Chapter 330: When the Brilliance of Humanity Shines

The bagpipe sound drifting from afar, like some summons from the Scottish Highlands, pierced through the swirling snow curtain and drilled straight into Sprink’s ears.

The former opera house tenor substitute froze.

He maintained his posture, prepared to sing the second verse, mouth slightly open. The breath he had gathered swirled in his throat, ultimately turning into a quivering gasp of marvel.

Immediately after, he made a move that caused everyone’s heart to skip a beat.

Sprink was not content with standing at the safe height of the firing platform. Instead, his red, freezing hands tightly gripped the slippery mud at the trench’s edge, and his mud-covered military boots pushed hard against the platform’s wooden ladder.

“Hey! What are you doing!”

A Saxon platoon leader standing near Sprink was scared out of his wits.

The young second lieutenant lunged forward almost instinctively, reaching out to grab Sprink’s ankle.

“Get down! You madman! Do you want to eat bullets?!”

But Sprink moved astonishingly fast—or rather, some near-fanatical emotion endowed him with extraordinary agility.

The platoon leader’s fingers only brushed against his trouser leg, grabbing a handful of ice-laced mud.

With a splash, loose dirt slid down.

Sprink had already vaulted over the earth wall that protected their lives, leaning more than half his body out of the trench, completely exposed to the death-filled wilderness.

“My God—”

A collective gasp echoed through the trench.

Morin and several instruction unit veterans rushed onto the firing platform almost simultaneously.

He had already pulled his right hand out of his overcoat pocket, spreading his five fingers.

As long as there was the slightest muzzle flash from the opposite side, he would attempt to use 【Projectile Protection】 to protect this reckless tenor.

The few instruction unit veterans also raised their rifles, their dark muzzles firmly locking onto the darkness opposite. Fingers rested on triggers, just waiting to open fire.

However, the anticipated gunfire did not sound.

Instead, the previously mournful bagpipe sound from the opposite side seemed to sense something the moment Sprink leaned out.

The unseen Scottish piper slowed the tempo. The sharp high notes became soft and soothing, as if patiently waiting for an old friend to join in.

Sprink understood this silent invitation.

He ignored the alarmed cries of his comrades behind him, nor did he care about the bullets that could pierce his chest at any moment.

Gripping the muddy edge of the trench, he took a deep breath of the freezing air, laced with gunpowder smoke and snow.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht—”

The singing resumed.

This time, without the obstruction of the trench’s earth walls, the clear and resonant tenor, accompanied by the bagpipes, spread completely across the sky above No Man’s Land.

The bagpipe’s unique drone, carrying a trace of desolation and distance, perfectly merged with this originally gentle hymn.

The two completely different timbres intertwined and spiraled above this 120-meter death zone, ultimately transforming into a resonance that struck straight to the soul.

Looking at the figure half-kneeling at the trench edge, head tilted back in song, Morin felt like a wad of cotton was stuffed in his throat; he couldn’t speak a word.

At this moment, even the most hard-hearted soldiers in the trenches on both sides couldn’t bear to pull the trigger and interrupt what was perhaps the most bizarre duet in the history of human warfare.

When the last note dissipated into the snowstorm, Sprink didn’t shrink back into the trench as everyone expected.

He turned around. His eyes, exceptionally bright with excitement, swept across the trench and finally landed on a decorated, knee-high small pine tree beside him.

Before anyone else could react, Sprink grabbed the Christmas tree adorned with candles, shell casings, and tin-can stars, and then made his craziest move of the night—

Holding the tree with both hands as if hoisting a sacred banner, he climbed completely out of the trench, his feet stepping onto the muddy ground of No Man’s Land.

“Sprink! Come back!”

The platoon leader’s voice cracked. He wanted to rush out and pull the man back but was firmly held down by the veterans next to him.

“Don’t move, sir! Going out now will only make the other side misjudge the situation!”

Thus, under the watchful gaze of thousands of eyes, this former tenor—wearing a filthy military overcoat and not even a helmet—carried a Christmas tree with flickering candlelight, trudging unevenly toward the center of No Man’s Land.

As he walked, he continued humming that familiar melody.

Meanwhile, in a crater about forty meters from the Saxon trench, Jack, the veteran from the North American Legion, was wondering if the cold was giving him hallucinations.

He lay flat in the freezing mud, tightly gripping his Lee-Enfield rifle.

Just moments ago, he had been worrying about being spotted by the Saxon observation post and getting his head blown off.

Yet now, a pair of mud-caked military boots strutted right past the edge of his hiding spot.

Jack could even clearly see the patches on the man’s trouser legs, and it felt as if he could smell the fresh scent of pine resin wafting from the tree.

“What the fuck is going on—”

The veteran was completely dumbfounded.

He lay in the mud pit, watching the figure walk further away. For a moment, he actually forgot he was a scout on reconnaissance, even forgetting to raise his muzzle.

Sprink didn’t notice the terrified and confused eyes in the crater by his feet. His eyes were focused only on the darkness ahead.

But he wasn’t afraid.

