Trenches, Guns, and Magic

Erwin Rommel, First Lieutenant of the Saxon Imperial Army, Commander of the 1st Company, 2nd Battalion, Imperial Guard Assault Instruction Unit.

In another spacetime, this military genius who would later shake the world always seemed to be one step away from critical battles—missing a major battle by a footstep, missing a decisive operation by a day.

So much so that later military enthusiasts gave him the highly teasing nickname: "Rommel the Absent."

But this time, Rommel made it.

When the soldiers of the 2nd Battalion's 1st Company rushed out from the depths of the river valley, everyone's condition could only be described as "harrowing."

Even Rommel, whose physical stamina had always been outstanding, felt his lungs and legs no longer belonged to him.

From the moment he heard the road ahead was blocked by a landslide, he had led the 1st Company running forward like their lives depended on it.

Toward the end of the twelve-kilometer mountain road, they were mechanically stepping forward entirely on some indescribable inertia.

But when he led the 1st Company out of the river valley exit and saw the high ground ahead shrouded in smoke, with gunfire so dense it blended into a single continuous roar, that crushing exhaustion was suddenly overridden by something else.

The 3rd Battalion was still fighting; they had made it in time...

"1st Company! Up the high ground with me!"

Rommel roared hoarsely. Disregarding whether the soldiers behind him had reached their absolute limits, he broke into a sprint toward the reverse slope of the high ground.

Behind him, over a hundred instruction unit soldiers, running just as unsteadily, didn't stop their feet.

The rising and falling sounds of gunfire, explosions, and faintly discernible shouts in Saxon were the best stimulants.

The soldiers followed officers like Rommel and Schulz, moving upward using their hands and feet.

Someone slipped, but the comrade behind him grabbed the strap on his back and hauled him back up, and the two continued climbing with their heads down.

By the time they finally neared the top of the high ground, Rommel and his 1st Company were basically overdrawn to their absolute limits.

Most of the soldiers were half-kneeling on the ground or leaning on their weapons, gasping for air. If they were asked to immediately raise their guns and shoot in this state, their bullets would probably fly into the sky.

However, the 3rd Battalion's reaction was quite fast. A soot-faced 3rd Battalion NCO crouched in front of Rommel, giving him an "all good" hand signal.

"What's the status of your men? Can they fight?"

Rommel glanced back at his soldiers coming over the crest, collapsing onto the ground one by one, panting heavily.

"We can't fight..." he answered honestly. "We need at least ten minutes to catch our breath."

"Then you guys rest and keep your heads down! Just pass us your magazines and grenades!"

Rommel was stunned for a moment, then immediately understood what he meant.

"1st Company, everyone! Pass your spare magazines, ammo belts, and grenades forward!"

His order was quickly executed. Although the 1st Company soldiers were practically falling apart themselves, tasks like detaching magazines and unhooking grenades could still be done nimbly. A massive amount of magazines, ammo belts, and stick grenades were passed hand-to-hand to the forward positions.

The 3rd Battalion soldiers in the firing positions finally didn't have to count the bullets in their magazines anymore.

"Haha, ammo's here!"

"Quick, quick, hand me a few more magazines!"

An MG14 gunner took a fresh ammo belt from beside him, deftly fed it into the receiver, racked the bolt, and then turned to unleash a furious spray down the gentle slope. That feeling of finally being able to pour out ammunition openly after being suppressed for several rounds almost made several gunners shout out loud.

The Romanian skirmish line charging upward immediately felt the change—the firepower density of the high ground position, which had just been firing intermittently in short bursts, suddenly skyrocketed.

"Something's wrong!"

A Romanian officer in the front roared amidst the hail of bullets, but his voice was quickly drowned out by a burst of machine-gun fire.

Simultaneously, the 2nd Battalion's follow-up troops were also arriving successively. Within ten minutes, nearly two more companies had climbed onto the high ground.

More crucially, the 2nd Battalion brought two MG08 heavy machine guns and the pack horses carrying them.

