Chapter 238: Ranger

Rouen, Gaul.

This ancient city on the banks of the Seine River had now become the Britannian Expeditionary Force’s largest forward base on the continent. Transport ships from the Britannian Navy occupied almost every berth in the port. In the streets, Britannian soldiers in khaki uniforms, looking exhausted, were everywhere—these were the first Expeditionary Force troops to retreat from the front line. The soldiers sat in small groups by the roadside, silently clutching their rifles or staring blankly at the sky. The crushing defeat at Amiens weighed heavily on everyone’s heart like a massive stone. They were once the pride of the Empire on which the sun never set, an invincible army. Yet now, they were being driven from the heartland of the continent by the Saxons like a pack of stray dogs.

A large number of tents, set up in an open space near the port, served as the Expeditionary Force’s temporary command center. Field Marshal John French stood inside a tent, looking out at the rain-sodden city outside. His expression was even gloomier than the weather.

“Field Marshal.” An Aide-de-Camp gently pulled back the door curtain and walked in. “General Horatio Smith, the commander of the second batch of the Expeditionary Force, has arrived.”

“Show him in.” French did not turn around, his voice slightly hoarse.

Soon, a tall, vigorous old General strode in. This was General Horatio Smith, the commander of the Britannian second Expeditionary Force contingent.

“John, my old friend.” General Smith walked up to French, observing his gloomy expression. “It seems your days haven’t been easy.”

“Easy?” John French gave a self-deprecating laugh: “I nearly allowed the Empire’s most elite troops to be entirely destroyed at Amiens. Do you think my days could be easy?”

He turned and poured a glass of whiskey for both himself and Smith. “Tell me, what is the reaction of those bureaucrats back home? Are they already preparing to send me to a court-martial?”

“Not yet.” Smith took a sip of his drink, then continued: “They are currently busy arguing with the Navy crowd. First Lord of the Admiralty Churchill is pushing hard to immediately dispatch the main fleet to blockade Saxon ports and fight a decisive naval battle! But the War Office believes we should continue reinforcing the troops on the continent, hold Rouen, and wait for an opportunity to counterattack.”

“Counterattack?” French sneered, his voice filled with contempt for the discussions back home. “Counterattack with what? We can’t even defeat the Saxons’ Armored Knights now, let alone their damned airships! Any more troops sent here will just be cannon fodder to fill the lines!”

The Battle of Amiens had completely shattered the last vestige of hope in French’s heart. He finally realized that this war was no longer the ‘gentleman’s war’ of previous generations, where troops lined up for firing squads. The Saxons, with their endless stream of new weapons and new tactics, had pushed the nature of warfare into a completely new, more brutal dimension.

“So what do you intend to do?” Smith asked: “I heard on the ship that Joseph Joffre is sending you eight telegrams a day, begging you to save Paris… Will you go?”

“Save Paris?” French laughed as if hearing the biggest joke, shaking his head: “Let him save it himself! I will not throw the last of my remaining soldiers into that bottomless pit that Paris has become.”

A ruthless look flashed in his eyes. “My plan now is simple: hold Rouen, secure these estuaries, and let the Gauls and Saxons fight it out; let them drain their last drop of blood beneath the walls of Paris. We will stay right here and quietly watch.”

“When they are both mutually exhausted, that will be our true moment to strike.”

Smith listened to French’s plan, his brow furrowed. “John, you are playing with fire. If we stand by and watch Paris fall, the Gauls might surrender.”

“If that happens, the Saxons will be free to turn their full attention to us. Isolated overseas, can we withstand them?”

John French heard his old friend’s concern and nodded: “You are right. Therefore, we cannot allow them to surrender. When they are about to give up, we will give them a little hope, forcing them to continue the fight.”

“In short, our objective is not to help the Gauls win the war, but to prolong this war for as long as possible. The longer it drags on, the more advantageous it is for us.”

Smith fell silent. He had to admit that French’s plan, though cold and ruthless, was the most advantageous option for Britannia at the moment.

The next day, the weather over Rouen worsened. Under a gloomy sky, a cold wind carried fine rain, slapping against the docks. Field Marshal John French, wearing a heavy woolen overcoat, stood silently on the dock, letting the rain dampen his hat brim. Behind him stood several Aide-de-Camps, their expressions equally grave.

Just yesterday afternoon, simultaneously with General Horatio Smith’s arrival with new support troops, Master Albert of the Highland Mage Corps had taken a ship back to the homeland. The Seventh-Circle Mage told French before leaving that he had to report everything that happened here to the Empire’s high command and the Highland Mage Corps as quickly as possible. However, he also assured French that he would speak favorably on his behalf to the high command, preventing them from shifting the blame for the defeat onto him.

John French naturally thanked Master Albert for his gesture. However, he knew clearly that the Mage’s actions were purely motivated by guilt and apprehension after preemptively withdrawing the Spellcasters.

Shaking off these thoughts, the Commander of the Britannian Expeditionary Force turned his gaze to a vessel slowly approaching in the river channel. It was a large transport ship, sitting deep in the water, clearly carrying heavy cargo.

“Field Marshal, they have arrived,” an Aide-de-Camp whispered in his ear. French nodded, not speaking.

The transport ship slowly docked. The heavy anchor was thrown into the water, splashing spray. As the side hatch of the ship opened, a huge ramp was lowered. With the distinct hum of Magic Guided Engines, over a dozen unique Armored Knights drove out of the cargo hold in single file, lining up neatly on the dock.

The Aide-de-Camp beside French couldn’t help but gasp softly. These Armored Knights were completely different from the magnificent, ornate ‘St. George III’ Armored Knights of the Order of the Garter they were familiar with. Their bodies were slightly smaller, their overall lines simpler and sleeker, and they lacked any superfluous decoration. They were painted in a dull, dark green coating, blending perfectly with the overcast, rainy backdrop. They looked less like noble Knights and more like hunters lurking in the jungle.

“Are these the units sent to execute the capture mission?” the Aide-de-Camp whispered, inquiring: “They seem… less imposing than the Order of the Garter.”

“Do not be deceived by their appearance,” French shook his head, his voice low. “The Order of the Garter is the Empire’s face, its ceremonial unit. These are different.” His sentence was unfinished, but his unsettled tone said everything.

The leading Armored Knight walked with a steady gait to stand before Field Marshal French. The front armor of the cockpit lifted smoothly, revealing the pilot inside. A stocky man with a sharp, cold face leaped down. He wore a dark Knight’s uniform—also lacking the elaborate decorations of the Order of the Garter. His face bore a few shallow scars, and his eyes were sharp as an eagle’s.

The man walked up to French, clicked his heels, and rendered a crisp salute.

“Your Excellency, Field Marshal, the ‘Ranger’ Squadron reports for duty.” His voice, like the other Armored Knights behind him, was devoid of unnecessary emotion.

“We will assist you in executing the mission to capture Saxon Empire Armored Knights.”

(End of this Chapter)