Chapter 551: If I Can’t Win This, What Was the Point of Climbing the Tech Tree?

East bank of the Dnieper River.

A White Army captain stood behind an observation post hastily constructed from sandbags and timber, watching the entire process unfold through his binoculars.

From the moment those sudden steel vehicles rolled across the plains on the west bank, to the last batch of friendly troops in the bridgehead raising their hands in surrender.

In a mere dozen minutes... they had crushed the bridgehead positions that the "Rebels" (the White Army's term for the Provisional Government's forces) hadn't been able to take in a day and a night.

"Fire! Artillery, fire! Find a way to stop them!"

The White Army artillery positions on the east bank quickly received orders. Several gun crews operating outdated field guns began firing blindly toward the general area of the armored vehicles on the west bank.

But these obsolete field guns were relics of a bygone era. Their accuracy, rate of fire, and shell velocity were all abysmal. Sporadic shells simply fell harmlessly into the empty fields on either side of the armored column's advance, kicking up massive plumes of dirt.

After several salvos, not a single shell had landed on the route traversed by the half-tracks.

"Suka blyat... What the hell is the artillery doing? They can't hit a damn thing!" A White Army soldier lying on the riverbank watched in despair as the coordinates he called out yielded zero results.

By the time the rear artillery adjusted their parameters and fired another salvo, those seemingly clumsy but actually quite nimble vehicles had already moved far away.

Worse still, when the White Army commanders on the east bank pushed several infantry guns right to the river's edge, attempting direct-fire engagements, the response from the west bank was swift and brutal.

Just as one of the infantry guns fired, two 50mm high-explosive shells landed around it in rapid succession.

The first shell missed by two meters; the second scored a direct hit on the gun emplacement.

The gun wheels rolled away, while the bodies of the crew were thrown about by the blast wave.

With this "precedent" set, the remaining infantry guns and heavy machine gun nests on the east bank didn't dare to fire again, not even with officers pointing pistols at their heads.

Inside the temporary command post set up around the command vehicle, Morin stared at the paper map spread before him, though his entire focus was actually on the system map in his mind.

The blue marker representing the 1st Battalion of the Armored Instruction Regiment was moving at a steady pace toward the second bridgehead to the south.

But what truly made Morin breathe a sigh of relief was the flow of the battle that had just concluded.

Less than fifteen minutes... From deploying into attack formation to breaching the enemy lines, it took less than fifteen minutes.

The assaulting armored force didn't even wait for the trailing infantry battalion to fully position themselves before finishing the fight. The infantry battalion behind them didn't even have time to set up their mortars.

Morin rested his hands on the map table and let out a long exhale.

Although he had anticipated this outcome, actually witnessing this devastating, sweeping attack still brought him a wave of profound gratification.

He had spent so much time elevating infantry tactical proficiency, desperately climbing the tech tree to produce half-track armored vehicles with near-WWII performance, and disseminating the corresponding tactics... Finally, it wasn't all for nothing.

Because regardless of who the enemy commander was, before supernatural units or spellcasters intervened, the flesh and blood of ordinary soldiers was clearly incapable of contending with steel.

Moreover, in Morin's view, standard supernatural units—like the werewolves encountered in the Balkans—could honestly be handled by armored forces.

No matter how physically strong a "Vukodlak" was, it couldn't stop a 50mm armor-piercing shell.

If Morin had gone to such lengths to forcibly advance military technology, only to fail to defeat light infantry utilizing WWI tactics, he might as well find a block of tofu to smash his head against and die.

Fortunately, that scenario didn't play out. Sitting in the rear temporary command post, he felt reassured. Simultaneously, he noticed two friendly trucks departing from their staging area, chasing after them along their marching route...

Meanwhile, about three kilometers away, the column of the Armored Regiment's 1st Battalion halted behind a tree line.

The two Sd.Kfz 100 armored reconnaissance vehicles previously sent to scout the southern bridgehead were waiting for them here as planned.

Battalion Commander Craig quickly hopped down from his command vehicle, and Guderian, who was sharing the ride, jumped down right after him.