When the soldiers hauled these heavy beasts onto the high ground and mounted them in reinforced firing positions, the firepower situation of the entire position underwent a qualitative change.

From the 3rd Battalion's original two MG08s, it was now four.

The interlocking field of fire from four water-cooled heavy machine guns almost covered every inch of ground on the gentle slope.

The Romanian attacking troops had charged to a distance of about fifteen meters from the position—the closest they had gotten to the high ground during the entire battle.

And then they couldn't advance a step further.

The Romanian soldiers in the front rank were pinned flat against the ground by the dense barrage; the ranks surging up from behind were mowed down row by row by the continuously intensifying firepower.

"Retreat! Fall back!"

When their morale finally broke, the surviving Romanian soldiers began retreating down the slope. Some simply rolled on the spot, sliding down the incline.

The corpses and wounded left on the gentle slope were more than the first two rounds combined.

By this time, Rommel had recovered somewhat.

Leaning behind a rock for cover, he wiped the grime of mixed sweat and dirt from his face, then poked his head out to glance at the routing enemy and the corpses littering almost the entire gentle slope.

In just over half an hour of fighting, the Romanians had practically lost an entire battalion here...

In the distance, at the assembly area of the Romanian vanguard regiment, the old Romanian colonel, riding his white horse and escorted to a safe position by his guards, also saw the changes on the high ground through his binoculars.

The firepower density had increased... and it wasn't just light weapons; the number of heavy machine guns had also increased.

This indicated the Saxon reinforcements had arrived.

To the old colonel, this speed was simply too fast.

During the march earlier, he had already received a telegram from the river valley defenders stating they would block the road through demolition to stop the enemy's motorized vehicles.

But looking at the situation now, it didn't seem like the enemy had been delayed at all.

"Did the enemy fly over?"

Looking at the smoke-covered high ground, the old colonel couldn't help but let out a sigh.

Meanwhile, in the air, Richthofen and Immelmann, piloting their two reconnaissance aircraft, had also expended all their ammunition.

The ground attack results of their sortie this time could be considered extremely rich. Half the gun crews of the enemy's mountain gun battalion were incapacitated, the attack force's assembly area was struck, and Richthofen had even attacked the main force during their march.

Setting aside the specific number of casualties, their deterrent effect was absolutely maxed out... evident from the fact that the marching column was still dispersed and hiding on both sides of the road.

Unable to do anything more, and lacking direct communication means with the ground troops, they ultimately chose to return to base.

Worst case, they would just fly another sortie after resupplying.

The two "Taube" reconnaissance aircraft quickly crossed the river valley exit, flying toward the Predeal Pass.

Although they saw friendly aircraft fly away, the 3rd Battalion on the ground wasn't worried, because by this time, reinforcements had arrived successively, bringing along more light mortars.

On the other side, the old Romanian colonel, after reorganizing his troops, ordered a fourth attack.

This time, the Romanians learned to be smart. They spread their skirmish line wider, utilizing sparse shrubs and rocks on the gentle slope for cover, advancing in short bounds.

However, supported by the fresh troops and resupplied ammunition brought by the 2nd Battalion, the firepower of the defense line of the instruction unit on the position didn't decrease, but rather increased.

The Romanians' assault from three directions was repelled once again.

The gentle slope turned into a slaughterhouse, dense with craters and corpses stretching from the bottom of the slope to the halfway point.

On the gentle slope, the remaining Romanian soldiers began routing backward.

The gunfire gradually thinned out.

Observing the battlefield from a distance, the old Romanian colonel watched the noticeably increased number of fire points on the high ground through his binoculars, his expression incredibly grim.

He lowered his binoculars and remained silent for a long time.

The chief of staff beside him waited for a long while before cautiously leaning in.

"Commander... should we organize a fourth—"

"No more fighting."

When the old colonel spoke these words, his voice was so low it was almost inaudible.

He turned to look at the chief of staff, waving his hand exhaustedly.