Morin stood on the firing platform, watching that lonely figure reach the center of No Man’s Land.

There stood a withered tree stump blown apart by heavy artillery, jutting out of the flat ground like a severed finger.

As the last line of the second verse of Silent Night was sung, Sprink stopped.

He carefully placed the Christmas tree onto the stump, adjusting its position to ensure the candles wouldn’t be blown out by the wind.

Illuminated by that faint yet warm candlelight, this slaughterhouse covered in corpses, craters, and barbed wire unexpectedly revealed a sense of tranquility.

Sprink straightened up, adjusted his collar, and then gracefully performed an opera curtain call bow toward the pitch-black trenches opposite.

“Merry Christmas, Britannians!”

He shouted with all his might, his voice echoing across the empty wilderness.

The opposite side was silent for a few seconds.

The hearts of the Saxon soldiers leaped into their throats, terrified that a gunshot would be his reply.

But immediately after, a head wearing a soft cap popped up from behind a dirt mound in the opposite trench.

“Merry Christmas, Saxons!”

That voice, carrying a heavy nasal tone and a strange accent, yelled loudly, “But we’re Scots! Not damn Britannians!”

As soon as he finished speaking, another head wearing a flat steel helmet popped out from another section of the trench.

“Hey! Merry Christmas, Saxons! We aren’t fucking Britannians either, we’re North Americans!”

“Hahahaha—”

A roar of laughter instantly erupted from the trenches on both sides.

Sprink also couldn’t help laughing out loud. He even ceremoniously bowed in those two directions to express his apologies.

“Sorry, gentlemen! This tree is placed right here. If any of you want it, you can come take it yourselves!”

After yelling this, he was preparing to turn back to his own lines.

Suddenly, a rustling sound came from the trench belonging to the self-proclaimed “North Americans.”

A figure vaulted out of the trench, carrying no weapons, holding both hands up, and trudging unevenly toward Sprink.

Although the atmosphere was currently amicable, seeing an enemy actually step out caused previously relaxed nerves to instantly tense up again.

“Alert!”

The clattering sounds of bolts being pulled echoed through the Saxon trench.

Sprink froze as well.

He wasn’t truly crazy, after all. Watching that figure getting closer, his legs began to tremble uncontrollably.

The figure walked quickly, and before long, he was less than five meters away from Sprink.

By the faint light of the Christmas tree, Sprink clearly saw the other person.

It was an officer wearing a woolen overcoat, the rank of Second Lieutenant hanging on his collar patches.

His face was young, but his eye sockets were sunken, written full of exhaustion.

“Don’t be nervous, friend.”

The officer stopped and spread his hands to show he meant no harm.

He spoke in broken Saxon mixed with a heavily accented Britannian language: “Singing—very beautiful. Very—great.”

Sprink was taken aback and subconsciously replied, “Thank you.”

“I am—Wilson.”

The Second Lieutenant pointed to himself, then pointed toward the Saxon trench.

“I want to—talk with your officer. Tonight—ceasefire. Okay?”

He struggled to articulate these words, but the meaning was conveyed clearly.

Sprink hesitated for a moment, then turned to look at his own trench.

“Sir! Their officer says he wants to talk with our officer about a ceasefire!”

This shout drifted back to the trench, and several company and platoon leaders looked at each other in dismay.

Privately contacting enemy officers during an active engagement was a major felony in the military code, easily leading to a court-martial or even execution.

“Is this a trap?” someone asked in a low voice.

“Doesn’t look like it—but he is alone.”

Just as several junior officers were hesitating, a figure had already bypassed the crowd and stepped onto the wooden ladder leading to No Man’s Land.

“Sir?!”

Kleist turned pale with fright. He rushed forward and grabbed the hem of Morin’s overcoat. “You can’t go! It’s too dangerous! What if there are snipers on the other side—”

Manstein was also anxious: “Lieutenant Colonel! You are the commander of the instruction unit, you cannot take this risk!”

Morin paused his movements and glanced back at them.

His face lacked its usual playful smile, nor did it carry the grim sternness he showed in combat.

At this very moment, his expression was so calm it was somewhat frightening, his eyes flickering with a light Kleist had never seen before.

“No, Ewald, Erich…”

Morin gently brushed away Kleist’s hand. His tone was flat but brooked no argument.

“As it stands, I am the highest-ranking officer in this section of the trench… It’s quite fitting for me to handle this sort of thing.”

Saying that, he adjusted the service cap he was wearing while resting tonight, planted his hands on the edge of the trench, and vaulted up.

In that instant, Morin felt no fear.

On the contrary, when his feet truly stepped onto the muddy ground belonging to No Man’s Land, it was as if a strange electric current instantly coursed through his entire body.

He looked at the Christmas tree swaying in the wind and snow in the distance, and at the enemy second lieutenant waiting beside it.

A powerful sense of historical destiny struck him.

Morin felt that he wasn’t just walking toward an enemy; he was walking toward a piece of history, a legend where human brilliance and absurdity coexisted.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward against the wind and snow, striding toward the waiting figure.

(End of Chapter)