Chapter 372: Changes in the Situation

As Crown Prince Georg’s words fell, a momentary silence descended upon the hospital room.

The Gallic Republic, the long-standing mortal enemy that had been entangled in a protracted struggle with the Saxon Empire, had finally bowed its proud head.

This was undoubtedly news exciting enough to make the entire Empire boil over.

If any frontline officer had heard this news, they would probably have jumped up in excitement, or been moved to tears, shouting “Long live the Empire.”

But the expression on Morin’s face was incomparably calm. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow, merely nodding gently and saying casually, “It seems those Gallic politicians who fled to Bordeaux still have a somewhat clear head.”

Crown Prince Georg, whose name was very long, had been observing Morin’s reaction with great interest.

He had anticipated that Morin would be surprised, excited, or relieved…

After all, for any officer who had fought on the front lines, news of a major breakthrough in the war situation should be the most impactful. But the one thing he didn’t expect was this reaction from Morin.

Too calm.

Abnormally calm.

“Sir Friedrich…”

Georg raised his eyebrows in surprise, a trace of curiosity revealing itself in those azure eyes:

“You seem… not surprised by this news at all?”

Hearing the Crown Prince’s words, Morin met his gaze.

“Your Highness, if you are referring to the Gauls requesting a ceasefire itself, then I am indeed not surprised.”

Morin shrugged, speaking in a relaxed tone:

“In fact, after the Battle of Paris ended… or rather, after Paris was destroyed by the ‘Undead Scourge,’ and the major army groups in the Southern Theater also launched their counteroffensive, I knew this day would come sooner or later.”

The curiosity in Georg’s eyes grew stronger. He leaned forward slightly, adopting a posture of listening attentively.

“Oh? So, Sir Friedrich, you anticipated this long ago?”

The Crown Prince said half-jokingly:

“Could it be that after awakening your spellcasting ability, you also incidentally awakened some prophecy ability? If I remember correctly, you should be an Abjuration School specialist?”

“You must be joking, Your Highness. If I knew prophecy, I wouldn’t have plunged headfirst into that damn underground research institute in the first place, let alone gotten beaten up like this.”

Morin pointed to the healed scar on his chest and smiled self-deprecatingly.

“This is purely based on a logical analysis of the situation.”

“Logical analysis?”

“Yes.” Morin nodded, his expression becoming slightly more serious. “As long as one slightly analyzes the significance of the city of Paris to the Gallic Republic, it’s not difficult to reach this conclusion.”

Georg looked at Morin’s clear and wise eyes, suddenly realizing that this young officer before him seemed to bring him some unexpected surprises every time.

On the battlefield, Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Morin was a brave and fearless commander who loved frontline charges, the “Mage Killer” who struck terror into the hearts of the enemy.

And on the strategic level, he also seemed to possess a keen insight far exceeding ordinary people?

“Interesting…”

Georg suddenly turned his head and snapped his fingers.

The next second, an aide-de-camp who had been standing guard at the door gently pushed it open and entered.

“Your Highness, what are your orders?”

“Cancel tonight’s cocktail party.” The Crown Prince ordered casually. “Just say I have some important matters to attend to and cannot get away.”

“But Your Highness… many nobles have come to Dresden tonight…” The aide-de-camp was somewhat hesitant.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s enough that Father will attend. Anyway, these nobles are going for him… just do as I say.” Georg waved his hand unquestioningly, then added as if remembering something:

“Also, bring some decent wine and food… Remember, the kind of hearty dishes that can fill the stomach, don’t bring those exquisite but meatless pastries. I see our Mr. Lieutenant Colonel hasn’t eaten his fill yet.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The aide-de-camp bowed, turned, and left quickly.

The door of the hospital room closed again.

Georg unbuttoned the collar of his military uniform to make himself more comfortable, then made a “please” gesture to Morin. “Alright, no one will disturb us now. Sir Friedrich… elaborate on your ‘logical analysis’… I don’t know why, but I am particularly curious right now about how you view the direction of this war.”

Morin looked at the Imperial Crown Prince before him, who had suddenly dropped his airs, and felt a slight stir in his heart.

It wasn’t because of receiving some appreciation and attention, but because Morin had been stuck in the Imperial Military Medical Center these days and was already bored to death, worrying about having no one to chat with…

Moreover, as a veteran “Standing Committee Member of the Keyboard Politics Bureau” and “Senior Keyboard Politician” in his previous life, conducting this kind of grand-narrative strategic analysis was simply an instinct carved into his DNA.

Of course, the fact that Georg, as the Imperial Crown Prince, could sit with a Lieutenant Colonel and discuss these things also made Morin feel that this Imperial heir was considered approachable.

