Chapter 270: The Last Shield

The column of the Gallic Sixth Army Group Headquarters soon set off again.

However, this time they turned south and began to retreat.

Leaving Paris, the isolated and defenseless city, to face its impending doom alone.

The news that General Gallieni had fled south with his headquarters spread like a plague among the retreating Gaulish soldiers.

The troops, already demoralized by the devastating defeat, completely lost their backbone.

Panic and despair enveloped every Gaulish soldier.

They scurried aimlessly along the country roads like headless chickens, only wanting to be as far away as possible from the pursuers behind them.

However, amidst this confused torrent of retreat, a small counter-current emerged.

“We can’t leave! We can’t just abandon Paris like this!”

At a fork in the road, a mud-covered Gaulish Sergeant with a bandaged arm, stopped several compatriots who were preparing to follow the main force south.

“Pierre, are you crazy? The officers ran away! What are we doing here? Waiting to die?”

A young soldier cried out.

“Yes, we can’t stop the Saxons’ advance!”

“My home is in Paris! My wife and children, my parents, they are all still in the city!”

The Sergeant named Pierre shouted, his eyes red:

“Now the General ran, and the government ran! Who will protect them? Should we stand by and watch the Saxons storm into the city to burn, kill, and plunder?”

His words silenced the soldiers who were preparing to flee.

Many of them, like Pierre, were residents of Paris or the surrounding areas.

Their families, friends, and everything they owned were in that city.

They had retreated with the army because they believed the General would lead them to regroup and defend the capital.

But now, they had been abandoned.

“But… what can we do if we go back? It’s just a few of us…” a soldier said desperately.

“We are soldiers of the Gallic Republic!”

Pierre straightened his chest, though his uniform was ragged.

“To defend the home and the country is our sacred duty! Even if there is only one person left, even if we know we will die, we must go back! We will die on the barricades of Paris! We must let those Saxon barbarians know that the Gauls are not easily bullied!”

“For the homeland!” Pierre raised his rifle and shouted in a hoarse voice.

Silence…

But after a brief silence…

“For the homeland!” The first soldier stepped forward, raising his rifle.

“For the homeland!”

“For Paris!”

More and more people stepped forward, the fire of desperate resolve rekindling in their eyes.

They might not be qualified soldiers, but in this moment, they were qualified sons, husbands, and fathers.

Soon, this small counter-current gathered into a sizable force.

About one-third of the soldiers who had retreated from the Creil Line ultimately chose to turn back, resolutely heading toward the city enveloped by the shadow of death.

They had no commander, no logistical support, and no idea what they would do upon returning.

They only knew that their home was there.

Because the reconnaissance teams sent out by the Instruction Assault Battalion had already occupied multiple high ground with good visibility on the outskirts of Paris, the system map was constantly updating the movements of the Gaulish troops.

Morin watched as the red arrows representing the Gaulish retreating forces on his system map clearly split into two after a brief period of chaos.

One large group was frantically fleeing south.

The other, though much smaller, resolutely turned back and re-entered the massive ‘anthill’ of Paris.

Even without other information, Morin knew roughly what had happened.

“For them, perhaps some things are more important than life,” Morin sighed softly.

There were countless people in his homeland who, in times of national collapse and ruin, had similarly chosen this path without hesitation.

Although his current identity was that of a Saxon officer, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of respect for these Gaulish soldiers.

“It’s a pity,” Morin sighed.

In the face of an absolute disparity in strength, courage and conviction often only grant a one-in-a-million chance of pulling off a desperate counterattack.

The ancestors of Morin’s homeland had once seized that one-in-a-million chance.

But these Gaulish soldiers… Morin shook his head.

Over the next few hours, the roar of the ‘Gungnir’ became the only main theme on this battlefield.

One after another, the peripheral fortresses of Paris were reduced to piles of smoking rubble under the targeted fire of this magic-side railgun.

The Gauls’ painstakingly constructed Paris defense line was certainly not built with any shortcuts compared to other fortress clusters.

The Fortress Acceptance Committee had conducted the strictest possible review of this last line of defense protecting Paris.

But regrettably, in the face of the Saxon war behemoth, the fortress cluster was as fragile as paper.

As dusk began to settle, the fortress cluster on the northeast side of Paris had been completely cleared.

The ground was left with massive, meteor-like craters, silently recounting the one-sided slaughter that had just occurred.

The Saxon First Army Group’s follow-up forces finally arrived at this position.

