Chapter 4: A Powerful Noblewoman.

Morin was completely numb.

He felt that ever since he transmigrated, his worldview had been repeatedly shattered, rebuilt, and then shattered again.

First, he was beaten up; then came the Cheat Code system; then the super-powered Iron Can soldiers in plate armor and longswords who could withstand close-range gunfire; and now, the International Brigades had popped up.

How could these left-wing fighters, who were clearly ‘Communists’ or ‘Anarchists,’ get mixed up with the Saxon Empire, a feudal state that looked like a right-wing militarist regime? The trajectory of this world line was simply outrageous, filled with magical realism, like having Wilhelm II and Lenin hold hands and sing “La Marseillaise.”

Before Morin could process the confusion in his mind, he was supported by the Iron Can soldier next to him, staggering along as he followed the main force retreating. The pain throughout his body was intense, and he had no extra energy to delve into the ideological issues of this world. Right now, survival was the priority.

The column traveled through the night and soon retreated to the suburbs outside Seville. Behind a dense thicket of bushes, several military trucks with a rather retro appearance were parked in the shadows. There were also many bicycles and tall horses nearby, with a few remaining soldiers holding the horses and vigilantly observing the surroundings. The entire scene exuded that peculiar, industrial and agricultural mix atmosphere characteristic of the World War I era.

Upon arrival, there was no delay. Morin, Lieutenant General Mackensen, the few rescued wounded, and the heavily armored Iron Can soldiers were prioritized and loaded into the back flatbeds of a few trucks. The remaining Saxon soldiers and the armed personnel of the International Column deftly mounted horses or straddled bicycles.

With the roar of engines and the neighing of horses, the mixed column sped rapidly away from the urban area.

There were no seats in the truck bed, so Morin could only semi-recline on the cold iron plate covered with a layer of dry straw, swaying with the vehicle’s bumps, alongside Lieutenant General Mackensen.

He secretly observed the Lieutenant General beside him under the moonlight. Mackensen’s complexion was poor, the bloodstains at the corner of his mouth had clotted, but he still held his back straight, his eyes sharp as he stared at the night scenery rapidly passing outside the truck bed. Morin noticed that the Lieutenant General’s gaze occasionally fell on him, and the look seemed to hold something more than the pure, previous scrutiny of a superior to a subordinate.

Just as Morin was struggling to recall the original owner’s memories to figure out what connection he had with the Lieutenant General, Mackensen suddenly spoke.

“The last time I saw you was at a ball in Dresden.” Mackensen’s voice was weary. He wasn’t looking at Morin, his gaze still fixed on the distance. “Back then, you were no different from those aristocratic sons whose families had fallen on hard times, living off the shadow of your ancestors, your eyes only holding emptiness and numbness.”

Morin’s expression shifted slightly. He realized that this General seemed to be an old acquaintance of the body’s original owner… or rather, of the original owner’s ancestors.

“But today, your performance surprised me.” Mackensen finally turned his head, his eyes fixed on Morin like a torch. “I originally thought that once the Britannians’ fists landed on your face, you’d spill everything you knew after no more than three hits.”

Morin twitched his mouth but said nothing. What could he say? That he genuinely knew nothing at the time? That all he was thinking was, “Just kill me, hurry up, don’t delay my reincarnation”? If he said that, the Lieutenant General would likely kick him off the truck on the spot.

Mackensen seemed to take Morin’s silence as some kind of acknowledgment. He nodded, and his tone actually held a hint of praise.

“It seems your veins still carry your father’s blood, that spirit of a Saxon soldier, merely covered up for too long by your decadent past.”

However, Mackensen’s next words made Morin’s heart sink.

“But this doesn’t mean I will lower my demands on you because of it.” The Lieutenant General’s tone became cold again, even tinged with unconcealed anger.

“Just the day before the Military Observation Group departed, a telegram from home bypassed layers of the chain of command and was delivered directly to my desk.”

“There is a certain ‘Noblewoman’ with vast connections…” Mackensen clearly emphasized this term, filling it with disdain and contempt. “She hoped I could ‘look after’ you, preferably by transferring you to some clerical position in the rear to ensure your safety.”

At this point, Mackensen let out a cold snort. He endured the pain and forced himself to lean closer, almost pressing his face against Morin’s, stating word by word:

“What does she think the army is? Her private garden or a sanatorium?!”

“What I despise most are these parasites who treat the military as a place to get gilded, and the fools who try to interfere with military command using nepotism!” He stared intently at Morin. The sheer pressure almost took Morin’s breath away.

