Trenches, Guns, and Magic

"Sister Cecilia, why does it feel like you've gotten a lot bigger?"

This sentence exploded in Helga's ears, its effect no less devastating than the 305mm shells fired by the Britannian warships at the Church of Santa Maria la Nova.

Helga's brain kicked into overdrive in an instant. She deconstructed Morin's sleep-talk into several layers of meaning, piecing together a conclusion that left her both shocked and secretly delighted.

The shocking part was, naturally, the "taboo relationship" Morin had just exposed.

Although Morin and Cecilia were not blood-related, in Helga's understanding, their relationship had always been that of an "older sister and younger brother."

Sister Cecilia was Morin's mother's best friend. She had watched him grow up and, in a sense, acted as a surrogate guardian.

But now...

Helga's mind raced. Many things that hadn't made sense before suddenly clicked into place.

For example, whenever Morin returned to the estate, Sister Cecilia would always urge her to return to her room to rest early after dinner, gently but unusually firmly.

At the time, Helga thought she was just worried about her working too hard. Looking back now...

Another example: on a few mornings, she went to find Morin to discuss new firearm design proposals. She knocked on his door for ages with no response, only to later bump into him in the corridor, walking from the direction of Cecilia's room.

At the time, he looked perfectly composed, claiming he was going to wake Sister Cecilia for breakfast.

Helga had believed him then.

Thinking about it now, she really was hopelessly dense in this regard... With Head Maid Luna around, why would Morin ever need to wake Cecilia personally?

But beneath the shock lay a strange trace of... secret delight.

This was, of course, due to the second half of Morin's sleep-talk: "Why does it feel like you've gotten a lot bigger?"

What did this mean?

It meant that in Morin's memory, the scale of Sister Cecilia's "peaks" did not match the weight he was currently holding.

An inexplicable competitive urge sprouted from the bottom of Helga's heart.

It was very strange. Helga herself couldn't explain this mindset.

But she didn't have much time to continue analyzing, because the large hand's movements hadn't stopped.

Starting from the barely-encircled base, it gradually squeezed inward with moderate pressure, only to retreat to the foothills just before reaching the summit. Then, it began a new assessment, occasionally mixing in different routes like a spiral ascent.

"N-no..."

Helga almost cried out. She realized she couldn't let Morin continue, because her boss's technique was simply too skilled.

Helga was completely inexperienced in this area. After all, she had basically grown up in her family's firearm workshop in Thuringia.

In the early 20th century, when communication was undeveloped, the topics of conversation among young women of appropriate age in that remote Thuringian town clearly wouldn't touch upon such things. Furthermore, Helga didn't have much time to socialize with her peers anyway.

And this firearm girl had zero interest in these matters; all her passion was dedicated to the precision metal parts on the lathe and design blueprints.

Back then, to revive the family business, she mustered her courage and went to Dresden to attend a banquet. That was essentially the first proper social event of her life.

And that night, Morin pulled her aside and talked to her about air-cooled light machine guns until dawn.

Later, after becoming close with Patricia, the blonde heiress took her to a few aristocratic banquets. But Patricia's haughtiness basically slammed the door shut on any man attempting to approach Helga.

"Are these people even worthy of speaking to you?"

Those were Patricia's exact words at the time.

Therefore, Helga's "magic resistance" in this area was basically negative. Morin hadn't been kneading for long before her legs unconsciously clamped together, her body squirming slightly to the rhythm of his hand.

No, this is wrong... Yes, this is right...

If this continued, she really would break.

So the most pressing matter was to stop Morin from continuing his "ascent."

But the strength of the hand holding her was terrifying. Even in his deep sleep, Helga couldn't pry it open at all.

Her feverish brain spun rapidly until she thought of a solution.

If she simply turned around to face him, the "peaks" would naturally slip from his palm and hide in the gap between them!

Helga bit her lower lip, struggling to control the extent of her twist, inching her way from lying on her side to facing Morin head-on.

The effect was immediate.

Morin's hand indeed slipped from the peaks, which were now squeezed into the narrow space between them.

Helga had just breathed half a sigh of relief when she suddenly realized a new problem: she was face-to-face with Morin.

The camp bed was already narrow. With two people squeezed onto it, their faces were only about two or three fingers apart. Morin's hot breath puffed directly onto her lips.

For Helga, everything before her was "out of syllabus," causing her brain to crash, unsure of how to respond.

And the next second, something even worse happened.

Helga found that Morin's large hand had at some point found its way to her waistline again, and immediately began moving once more.