“36 years old… exactly the prime age for the Elector Counts to duke it out~” (A reference to Europa Universalis/Historical HRE politics) This joking thought couldn’t help but flash through Morin’s mind. And since the other party was willing to listen, Morin naturally didn’t mind slightly displaying his so-called “strategic vision” as a “transmigrator”—after all, standing on the shoulders of the giants of another world and directing the country is also a rare pleasure.

“Since Your Highness is interested, then I will make bold to share my views.”

Morin adjusted his sitting posture, his fingers moving unconsciously on the bedsheet, as if there was an invisible map there.

“First, we need to re-examine the concept of ‘Paris’.”

“In the eyes of many, it is merely the capital of the Gallic Republic, the ‘City of Light’ of Europa… but in reality, its significance goes far beyond that.”

Morin’s voice carried a convincing confidence, immediately drawing Georg in.

“Geographically speaking, Paris is located in the center of the northern plains of Gaul… but the terrain here is flat and lacks natural barriers! This has led to the Gauls historically being forced to adopt a ‘fortress’ defense strategy centered on Paris.”

“If we view Gaul’s border defense lines as a shield, then Paris is the heart hiding behind the shield.”

“Once Paris falls, the Gauls lose the core pivot for organizing defense in depth. Although the remaining territory is vast, most of it lacks a complete defense system and strategic depth like Paris.”

Georg nodded slightly. As someone forced to receive militarized education and who had already commanded an entire army group, he naturally also had a certain vision.

So he also knew very well that after taking Paris, the Saxon army in the northern plains was almost entering no man’s land.

“But this is still not the most fatal part.”

Morin changed the subject, found a pen and paper from the table, and then drew several lines, ultimately converging on a single point.

“The most fatal part is the railways.”

“Railways?” Georg’s eyes lit up.

“That’s right, railways.”

Morin said affirmatively:

“In order to gain a voice in the radiant crystal industry over the years, the Gallic Republic imitated the Empire and massively expanded railway construction… but there is a huge flaw in the structure of their railway network—that is over-centralization.”

“Almost all their main lines, whether heading to the eastern border, the southern regions, or the western ports, all converge in Paris.”

Morin looked at Georg and said word by word: “This means that Paris is the nerve center of Gaul’s entire national organism.”

“Controlling Paris is equivalent to severing the connection between their brain and their limbs.”

“Now, although the Gallic government has fled to Bordeaux, they will soon find that the orders they issue, the supplies they mobilize, and the troops they assemble will face immense difficulties when transported by rail… because the originally most efficient hub is no longer in their hands.”

“This is like a giant; although its limbs are still intact, its spine has been broken.”

Morin used a less-than-vivid analogy.

“He might still be able to struggle, but he cannot stand up again to mount organized resistance.”

Georg listened, engrossed.

He even picked up the water pitcher on the table and personally poured Morin a cup of water.

However, Morin, realizing what was happening, hastily took the cup and poured water for both sides—after all, he couldn’t really let the “leader” pour tea for him.

“Sir Friedrich, continue.” The Crown Prince’s eyes flashed with an excited light, “This entry point is very interesting. Previously, I only focused on the tactical value of railways for troop projection, but overlooked the devastating blow this network structure has on the national strategic level.”

Morin smiled modestly and was just about to continue.

At this time, the door to the hospital room was pushed open, and the aide-de-camp walked in with a few servants.

They held large trays carrying roast chicken, cold cut sausage and cheese platters, bread…

And a bottle of red wine that looked quite aged—the packaging on it used Gallic text, seeming to be some kind of spoils of war.

The aroma of the food instantly filled the room, making Morin, who had just finished dinner, have his stomach embarrassingly growl again.

Georg laughed loudly and directly pushed the plate of roast chicken in front of Morin.

“Eat while you talk, Friedrich. I know you’re a big eater now.”

Although somewhat embarrassed, Morin didn’t stand on ceremony, tearing off a chicken leg and taking a big bite.

“Besides transportation, there is an even more crucial factor…” He said indistinctly while chewing, “And that is the nature of war.”

“The nature of war?” Georg poured himself a glass of wine, looking at him with great interest.

“Yes, Your Highness… Modern war is no longer that ‘1870-style’ war, nor is it the Britannians’ ‘Boer-style’ war.”

Morin swallowed his food, his eyes suddenly becoming sharp.

“This is an industrialized total war.”

“Total war…”

Crown Prince Georg gently swirled the wine glass in his hand, repeating this term in a low voice.

Although this concept had already begun to sprout among the high echelon of the Saxon military, hearing it expressed so clearly from the mouth of a frontline lieutenant colonel still surprised him somewhat.

“That’s right. This means that war is no longer just a matter between the armies of the warring parties, but a comprehensive confrontation between the industrial capabilities, resource mobilization capabilities, and national will of two countries.”

He pointed out the window. Although Paris couldn’t be seen from here, both of them knew perfectly well what that direction represented.