The regimental operations officer, having just participated in the attack with the 1st Battalion, looked incredibly hyped—certainly much more excited than when he was with the infantry units.

The scouts quickly relayed the situation at the southern bridgehead to the two men. Compared to the northern bridgehead they had just taken, the White Army resistance in the south was fiercer, and their troop numbers appeared higher.

After hearing the recon unit's report, Guderian thought for a moment, then looked at the 1st Battalion Commander.

"Craig! I suggest we wait for the infantry battalion to catch up this time and have them lay down a barrage with their mortars first."

Craig hesitated, then countered, "Didn't we just take the other one without mortars?"

"That's because the northern bridgehead was clearly the primary target of the friendly forces' attacks. You could tell from the bodies and craters in front of their lines... Their cohesion was already shattered. Coupled with our sudden flank attack, it's normal that they couldn't hold."

Guderian pulled a map from his bag, found the marked location of the southern bridgehead, and pointed to it, continuing his analysis.

"This southern one is different. Just as the recon troops said, the White Army here has stronger combat capability... It won't hurt to play it a bit safer."

Craig thought about it, looked back at the infantry battalion's truck convoy hurrying to catch up, and finally nodded.

"Alright, wait for Wolf to get here, and we'll finalize the plan together."

Soon, Wolf, the commander of the Infantry Instruction Regiment's 1st Battalion, arrived at the front with two staff officers.

Standing beside a half-track armored vehicle, Guderian spread the map on the vehicle's side toolbox lid and quickly sketched a few lines with a pencil.

"The mortar teams will set up here first, less than a kilometer from the bridgehead. Fire a few suppressive barrages to keep their heads down."

Wolf tilted his head, studied the marked position, and frowned.

"Is a few barrages enough?"

"It's enough. Don't forget we have the fire-support vehicles!"

Guderian pointed toward the several "long-barreled" armored vehicles currently checking their guns in the distance, then continued, "The point isn't to inflict massive casualties, but to force them to hunker down in their trenches, afraid to move... As long as they can't raise their heads, the armored vehicles can push up. That's exactly how we hit the northern one."

Wolf nodded, then looked at the Armored 1st Battalion Commander.

"Which direction are you pushing from?"

"Along the river from the north. The terrain here is the only suitable path for a charge; the undulations to the west are a bit too much."

Craig pointed to the northern face of the bridgehead and continued, "We won't flank this time; we'll push straight through the front. Your mortars will suppress them, my vehicular machine guns will add to the suppression, and we'll drop the men once we push to within two hundred meters."

"My infantry will follow your vehicles. Once you tear an opening, I'll pour in right behind you."

Having quickly finalized the attack initiation time, the group dispersed to organize the assault.

The fate of the White Army forces in this bridgehead was fundamentally no different from their counterparts earlier.

They simply possessed no weapons capable of dealing with half-track armored vehicles. Facing them, they were as helpless as the German Army facing tanks for the first time in WWI.

Crucially, the half-tracks performed better and were more numerous. Furthermore, the 50mm "anti-everything guns" of the "fire-support vehicles" continuously picked off key fire points.

After the brief engagement earlier, the commanders of these fire-support vehicles had discovered that the 50mm rapid-fire gun mounted on their vehicles was actually a "jack of all trades."

Since their primary targets—Armored Knights—were rather scarce on this battlefield, most of the time they faced conventional targets.

And the 50mm gun, highly accurate within 400 meters, worked wonders against targets like machine gun nests.

The nature of direct-fire allowed them to provide immediate support to attacking friendly forces, proving more efficient in combat than mortars.

This led to the White Army in the bridgehead being unable to organize any effective defense, as their operational zones were completely locked down.

The mortars set up by Wolf's men simply laid down continuous suppressive fire on the bridgehead, just like during target practice. Clearly, on the flat riverbank bridgehead positions, there was no cover capable of stopping mortar shells dropping from above.

When the half-tracks launching the assault from the north pushed to within 150 meters, the agile gray figures leaped from the vehicles once again.

The Instruction Brigade soldiers spread into formation and bounded forward rapidly under the cover of the armored vehicles' fire.

