin, enunciating each word:
"Does she think the army is her backyard garden or a sanatorium?!"
"I despise those who treat the military as a gilded playground! And those fools trying to meddle with command through nepotism!"
His stare was suffocatingly intense.
"So, I won't!"
"Not only will I not reassign you to the rear, I'll place you on the front lines! In the most forward assault unit!"
"I want you to experience war firsthand! Let's see if those alcohol-softened bones can harden again!"
The truck lurched, and Morin's heart jolted with it.
He stayed quiet—partly because Mackensen's presence was overwhelming, leaving him speechless, and partly because the original owner's parents were long deceased.
Even if alive, their family's decline made it unlikely his mother was some "lady" with the clout to send telegrams to the front.
He couldn't place who Mackensen meant.
After his outburst, the old general hissed in pain, settling back into a half-recline.
The convoy rumbled on over bumpy terrain, silence settling between them.
Feeling the awkwardness, Morin turned his head, spotting massive black silhouettes hovering in the night sky—large observation balloons, nearly invisible unless closely scrutinized.
Clearly, the precise artillery strikes had been guided by these aerial eyes.
After about ten miles, the convoy slowed, entering a sprawling camp carved into a hillside and forest.
Morin surveyed the area—a significant base with field-gray soldiers moving between tents, distant towed artillery barrels visible but not deployed.
From overheard conversations, he deduced this was the Saxon Empire's forward assembly and temporary headquarters in the region.
The truck halted. Morin jumped down, turning to assist the general, but the old man, sturdy despite his wounds, ignored the offered hand and leapt off himself.
Immediately, several staff officers rushed over, and Mackensen, ignoring Morin, strode toward the largest tent under their escort.
Soldiers and officers bustled about. A medic briefly treated Morin's wounds before hurrying off.
Left idle and disoriented, Morin became the least occupied figure here.
Ever resourceful, he found a corner, sat down, and pulled out the IDs and document pouch from the Britannia officers.
The IDs were in English he recognized, though the contents unsettled him.
"MI9 intelligence agents?"
"Northumberland Flintlock Regiment, Fourth Battalion, a major?"
The documents revealed little critical intel but clarified the enemy's disposition.
As he browsed, notifications flickered in his mind:
[Information Collection: 10%]
[New 'Intelligence' collected, check under relevant entries!]
['Information' updated, check under relevant entries!]
After confirming the data, Morin approached the tent where Mackensen and the staff were, asking the guards to deliver the items inside.
He returned to his corner, lying back to "clear his mind."
This process clarified his situation, unlocking more of the original Morin's memories.
This "Morin" hailed from a Junker military noble lineage, as Mackensen had hinted. His grandfather had served with Mackensen in the "Death Cavalry Regiment," forging a deep bond.
Even after the grandfather's death, despite the father's squandering leading to the family's ruin and his own alcohol-related demise, Mackensen had supported the relatives, including Morin, even recommending him to the academy—a debt fully repaid.
Morin hadn't squandered this chance, graduating with solid marks and being assigned to the Saxon Ninth Infantry Division, 16th Infantry Brigade, 33rd Infantry Regiment.
Normally, he'd have become a platoon leader, a typical junior officer.
But the issue lay with his assignment.
Almost simultaneously with the orders, the 16th Infantry Brigade received commands to mobilize south into neighboring Aragon Kingdom.