What Did You Say Your Brigades Were Called?

More than one armed man had stormed the cellar, so there was no question of who to rescue first.

Still, sometimes it mattered to show the right attitude.

Before Morin had finished speaking, a sharp dagger sliced through the ropes binding his hands.

Meanwhile, another walking tin can hoisted Lieutenant General Mackensen, who had taken a severe beating for his sharp tongue, straight onto his shoulder.

Mackensen hung limp. He was clearly badly hurt and probably couldn't even walk.

With someone supporting him, Morin stumbled a couple of steps, then steadied himself despite the pain that made his whole body feel as though it were falling apart.

He looked around, his gaze passing over the four Britannian officers' bodies on the floor. An idea suddenly struck him.

"Wait for me a moment."

He pulled away from the soldier supporting him and crouched down, sucking in a sharp breath as pain flared through his body.

He searched the major who had threatened him first and quickly found the man's officer identification.

Then he searched the other three and collected their identification as well.

Finally, he slung over his shoulder the document case the young officer had dropped.

If obtaining key information increased that "information collection" score, perhaps the documents or maps in the case would prove useful too.

Only after he had done all that did he return to the armored soldier and signal that he was ready.

The soldier asked no questions. He simply hooked an armor-plated arm around Morin again. Only then did Morin notice a faint blue light that seemed to flow across the soldier's armor and round shield.

Before Morin could ask about it, the soldier, whose strength clearly far exceeded an ordinary man's, carried him out of the cellar.

The scene above was even more gruesome.

They seemed to be in the ground-floor hall of a house, but the earlier explosion had reduced everything there to rubble.

Broken furniture lay mixed with chunks of masonry, and the air smelled of gunpowder and dust.

A dozen or so soldiers of Britan—Holy Britannia lay scattered across the floor, along with severed limbs. The thick stench of blood nearly choked him.

Morin fought down the nausea rising in his throat and followed the rescue force out of the building.

It was night outside. The streetlamps were dark, leaving only cold moonlight and the glow of distant fires to illuminate the street.

In that dim light, Morin could make out what was happening outside.

Besides the few walking tin cans who had entered the cellar, another half-squad of the same heavily armored soldiers stood watch with guns in the shadows of the street.

These armored soldiers' strength and stamina were clearly nothing like those of ordinary troops.

Even wearing full suits of heavy armor, they carried swords and shields on their backs and held rifles of a larger caliber.

One of them even carried a machine gun that looked remarkably like an MG08/15...

The Saxon soldiers standing guard nearby, dressed in the same Field Grey uniform as Morin, looked much more conventional.

There were roughly thirty of them, most armed with bolt-action rifles. They had taken positions behind the buildings on either side of the street and formed a makeshift defensive line.

And then there was another group...

Their clothes were a jumble of old military uniforms, workers' clothes, and even shirts and waistcoats. The weapons in their hands were just as varied.

Morin immediately thought of the young officer's report: "another group of unidentified armed personnel."

This had to be them.

Just then, a Saxon soldier came running from the end of the street, bent low.

He went straight to an officer who looked like the commander and reported in a low voice:

"Captain, the Britannians have caught on! They're ignoring the feint on their flank and moving their main force toward us! Our blocking force is about to be pinned down!"

No sooner had he spoken than rapid gunfire erupted in the distance. The whistles of stray bullets cutting through the night were clearly audible.

The Saxon soldiers nearby immediately aimed their rifles toward the gunfire. The tension spiked.

"Understood."

The commander addressed as captain remained perfectly calm.

"Tell the blocking force to hold a little longer. Once we've withdrawn from here, they're to disengage along the original route! If the Britannians are set on coming to reinforce this position, they won't bother with them!"

Supported by the soldier, Morin followed the main force as they moved quickly through the alleys and retreated toward the edge of town.

Along the way, he saw several other officers in Field Grey uniforms being carried on stretchers in the middle of the column.

They were probably survivors of the military observation mission too, though he had no idea where they had been held.

The group ran flat out for about two blocks. Suddenly, a chilling shriek sounded overhead.

"Whoosh—"

Boom!

Before Morin could react, a shell landed with a thunderous roar in the town they had just escaped.

After they had run a little farther, a second explosion sounded behind them.

Morin stole a glance back. This blast was noticeably closer to the block where he had been.

Ranging shots? Someone must be directing the fire... but from where?

Boom!

When the third explosion came, Morin had already turned to watch the direction they had come from. This impact looked extremely close to the house.

Would they keep ranging? Or...

The question flashed through Morin's mind, but he did not have to wait long for an answer.

"Whoosh—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—"

A string of piercing shrieks swept overhead. Moments later, thunderous explosions followed one after another. The battery fired five full salvos.

Even though they had run far from the town, Morin felt the ground tremble beneath his feet.

He looked back instinctively and saw flames leaping into the sky. A wave of dread washed over him.

The captain raised his wristwatch toward the firelight, checked the time, then muttered calmly:

"Those artillery boys managed to be punctual for once."

That one remark made the hair on Morin's body stand on end.

He understood the Saxon military's plan at once.

If the rescue had failed, or if they had been just a minute or two later, he, Lieutenant General Mackensen, and their captured colleagues...

Perhaps even the rescue force would have been wiped from the face of the earth along with the enemy by that "punctual" barrage.

That's ruthless. They were ready to write off an army lieutenant general... Morin thought.

The column did not pause for the barrage. It kept marching swiftly toward the safe zone.

The captain strode over to the ragtag armed group and found a bearded, middle-aged man who appeared to be their leader.

"Thank you for your support, my friend."

The captain's voice carried genuine gratitude.

"But we still need time. I hope you can cover us a little longer. We have to make sure General Mackensen reaches the rear safely."

Morin pricked up his ears. His curiosity about this mysterious armed group had reached its peak.

Then the captain continued, "Afterward, please tell your Command Headquarters that the Saxon military will remember the invaluable assistance the International Brigades provided tonight."

Wait. What did you just say those brigades were called?

When the words "International Brigades" reached Morin's ears, it felt as though a 150mm heavy gun had fired point-blank into his forehead.

His mind went blank with a ringing buzz.

If his pitiful grasp of history was not wrong, the Saxon Empire he found himself in looked like a copy of the German Empire... a federal state under a dual monarchy.

So...

How was it fighting shoulder to shoulder with an obviously left-wing force like the "International Brigades"?!

Was this World War I or World War II?

What kind of absurd turn had this world taken?!