Trenches, Guns, and Magic

Gallic Republic, Sedan.

By the time negotiator Aristide Briand emerged from the city hall, the sky had turned pitch black.

He slid into the back seat of his car, resting his spine against the leather upholstery and leaving his hands motionless on his knees.

Outside the window lay streets controlled by the Saxon Imperial occupation forces. Occasionally, a squad of Saxon patrol soldiers or a "Siegfried Mark I" Armored Knight standing at a critical intersection would flash past the glass.

The field-gray paint and black cross insignia made Aristide’s stomach churn.

This was his homeland.

The country of his birth.

But now, even his living arrangements had to be "organized" by the enemy’s military and political departments.

The car turned a corner and stopped in front of the delegation’s residence. It was a three-story stone building, formerly the mansion of a local Sedan wine merchant.

Out of "courtesy," or perhaps to save the Gauls some face, the Saxon occupation authorities designated it as the temporary residence for the Gallic negotiating delegation.

Several guards brought by the Gallic Republic stood at the entrance, alongside four Saxon soldiers "assisting with security."

As for whether this "assistance" meant protection or surveillance, everyone knew the truth.

Aristide walked through the front doors, headed up to the second floor, and returned to his room.

The room wasn’t large, and the furnishings were merely standard, but it was considered decent for wartime Sedan.

He took off his coat, hung it on a hook, sat down at the desk, and pulled a copy of the treaty text from his pocket to review it from beginning to end once more.

From any angle, the outcome of today’s negotiations was poor.

The permanent cession of Alsace-Lorraine, the demilitarization of the six northern provinces, astronomical reparations, tariff concessions...

Laid out on paper, every single one of these clauses would cause future generations of Gallic citizens to curse him, the negotiator, behind his back.

But at least this damn war could finally end.

The Republic’s capital, Paris, had been reduced to ruins. The economy teetered on the brink of collapse, and domestic anti-war sentiment climbed higher every day.

If they didn’t sign, the hastily cobbled-together government in Bordeaux would fall apart on its own.

Moreover, in Aristide’s view, the Gallic Republic had not perished.

The North African colonies remained, the main naval fleet survived, and while the industrial base was severely damaged, it hadn’t been entirely uprooted.

Therefore, the right move right now was to lie low, endure, accumulate strength, and await the right opportunity...

As for the Saxons and the Britannians?

Let them beat each other bloody. It would be best if both suffered heavy losses, fighting until they were completely exhausted and had no time to worry about Gaul.

Aristide rubbed his temples, a single question turning over and over in his mind.

How did the Gallic Republic end up here?

Just because the crisis in the Balkan Peninsula escalated tensions, and then, simply upon discovering the Saxons mobilizing, the Gallic Army launched a so-called "preventive offensive" on the border out of fear the enemy would strike first?

The result of that multi-day "Border Campaign" was a disastrous defeat on the northern front...

Immediately after, the iron hooves of the Saxon Empire swept across more than half the country from the north, ultimately turning Paris into its current "Domain of the Dead."

Aristide closed his eyes.

If the Gallic Republic had resolutely committed to defense, holding the border without moving, and the high command hadn’t rushed to retake Alsace-Lorraine... would the outcome have been different?

This thought lasted only three seconds before he dismissed it himself.

It wouldn’t have been different.

From the moment the Saxon Empire massed heavy forces on the border, there was no turning back from war.

If the Gallic Republic didn’t attack, the Saxon Empire would have.

Faced with a sweeping trend that affected the entire continent, the Gauls simply could not stay out of it.

"There’s no point thinking about this now..."

Aristide sighed self-deprecatingly, opened his eyes, and grounded his thoughts.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. It was his adjutant, Charles.

"Sir, a guest wishes to see you."

Aristide frowned.

"Is it that ’regular guest’?"

Charles’s expression was tight, and he gave a slight nod.

Aristide remained silent for a long time before letting out a long breath.

"Bring him in."

"Sir..." Charles stepped half a pace forward, lowering his voice. "Meeting him at a critical juncture like this... what if Saxon intelligence agents notice?"

"He’s coming to me mostly regarding the matter we failed to agree on last time."

Aristide waved his hand dismissively.

"Have the guards keep a close watch outside. Don’t worry about anything else."

Charles hesitated for two seconds, ultimately said nothing, and turned to leave.

A few minutes later, the door was pushed open again.

A man in a trench coat, the brim of his hat pulled low, walked in.

Upon entering, the man removed his hat and bowed slightly to Aristide.

