A thousand facing ten thousand, one man against ten—that was a true warrior.
A thousand facing a hundred thousand, one man against a hundred—that was Zhang Baiba.
A thousand facing a million—one man against a thousand.
After many days of grueling travel, their provisions had dwindled to almost nothing. Part of the reason was the long, difficult journey, but deliberate delays—or simple incompetence—were another part of it.
In short, during the grueling march, the Italian Allied Forces had suffered from chronic shortages of food.
It was easy to imagine what happened wherever a horde of starving men passed: the people would be seething with resentment. The regions that had once been under Austrian rule were especially full of complaints.
But that also gave the allied leaders an excellent excuse: treason and selling out the country.
As a result, the volunteers who had joined the holy war had become as despised as rats in the street before they had even reached Austria.
The long march was tedious and dull. The allied soldiers had long since lost their initial excitement, and with exhaustion and hunger gnawing at them, most looked utterly listless.
Polar, the army's leader, was naturally displeased to see his soldiers in such a state.
Just then, several old officers who were good at reading people came over.
"Mr. Polar, what's troubling you?"
"Don't ask what you already know! If you have something to say, say it! If you have something to fart, fart it out!"
The former shopkeeper now had a trace of a great general's authority.
But the old officers from Central Italy were long accustomed to groveling, so they continued smiling as they spoke to Polar.
"Your Excellency, we have a way to put some spirit into these lazy good-for-nothings."
"What way? Hurry up and tell me!"