Departure

When the assembly whistle pierced the night, Morin's mind went blank for a moment.

It was like pulling an all-nighter, finally laying his head on the pillow while his eyes fought to stay open, then being told the company had decided everyone must work overtime—and they would have to eat breakfast on the road.

That helpless feeling of having no choice but to accept it...

Morin adjusted to it immediately.

He rubbed his throbbing temples and looked up at Klaus, who had poked his head into the tent. "Is the whole company moving out?"

"I asked the runner. Looks like the entire battalion," Klaus replied.

"Understood."

Since sleep was out of the question, Morin stopped fighting it.

He sat up on the camp bed reserved for the platoon leader, and the military training ingrained in this body kicked in.

"Klaus, get the platoon moving. Strike the tents immediately. Send anything that's awkward to carry on the march to the company Supply Train."

One of the most important jobs of the company's two heavy wagons, drawn by draft horses, was carrying the field tents and other odds and ends belonging to its more than 250 men, including the dozen or so at company headquarters.

"Yes, sir!" Klaus left to carry out the order and soon vanished beyond the tent.

Morin's young orderly quickly brought over the equipment left by the previous platoon leader: a gleaming rifle, a weighty pistol with its leather holster, and a leather spiked helmet in the unmistakable Saxon Imperial style.

Because he had been captured, the Britannians had stripped him of everything but his uniform. Even his officer's identification had to be replaced from the rear.

For now, he could only use what his predecessor had left behind.

Morin recognized the long, heavy rifle at once: the classic, accurate Gew.98.

The issued officer's pistol was a P08, coveted by weapons collectors in his previous life.

It meant that although this world's history and technological development differed from the world he had come from, plenty of things were still familiar.

That was good news for Morin. It would make adapting to this world and learning what he needed to know much easier.

But he was in no mood to examine the weapons. In silence, he fastened the pistol and ammunition pouch to his belt, put on the spiked helmet, and adjusted its chinstrap.

When the cold leather and metal touched his skin, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him.

He picked up the Gew.98 and worked the bolt. A sharp click echoed through the little tent, driving away the last of his drowsiness.

Once dressed and equipped, Morin stepped outside.

The orderly immediately called over two soldiers. They swiftly took down the platoon leader's one-man tent and carried it away with the camp bed.

The sight before him sharpened Morin's focus.

The once-scattered camp had been transformed. The squads' tents were gone, leaving only faint marks on the ground.

A few soldiers were taking bundled tents and supplies to the rear of the company. Everyone else had assembled under their squad leaders, packs on their backs and rifles on their shoulders.

On a nearby patch of open ground, the other two platoons of 3rd Company stood in neat ranks beneath the night sky. Orders rang out from officers and NCOs on every side, amid the bustle.

Morin looked farther out by moonlight. The entire 1st Battalion camp had come alive.

Countless wavering oil lamps formed a sea of light, like a huge beast roused from sleep, slowly stretching its limbs and growling deep in its throat.

That grim, efficient atmosphere made Morin keenly aware that he was one step closer to the brutal stage called war.

Meanwhile, at the 16th Infantry Brigade's headquarters to the rear...

The central command tent blazed with light. Inside, the air held the tension and weight that came before battle.

Lieutenant General Mackensen stood before an unfurled operations map. Despite his injuries, he stood as straight as a spear.

Brigade staff officers surrounded him, every gaze fixed on the city marked Seville.

After his rescue, the old general's first instinct had been to strike back at once and take a vicious bite out of the Britannians before they could react.

But his staff had argued hard enough to make him restrain himself and agree to send a telegram to the General Staff back home first.

Besides reporting the attack on the military observation mission in detail, its most important purpose was to request authorization for a retaliatory offensive.

Even with a telegraph line running along the Saxony–Aragon railway, however, a reply would take three or four hours at the earliest.

The authorization had yet to arrive. Mackensen and his staff could only work through possible attack plans while anxiously awaiting the final decision from Potsdam.

"Seville had no defensive fortifications before, but it appears the Royal Army started building temporary positions as soon as they moved in..."

"According to our current intelligence, the Royal Army has deployed the 24th Infantry Division there. At least two battalions of the Britannians' Northumberland Fusiliers are also here... We believe they have plenty of cavalry supporting them."

A major on the staff pointed at the map as he continued his analysis:

"In conventional forces, they already outnumber us... And they're defending. They're probably on guard against an attack from us by now. A frontal assault could cost us dearly."

Mackensen shook his head, then tapped the markings on either flank of the 16th Brigade.

"We have allies too. The National Army and the International Brigades each have a brigade on our flanks. With our 16th Infantry Brigade, we shouldn't be at a numerical disadvantage, at least in theory..."

The old general studied the symbols on the map representing their enemy—the Royal Army—and gave a cold laugh.

"Besides, the Royal Army is weak in both equipment and fighting spirit. Against our troops head-on... or even against the National Army and the International Brigades, they wouldn't stand a chance!"

"But we must pay close attention to the Britannians..."

Another staff officer spoke up:

"Based on the intelligence we have, a task force made up of the Highland Mage Corps and the Order of the Garter may have reached Seville as well, alongside those two battalions of the Northumberland Fusiliers."

At the mention of the Highland Mage Corps and the Order of the Garter, everyone fell silent.

Even Mackensen grew more sober at the thought of the archmages in the Highland Mage Corps.

Mackensen had always had complete confidence in the Saxon Imperial Army's fighting ability.