Once Charles closed the door and his footsteps faded away, Aristide looked at the visitor sitting across from him, offering no pleasantries.

"Coming to Sedan at a time like this takes a lot of nerve... Saxon intelligence isn’t incompetent. Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?"

"It doesn’t matter."

The man pulled a small object from the inner pocket of his coat—a thumb-sized cube with a pale blue crystal embedded in its surface.

He placed it on the table between them, and the crystal flared to life.

An invisible barrier expanded outward from the cube, enveloping the entire room.

The sounds of the outside world instantly blurred, while the space inside the barrier became exceptionally quiet.

"The Saxons have agreed to sign the armistice agreement."

The mysterious man spoke first in accented Gallic. It was a statement, not a question.

Aristide merely scoffed coldly upon hearing it.

"Your news travels faster than the stenographers at the negotiating table. What, the moment the Saxons nodded, you received the message?"

The man in the trench coat ignored the jab, instead speaking in a highly regretful tone.

"The Holy Britannia Empire, and Her Majesty the ’Eternal Queen’, deeply regret the Gallic Republic’s decision to unilaterally sign an armistice and withdraw from the war."

"Deeply regret?"

Aristide’s voice rose half an octave.

"Our capital has become a city of the dead, our citizens are starving, and new anti-war protests erupt every single day—and you sit here talking to me about ’regret’?"

His voice rose even higher.

"The Gallic people have no obligation to bleed their last drop in such a senseless war."

The man in the trench coat wasn’t angered by these words. His expression barely shifted. He merely raised a hand slightly, gesturing for Aristide to hear him out.

"Since your country’s exit from the war is a foregone conclusion, I will cut straight to the other matter."

The man’s lips twitched.

"Her Majesty requests that the active warships of the Gallic Navy set sail immediately for ports on the Britannian mainland—to prevent them from falling into Saxon hands."

Aristide showed no surprise. This wasn’t the first time the Britannians had made this demand.

"My answer is the same as the previous three times."

Aristide leaned back against the sofa, snapping back the answer almost reflexively.

"The Gallic Navy’s warships will not be handed over to any foreign power, neither the Saxons nor you Britannians."

"Sir—"

"I said, it’s impossible."

Aristide rested both hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward.

"Handing the Gallic naval fleet over to the Saxons is an unacceptable condition. We made this perfectly clear during negotiations, and the other side has already made concessions."

"But handing the fleet over to you Britannians? Equally impossible."

In fact, Aristide was being polite.

When the Premier, who had fled to Bordeaux to reorganize the government, received the same demand from the Britannians, his exact words were far harsher:

"Demanding we send our fleet into Britannian ports right when we need the Gallic Navy to secure our North African colonies is the most idiotic suggestion I’ve heard in my life... I advise the Britannians to fire whoever came up with it immediately."

The smile on the trench-coated man’s face froze slightly, but he maintained his patience, speaking unhurriedly:

"Your Excellency, the promise of a paper treaty is unreliable... What if the Saxons tear up the treaty and seize the warships by force? That is a situation Her Majesty and the Holy Britannia Empire do not want to see."

Aristide retorted, "That is our own damn business!"

"No... This involves the balance of naval power across all of Europa... Surely you don’t want to see the Saxon fleet constantly prowling the shores of what little territory you have left?"

Aristide’s expression shifted, but he didn’t relent. The tension in the air sharply escalated.

The man in the trench coat leaned in half a step closer.

"Mr. Briand, allow me to speak bluntly... Our expeditionary forces are still fighting the Saxons on Gallic soil right now, bleeding for you."

"And you just sign an armistice and walk away?"

"And then you refuse to even—"

"Enough!"

Aristide abruptly half-rose from the sofa. His voice was low, but he bit out every word forcefully.

"How many expeditionary troops did you actually deploy on our soil? Do you think you can fool us?"

He pointed a finger straight at the other man.

"Tell me, did those expeditionary forces come to fight the Saxons, or to ’expedition’ our Republic?!"

"And now you want us to unconditionally hand over our naval warships... Hmph. Even a three-year-old in the Gallic Republic can see exactly what you Britannians are plotting!"

The trench-coated man finally lost his composure. The skin above his collar flushed faintly red, but he ultimately chose not to continue the argument.

The room remained silent for several seconds.

The man finally stood up, bent down to retrieve the cube from the coffee table and slipped it back into his coat, then pulled his hat back onto his head. The smile he forced out was ice-cold.

"Mr. Briand, I suggest you and those gentlemen in Bordeaux reconsider carefully."