Simultaneously, Wolf's infantry battalion enveloped them from both flanks... Craig, having transitioned from proud "traditional cavalry" to "armored cavalry," had finally waited for him this time.

Seeing this unfold, the Western Rus National Army defenders in the bridgehead nearly lost their minds.

The White Army positions they hadn't been able to push an inch in a day and a night of fighting couldn't even hold out for twenty minutes after these sudden reinforcements arrived.

A Western Rus officer stared blankly for a few seconds, then abruptly vaulted out of the trench, drew his pistol, and fired a shot into the air.

"Ura! Charge! Charge with me!"

The National Army soldiers, initially somewhat demoralized by the prolonged stalemate, were injected with a massive spike of adrenaline by this sudden turn of events. They surged out of their trenches like a tidal wave.

Launching their charge from closer positions to the west, they actually sprinted faster than the Instruction Brigade's infantry.

These Western Rus National Army soldiers had been holding it in for too long. From the start of the counterattack yesterday until now, they didn't know how many bodies they had left in front of the bridgehead. They were bursting with rage.

So, when the Instruction Brigade soldiers methodically breached the bridgehead according to their tactical drills, they found that several sections of the trenches had already been occupied by the surging Western Rus allies.

The two sides nearly crashed into each other.

Fortunately, some Instruction Brigade soldiers, who had been ordered to learn Russian in advance, kept shouting "Watch your fire, friendlies!" Coupled with the prior flare notifications, friendly fire incidents were avoided.

Facing enemies pouring in simultaneously from two directions, the remaining White Army soldiers in the bridgehead completely lost their will to resist.

The gunfire in the positions grew sparse.

One by one, White Army infantrymen tossed their rifles out of their foxholes and stood up with their hands raised.

Their faces were etched with bewilderment and fear. Just last night, they felt they were fighting an advantageous river crossing battle. A few hours later, without even knowing what unit they were fighting against, they had become prisoners of war.

Some tried to run, but with the Dnieper River right behind them, they had nowhere to go.

Three reserve boats had been moored by the river, but right before the position was breached, a few quick-witted deserters had already rowed two of them away.

The remaining boat had a shallow draft and couldn't hold many people. Over a dozen soldiers lunged at it, fighting for a spot. The boat flipped, dumping everyone into the river.

Of course, those deserters didn't live much longer either.

The commander of a fire-support vehicle watched the aftermath through his binoculars. Those men who rowed back to the east bank were executed on the spot by an enraged White Army officer less than a minute after stepping ashore.

The commander lowered his binoculars and exchanged a look with his crew.

No one said a word.

From the moment the Armored Instruction Regiment arrived at the outskirts of Rzhyshchiv and launched the first attack to the complete clearance of both White Army bridgeheads, the entire process took less than an hour and a half.

Morin received the final battle report in the temporary command post.

Across both bridgeheads, over 300 White Army soldiers were captured, with an uncounted number killed in action.

As for captured weapons and ammo... honestly, Morin and the Instruction Brigade soldiers didn't even care for them. After getting used to "fine dining," looking at these White Army weapons really highlighted the massive disparity between the two sides.

During the engagement, twelve crossing boats were sunk or damaged.

Two White Army aircraft were shot down.

On the Instruction Brigade's side: twenty-three wounded, zero killed in action.

Most of the wounded were hit by ricocheting strays or shrapnel. Assaulting with armored vehicle cover gave the White Army virtually no opportunity to fight back.

Of course, the main reason was that after the armored forces breached the defensive lines of both bridgeheads, the Western Rus National Army allies charged in howling.

Bursting with pent-up rage, they actually charged faster than the Instruction Brigade soldiers. Some leaped straight out of the trenches and sprinted forward with fixed bayonets.

Therefore, the fatalities occurred among these friendly forces, though the numbers weren't high either—just over 50 killed across both bridgehead battles combined.

Such casualty figures, in the context of the current war where entire units were frequently wiped out, were absurdly low for a battalion-scale offensive/defensive operation.

But this also indirectly proved that these two battles were completely one-sided from start to finish, with no so-called "turning points" existing.