Its many capable junior officers and NCOs, together with the soldiers' long, rigorous training, formed the foundation that let it remain a formidable force and contend for dominance on a continent surrounded by powerful rivals.

Having entered industrialization early, the Saxon Empire had also made rapid strides in military technology.

It had begun mass-producing and deploying various kinds of heavy artillery. The Imperial Academy of Sciences had even developed modified versions of the Armored Knights once exclusive to the Britannians and Gauls, drastically reducing their reliance on magitech...

Even so, Lieutenant General Mackensen knew the Britannians' mages and knights could never be underestimated.

In colonial battles overseas, the empire had suffered badly more than once at the hands of archmages accompanying the enemy's armies...

A mere handful of them could change the course of a battle.

And then there was the Order of the Garter, packed with elite Armored Knights. Those genuine ironclad warriors could take on hundreds, even thousands, on a battlefield...

Mackensen's thoughts drifted back to the scorching lands of North Africa years ago.

It had been a colonial conflict.

At first, the campaign had gone better than anyone could have imagined.

His North African Corps and the Saxon colonial troops, aided by loyal local auxiliaries, had swept forward, uprooting one Britannian outpost and stronghold after another.

Reports of victory had flooded home. Everyone thought that rich land was about to change hands.

Then the Britannian reinforcements arrived.

A small detachment from the Order of the Garter, and just three archmages from the Highland Mage Corps.

Mackensen would never forget what he had seen that day.

He had led his troops into a head-on encounter with the main force of the Britannian expeditionary army. Everyone knew this battle would decide the course of the campaign in North Africa.

The battle did not begin with the roar of artillery.

Behind the Britannian lines stood an evocation archmage they hailed as a "legend," his staff raised toward the heavens.

The sky changed color in an instant. Clouds tore apart, and countless burning meteors, trailing long tails of flame, screamed down onto the Saxon North African Corps' positions.

Then, where the meteors struck, a firestorm rose and swept over everything.

A wall of flame rolled forward, devouring soldiers' flesh and warping steel rifle barrels.

A full-strength infantry regiment with a distinguished record vanished in those few minutes. Not even an intact body remained.

Then the Order of the Garter's Armored Knights charged. A single attack shattered the formations of two more infantry regiments.

That sight had become a nightmare Mackensen could never shake.

If the Teutonic Order attached to the army had not fought desperately to hold off those Armored Knights, using their superior numbers to pin down the enemy's pure magitech creations for a time...

If Duke Ernst August of Brunswick had not personally led the Brunswick Death Hussars in three desperate charges against the Highland Mages' position, heedless of casualties...

If the hussars had not forced those three archmages to break off their spells to defend themselves and retreat, paying for it with their own lives...

The entire North African Corps might have perished there.

"General?"

A staff officer's quiet call drew Mackensen out of his painful memories.

He took a deep breath. The smell of kerosene and tobacco in the tent grounded him in the present.

After a stretch of silence, Mackensen asked, "Where are the Teutonic Order's Armored Knights?"

"They're still aboard the troop train, but they can reach the station behind us and assemble before dawn at the earliest."

Mackensen nodded. "Mm... Once they arrive, send them straight to Seville to join the battle. The 16th Brigade's units and its attached cavalry regiment will continue to the assault assembly areas as planned. The brigade artillery regiment may move into its firing positions too."

At his words, the staff officers exchanged glances. Finally, the officer nearest him looked at him cautiously.

"But General, the General Staff's orders haven't come through yet..."

"It's only a matter of time."

Mackensen waved a hand and continued:

"Neither His Majesty, the General Staff, nor the Imperial Parliament will tolerate the Britannians reaching our doorstep. This battle is inevitable!"

He glanced at the tense staff officers around him. Most of these relatively young men had never fought in the overseas colonies.

For them, the coming battle would be their first.

At the thought, Lieutenant General Mackensen sighed.

As the old comrades who had truly experienced war moved into higher posts or stepped back from the front, a younger officer corps had become an unstoppable trend in the Saxon Imperial Army.

The new generation of young staff officers had entered preparatory officer schools in their teens and grown up studying military theory. In many respects, they surpassed their predecessors.

But military academies and routine training could not give them the most important thing: combat experience...

I hope this limited war produces a new generation of experienced officers for the empire...

The thought crossed Mackensen's mind. He then looked at the commander of the 16th Brigade beside him.

"I'll leave the detailed battle deployment to you. It's your responsibility, after all. Once the General Staff's orders arrive from home, I'll return to the Expeditionary Force Command Headquarters."

"Yes, General!"

With that, Mackensen sat in a corner of the tent and waited quietly for the final orders from home.

As commander of the entire expeditionary force in the Kingdom of Aragon, he ought to have been at the Expeditionary Force Command Headquarters, closer to Saxony, overseeing the whole situation.

A map of the entire Kingdom of Aragon unfolded in his mind, with the deployments of the Saxon Expeditionary Force, the National Army, and the International Brigades laid out across it.

He closed his eyes and considered troop movements on the other fronts. Once the fighting began in Seville, battles would soon break out along the entire line...

The other officers in the tent began planning for the battle that might soon erupt.

Swift-footed runners came and went through the tent, carrying order after order to the units.

Orders on paper became marching soldiers and the ruts left by towed artillery...

Nearly three hours later, an officer lifted the tent flap and strode up to Mackensen, who had a pipe between his teeth.

"General! A reply from the General Staff!"