"After all, for some things, once you miss the opportunity, there is no second chance."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door.

Aristide sat alone in the empty room, staring at the vacant chair opposite him for a long time without moving.

A good while later, Charles poked half his head in from outside.

"Sir... he’s gone."

"I know."

Aristide rubbed his temples.

"Charles, who do you think... will win this war in the end?"

Charles opened his mouth but offered no answer. Aristide quickly banished the thought from his own mind.

He only needed to do one thing now: sign that armistice agreement tomorrow morning, and then take his people out of Sedan.

As for the Britannians?

Let them fight the Saxons until the end of time.

The Gauls had already paid a high enough price.

Dresden, Imperial General Staff Building, Early Morning of May 6, 1915.

Chief of the Imperial Army General Staff Helmuth Ludwig von Moltke splashed his face with cold water before sitting down at his desk.

Twenty minutes ago, the duty lieutenant colonel had roused him from bed and handed him the urgent telegram sent back from Sedan.

Although the military doctor had just warned him to rest the day before yesterday, he couldn’t afford to care about that now.

He downed more than half of the "medicated coffee" sitting on his desk in one gulp, then shoved it aside.

Moltke the Younger sat behind the desk for about thirty seconds, sorting out his thoughts. He then pulled several battle reports transmitted from the Balkans over the past few days from the stack of pending documents and reviewed them again.

The Fifth Army Group’s breakthrough progress, the Morin Kampfgruppe’s mobilization requests, the Crown Prince’s telegram regarding railway transport coordination... and an approval notice from Minister of War Falkenhayn regarding emergency vehicle allocation.

He arranged these documents in chronological order, clipped them onto a clipboard, and handed them to his adjutant.

At 4:30 AM, all the lights in the operations conference room flared on.

Located on the third floor of the General Staff building, the room wasn’t large. Eight chairs surrounded a long table, and a massive map of Europa hung on the wall, marking the latest situations across various battlefields in red and blue.

When Moltke the Younger walked into the conference room, most of the attendees had already arrived. The core staff officers of the Army General Staff took up the majority of the seats. Grand Admiral Tirpitz sat on the other side with the Chief of the Naval Staff.

"Is everyone here?" Moltke the Younger asked, sweeping his gaze around the room.

"Aside from Lieutenant General Peter Strasser of the Air Force, who has to handle another emergency and might be delayed for a bit, everyone else is in position," the adjutant beside him reported softly.

"We won’t wait. Let’s begin."

Moltke the Younger shook his head, walked straight to the front of the map, faced the attendees, and spoke:

"Gentlemen, the negotiations in Sedan concluded faster than we anticipated... Gottlieb has confirmed he can no longer stall. Tomorrow... no, this morning, the armistice agreement will be officially signed."

"This means that starting today, the Gallic Republic will officially exit the war."

Low murmurs rippled through the conference room. Although the Gallic armistice itself was expected, the timeline was nearly a week earlier than the General Staff’s previous estimates.

Moltke the Younger turned his gaze to Tirpitz.

"Grand Admiral, what is the latest situation with the Navy?"

"Not great."

Tirpitz leaned back in his chair, his graying beard prominent under the lights. He didn’t beat around the bush.

"According to our reconnaissance over this period, a portion of the Holy Britannia Empire’s North American colonial garrison fleet has already returned to the home islands and merged into the Grand Fleet."

"At least three dreadnoughts, a larger number of armored cruisers, plus several light vessels... These were observed by our submarines. The actual numbers are highly likely much greater."

"Furthermore—"

Grand Admiral Tirpitz paused briefly before continuing:

"Based on the limited reconnaissance by our submarines in the Atlantic, coupled with the naval artillery strikes the Aragonese National Army suffered when launching their offensive on Gibraltar, we can basically conclude that the Grand Fleet has dispatched a reinforcement fleet to the Strait of Gibraltar."

"The naval mines previously laid in the strait have also been cleared. The Britannians practically control this critical choke point."

The atmosphere in the conference room tightened considerably at Tirpitz’s words. Moltke the Younger didn’t interrupt, allowing Tirpitz to continue his assessment.

"A fleet battle in the Mediterranean region is probably unavoidable now."

He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop.

"The Papal State has authorized their fleet to join the war. Combined with the power of the Austro-Hungarian Navy, we are not without fighting strength in the Mediterranean... but I hope everyone understands that having ’fighting strength’ and ’securing naval superiority’ are two different things."

"If the Britannians move more capital ships into the Mediterranean, while the main force of our High Seas Fleet is pinned down in the North Sea and unable to reinforce the south..."