Morin finished reading the combat report, set it on the table, and looked up at the Armored Instruction Regiment regrouping nearby.

Major Weichs had done well. Though lacking experience after "switching careers" from the cavalry, his fundamentals were incredibly solid, and his execution was strong.

Morin was even more satisfied with Guderian.

This young staff officer, whose name was destined for the history books, proactively ran to the front lines to observe, then effectively modified the attack plan—and the plan was pragmatic and feasible.

"The gap between people truly exists... This thing called talent is just unreasonable..." Morin muttered to himself before turning his attention back to the system map.

The White Army on the east bank was noticeably quiet after this round of strikes. At least they wouldn't attempt another forced crossing in the short term.

But Morin also knew Denikin's 140,000-strong army wouldn't just stop because they lost two battalions.

Simultaneously, on the east bank of the Dnieper River, at the headquarters of the White Army's Southern Army.

Inside a temporarily requisitioned brick farmhouse, Southern Army Commander Denikin stood with his hands behind his back in front of a wall hung with marked maps.

He had just received the second telegram from the front.

The first stated the northern bridgehead was lost. The second, arriving shortly after, reported the southern one was also lost.

"Less than an hour..." Denikin crumpled the telegram paper in his hand, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the headquarters. "Lost two bridgeheads in less than an hour... and two recon planes haven't returned either."

None of the staff officers in the headquarters dared to speak. The room was so quiet that only their heavy breathing, ragged with tension and fear, could be heard.

Denikin turned around and slammed the telegram paper onto the table.

"The Saxons' mobile forces... armored vehicles... rapid-fire guns..."

He repeated the keywords from the frontline reports one by one, then looked at his adjutant, a lieutenant colonel who had fought this entire civil war by his side.

"Semyon, what do you think?"

Hearing the question, Denikin's adjutant hesitated before speaking.

"General, judging from the duration of the battle... the enemy's combat capability far exceeds our previous estimates for the Rebels' reinforcements."

"I don't need you to tell me that. I want your opinion... do you think we can still continue the river crossing?"

The adjutant was silent for several seconds before replying, "If the enemy keeps those armored vehicles near the riverbank... the cost of a forced crossing will be exorbitant, General! Our forces on the west bank have no weapons capable of dealing with those vehicles."

Denikin didn't answer immediately. He had naturally thought of this issue; they seemingly had no viable method to counter those armored vehicles right now...

So, halt the offensive?

Absolutely not.

Before the full-scale offensive launched, the highly revered Field Marshal Brusilov had given him explicit orders:

Before the terrain deteriorates further, you must establish a solid bridgehead on the west bank of the Dnieper River to pose a substantial threat to Kyiv from the south!

If he allowed an unknown reinforcement force to scare him off, not only would the strategic objective of the entire southern front go up in smoke, but his, Denikin's, prestige within the White Army would plummet.

"Continue the offensive."

Denikin stood up.

"However, we need to adjust the previous attack plan."

He walked to the map and traced a line along the banks of the Rzhyshchiv sector of the Dnieper River with his finger.

"Before, we concentrated our forced crossing at two points, so the enemy used their mobile forces to defeat them in detail."

Denikin's finger moved up and down, tapping several different locations.

"Since that's the case, we'll change our approach... I have 140,000 men. I refuse to believe their few dozen armored vehicles can block five, six, or even ten crossing points simultaneously!"

The adjutant's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly interjected, "General, if we cross at so many points simultaneously, our forces at each point will be spread very thin... If the enemy concentrates their forces to attack one of them—"

"So what if they do?"

Denikin cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. "I have 140,000 men. How many do they have? No matter how many armored vehicles they possess, they can't be in ten places at once."

"Furthermore, our mission isn't just to cross the river!"

Denikin added, pulling his hand away from the map and looking at the faces of his staff officers.

"Even if we ultimately can't cross... as long as we pin this elite unit down at Rzhyshchiv, preventing them from moving, that is enough to support the Center Army's offensive toward Kyiv!"

"Kappel's side is the true main assault!"

"We are the flank; we apply pressure."