“Paris is not merely the political center and transportation hub of Gaul. For the Gallic Republic, it is even more an irreplaceable industrial heart.”

Recalling the materials he had read before transmigrating, and combining them with the actual situation of this world, Morin began his analysis.

“The region around Paris concentrates nearly half of the Gallic Republic’s machinery manufacturing plants, arsenals, and skilled technical workers.”

“After the outbreak of the war, these factories inevitably underwent comprehensive militarized mobilization, producing guns, cannons, ammunition, and supplies urgently needed on the front lines day and night.”

“Based on some public data and intelligence speculated from newspapers, cocktail parties, and salons before the war…”

Morin held up three fingers: “Losing Paris means the Gallic Republic has lost at least one-third of its war industry production capacity.”

“One-third…” Georg’s expression became solemn.

Having witnessed the terrifying ammunition consumption on the front lines, he knew very well what this number meant. In the current war, the gap in production capacity is often harder to bridge than the gap in troop numbers.

“And this is still a conservative estimate.” Morin added, “Because the manufacturing of many precision instruments and high-end equipment cannot be easily relocated. According to my understanding… although Bordeaux also has some industrial foundation, compared to Paris, it’s simply not in the same magnitude.”

“Without the factories in Paris, even if the Gallic soldiers on the front lines still have the will to fight, they will soon face the predicament of running out of ammunition and food.”

“Their artillery will fall silent due to lack of ammunition; their rifles will be scrapped due to lack of parts.”

“This is the cruelest logic in industrialized total war.” Morin picked up his wine glass and took a sip, “Having lost the ability to produce blood, it’s only a matter of time before the remaining blood runs dry.”

Georg remained silent for a moment, then raised his wine glass, gesturing toward Morin.

“A truly brilliant analysis… Sir Friedrich, you have shown me another kind of talent besides tactical command.”

The Crown Prince praised from the bottom of his heart, “It seems it will be necessary for me to chat with you about topics in this area in the future.”

Morin smiled modestly, then his expression turned serious as he continued:

“Besides these ‘tangible’ material factors, there is another, more important, but also more ethereal factor.”

“Are you trying to say… morale?” Georg asked rhetorically.

“A bit deeper than morale.” Morin thought about how to express it, “To be accurate, it should be the ‘national soul’.”

“Since that war in 1870, Paris has been more than just a city to the Gauls… It is the materialized totem of the Gallic Republic’s ‘spirit of revenge’ and ‘national dignity’.”

“For decades, the Gallic Republic’s education and propaganda have all revolved around ‘recovering lost territories’ and ‘washing away the humiliation’.”

“And Paris is the core holy land of this spiritual system… For the millions of Gallic soldiers on the front lines, defending Paris is defending the soul of Gaul.”

Speaking of this, Morin paused, observing the Crown Prince’s expression.

“I remember an analysis report from the General Staff in 1870 wrote: ‘The shock caused in the whole world by the siege of Paris is much greater than the shock caused by the siege of a hundred smaller fortresses.'”

Georg thought for a moment and quickly recalled this report he had also read during his studies.

He looked at Morin and nodded: “That’s right, I’ve read that report too… That was the view of Field Marshal Moltke the Elder.”

“History is always strikingly similar.” Morin sighed, “Now, the Gallic government is once again forced to relocate to Bordeaux. This is exactly the same script as back then… but this time, the situation is even worse.”

“Although they were defeated back then, at least they still had capital to resist, and organizations that had not been completely destroyed. But this time…”

Morin shook his head, seemingly thinking of the routed Gallic Sixth Army Group on the eve of the Battle of Paris.

“This is an out-and-out collapse, and moreover, because of this ‘Undead Scourge,’ the entire capital was buried.”

“The government’s flight, in the eyes of ordinary soldiers and the public, is the signal of utter defeat… Once this psychological defense line collapses, it is more terrifying than the fall of any fortress.”

Morin spread his hands, making a final summary.

“The Gallic Republic right now is like a husk that has had its internal organs hollowed out. Although it still maintains the form of a country on the outside, it has actually lost the ability to continue surviving.”

“So, from the perspective of the Gallic government—the main force of the army is surrounded in the south, the capital has fallen and turned into ruins, and they themselves are completely on the ‘moral low ground’ in international public opinion… Continuing to resist has no meaning other than pointlessly increasing casualties.”

“Even though I heard these days that a Tier-9 mage of the ‘Eye of the Loire Mage Order’ is in the Southern Theater, under such a massive disadvantage, at most they can cause some losses and hindrances to the Southern Army Group, but cannot affect the entire battle situation!”

“In order to avoid being completely dismembered or completely occupied by us, their only rational choice is to agree to a ‘conditional surrender’.”

“At the cost of ceding territory and paying indemnities, to preserve the continuation of national sovereignty, to preserve that half of the country in the south.”

