Chapter 3: What Brigade Did You Say You Were Called?

Since more than one armed person rushed into the cellar, there was no question of who to save first.

However, displaying the ‘correct’ attitude is sometimes very important.

Before Morin could finish his sentence, a sharp dagger cut through the ropes binding his hands. One of the ‘Iron Cans’ (armored soldiers) didn’t waste any words and immediately helped him up from the ground.

On the other side, Lieutenant General Mackensen, who had been badly beaten for his verbal abuse, was even more directly hoisted onto the shoulder of another Iron Can. Judging by his limp state, he was clearly severely injured and likely couldn’t walk on his own.

Supported by the soldier, Morin stumbled a couple of steps, then endured the pain of his body feeling like it was falling apart, gasping as he steadied himself. He looked around, his eyes sweeping over the four corpses of the Britannian officers on the floor, and a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

“Please wait for me.”

He pulled away from the soldier’s support, gritting his teeth against the pain radiating from all parts of his body, and crouched down.

He first rummaged through the body of the Major who had made the threats and quickly found the officer’s ID card. Next, he systematically searched out the identification documents of the other three. Finally, he slung the document bag the young officer had dropped on the floor over his shoulder. Since obtaining key information could increase his ‘Information Collection’ status, the documents or maps in this bag might also prove useful.

Having done all this, he returned to the Iron Can soldier and signaled that he was ready.

The soldier did not ask any questions, simply using his iron-clad arm to support him again. Morin now noticed a subtle blue light flowing over the soldier’s armor and round shield.

Before Morin could ask anything, the soldier, whose strength was clearly far beyond that of a normal person, carried him directly out of the cellar.

The scene here was even more gruesome than in the cellar. This appeared to be the ground-floor hall of a residence, but the previous violent explosion had reduced everything here to powder. The remnants of furniture and architectural debris were mixed together, and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder smoke and dust.

A dozen or so Britannian—Holy Britannian—soldiers lay strewn across the floor, their corpses and severed limbs scattered. The thick smell of blood almost clogged his nose and throat.

Morin fought back the urge to vomit and quickly followed the rescue team out of the building.

It was night outside. The streetlights were not lit; only the cold moonlight and the flames from a distant fire provided some illumination.

Under this dim light, Morin could make out the situation.

Besides the few Iron Cans who had rushed into the cellar, another half-squad of the same type of heavy armored soldiers was holding their rifles, vigilant in the shadows of the street. The strength and physical condition of these ‘Can’ soldiers were clearly different from ordinary soldiers. Despite wearing a set of heavy armor, they were also carrying a sword and shield, and were armed with a type of larger-caliber rifle. One of them had even shouldered a machine gun that strongly resembled an MG08/15.

The surrounding Saxon soldiers wearing the same style of field gray uniform looked much more normal. Numbering about thirty or so, their weapons were mostly bolt-action rifles, and they were currently using the buildings on both sides of the street to establish a temporary defensive line.

In addition, there was another group of people. Their attire was mismatched—some wore old military uniforms, some had work clothes, and some were even in shirts and vests—and their weapons were just as varied. Morin immediately recalled the young officer’s report: “another group of unidentified armed personnel.” It seemed these were they.

Just then, a Saxon soldier scurried over from the end of the street, crouching low. He went straight to an officer who looked like a commander and reported in a hushed voice:

“Captain, the Britannians have reacted! They’re ignoring the flanking feint and shifting their main force toward us! The friendly blocking force is about to be pinned down!”

As soon as he spoke, dense gunfire erupted from a distant street, and the “whoosh” of stray bullets cutting through the night air was clearly audible. The nearby Saxon soldiers immediately aimed their rifles toward the direction of the gunfire, and the atmosphere instantly became extremely tense.

“Understood,” the commander, who was called Captain, said calmly. “Tell the blocking force to hold out a little longer. Once we withdraw from this location, they are to disengage immediately via the original route! If the Britannians are focused on supporting their troops here, they won’t pay attention to them!”

Soon, Morin was supported and followed the large unit, quickly moving through the alleys and retreating toward the outskirts of the city. Along the way, he saw several other officers, also in field gray uniforms, being carried on stretchers in the middle of the column. It seemed they were also survivors of the Military Observation Group, though he didn’t know where they had been held prisoner before.

The group ran frantically for about two blocks when Morin suddenly heard a chilling scream overhead.

“Swoosh—”

“Boom!”

Before he could react, a shell landed in the town they had just fled from, and the sound of the explosion rumbled behind them. After they had run a bit further, a second boom followed behind them.

Morin quickly glanced back, and the flash of this explosion was clearly closer to the block he had just left.

“Registration shell? Looks like there’s an observer guiding the fire… but where are they observing from?”

“Boom!”

When the third explosion sounded, Morin had already turned his head to watch the direction they had just left, and this landing point looked extremely close to the residence’s location.

“Will they continue the registration fire? Or is it…”

This question flashed through Morin’s mind, but he didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

“Swoosh— Swoosh-swoosh-swoosh—”

A continuous series of piercing screams swept overhead, followed moments later by non-stop, thunderous rumbles. This concentrated artillery barrage lasted for a full five rounds. Even having run far away, Morin could feel the ground beneath his feet slightly trembling.

He instinctively looked back, seeing only towering flames, and a chill of fear ran through him.

The Captain raised his hand, glanced at his pocket watch in the firelight, and then quietly said in a calm tone:

“The ones dragging the cannons are surprisingly punctual right now.”

That single sentence made every hair on Morin’s body stand on end. He instantly understood the Saxon military’s plan. If the rescue operation had failed, or had been delayed by even a minute or two, he and Lieutenant General Mackensen, along with their captured colleagues—and perhaps even this entire rescue unit—would likely have been erased from this world, along with the enemy, by this ‘punctual’ artillery fire.

“That’s brutal. To give up a Lieutenant General without hesitation…” Morin silently lamented.

The column did not halt because of the artillery fire, continuing its rapid march in a column formation toward the safety zone.

At this point, the Captain quickly walked up to the group of mysteriously armed personnel and found a bearded middle-aged man who looked like their leader.

“Thank you very much for your support, friends.” The Captain’s voice carried genuine gratitude. “But we need a little more time. We hope you can provide cover for a while longer. We must ensure General Mackensen reaches the rear safely.”

Morin strained his ears, his curiosity about this mysterious armed group reaching its peak.

He heard the commander continue: “Please convey to your command that the Saxon military will remember the valuable assistance provided by the International Brigades tonight.”

Wait a minute, what Brigades did you just say?

When the words ‘International Brigades’ drilled into Morin’s ears, he felt like a 150mm heavy cannon had fired point-blank at his forehead. With a ringing buzz, his mind instantly went blank.

If his meager historical knowledge was correct, the Saxon Empire he was in looked exactly like a copy of the German Second Empire—a dual-monarchy federal state.

Then…

How could they be fighting side-by-side in the same trench as the ‘International Brigades,’ an organization clearly affiliated with the left-wing forces?!

Was this World War I or World War II?!

What kind of absurd historical path was this world taking?!