Chapter 125 A Young Man Arrives at the War College

As the foundational matters were established, the formation of the Teaching Assault Battalion began to operate methodically, like a wound-up clock.

The newly transferred officers, Kleist and Manstein, although lacking in practical combat experience, were undoubtedly competent professionals.

Morin only needed to set a clear direction, and they would organize all the remaining details flawlessly, often thinking of things Morin himself had overlooked.

The personnel transfer documents moved with the utmost efficiency between the various departments of the War Office. Soon, transfer orders were delivered to all the specified units.

On the outskirts of Dresden, the new garrison, hastily constructed by the fortification engineers working overtime, welcomed its first occupants.

The atmosphere in the camp became subtly tense.

On one side were the soldiers transferred from the Royal Guard and the Bavarian Jäger units.

They stood tall, their uniforms immaculate, an air of elite military pride in their eyes.

On the other side were the veterans of the old 1st Company, travel-worn after receiving the emergency order to cut short their leave and rush from Zwickau.

An urgent recall order had ripped them from their warm beds, bustling taverns, or the arms of their families.

They had no idea what was happening until they assembled at the garrison, shouldered their gear, and boarded the train to Dresden in confusion, without seeing their Company Commander.

When Klaus, Bowman, and the other 1st Company soldiers arrived, everyone was stunned.

The renovated barracks, the strange training ground, and the Royal Guard flag fluttering at the entrance to the camp.

“Sergeant Major Klaus, what… what is going on? When did our company transfer to Dresden? Why are they flying the Guard Corps flag?”

1st Platoon Leader Kahn approached Klaus, asking in disbelief.

Klaus was equally confused until he spotted a familiar figure near the camp entrance.

“It’s Captain Morin!”

Seeing Morin’s smiling face, the soldiers of the old 1st Company were first surprised, then erupted in a thunderous cheer.

When they learned that their entire company was being transferred directly into a newly formed Guard Corps unit, and their commander was still Morin, everyone felt like they were dreaming.

The 32nd Infantry Regiment in Zwickau was considered an ordinary combat unit in the Saxon Army.

The Royal Guard Corps, however, was seen by ordinary soldiers as the most elite and glorious unit in the entire Empire.

And now, these farmers and miners from Zwickau had, in the blink of an eye, become members of the Guard Corps…

The minor discontent over their vacation being cut short instantly vanished, replaced by an unspeakable excitement and pride.

Meanwhile, Kleist, Manstein, and the newly arrived Guard Corps and Jäger soldiers watched the lively scene from a distance.

Besides noticing the unusually close relationship between the veterans and their new Battalion Commander, they keenly sensed something else different.

The aura of this unit was unlike any other they had seen before.

The soldiers, though they looked like perfectly ordinary peasants and workers from Zwickau.

Yet, when their gaze swept past, the sheer calmness in their eyes gave the self-proclaimed elite Guard Corps soldiers a strange, inexplicable sense of awe.

It wasn’t malice or hostility.

It was the cold indifference and tenacity of survivors, earned from enduring truly brutal combat.

It was as if nothing around them mattered, and the only figure worth focusing on was the young Captain giving orders.

This situation peaked on the day before Morin was due to report to the War College.

On this day, all the transferred personnel had arrived.

The War Office specifically dispatched a Lieutenant Colonel to collectively award the Seville Campaign Commemorative Medal to the soldiers of the old 1st Company, witnessed by all the officers and men of the Battalion.

Concurrently, a Second Class Iron Cross was awarded to the vast majority of them.

When the other soldiers and officers saw the velvet trays behind the War Office officer, densely packed with shining Second Class Iron Crosses, the atmosphere on the entire parade ground changed.

Their gaze toward the old 1st Company soldiers shifted from initial curiosity to genuine, heartfelt respect.

After the awards ceremony concluded, Morin smoothly moved into the unit’s first official inspection.

He stood on a hastily erected review platform, his gaze sweeping over the four neatly arranged companies below.

“Attention, all of you! From today, you have a brand new identity: the 1st Teaching Assault Battalion of the Royal Guard!”

“You will be the standard-bearer for the entire Saxon Imperial Army! On the battlefields of the future, you will use the sharpest blade to carve a path to victory for His Majesty the Emperor and the entire Empire!”

“But before that, I demand that you forget the units you once belonged to, and forget all the honors you have previously acquired!”

“Because from this moment on, every single one of you is merely a new recruit in the Teaching Assault Battalion!”

Morin’s gaze deliberately lingered on the old 1st Company formation for a moment.

“Especially you! Do not become arrogant and look down on others just because you have some combat experience!”

“I guarantee you that the training that follows will be more brutal and difficult than any battle you experienced in the Kingdom of Aragon!”

“Your sole task here is to obey orders and complete the training!”

“Anyone who cannot keep up will be eliminated!”

“Do you all understand?!”

“Yes, sir!”

The deafening roar echoed through the camp for a long time.

After the inspection concluded, Morin specifically summoned Klaus, Bowman, and several other veteran NCOs from the old 1st Company to the temporary Battalion Headquarters office, introducing them to Captain Kleist and Lieutenant Manstein.

“Captain Kleist, Lieutenant Manstein.”

Morin gestured toward Klaus and the others.

“These gentlemen are my most trusted NCOs. They possess very rich experience in infantry tactics and front-line command.”

“If you encounter any problems during the upcoming training, you may consult them at any time.”

Morin had initially worried that an officer of Kleist’s pure Junker noble background would find it beneath him to seek guidance from NCOs of common birth like Klaus.

But he was clearly overthinking it.

Kleist and Manstein not only showed no pretense but displayed considerable respect for Klaus and the others.

