A Well-Connected Noblewoman...

Morin was completely numb.

Ever since arriving in this world, he felt as though his understanding of it had been shattered, rebuilt, and shattered all over again.

First, someone had beaten him to a pulp. Then came the system. Next were armored soldiers wielding greatswords who could withstand gunfire at close range. And now the "International Brigades" had appeared.

How had these left-wing fighters, who were clearly communists or anarchists, ended up mixed in with the Saxon Empire, a feudal empire that looked every bit like a right-wing military state?

This world's history was absurd. It was like watching Wilhelm II and Lenin hold hands and sing "La Marseillaise" together.

Before Morin could make sense of any of it, the armored soldier beside him hauled him along as the main force withdrew, stumbling over the uneven ground.

His whole body hurt too much for him to spare any energy pondering this world's political ideologies.

For now, staying alive came first.

The group moved through the night and soon reached the outskirts of Seville.

Behind a dense thicket, several distinctly old-fashioned military trucks waited in the dark.

There were also plenty of bicycles and tall horses. Soldiers who had stayed behind held the horses' reins and kept a wary watch on their surroundings.

The whole scene had that strange, distinctly Great War mix of industry and agriculture.

They wasted no time once they arrived. Morin, Lieutenant General Mackensen, the few wounded men they had rescued, and the armored soldiers were given priority places in the beds of several trucks.

The other Saxon soldiers and armed members of the International Brigades swiftly mounted horses or climbed onto bicycles.

Engines roared and horses neighed as the mixed column sped away from the city.

There were no seats in the truck bed. Morin could only half-recline beside Lieutenant General Mackensen on a cold iron floor covered with a layer of straw, swaying with every bump.

By the moonlight, he stole a glance at the lieutenant general beside him.

Mackensen looked terrible, and the blood at the corner of his mouth had dried. Yet he still held himself straight, his sharp gaze fixed on the night scenery rushing past the truck.

Morin noticed Mackensen's eyes occasionally settling on him. There seemed to be something new in that look, something beyond a superior's appraisal of a subordinate.

Morin was trying to search the original owner's memories and work out what connection he had to the lieutenant general when Mackensen suddenly spoke.

"The last time I saw you was at a reception in Dresden."

Mackensen's voice sounded weathered. He did not look at Morin, keeping his eyes on the distance.

"Back then, you were no different from any other young noble whose family had fallen on hard times. You lived off your ancestors' reputation, with nothing in your eyes but emptiness and apathy."

Morin's expression shifted slightly. It seemed the general had known the original owner of this body—or perhaps his ancestors.

"But what you did today surprised me."

Mackensen finally turned to Morin, his gaze piercing.

"I thought that once the Britannians' fists hit your face, you'd tell them everything you knew in three blows or less."

Morin twitched his mouth but said nothing.

What could he say? That he truly hadn't known anything at the time?

That all he'd been thinking was, Just beat me to death already. Hurry up and let me get on with my next life?

If he said that aloud, the lieutenant general would probably kick him straight off the truck.

Mackensen seemed to take Morin's silence as confirmation. He nodded, and a trace of approval entered his voice.

"It seems your father's blood still runs through your veins. That Saxon soldier's spirit was merely buried beneath years of debauchery."

But Mackensen's next words made Morin's heart sink.

"That does not mean I'll lower my expectations of you."

The lieutenant general's voice turned cold again, with a hint of undisguised anger.

"The day before the military observation mission departed, a telegram from home bypassed the entire chain of command and landed directly on my desk."

"From a certain well-connected 'noblewoman'..."

Mackensen put pointed emphasis on the word, his voice full of contempt.

"She wanted me to 'look after' you. Preferably by transferring you to some clerical post in the rear, where you'd be safe."

Mackensen gave a cold snort. Fighting through the pain, he forced himself upright and leaned in until his face was almost against Morin's. He spoke slowly, each word distinct:

"What does she think the army is? Her private garden? A convalescent home?!"

"Nothing disgusts me more than parasites who treat the army as a place to polish their reputations! Except fools who try to interfere with military command through personal connections!"