Only this time, it wasn't an "ascent to the peak." Instead, it changed direction, sliding slowly down the astonishing curve below her waist, beginning to "explore the hidden valley."

Helga's breathing stopped completely for a beat.

Morin's face, so close at hand, filled her entire vision. That face, usually sporting various expressions, looked exceptionally peaceful in slumber.

This birthed a strange thought in Helga's mind—I have the boss all to myself—while her head simultaneously began leaning forward involuntarily.

"Helga! There's an abyss ahead!"

A figure in white robes with wings on its back pulled desperately at her inside her mind.

"Helga! Haven't you been looking forward to this day for a long time?"

Another petite figure in black robes, tail swishing back and forth, voiced a different opinion.

The two voices tug-of-warred in her mind for less than three seconds before the latter won an overwhelming victory.

Helga closed her eyes. The next second, her lips met Morin's.

Soft.

This was Helga Schmeisser's first realization regarding this matter in her twenty-one years of life.

Then, the sleeping Morin acted like a piece of precision machinery that required specific trigger conditions to activate, completing a "cold boot" the instant their lips touched.

By the time he finished a seamless combo, Helga was completely disoriented.

Rustling sounds came from the tent, mixed with the groaning squeaks of the overwhelmed camp bed.

...

While "artillery fire" roared inside the tent, a real artillery duel was brewing on the Mediterranean Sea a thousand miles away.

As early as the armored airships caught the trail of the Holy Britannia Empire's main Mediterranean Fleet, the latter had actually noticed those slow-moving silver-gray silhouettes in the sky.

The airships were too massive. Hiding their tracks in the clear skies over the Mediterranean was nearly impossible.

And to any experienced officer in the fleet, the very action of "Saxon armored airships conducting close-in reconnaissance" meant the enemy fleet likely had its eyes on them.

Inside the bridge of the flagship Queen Elizabeth, Mediterranean Fleet Commander Vice Admiral John de Robeck stood by the nautical chart, the Fleet Chief of Staff beside him. Neither wore a relaxed expression.

"Half an hour ago, Malta Port reported a Saxon armored airship conducting close-in reconnaissance."

Vice Admiral Robeck's voice was unhurried.

"And now there are reconnaissance airships above us... If you put these two things together, the answer is obvious."

The Fleet Chief of Staff spoke up, "Commander, are you saying the Saxons might have laid an ambush on our route back to Malta?"

"Not 'might'." Vice Admiral Robeck shook his head, continuing, "We will prepare under the assumption that there is an ambush."

Having dealt with the Saxons in the Mediterranean for years, he was no stranger to this opponent.

The Saxon Empire Navy's strength in the Mediterranean had never been substantial. After the Royal Navy preemptively reinforced the Mediterranean and blockaded the Strait of Gibraltar anew, the enemy couldn't deploy more capital ships.

But they maintained a cooperative relationship with the navies of the Papal State and the Austro-Hungarian Empire—a point that became even more critical following the destruction of the Gallic Navy's main force.

With these three joining forces in the Mediterranean, the fleet they could assemble was nothing to scoff at.

Vice Admiral Robeck walked back to the viewing window at the front of the bridge, glancing at the calm sea outside.

The fleet essentially had only two choices right now.

First, immediately turn around and retreat toward the Strait of Gibraltar, rendering the enemy ambush useless.

But this meant the entire fleet would have to cross more than half the Mediterranean without any mid-point resupply to reach the Atlantic.

Given their current supply reserves and magitech core status, he couldn't guarantee every ship would successfully make it back to the home islands.

More critically, once the Mediterranean Fleet withdrew, Malta would become an isolated island.

The Saxons would never let this heaven-sent opportunity slip by... And if Malta fell, Britannia's presence in the central Mediterranean would be uprooted, directly impacting its colonies in North Africa and Central Asia.

This was unacceptable to the Royal Navy.

The second choice was to charge straight back to Malta Port.

Malta was no ordinary port.

After nearly half a century of continuous modernization, that naval port's defense system was practically a steel fortress in the Mediterranean.

Large-caliber coastal defense batteries, fully laid minefields, and large anti-air magitech devices... Compared to the Gallic Republic's Oran Port and the Papal State's Naples Port they had previously destroyed, Malta Port was on an entirely different level in this regard.

Furthermore, Malta Port held sufficient ammunition, fuel, and repair facilities to support the fleet in a protracted war of attrition.

As long as they entered the naval port's support range, the tables would instantly turn.

It didn't take Vice Admiral Robeck long to make his decision. He had full confidence in his fleet, and the Royal Navy's strength was beyond doubt.

