Neither Holy Nor an Empire...

"General Mackensen, we have shown you more than enough respect. I hope you will show us the respect we deserve."

The middle-aged officer who had asked the question glared at Mackensen and said with a hostile look,

"At least use my country's full name when you refer to her..."

Mackensen gave a cold laugh.

"Her full name... the Holy Britannian Empire? What does your country have to do with anything holy?"

"Neither holy nor an empire..."

Well, Mackensen wasn't one to hold his tongue either.

But their exchange gave Morin more information in a short time. The mysterious voice in his head sounded again, and the contents of the "Information" screen updated with it.

[Current information gathered... 9%]

[The Holy Britannian Empire has its capital on Britannia Island and holds numerous colonies across the world. It is an autocratic state ruled by the emperor's bloodline.]

This time, Morin didn't even need the system's prompt. From the name alone, he could tell this was the other world's answer to the British Empire...

Though Morin had no idea what connection this country had to the "superpower" in a certain old anime franchise.

One thing was clear: it probably didn't get along with the Saxon Empire...

For some reason, both empires had sent military forces into the Kingdom of Aragon, where everyone now found themselves. But it seemed they had yet to go to war officially.

And these Britannian soldiers seemed to have pulled off a classic ambush...

They had attacked a Saxon Empire military observation group and taken Morin and the others prisoner.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant General Mackensen's sharp tongue had earned him a suitably "warm" response.

After several heavy punches landed, Mackensen went down with a clatter, chair and all.

And these three Britannian...

Fine, Holy Britannian officers hadn't forgotten Morin either. They gave him a beating and knocked him to the floor.

Then two pistols were pressed against Morin's and Lieutenant General Mackensen's crotches.

"Our patience has its limits. I'll ask you one last time. Are you Saxons planning to intervene in the Kingdom of Aragon's civil war? How are your forces deployed?!"

"Just shoot me. I really don't fucking know anything..."

Morin spoke weakly. All he wanted now was a quick end to it. No more torture, and definitely no agony from losing what lay beneath that pistol.

But after he said that, the Britannian officer in front of him put away his gun, a faint sneer appearing on his face.

"Very good. Your loyalty to your country has earned my respect. But it only makes me more certain that you have valuable intelligence..."

Lying on the floor, Morin didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He turned his head, spat out a mouthful of bloody foam, and said,

"No, seriously, what are you thinking? I'm just a lowly second lieutenant. How could I possibly know the military intelligence you're after?"

"The fact that you're only a second lieutenant is precisely what makes it so suspicious!"

"If you aren't someone important, or carrying important intelligence, why were you with a group of officers whose lowest rank was major?! And why were you riding in the same car as a lieutenant general?!"

"Wait... is that what this is about?"

Thud!

Another heavy kick landed, leaving Morin's vision swimming.

"Keep up the act. Once we take you to a proper interrogation room behind the lines, I'll give you a warm welcome. Let's see if you're still this tight-lipped then..."

The Britannian officer bared his teeth in a vicious grin.

Before he could say more, the cellar door opened, and a young-looking officer hurried down the stairs in a panic.

The young officer gave his colleagues in the cellar a frantic report in a language Morin had never heard before.

Yet to Morin's astonishment, he understood it.

Its tones and pronunciation were somewhat like the English spoken in the world he had come from.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on picking out the jumbled sounds. In his mind, they translated themselves into words he could understand.

"Major! The makeshift positions on the perimeter are under attack! It's the Saxons, and another group... another group of unidentified armed men!"

Panic filled the young officer's voice.

As he spoke, muffled explosions and intermittent gunfire came through the open cellar door, much clearer than before.

The atmosphere in the cellar instantly grew taut.

The Britannian major's expression turned grim. He kicked Lieutenant General Mackensen's chair.

"Move them to the rear immediately! Hurry!"

"Yes, sir!"

The young officer took the order and turned to run upstairs for help.

But just as his foot touched the first step, a deafening blast sounded outside.

Boom!

The entire cellar shook, and dust sifted down from overhead.

The young officer stumbled and tumbled down the short wooden staircase with a scream.

Before he could get up, a tall, dark figure leaped down through the cellar entrance.

The figure landed squarely, then planted a heavy military boot on the young officer's chest.

Crack. A rib had broken.

Before the young officer could scream again, the figure aimed a rifle at his head.

Bang!

The close-range shot thundered through the cellar, making Morin's ears ache.

The young officer's head burst like a watermelon, spraying blood and brain matter everywhere.

Three or four more dark figures filed in right behind him.

They moved swiftly and in perfect coordination, making almost no unnecessary noise.

The remaining two Britannian officers had only just reacted when they raised their weapons and fired toward the cellar entrance.

But beyond the gunshots, there were only a few sharp metallic clangs and flashes of sparks in the dark.

The next instant, three figures charged forward so fast Morin could barely see them.

They held some kind of round shield before them. Somehow, the shields stopped the pistol bullets fired at close range, and the attackers slammed into their targets, knocking them down.

Shhk! Shhk!

Blades tore through cloth and sank into flesh.

The three Britannian officers collapsed into pools of blood before they could even grunt.

The major who had beaten Morin and Lieutenant General Mackensen and threatened them fell twitching beside Morin.

His eyes bulged as he stared at Morin, as if he couldn't believe he had died just like that.

But Morin had no attention to spare for a dead man.

The attackers who had appeared out of nowhere held all his attention.

The fight had ended too quickly, in no more than a few seconds.

Only now, by the light of the oil lamp that had yet to go out, could Morin make out what they wore.

The attackers wore Field Grey uniforms in the same style as his and Lieutenant General Mackensen's.

That was good news. It meant they were probably on his side.

But over their uniforms, the armed men wore breastplates, shoulder armor, and arm guards that gleamed with a metallic sheen.

The plate armor covered one soldier's chest, shoulders, and arms. Its design was old-fashioned and imposing, and it looked incredibly heavy.

On his head sat a bucket-shaped helmet that completely covered his face.

What left Morin's brain struggling to keep up was the soldier pulling a still-dripping one-handed sword from the Britannian major's corpse. He casually wiped the blood on the dead man's clothes, then sheathed it at his waist.

Bolt-action rifles, plate armor, and swords...

What kind of combination was that?

Morin felt his understanding of the world shatter all over again.

How had medieval knights in full armor turned up too?

But Morin couldn't worry about that now. After a moment's thought, he said weakly to the armed men,

"I'm fine! Save the lieutenant general first!"