Gazing upon the horrifying scene, every subsequent Saxon soldier who arrived felt profoundly shocked.

Some of the Army Group’s senior officers finally understood why the headquarters had assigned the Instruction Assault Battalion and that mysterious Armored Train to execute this risky thrust.

With a super-weapon like this, any talk of a sturdy fortress was a joke.

As night fell, bonfires were lit across the Saxon temporary position.

Soldiers gathered around the fires, eating dinner and excitedly discussing the day’s events, looking forward to the prospect of storming Paris tomorrow.

The bitter fighting that had lasted over a month was finally nearing its ultimate victory.

The soldiers, who had been ‘looking at plums to quench their thirst,’ were finally about to eat the plums.

Morin, however, did not rest. He was busy pestering Colonel Lucas, attempting to extract more information about the ‘Gungnir’ from him.

Morin’s relentless questioning continuously unlocked new entries in the system’s [Information] tab.

This allowed him to roughly ascertain the main parameters of this ‘Twelve-Stage Acceleration Magic Cannon’.

It had a maximum range of 75 kilometers and an average rate of fire of one round every 14 minutes. The barrel had a firing life of 200 rounds.

There was also another mode, which had not been fully unlocked in the [Information] tab, that seemed specifically designed to counter fortress-grade Magic Shields.

The ‘Gungnir’ was the latest creation of the Royal Magitech Academy. Although Colonel Lucas had boasted to him during the day, the general principles and performance parameters he shared were merely information memorized from the operation manual.

Other more specific details were still being kept confidential.

Furthermore, the firing of the ‘Gungnir’ could only be operated by those few Magitech Engineers in the control room. No one else—not even Lucas—possessed the ability to control and fire the giant cannon.

The Saxon Mages had indeed stepped up this time, but only slightly.

As the two were conversing, a messenger ran up.

“Captain Morin! General Mackensen and Chief of Staff Seeckt have arrived! Please proceed immediately with Colonel Lucas to the temporary headquarters for a meeting!”

“Oh, the Generals are here?” Morin and Lucas exchanged glances. It was likely about the general offensive planned for tomorrow.

When they arrived at the temporary command tent, which was set up beneath where Armored Airship No. L29 was hovering, General Mackensen and Lieutenant General Seeckt were already standing in front of a massive map of Paris, discussing something.

Grand Master Leonia was seated nearby, resting. She smiled and greeted Morin as he entered.

General Mackensen looked back, saw Morin and Lucas, and nodded.

“Everyone is here. Please take a seat.”

“Friedrich, Lucas, you both did exceptionally well today!”

General Mackensen did not hold back his praise.

“You cleared the biggest obstacle for the Army Group, and you bought us invaluable time!”

“It was our duty, General!” Lucas straightened his chest excitedly.

Morin followed suit, performing the necessary gesture.

“According to the plan, the main body of the Army Group will rest outside the city tonight,” General Mackensen’s finger traced a line on the map. “The general offensive on Paris will commence tomorrow morning at nine o’clock!”

“Our goal is to take control of the entire city of Paris in the shortest possible time!”

“If all goes well,” Lieutenant General Seeckt added, “we will have concluded the Western Front campaign at least a week ahead of the schedule set by the General Staff!”

Inside the command tent, the eyes of everyone present burned with excitement.

They were about to witness history.

However, amidst the excitement, Morin keenly sensed that something was wrong.

His gaze fell upon the structure that was prominently marked on the map.

The Eiffel Tower.

Shortly after seeing the spire of the Eiffel Tower that afternoon, the system’s [Information] tab had unlocked details about this ‘Wonder.’

In this world, the Eiffel Tower was not merely a symbolic iron tower.

It also functioned as the Gauls’ Mage Tower…

He recalled the Gaulish soldiers returning to Paris and the ‘Sentinel’ unit that had vanished from the battlefield.

His intuition told him that tomorrow’s battle might not be as easy as everyone imagined.

Paris, 7th Arrondissement, Champ de Mars.

The area beneath the Eiffel Tower, usually bustling with tourists, was now deathly silent.

Only the cold moonlight shone down on the giant steel structure, reflecting a chilling glint.

In a seemingly unremarkable low-rise building near the tower, a faint light was visible.

Its public name was the “Gallic Republic Army Department Logistics Office, Fifth Branch.” But it housed a more secret identity—the ‘Sentinel’ unit’s headquarters in Paris.

In the underground command room, the atmosphere was oppressive.