Tirpitz didn’t finish the sentence, but his meaning was clear enough.

He added one final remark.

"My recommendation is that ground operations in the Balkan Peninsula must accelerate... The time window the Navy can buy is limited. If the Army cannot resolve the Balkan Coalition issue before the Britannian Navy frees up its hands... we will find ourselves in a highly passive position."

Moltke the Younger nodded. He had already run a quick simulation in his head and reached a conclusion: the time left for the Army was insufficient. The Army had to prepare for Britannian landings in the Balkan region.

Just then, Minister of War Erich von Falkenhayn chimed in from the other side.

"Regarding the Balkans, the War Ministry has approved the vehicle requisition requests sent back by the Fifth Army Group and Colonel Morin."

Falkenhayn flipped open the folder in front of him.

"Coordination with Falkenstein-Eisenberg United Industry has been handed over to the General Staff’s Armaments Department. His Highness the Crown Prince also sent a telegram demanding priority processing from all departments."

"Additionally..."

The Minister of War looked up, glanced at Moltke the Younger, and continued:

"Given the shortage of qualified drivers on the front lines, the War Ministry has decided to urgently draft a batch of trainees from other units and military vehicle training schools to serve as drivers and mechanics, shipping them to the front lines along with the vehicles."

Moltke the Younger stood in front of the map for a few seconds, gently tapping the location of the Carpathian Mountains with his pointer twice.

"As Grand Admiral Tirpitz said, we must accelerate our pace. Have Colonel Morin, his Kampfgruppe, and other support units head directly to the assembly point at the southern foothills of the Carpathian Mountains after completing their rail transfer."

He turned back to look at Falkenhayn.

"The supplementary vehicles, personnel, and ammunition will all converge there... Don’t make him stop halfway to wait for supplies. We can’t afford to waste the time."

"Understood." Falkenhayn made a note on his document.

Almost right as he spoke, the conference room door cracked open, and an officer in a general’s uniform strode in.

It was Air Force Minister Lieutenant General Peter Strasser. The expression on his face practically screamed: "Apologies, but let’s cut the crap and get down to business."

"Lieutenant General Strasser, your timing is perfect."

Moltke the Younger didn’t press him on his tardiness. He quickly summarized the situation and asked the critical question.

"Can the newly completed ’Leviathan’ class giant armored airship be deployed to support the Balkan Peninsula?"

Strasser found an empty seat at the long table, shaking his head as he caught his breath.

"Tuning the first ’Leviathan’ still requires time. I was just handling related issues. The final round of testing for its ’Ship Spirit’ isn’t complete yet. Forcing a deployment might cause problems."

Moltke the Younger’s brow twitched. He knew what the "Ship Spirit" the other man referred to was.

Although the Eiffel Tower was destroyed by close-range fire from an armored train during the Battle of Paris, a considerable amount of valuable wreckage was preserved. Following the "Paris Underground Laboratory Incident," the Imperial Magitech Research Institute dispatched teams to the Eiffel Tower ruins to conduct technological recovery.

The "Ship Spirit," used to assist in controlling the massive and complex giant armored airships, was derived and developed entirely based on the "Tower Spirit" technology of the Eiffel Tower...

"Then is there no other way?" Moltke the Younger pulled his thoughts back and asked.

"If it’s to support Colonel Morin, there is indeed a way."

Strasser raised a finger.

"The L15 large cargo airship just completed its armor, firepower, and payload unit upgrades last month. It’s in excellent condition."

"If the Army requires it, this airship can enter a combat patrol state within forty-eight hours and head to the Balkans to support Colonel Morin’s operations."

Moltke the Younger and Falkenhayn exchanged a glance, and the former turned back to Lieutenant General Strasser.

"Let’s do that. I will have a dedicated joint command group established."

With that, Moltke the Younger turned back to face the map, drawing his pointer all the way from the Carpathian Mountains to the western plains of Romania.

"Gentlemen—following the Gallic armistice, the center of gravity for this war will inevitably shift to the Eastern Front and the Mediterranean. The Balkan Peninsula is the key to the entire board."

"As long as we can disrupt the Balkan Coalition’s deployment before the Britannians free their hands... this war is still ours to win!"

"I ask all colleagues to immediately execute the plans finalized tonight. All relevant orders must be dispatched before daybreak."

"That is all. Meeting adjourned!"

The sound of chairs scraping filled the conference room. Soon, the room emptied out again, leaving only Moltke the Younger standing alone in front of the map, his sharp eyes drawing circles over the territory of Romania.