He stared Morin down. The pressure of that gaze nearly left Morin unable to breathe.

"So I refused!"

"Not only will I not transfer you to the rear, I'll assign you to the front line! To a combat unit at the very tip of the attack!"

"I want you to see for yourself what war is really like! We'll find out whether those bones of yours, softened by drink, can harden again!"

The truck hit a sudden bump, and Morin's heart lurched with it.

He said nothing. Mostly, Mackensen was so intimidating that he genuinely had no idea what to say.

There was another reason: according to his memories, the original owner's parents had died long ago.

And even if his mother were still alive, given how far the family had fallen, she could hardly be called a noblewoman.

Much less one with the influence to send a telegram straight to the front...

So Morin had no idea whom Lieutenant General Mackensen was talking about.

Having finished, the old general hissed through his teeth at the pain and reclined once more.

The convoy continued along the bumpy dirt road. Neither man spoke.

Feeling awkward, Morin turned his head and spotted several enormous black shapes hanging motionless in the distant night sky.

They were huge tethered balloons, almost invisible against the darkness unless he looked carefully.

It seemed those eyes in the sky had directed the earlier artillery fire with such deadly precision.

After traveling another dozen or so kilometers, the convoy finally slowed and drove into a large, prepared camp.

Morin looked around. The camp appeared to have been built against a hillside and a stretch of woodland, and it was fairly extensive.

Soldiers in Field Grey uniforms moved between the tents. Farther away, he could make out the barrels of towed artillery pieces, though none had been deployed yet.

From the conversations among nearby officers, Morin gathered that this was the Saxon Empire's forward staging area and temporary command post for the region.

Once the truck stopped, Morin jumped down from the back and turned to offer the old general a hand.

But the old man was sturdy enough. Ignoring Morin's outstretched hand, he jumped down on his own.

Several excited staff officers immediately crowded around Mackensen. Ignoring Morin as well, the lieutenant general walked off without looking back, surrounded by his staff, toward the largest tent in the center of the camp.

The soldiers and officers nearby were all busy. A military doctor found Morin, gave his wounds a quick treatment, and hurried away.

For a while, Morin, who had no idea what was going on, seemed to be the most idle person in the area.

Still, Morin could find something to occupy himself. After sitting down in a corner, he took out the officers' identity cards and document pouch he had found on the officers of the Holy Britannian Empire.

The writing on the cards was English, which Morin recognized. Their contents, however, unsettled him.

"MI9... an intelligence officer from Military Intelligence Section 9?"

"Fourth Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers... and a major?"

The papers in the pouch did not reveal much of importance, but they gave Morin a rough idea of the enemy's situation.

As Morin read on, notifications flashed through his mind.

[Information gathered: 10%...]

[New intelligence gathered. Check the relevant entry!]

[Information updated. Check the relevant entry!]

Once he had collected all the information, Morin went to the entrance of the tent where Lieutenant General Mackensen and his staff were gathered and asked a guard to take the materials inside.

Then he returned to his corner, half-reclined on the ground, and began clearing the red notification dots.

As he did, he quickly worked out the current situation and recovered quite a few of this body's original owner's memories.

The man whose name also came out as Morin in translation had descended from Junker military nobility, just as Mackensen had said in the truck.

Morin's grandfather had even served alongside Mackensen in the Death Hussars, and the two had formed a deep friendship.

After Morin's grandfather was killed, Morin's father squandered the family fortune and drank himself to death. Even then, Mackensen had continued looking after Morin and his other relatives.

He had even recommended Morin to a military academy. There was little more he could have done...

Morin had not wasted the old general's help. After graduating from the academy with respectable overall marks, he had been assigned to the 33rd Infantry Regiment of the 16th Infantry Brigade, 9th Infantry Division of the Saxon Imperial Army.

Under normal circumstances, Morin would have become a platoon leader in one of the regiment's companies and battalions, joining his senior classmates as a junior officer of the Saxon Empire.

The problem was the unit he had been assigned to.

Almost as soon as his transfer orders came through, the entire 16th Infantry Brigade was ordered south, fully equipped, into the neighboring Kingdom of Aragon...