"The entire fleet maintains current heading. All ships to battle stations."

The Fleet Chief of Staff nodded, but quickly added, "What if the Saxons bring the Papal State and Austro-Hungarian navies and try to force a pursuit?"

"Then perfect~"

Vice Admiral Robeck walked back to the chart, drawing a circle around the island of Malta with his finger.

"Let them chase us to Malta. I'll personally teach them an unforgettable lesson... You must know, since the Battle of Trafalgar, the Royal Navy has never retreated from an enemy encounter at sea!"

"And we won't today either!"

The order rapidly spread through the fleet via light signals and radio communication. The cruising Mediterranean Fleet quickly initiated a minor formation change.

Three light cruisers and three protected cruisers took the lead, advancing in three columns, each comprising two ships.

The 16 G-class destroyers of the 5th Destroyer Flotilla (Beagle-class destroyers, redesignated as G-class in 1913, not to be confused with the WWII G-class) spread out ahead of and on the flanks of the three columns, forming an arc-shaped reconnaissance screen spanning about 5 nautical miles.

About 3 nautical miles behind the center of the three columns was the fast strike squadron led by the flagship Queen Elizabeth.

The two Invincible-class battlecruisers, Invincible and Inflexible, followed closely behind. Bringing up the rear was the Lord Nelson-class pre-dreadnought Agamemnon.

Three nautical miles off the flagship's starboard side, the battleship squadron of five pre-dreadnoughts, led by the Lord Nelson, formed a standard single-column line ahead.

All lookouts on the warships scrambled into the crow's nests atop the masts, sweeping the horizon with binoculars, trying to spot the black smoke pluming from Saxon radiant crystal warships on the move.

The four accompanying fleet mages also readied their spell slots and scrolls, downed energy-maintaining potions, and prepared to take to the skies via 【Fly】 at any moment.

Meanwhile, on the sea about 15 nautical miles northeast of the Britannian fleet, another massive fleet was steaming south at full speed.

The combined fleet of the Saxon Empire, Papal State, and Austro-Hungarian Empire warships deployed into combat formation almost immediately upon receiving the reconnaissance report relayed by the armored airships.

On the combined fleet flagship, the Moltke-class battlecruiser Goeben, the navigator had already calculated the intercept point based on the Britannian fleet's position and heading relayed by the airships.

Unlike Britannian warships, whose magitech cores could unleash extremely high speeds for short bursts, the radiant crystal-powered warships led by the Saxon Empire lacked this "Engine Boost" capability.

The advantage of the radiant crystal system lay elsewhere: in terms of normal top cruising speed, radiant crystal warships were faster than their Britannian counterparts, and could maintain it for long periods without any "cooldown."

In other words, the Britannians were like sprinters: extremely fast off the line but requiring rest intervals. The radiant crystal fleet was like marathon runners— slightly slower but boasting incredible endurance.

In a protracted pursuit, the endurance advantage of the radiant crystal fleet would only magnify over time.

But in close-quarters tactical maneuvering—especially in situations demanding explosive bursts of speed like seizing firing positions—they were indeed at a disadvantage.

Especially when the Britannians, relying on their stealth, crept to lethal range and suddenly accelerated into firing position...

On the combined fleet side, the pre-engagement formation deployment was also complete.

All light cruisers were arrayed in a 6.5-nautical-mile-wide convex arc, each surrounded by several destroyers and fleet torpedo boats, forming a sparse but sufficiently wide search net.

The main squadron, including battlecruisers and dreadnoughts, led by the flagship Goeben, was deployed in a column formation behind this net, like an arrow nocked on a bow.

Armored cruisers and protected cruisers, accompanied by the remaining destroyers and torpedo boats, formed a screen around the main squadron.

As for the 22 U-boats of the Saxon Empire's Mediterranean Fleet, they had already been deployed along the mandatory route to Malta.

Whether the Britannians planned to charge straight through or detour, they couldn't avoid these "underwater little men."

Based on the current headings and speeds of both fleets, the two massive armadas would theoretically clash in about two hours.

Time ticked by, minute by minute.

About an hour later, Vice Admiral Robeck on the Queen Elizabeth's bridge noticed an anomaly on the sea.

Dead ahead on the horizon, a patch of grayish-white sea fog was slowly spreading. Its coverage area wasn't huge, but it was thick enough to obscure vision.

Although the Mediterranean enjoyed far better daily sea conditions than other waters, sea fog wasn't entirely uncommon.

Especially in certain areas, temperature differentials could quickly spawn large patches of low-altitude fog.