Seventeen surviving ‘Sentinels’ were sitting or standing, silent.

Each of them bore wounds, their combat suits were ragged, and beneath the dark gold masks, their eyes were bloodshot, filled with exhaustion and resentment.

In the battle on the Creil Line, their elite squad of twenty-five had lost eight members.

After escaping back to Paris via the permanent Teleportation Circle beneath the headquarters, they were met not with reinforcements but with the devastating news of the Sixth Army Group’s retreat south and the complete abandonment of Paris.

Normally, they should have also evacuated Paris.

The main body of the ‘Sentinel’ unit was already fighting in the south, and the administrative staff of the Paris headquarters had followed the government agencies to Bordeaux after the Amiens campaign.

“The General left, the government left… They threw all of Paris to the Saxons.”

One ‘Sentinel’ slammed his fist violently onto the table, making a dull thud.

“Bastards! Cowards!”

Anger, betrayal, despair… all kinds of emotions fermented in the command room.

“Silence, all of you!”

A powerfully built ‘Sentinel’ sitting at the head of the table suddenly stood up and commanded in a low voice.

He was the commander of this remaining force, a Sixth-Circle Evocation-specialist spellcaster.

His voice seemed to carry a certain magical power, instantly silencing the previously restless room.

“I understand how everyone feels right now.”

The commander slowly scanned his subordinates:

“But anger and complaints won’t solve anything.”

“The Saxons’ army is outside the city. They will attack first thing tomorrow morning. What we need to consider now is not who abandoned the capital, but what we are going to do next.”

“What else can we do, Commander!”

A young ‘Sentinel’ stood up and said excitedly:

“Have you forgotten the oath we took when we joined the ‘Sentinels’?! We are the ‘Sentinels’! The shield of the motherland! Even if we die, we must die defending the capital’s positions!”

“Exactly! Let’s fight to the death!”

“Let the Saxons taste our power!”

“Avenge our fallen comrades!”

The young man’s words instantly ignited the suppressed fighting spirit in everyone’s hearts.

They were the Gallic Republic’s most elite warriors, Battlemages selected one in ten thousand.

Each of them had gone through hellish training and brutal physical modification; their wills were already as hard as steel.

They did not fear death; they only feared dying without purpose.

“I understand your sentiment.”

The commander nodded, but he maintained his composure.

“But even if all seventeen of us fight to the death, how much damage can we inflict on the Saxons? Can we stop them from occupying Paris?”

His question silenced everyone again.

Yes, although their individual combat ability was extremely high, facing the overwhelming numbers of the Saxon army, their seventeen men were like mantises trying to stop a chariot—so insignificant and powerless.

“Then what should we do? Should we just stand by and watch?”

“We still have the soldiers who retreated back, don’t we?”

The commander said:

“According to the information we gathered during the day, many soldiers who withdrew from Creil have voluntarily returned to Paris and are deploying defenses in various districts.”

“They are leaderless, but their will to defend their homes is firm! If we can organize them…”

Just then, the door of the command room was pushed open.

A middle-aged Mage wearing a gray Mage Robe quickly walked in.

An eye-like emblem was embroidered on his robe.

This emblem represented the Loire River Eye Mage Corps, the true creators of the ‘Sentinel’ unit.

“Commander Bastian.”

The middle-aged Mage bowed slightly to the ‘Sentinel’ commander.

“Master Eiffel requests that you and your subordinates proceed immediately to the ‘High Tower’.”

“Master Eiffel?” Bastian paused. “Didn’t he retreat to Bordeaux with the Mage Corps and the government?”

“Master Eiffel did not leave.”

The middle-aged Mage shook his head.

“He said, ‘Where the Mage Tower stands, there is home.’ As the founder of the Mage Tower, he will never abandon Paris.”

Hearing this, a strange light flashed in the eyes of all the ‘Sentinels’ in the command room.

Bastian was silent for a moment, then nodded sharply.

“Understood! We will go immediately!”

He turned and looked at his subordinates, his eyes sharp as blades.

“Gentlemen! We are not fighting alone! Master Eiffel still stands with us!”

“Check weapons! Gather all remaining potions and Magic Crystal reserves! Prepare to move out!”

“Yes!”

The seventeen ‘Sentinels’ roared in unison, their voices filled with determination and fierceness.

They might not be able to change the outcome of the war, but they were determined to use their lives and blood to uphold the oath they took upon joining the unit after undergoing modification.

“We will be the motherland’s last shield.”