"Wait until the troops in the rear arrive. We can't let our regiment keep attacking until all our men are gone!"

The regimental staff officer opened his mouth, wanting to say something but failing, eventually nodding, turning, and going to relay the order.

The old colonel sat alone on horseback, taking another look at the high ground that had cost him so many troops.

Three attacks had exhausted nearly a third of the vanguard regiment's strength.

Yet behind the billowing smoke on the high ground, the Saxon position hadn't been breached; on the contrary, it had become even more solid.

The old colonel simply raised his binoculars again, looking at the top of the high ground for a long time, then shook his head.

Although he knew that with the arrival of follow-up troops, larger-scale attacks would continue and more artillery would be deployed...

He had a premonition in his heart—they had already missed the best opportunity. Perhaps no matter what they did next, they would be unable to break through the enemy's defense line.

Predeal Pass, Temporary Command Post.

Morin stared at the system map. Watching the unit cards representing the instruction unit battalions gather one by one at the river valley exit, and the Romanian army's unit cards begin to retreat, the breath he had been holding finally released.

The situation on the map was very clear now. The main forces of the instruction unit's 1st and 2nd Battalions had both arrived at the river valley exit, merged with the 3rd Battalion that arrived first, and rapidly entered defensive positions.

Morin trusted his troops very much. On a position so clearly advantageous to the defenders, fighting against an enemy whose training and equipment were at best at the level of the first few years of the 20th century wouldn't be a big problem.

So his focus had already shifted to the next step.

On the system map, beside that gray [Impassable Area] block, there was a progress bar under the "Clearing in Progress" tag.

Starting from 100%, it had now slowly dropped to 87%... The Guard Reserve Infantry Regiment was digging vigorously.

This progress couldn't be considered fast, but at least it was moving in a positive direction.

And down the mountain on the other side of the pass, on the armored airship's field maintenance platform, the material loading progress had also crawled up to 21%.

Everything was developing in a direction favorable to the Kampfgruppe, it just required time.

Once the mountain road was cleared and the convoy quickly reached the river valley exit, even with a Romanian reserve division outside, they couldn't possibly block the Kampfgruppe's attack.

And once the L15 armored airship caught up with supplies, the Kampfgruppe could quickly deploy a "forward base," using it as a springboard to attack the next target.

According to Lieutenant Colonel Andreas's prior communication with Morin, after transporting the Kampfgruppe's supplies over, the L15 armored airship wouldn't stay long.

It would return to the rear base in Transylvania to resupply, then load a support unit mobilized by His Highness the Crown Prince to assist Morin.

This was also part of the operational plan formulated from the start. Crown Prince Georg and Major General Knobelsdorff naturally didn't expect Morin to chew down the Romanian capital with just one Kampfgruppe.

The Kampfgruppe's main role was breaking through defense lines. When it came time for hard target assaults requiring the consumption of massive fresh troops, other units would naturally come to assist.

After quickly reviewing the current information, Morin glanced in the direction of the armored airship below the pass.

The L15's massive gray hull was exceptionally conspicuous in the valley.

The armored airship was loading supplies into its cargo bay with efficiency visible to the naked eye, the loading progress ticking up bit by bit.

Once the airship was loaded, flying over would only take half an hour.

Time... everything depended on time now.

Kingdom of Bulgaria, Southern Defense Line.

Situated in the Rila Mountains at an altitude of 1,200 meters, the Monastery of Saint Ivan of Rila was 60 kilometers from the Bulgarian capital, Sofia. The thick stone walls of the monastery cast long shadows in the sunlight.

This Eastern Orthodox monastery, founded in the 10th century, was a holy site for pilgrims during peacetime.

But over the past few months, it had transformed into the core command node of the Kingdom of Bulgaria's southern defense line. This location, along with Dupnitsa 20 kilometers away, formed the final defense line south of the capital, Sofia.