“Sergeant Major Klaus, I look forward to learning much from you in the future,” Kleist even proactively extended his hand to Klaus.

Part of this was genuine humility, but most of it was because Morin was scheduled to report to the War College tomorrow…

This meant the entire burden of training the battalion would fall entirely on the shoulders of Kleist and Manstein.

And the new training syllabus Morin had personally drawn up had already cost them a few nights of sleep.

They were not fools.

Why rely on their own limited experience when they could consult these seasoned ‘veterans’?

As the sun set, the final construction of the first freshly minted 400-meter obstacle course in the camp was completed.

The fortification engineers were highly efficient and experts in their field.

Furthermore, since they didn’t need to pave the ground, they perfectly replicated the obstacles from the blueprints onto the field in just two days.

Looking at the running track, which was both familiar and strange, Morin took off his outer coat, stretched his limbs, and instinctively walked to the starting line.

He took a deep breath, then turned to Kleist and said: “Time me.”

Kleist was momentarily stunned, then quickly realized what was happening and pulled out his pocket watch.

Manstein and the other officers, along with Klaus and the NCOs who had just been introduced, all gathered around curiously, eager to see how their young Battalion Commander would conquer the ‘Devil’s Track’ he had designed himself.

To be honest, Morin himself was not entirely confident.

His physical fitness from before the transmigration was a thing of the past.

Although his current body had been hardened by the battlefield, it remained uncertain whether he could meet the strict standards he had set.

However, as the highest commander of the unit, he had to lead by example.

“Go!”

At Kleist’s command, Morin burst forward.

He sprinted 100 meters, rounded the flag, tackled the log hurdles, and crossed the trench…

Although his body was not perfectly coordinated, his movements were fluid and quick, performed in one go.

However, when Morin began the reverse pass, his speed noticeably slowed down.

His breathing became heavy, and sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to his back.

His arm muscles clearly struggled as he scaled the high wall. By the time he jumped into the trench, Morin felt he barely managed to climb out…

The moment he crossed the finish line, he felt his lungs were about to burst. He stood bent over, hands on his knees, panting heavily.

Kleist checked his pocket watch, then announced the result in a slightly strange tone.

“2 minutes 52 seconds.”

“Shit.”

This result would undoubtedly be considered ‘promotion-worthy’ in his past life.

Morin awkwardly coughed twice, straightened up, and waved his hand, feigning composure.

“Cough, cough… I’m not in good shape today. Didn’t perform well.”

With that, he walked away from the training ground without looking back, afraid he might lose face if he stayed any longer.

At the same time, he regretted his previous decision somewhat.

“Damn it, I shouldn’t have set the standard so high…”

Watching Morin’s somewhat ‘fleeing’ back, the officers and NCOs left behind exchanged glances.

Although the result of the Battalion Commander’s demonstration was… difficult to comment on, it successfully ignited their competitive spirit.

“In that case, I’ll try first!”

Klaus was the first to step forward. As the most fierce Sergeant Major of the old 1st Company, he always followed closely behind Morin.

Three minutes later, he was also sprawled out at the finish line just like Morin.

His time: 3 minutes 10 seconds.

Following him, Bowman and the other NCOs took turns. Their results were all similar, none managing to break the three-minute mark.

When it was Kleist’s turn, the Captain, who came from the Guard Corps and was known for his unwavering determination, also experienced what it meant to be ‘willing but physically unable.’

He gritted his teeth, relying on sheer tenacity to barely finish the entire course, but his time was still more than ten seconds slower than Klaus’s.

The most miserable, of course, was Manstein from the General Staff.

The young Operations Staff Officer was clearly lacking in physical training. When he reached the trench on the return run, he jumped down and never managed to climb out…

In the end, Klaus and Bowman had to haul him out of the trench, leaving him covered in mud and utterly defeated.

In the glow of the setting sun, a group of the Saxon Empire’s future elite officers and veteran NCOs stood by the obstacle course, covered in dust and mud.

They looked at each other, speechless.

After a long while, Executive Officer Kleist let out a deep sigh, offering a heartfelt comment.

“The Battalion Commander was right. We really need to train.”

The next day, just as the sky was beginning to lighten.

Morin, fully dressed in his uniform, arrived at the Saxon War College, located in the western district of Dresden.

After completing the registration formalities, a civilian staff member of the College handed him a packed class schedule.

It was a ‘crash course’ syllabus tailor-made for him by the War Office.

He did not belong to any single class in the College. Instead, he would ‘audit’ courses across various grades like a ghost…

Furthermore, all his formal classes were scheduled for the morning.

Because he had to rush back to the garrison in the afternoon to handle the daily affairs of the Teaching Assault Battalion.

And the classes he missed by joining mid-term were scheduled for concentrated make-up sessions four evenings a week.

Looking at the schedule, which had virtually no breaks, Morin felt a massive headache.

He seriously suspected that the War Office wasn’t trying to fast-track him but trying to work him to death right there in the College.

He checked the time; he still had over twenty minutes before the first class.

As a special ‘transfer student,’ Morin took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the large lecture hall where his first class was being held.

The other officers, who had arrived in formation, quickly noticed the young man sitting in the corner when they entered the classroom.

Morin was simply too conspicuous.

Not just because of his overly young face, but because of the First Class Iron Cross on his chest and the uniquely designed Seville Campaign Commemorative Medal they had never seen before.

Whispering quickly started in the classroom.

“Who is that? Which unit is he from?”

“Look at his rank insignia—Captain? He’s too young!”

“Look at the medal on his chest—a First Class Iron Cross?!”

“I remember now! That’s Friedrich Morin!”

“So that’s him… the Mage Killer of Seville! The Night Spectre of Vallecas Heights…”

Wait, what are those last two nicknames?

(End of this Chapter)