“Therefore, I refused!”

“Not only will I not transfer you to the rear, but I will assign you to the front line! And specifically to a combat unit positioned at the very forefront of the attack sequence!”

“I want you to experience for yourself what war is really like! Let’s see if those bones of yours, softened by alcohol, can harden again!”

The truck violently jolted, and Morin’s heart fiercely trembled along with it.

He didn’t speak. Primarily, the sense of oppression from Mackensen was too strong, and he genuinely didn’t know what to say. The other reason was that, in his memories, the original owner’s parents had long passed away. Furthermore, even if his mother were still alive, given the current decline of the family, she clearly couldn’t be considered a ‘Noblewoman,’ let alone possess the ability to send a telegram directly to the front line. So, he had no idea who Lieutenant General Mackensen was referring to.

After saying his piece, the old general hissed with pain and semi-reclined again.

The convoy continued to travel on the bumpy dirt road, and the two remained silent.

Feeling the situation was awkward, Morin turned his head and saw several huge black silhouettes quietly hovering in the distant night sky. They were giant barrage balloons (or observation balloons) obscured in the darkness, difficult to spot without close attention. It seemed that the precise and deadly artillery fire from earlier was guided by these eyes in the sky.

After driving for about ten kilometers, the convoy finally slowed down and eventually entered a large, organized camp. Morin turned to observe his surroundings. The camp appeared to be established around a hillside and a forest, and its scale was considerable. Saxon soldiers in field gray uniforms moved back and forth between the tents. Further out, he could see the barrels of towed field guns, though they were not currently deployed. From the conversations of the surrounding officers, Morin judged that this was likely the front-line assembly area and temporary command post for the Saxon Empire’s army in this region.

When the truck stopped, Morin jumped out of the back flatbed, then turned to help the old general disembark. However, the old man was robust; ignoring Morin’s outstretched hand, he jumped down himself.

Seeing this, several staff officers immediately gathered around him excitedly. Lieutenant General Mackensen ignored Morin and, without looking back, walked toward the largest tent in the center of the position, surrounded by the staff officers.

The surrounding soldiers and officers were also busy. A military doctor found Morin, briefly treated his wounds, and then hurried away. For a while, Morin, unsure of the situation, became the most idle or purposeless person in the area.

However, Morin gave himself a task. After finding a corner to sit in, he took out the ID cards and the document bag he had retrieved from the Holy Britannian Empire officers. The text on the ID cards was in English, which Morin was familiar with, but the content made him feel uneasy.

“MI9 (Military Intelligence, Section 9) intelligence personnel?”

“Fourth Battalion, Northumberland Fusilier Regiment… and a Major?”

As for the documents in the bag, although they didn’t reveal too much critical information, they gave Morin a general understanding of the enemy’s situation.

As Morin continued to browse, a series of prompts flashed in his mind.

[Information Collection: 10%]

[New ‘Intelligence’ collected, please view under the relevant entry!]

[‘Information’ updated, please view under the relevant entry!]

After confirming that all the information had been collected, Morin walked to the entrance of the tent where Lieutenant General Mackensen and the staff officers were, and asked the guard to deliver the items inside. He then returned to his previous corner, semi-reclined on the ground, and began to ‘clear the red dots’ (review the system updates).

In the process, he quickly figured out the current situation and awakened many of the original owner’s memories.

This guy, also transliterated as Morin, was, as Mackensen said on the truck, descended from the Junker military aristocracy. Morin’s grandfather had even served alongside Mackensen in the Brunswick Death Hussars cavalry regiment, and the two had formed a deep friendship.

Even after Morin’s grandfather was killed in action, and despite the family’s decline due to his father’s extravagance and eventual death from excessive drinking, Mackensen had continuously looked after Morin and other relatives. He even recommended Morin into the military academy, essentially doing everything he could for them. Morin had not squandered the opportunity given by the old general. After successfully graduating from the military academy with good overall scores, he was assigned to the Saxon Empire Army’s 9th Infantry Division, 16th Infantry Brigade, 33rd Infantry Regiment.

Under normal circumstances, Morin would have become a Platoon Leader in a company/battalion within this infantry regiment, becoming a junior officer in the Saxon Empire like his predecessors.

But the problem lay in the unit he was assigned to. Almost simultaneously with the issuance of his transfer order, his 16th Infantry Brigade received orders for all personnel and equipment to move south into the neighboring Kingdom of Aragon…