The war had truly broken out, yet everyone's first reaction was not shock, but a deep sigh of relief.
There was no helping it. The papers had been hyping the topic of a war for hegemony for months.
As if on the eve of a storm, the air itself had been steeped in oppression. Over the past few months, Europe's people had lived amid tension, their nerves drawn taut.
Now that the war had truly begun, their tightly wound nerves could finally relax.
While the public's nerves eased, the governments of every country became highly tense. France, Belgium, and the Netherlands in particular—three nations that needed to gamble on luck—did not dare relax for even a moment.
When the city gate caught fire, the fish in the moat suffered. Such things had happened far too often throughout history. Politics in this day and age was truly not the least bit friendly to small countries.
Although France was not a small country, when the first and second powers dueled, accidentally killing off the third, fourth, fifth, sixth... was not something that only happened in business competition. It was equally common in international rivalries.
France, battered and broken, had yet to emerge from the shadow of war. It simply could not withstand any more turmoil.
Unfortunately, most of the Holy Roman Air Force's forward airfields were located in northern France, while the forward command headquarters stood in Calais.
It was only a few dozen kilometers from the future-famous Dunkirk, and the nearest point to the British Isles was less than seventy kilometers away in a straight line.
Since he had managed to hold firmly onto the throne of France without being driven off it, Carlos was naturally no ordinary man.
Perhaps he lacked grand ambition and extraordinary administrative ability, but Carlos did