“This can be called a kind of ‘strategic surrender’.”

Morin used this term to conclude his lengthy speech, while also feeling immensely satisfied in his heart from this bout of “keyboard politics.”

“That is, making a political compromise to preserve the core of the nation and country when militarily is hopeless.”

A brief silence fell over the room.

Georg looked quietly at Morin, the appreciation in his eyes no longer concealed.

He originally thought Morin was just an excellent tactical executor, a brave warrior.

But this conversation tonight had completely changed his view.

“Strategic surrender…” Georg chewed on this term, a playful smile curving at the corner of his mouth, “Well said, Sir Friedrich. You said it extremely well.”

He put down his wine glass, looking brightly at Morin.

“If my guess is correct, you are not completely clear about the specific battle situation in the Southern Theater?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Morin nodded, “Before entering the underground research institute, I only knew that the Southern Theater had launched a counteroffensive… and then I’ve been lying here ever since.”

“Then you must hear this.”

Georg’s expression became lively, carrying a trace of excitement, and also a trace of lingering fear.

“This perfectly corroborates your judgment about ‘despair’ just now!”

“Just as you said, the Gauls indeed tried to put up a final struggle in a desperate situation… And this struggle came exactly from that one and only Tier-9 mage of theirs.”

“Tier-9 mage?”

“That’s right!” Georg nodded, “Just when the Bordeaux defense line was in imminent danger, this leader of the ‘Eye of the Loire Mage Order’ made his move.”

“You didn’t see that scene, Sir Friedrich…”

Mentioning that battle, Crown Prince Georg’s tone lost some of its lightness, gaining a bit of reverence for extraordinary power.

“When the Southern Army Group was launching a large-scale general offensive across the entire line, that Evocation School Tier-9 mage, relying on his own power alone, blocked the advance routes of several of our full divisions for a week.”

Although Morin didn’t witness it with his own eyes, as a spellcaster who had seen the “Spell List” through the system, he could completely imagine the might of a Tier-9 mage.

Even if the Evocation School was called “barbarians,” its large-scale spell lethal effects were still daunting.

Even now, that was truly a one-man army, a walking strategic deterrent.

“He released the spell called [Meteor Swarm].”

Georg seemed to recall the scene he saw from a distance at the time, his whole body trembling slightly.

“Those giant boulders burning with raging flames falling from the clouds, trailing long tails of fire; that sense of oppression was simply suffocating.”

“Although our vanguard troops had dug trenches, in the face of magical bombardment of that level, improvised fortifications were no different from paper. The troops were almost annihilated, organized unit by organized unit, battalion by battalion…”

Morin listened silently. This was the combat power of a top-tier spellcaster in this era. Even in the face of an industrialized army, they still possessed terrifying lethality.

“If this were a hundred years ago, or even fifty years ago, this battle might have been able to turn the tide and allow the Gauls to turn defeat into victory.”

Georg changed the subject, a cruel smile appearing on his face.

“But the Empire now is long since different.”

“After confirming the target’s coordinates, the Southern Group assembled a massive amount of heavy firepower from the entire theater.”

“Two armored airships conducted long-range suppression from high altitude, the main guns of three armored trains launched an attack on the target area, plus the heavy artillery groups subordinate to the army group…”

Georg stretched out his hands, making an encircling motion.

“We turned that area into a hell of steel and fire.”

“That Tier-9 mage was indeed very strong. Some kind of shield of his seemed to be able to hard-tank the artillery strikes, and he even tried to counterattack with magic… He indeed used meteorites to destroy one of our armored trains.”

“But he is one person. Even if he tried to hinder us with high-tier spells for a week consecutively, his spellcasting ability is limited.”

“And our artillery shells are limitless… Our artillery groups bombarded for a full three hours, plowing that river beach over and over again.”

“This is the power of a mature industrial system, Your Highness.” Morin interjected, his tone carrying a trace of emotion.

“That’s right, this is the power of industry.” Georg nodded in agreement. “In the face of absolute fire density and sustainability, the mighty power of an individual is insignificant.”

“After the bombardment ended, our infantry went up to clear the battlefield. The original terrain could hardly be seen there anymore; everywhere was scorched earth and craters. As for that Tier-9 mage…”

The Crown Prince shrugged, a look of regret on his face.

“Not seen alive, nor dead… Maybe he was blown to ashes, maybe he escaped using teleportation, but regardless, after that he never appeared on the battlefield again.”

Georg and Morin talked a lot about the battles in the Southern Theater, which also allowed Morin’s system’s [Intelligence] and [Information] tabs to refresh quite a few useful things.

And the most important one among them was exactly about this Gallic Tier-9 mage.

[Leader of the Eye of the Loire Mage Order, Pierre de Cuvier. Current Status: Alive]