A mixed force of the Kingdom of Bulgaria Army's 2nd, 3rd, and 9th Infantry Divisions had steadfastly held this area, blocking the Greek army and the Ottoman Empire army flanking from another direction within the mountain range.

In the early stages of the defensive battle, relying on a large quantity of Saxon weapons and support from a Saxon military advisory group that entered secretly, the Bulgarians, after directly abandoning the Macedonia region, lured the enemy deep and struck them hard.

But as the battle continued and the enemy committed more and more troops to the offensive, the situation of the defense line became increasingly difficult.

Not only were various supplies running critically low, but troop reinforcements were also failing to arrive, because the newly mobilized recruits in the country were continuously being thrown into the defense lines blocking the Kingdom of Romania and the Ottoman Empire.

On the dome of the monastery's main hall, the frescoes depicting saints and angels had been covered layer upon layer by dust shaken loose by artillery bombardments.

In the command room converted from the apse, a large number of Bulgarian officers were busily working on tasks at hand, while three Saxon Imperial Army officers stood before a combat map covered in annotations.

"The report from the southwest defense line of Dupnitsa hasn't been updated for seven hours."

The speaker was the highest-ranking among the three, a Saxon Army major. He drew a circle on the map with a pencil, marking a section of the defense line southwest of Dupnitsa.

"In the last communication, the Bulgarian commander there stated the intensity of the Greeks' attack had suddenly doubled. It's unusual."

A captain beside him flipped through a report folder in his hand.

"Not just Dupnitsa, the defense sectors in front of us have also mentioned similar situations over the past two days... Among the enemies attacking them, some previously unseen elite units have appeared."

"What kind of elites?" the major pressed.

"The descriptions from the front lines are fragmented... Roughly, it's a batch of exceptionally well-equipped infantry. Some have extremely strong close-quarters combat capabilities, others are highly accurate shooters... Multiple witnesses mentioned these men possess physical stamina and reaction speeds far exceeding ordinary infantry."

"But they confirmed they aren't mages?"

"Correct. These men use conventional weapons. No obvious spellcasting behavior has been observed... or rather, no offensive spells have appeared."

The three remained silent for a while. The third officer, who had been quiet, chimed in at this moment.

"Could it be elite troops sent by the Britannians? Highland Infantry or something similar... The combat style of those Highland barbarians fits the description."

The major thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"The characteristics of Highland regiments are too identifiable: tartan kilts and bagpipes. The front line couldn't possibly mistake them... The reports mention none of these features."

The three fell into silence again, simultaneously feeling an unprecedented pressure.

Just then, the wooden door of the command room was pushed open from the outside, letting in a gust of cold wind laced with the smell of gunpowder.

A middle-aged man in a Bulgarian Army uniform walked in.

His left hand leaned on an ironwood staff, while his right hand carried a dust-covered military cap.

The left sleeve of his uniform was burned through, revealing a hastily bandaged section underneath.

"Master Petrov!"

The major spoke first, bowing slightly.

Ivan Petrov, a 5th-circle Transmutation school mage, one of the only nine combat mages in the Kingdom of Bulgaria.

During the defensive operations over the past period, this man had contributed massive amounts of magical support... From offensive spells to [Transmute Rock to Mud], which could assist in constructing trenches, many fortifications on the defense line bore his handiwork.

Master Petrov tossed his cap beside the map on the table and sank heavily into a chair.

"How are things at the front?" One of the Saxon officers handed over a cup of water.

Petrov took the canteen, chugged a few mouthfuls, and wiped his mouth casually, completely lacking the "elegance" of mages from other nations.

"Not great... I'm back to rest for a bit."

He paused, looking at the three Saxon officers.

"There's also bad news. I encountered an enemy mage on the front line."

The expressions of all three changed simultaneously.

"A mage?" The Saxon captain stood up abruptly. "One of the Greeks'? Or a Highland Mage sent by Britannia?"

"Unsure." Petrov shook his head. "The encounter was too short; I didn't have time to determine the opponent's school—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

A massive explosion suddenly sounded from outside the monastery.