"The fact that the enemy deployed this 'fire brigade' against us means we've applied enough pressure."

Having spoken his piece, Denikin swept his gaze over the officers present.

"In two days, the entire line resumes the offensive... During these two days, gather every boat and raft you can requisition for me! Right, send a telegram to Front Headquarters immediately. Report the attack we encountered and what we know about this elite enemy force!"

"Yes, sir!"

The staff officers took their orders and dispersed. Denikin sat back in his chair, staring at the map alone in a daze for quite a while.

...

"...The above concludes this combat briefing. The Instruction Brigade Advance Battlegroup completed clearing operations of two enemy bridgeheads at Rzhyshchiv today at 15:37 hours. We are currently conducting battlefield cleanup and prisoner consolidation."

Morin dictated the final sentence. The communications officer beside him organized the content and began transmitting the report to Eighth Army Headquarters via the newly erected field radio.

The buzzing of the radio transmitter echoed in the temporary command post. Morin rolled his neck and turned to Major Weichs.

"Notify the infantry regiment not to rush into the city area yet. Wait until we finish counting the prisoners."

Major Weichs nodded. Just as he was about to make the arrangements, Morin called out to him again.

"Later, we'll head into the city to meet the local garrison commander... You come with me. Remember to leave someone behind to command the troops."

"Yes, sir!"

Just as Weichs acknowledged the order, Morin noticed two trucks approaching from the northern highway in his peripheral vision.

He had actually seen these two markers on the system map a while ago. These two friendly trucks had been following the Instruction Brigade's marching route toward their position for about half an hour.

He hadn't had time to pay attention during the heat of battle, but now, as the trucks drew nearer, Morin grew curious about who was in them.

"Sir, are those...?" Major Weichs saw them too.

Morin didn't answer, having already clearly identified the affiliation markers of the personnel onboard via the system map. One name made him pause slightly.

Manstein?

Shouldn't he be in the rear with Rundstedt and the others, handling Brigade HQ affairs? Why did he follow them here?

The two trucks quickly pulled up near the temporary command post. Before the engines even fully died, the rear tailgates were pushed open from the inside.

Manstein jumped down first, followed closely by six Instruction Brigade soldiers, fully armed—clearly an escort detail.

Then came the third group of five to jump down.

Distinct from standard uniforms, they wore long black military trench coats, pinned above their left breast pockets with a silver badge—a motif of an eagle's claw gripping a sword.

This was the insignia of the Military Inquisition Department.

Morin's gaze locked onto them, his brow twitching imperceptibly.

The military inquisition departments of this world were quite different from the "Political Commissars," "Barrier Troops," or "Internal Investigation Departments" Morin knew from his old world.

The Saxon Empire's Military Inquisition Department was more like a special agency blending the functions of military police, disciplinary inspection, and counterintelligence, reporting directly to the Ministry of War.

Their functions were quite broad... supervising disciplinary enforcement in frontline units, investigating suspicious acts of treason, recording whether an officer's words and actions aligned with Imperial interests...

Simply put, they watched people.

And in most frontline units, these guys in black coats were avoided like the plague.

Not because they were great fighters, but because they could write reports. A poorly worded investigation report submitted upwards could easily delay a promotion, or at worst, lead to a court-martial.

But from its inception to now, the Instruction Brigade had never had such personnel.

The reason was simple.

Because the Instruction Brigade was an "experimental unit" personally approved for formation by Crown Prince Georg. Its establishment, mission, and chain of command were all highly unique. Moreover, battalion-level units truly didn't need inquisitors tagging along.

As for their deployment to the Balkans after their first expansion, His Highness the Crown Prince had granted Morin maximum discretionary power, and the Military Inquisition Department wisely chose not to insert anyone.

But things were different now.

The Instruction Brigade had arrived on the Eastern Front, integrating into the Eighth Army's order of battle.

And the Eighth Army had its own system, its own inquisition establishment... It was natural that a blank slate like the Instruction Brigade would be filled.

Manstein jogged over, lowering his voice when he was still two steps away from Morin.