Marienburg, Teutonic Knights Headquarters.

Early Morning, May 6.

Before the sun had completely risen, the first place to light up in the entire castle complex was the massive workshop outside.

The official name of the workshop was the "Teutonic Knights Armored Knight Technology Research and Development Center," but those inside the order were more accustomed to its traditional moniker: the "Blacksmith Shop."

The Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, the "Golden Lion" Leonia von Fortis, emerged from her bedroom just as dawn broke.

Once the high-tier mages, armored trains, and armored airships of both sides on the Western Front were fully deployed, neither side easily launched large-scale offensives anymore. The war completely bogged down into stagnant trench warfare.

Under these circumstances, Grand Master Leonia and a portion of the core R&D personnel returned to their headquarters located in Marienburg.

At this moment, Leonia wasn’t wearing her knight suit, but a simple, dark work uniform. Her long blonde hair was tied high behind her head. The sound of her boots striking the stone steps echoed down the hallway, ultimately leading toward the workshop outside the castle.

When the Grand Master pushed open the workshop doors, it was brightly lit inside.

The Britannian Armored Knight, transported back from Vienna, was secured on a support frame in the center of the workshop.

This never-before-seen model had already been mostly dismantled by the magitech artisans.

The chest armor was open, exposing the magitech core. The connection structures at the limb joints were numbered one by one and laid out on nearby workbenches. Various magitech testing cables snaked out from openings around the magitech core.

Director Sims, responsible for the order’s Armored Knight design, had been squatting near the dismantled parts for who knows how long, turning a joint component over and over in his hands.

Master Magitech Technician Staudinger stood on the other side, carefully manipulating a slender magitech probe inserted into the magitech core’s protective casing.

Leonia walked over and stopped beside Sims.

"What’s the progress?"

Sims looked up, placed the component in his hand on the workbench, and stood up straight.

"Grand Master, overall progress on the reverse analysis has reached seventy percent."

He walked to the front of the dismantled machine, pointing out the exposed internal structures as he spoke.

"In terms of core technological language, this is indeed still an Armored Knight. Whether it’s the drive architecture, the basic logic of the magitech circuits, or the human-machine interface... it belongs to the same broad category as current mainstream Armored Knight systems."

"However, the differences in detailed design are immense."

Sims picked up a detached leg drive rod.

"Take this, for example. The Britannians implemented extremely radical designs for weight reduction on the drive system. They axed nearly thirty percent of armor redundancy, allocating all the saved weight to joint drives and response systems."

"In other words, this Armored Knight sacrifices a portion of its defensive capabilities and maximum output peak, but gains exceptionally high mobility and operational response speed in return."

Staudinger walked over from the magitech core, still holding the magitech probe.

"Grand Master, I’ve also made discoveries regarding the magitech core and mana circuits. The maximum output of the Britannians’ power system is actually inferior to our standard Armored Knights."

Leonia raised an eyebrow.

"The maximum output is lower than ours?"

"Yes. The key is that their power system operates completely differently from ours."

Staudinger drew two rough diagrams on a nearby blackboard.

"The standard models of our Teutonic Knights pursue stable output and sustained power. But the circuit design of this Britannian machine is clearly optimized for instantaneous burst."

"Besides the magitech core, the density of the mana circuit layout is nearly forty percent higher than our comparable designs... The price is a drastically shortened circuit lifespan, roughly only half that of our standard models."

Leonia walked over to the fully assembled Britannian Armored Knight, looking up to examine its silhouette.

"Lifespan halved... but how much is the instantaneous burst increased?"

"Theoretical values are roughly between sixty to seventy percent, but actual performance depends on the pilot’s handling skills."

Leonia instantly understood. In the hands of an elite knight, the ceiling for this machine would be incredibly high.

She looked at Sims, the design director, who also nodded.

"Master Staudinger and I share the same conclusion—this design places extremely high demands on the pilot’s handling skills. An ordinary knight piloting it would highly likely fail to even maintain balance. But if piloted by a top-tier driver..."

He didn’t finish, but the implication was clear: this was an elite-specialized machine.

Leonia withdrew her gaze and turned to face the two men.

"Speaking of which, regarding the suggestion Colonel Morin sent back simultaneously, how is your research on it coming along?"

The expressions of both Sims and Staudinger grew complicated simultaneously.

The two looked at each other, recalling the hastily scribbled suggestion.

"High-mobility light Armored Knight + camouflage net + large-caliber anti-armor artillery. Does it have potential?"