"Boom!"

The shockwave of the explosion transmitted through the stone walls. The lamps in the command room shook violently, and dust from the ceiling fell like snow.

The men instinctively crouched low.

"What the f*ck is going on?!" the captain cursed from the floor. "Artillery? How did it hit all the way back here?"

"Wait... this doesn't feel like an artillery shell."

Petrov's expression changed instantly. As a mage, his perception of mana fluctuations was far sharper than that of ordinary people.

"It's a spell!"

Immediately following was a second explosion, closer than the first.

Dense gunfire and shouting came from the direction of the monastery's outer courtyard, followed by a series of dull thuds, as if something were battering down the main gates.

The three Saxon officers sprang up from the floor.

The major was the first to rush to the wall, grabbing his MP14 submachine gun from a hook, racking the bolt.

The other two Saxon officers followed closely, completing their arming almost simultaneously.

The other Bulgarian officers in the command room also grabbed rifles and pistols placed nearby. For a moment, the sound of clashing metal rang out in a cacophony.

Petrov also stood up.

His staff was gripped tightly in his right hand. Enduring the pain of his wound, his left hand drew a Mauser military pistol from his holster.

After experiencing a massive amount of high-intensity combat, this Bulgarian combat mage had come to understand a truth...

Even for a mage, in this day and age on the battlefield, you still need to carry a gun.

In the hallway outside the command room, the sound of footsteps and gunfire grew closer, and then—

"Bang!"

The thick wooden door of the command room was blown open by a massive force from the outside. Splintered wood sprayed into the room.

Without hesitation, the three Saxon officers pulled their triggers instinctively.

"Da-da-da-da—!"

The firepower of the three MP14s poured into the doorway. Bullets struck the figures emerging from the dust and smoke, and then they heard a sound that made their scalps tingle.

"Clang! Clang! Clang-clang-clang!"

It was the sound of bullets ricocheting off metal surfaces.

From the dust and smoke, several figures wearing full plate armor strode into the room. The pupils of the three Saxon officers shrank, for they had recognized that these were Britannian heavy armor units!

The wearers of these full suits of armor were at least over 1.9 meters tall, their physiques absurdly robust. The two heavy armor soldiers charging at the very front held single-handed broadswords in each hand.

They didn't slow down, stepping over the shattered door panels directly into the room.

The first sword swept horizontally, cleaving through a Bulgarian officer blocking the way.

The second sword chopped downward, cutting down a guard attempting to parry with his rifle, along with the rifle itself.

Blood splattered the stone walls, and the command room instantly descended into chaos.

"Fire! Fire!"

Everyone was shooting, but the bullets hitting those suits of armor only left shallow dents; they couldn't even penetrate.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Petrov raised his Mauser pistol and fired three consecutive shots at the nearest armored soldier. All three shots bounced off the breastplate, and the target didn't even sway...

He immediately switched to a spellcasting stance, intending to cast [Stoneskin] on himself first, and then counterattack with the nearly depleted spells in his spell slots.

Mana surged from his body; Petrov could feel the spell taking shape...

And then everything came to a screeching halt.

The 5th-circle mage's body suddenly stiffened. An irresistible, paralyzing sensation originating from within instantly eroded every one of his nerves.

His mouth hung open; the incantation stuck in his throat, unable to be vocalized.

His fingers froze in mid-air. The staff slipped from his numb fingertips, clattering crisply on the flagstone floor.

The last to enter the room was a figure not wearing full plate armor.

This person wore a dark mage robe entirely different from Greek military uniforms, the hood obscuring most of his face.

His right hand was slightly raised, five fingers spread in a spellcasting gesture, pointing directly toward Petrov.

[Hold Person].

The moment Petrov realized this, his back went completely cold.

Meanwhile, the heavy armor soldiers who had charged into the command room were swinging their blood-soaked weapons, hacking down everyone present, including the three Saxon officers.