Just like now...

Vice Admiral Robeck frowned. He didn't want the accompanying mages to casually use 【Fly】 just yet; who knew what lay ahead?

So, in the short term, he could only rely on the visual observations of the ship's lookouts. Entering that fog meant flying blind.

"Signal the fleet."

Vice Admiral Robeck hesitated for only a few seconds before deciding.

"Engage high-speed cruise mode on magitech cores. Entire fleet, steer three compass points to starboard."

Three compass points to starboard meant turning right by about 34 degrees. This would bypass the sea fog and force the Saxons to recalculate their intercept course.

The order went out from the flagship's signal station. The signal lamps blinked continuously under the operator's hands, and signalmen waved flags at the other warships.

The Queen Elizabeth's magitech core took the lead in ramping up power. The hull vibrated slightly, and its speed climbed from 20 knots to 28 knots in a short time.

The other three warships of the fast strike squadron—Invincible, Inflexible, and Agamemnon—completed their turns and acceleration almost synchronously.

The cruisers and destroyers ahead reacted even faster. The smaller-tonnage vessels nimbly adjusted their headings, and the entire reconnaissance screen shifted right.

But it was at this moment that the first dramatic scene of the battle occurred.

When Britannian warships' magitech cores entered high-speed cruise mode, massive amounts of seawater were pumped into the cooling pipes surrounding the core. High-temperature steam vented through the smokestacks, forming a brief but extremely dense white steam wake.

Normally, this steam dissipated quickly without issue. But today's sea conditions were problematic—there was already low-altitude fog. Compounded by the sudden massive venting of steam, the flagship Queen Elizabeth and the fast strike squadron were instantly enveloped in a thick white cloud.

And the battleship squadron lead ship Lord Nelson, three nautical miles away, found itself in an extremely awkward position—the white steam and gray fog mixed together, completely swallowing the flagship's masts.

Light signals were equally distorted by the fog. By the time the Lord Nelson's signalman finally pieced together a blurry silhouette, he couldn't tell if it was flag semaphore or just light refracting in the mist.

Unable to see the flagship's signals, the Lord Nelson opted to maintain its current heading, adhering to Royal Navy standard operating procedures.

Thus, while the fast strike squadron and the reconnaissance screen turned three compass points starboard, the battleship squadron of five pre-dreadnoughts maintained their original heading, plunging straight into the sea fog ahead.

By the time the Lord Nelson's captain realized something was wrong, nearly five minutes had passed.

And the Queen Elizabeth's signal officer also realized the battleship squadron off the starboard bow had vanished.

The two ships quickly established a tenuous radio connection. The Lord Nelson's helm spun, and the four trailing pre-dreadnoughts sequentially received the lead ship's light signals, beginning to clumsily adjust their headings.

But pre-dreadnoughts were the slowest ships in the fleet. Even in high-speed cruise mode, they struggled to reach the ultra-high speed of 28 knots.

In fact, regarding the naval joke "If you're under 28 knots, get out of the Royal Navy," these pre-dreadnoughts would be the first out the door...

When the five pre-dreadnoughts finally emerged from the other side of the sea fog, the distance between them and the Queen Elizabeth had widened to nearly 8 nautical miles.

And the gap was still growing.

"Tch, damn it..."

The captain of the Lord Nelson lowered his binoculars. He now harbored grievances against Vice Admiral Robeck's command.

In his view, regardless of complex sea conditions, a naval commander must ensure his orders are understood by distant fleet elements. Wasn't that a fundamental principle of naval tactics? (A nod to Evan-Thomas's complaints about Beatty during the Battle of Jutland).

Just then, the lookout in the crow's nest let out a frantic shout.

"Massive black smoke sighted due north! Distance... preliminary estimate 12 to 15 nautical miles!"

The Lord Nelson's captain snapped his binoculars up. Sure enough, several thick black smoke plumes were rising on the northern horizon.

The Saxon Empire Navy's radiant crystal-powered warships. The color and shape of that smoke were unmistakable.

Simultaneously, entering their vision even earlier than the black smoke were two slow-moving silver-gray oval silhouettes in the sky.

Armored airships. Two more had arrived.

They were flying toward this sea area from the northeast, and had very likely already spotted the five pre-dreadnoughts drifting alone on the sea, detached from the main fleet.

A brief silence fell over the Lord Nelson's bridge.

The captain slowly lowered his binoculars, looking at the pale-faced executive officer beside him.

"Radio the flagship. Tell Vice Admiral Robeck that we might bump into the enemy main force first."