"General, it's from the Army HQ. They sprang this on us right after you left. Something about 'given the Instruction Brigade is now officially integrated into the Eastern Front order of battle, inquisitors must be assigned according to regulations'... Rundstedt and I couldn't stop them."

Morin glanced at him, and Manstein continued.

"I explained to them that the troops had already moved out, and they said they'd follow." Manstein wore a bitter expression. "I figured I couldn't just let these gentlemen travel alone and risk something happening, so I tagged along."

Morin: "Who's leading them?"

"A Major named Klose," Manstein whispered even lower. "Didn't talk much on the way; hard to get a read on his angle."

Morin hummed in acknowledgment, patted Manstein's shoulder, and walked straight toward the five black coats.

One Major, four Lieutenants...

This was another reason other units disliked, or even hated, Military Inquisitors. They didn't have to squat in frontline trenches, yet their ranks skyrocketed like rockets.

The five men who had just stepped off the truck were still observing their surroundings. After all, this place was an active frontline less than an hour ago, causing the younger inquisitors to look somewhat tense.

Seeing a general officer approaching proactively, the leading Major immediately snapped to attention and saluted.

This Major, roughly forty years old, had hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes—the classic look of a desk jockey.

Before setting out, he had mentally prepared himself to be met with cold stares or even deliberate harassment... Most frontline commanding officers' attitudes toward them hovered between "hostility" and "fear."

"Military Inquisition Department, Major Klose, reporting for duty with the Military Inquisition Team by order of the Eighth Army Headquarters—"

Before he could finish, Morin grabbed his hand in a firm handshake.

"Major Klose! Welcome, welcome! It must have been a tough journey!"

Major Klose's hand, originally intending to salute, was seized by Morin and froze mid-air.

This...

...This isn't right, is it?

He had been with the Military Inquisition Department for over three years, visited seven or eight units. Every time he reported to a new unit, he was greeted with either cold faces or polite words laced with barbs... More often than not, the commander wouldn't even show their face, sending an adjutant to brush him off.

A unit commander like Morin personally coming forward to greet him, gripping his hand tightly... He wouldn't have dared dream of this.

"I am Friedrich von Morin, commander of the Instruction Brigade."

Morin let go of his hand and turned to the four behind him, nodding to each.

"Thank you all for your hard work. I hope the journey was smooth?"

The four lieutenants exchanged bewildered glances. One instinctively replied, "F-Fine..."

Major Klose's expression shifted from rigid to confused, ultimately settling into an indescribable awkwardness, making him unconsciously pull back the hand that had just been shaken.

"General Morin... We are here on orders from Army Headquarters to conduct routine—"

"I know, I know!"

Morin smiled and waved a hand, his smile exceptionally enthusiastic.

"The work of the Inquisition Department is crucial. The entire Instruction Brigade fully supports it... Honestly, I always felt something was missing without inquisitors assigned to us."

Major Klose: "..."

The four inquisitors behind him: "..."

Standing in the back, the corner of Manstein's mouth twitched.

Morin maintained that perfect level of enthusiasm: "Major Klose, you men go rest in the rear for a bit. Have some water, eat something... We just finished a battle not long ago, and the troops are still cleaning up. Once everything settles down, I'll have my adjutant arrange office space and quarters for you... If you need anything, find me or Major Weichs anytime."

He turned back and pointed at Weichs, who was watching them, and shouted, "Weichs! Make arrangements for Major Klose and his team."

Though Major Weichs still had no idea what Morin was up to, he reacted quickly. He immediately walked over, squeezing out a smile, and guided the inquisitors away to the side.

Only after the backs of the black coats were far away did the smile on Morin's face slowly fade.

Manstein leaned in, unable to hold back. "General, your acting..."

"What acting? Every word came from the bottom of my heart." Morin raised an eyebrow.

Hearing this, Manstein wore a look that clearly said keep pretending, then spoke with some confusion, "General, I don't know what the Eighth Army was worried about, but they suddenly and urgently ordered me to bring these people over! I was just handling the reception for the rear echelon troops, and their people just showed up at the door..."

Hearing Manstein's description, Morin was also a bit puzzled.

He leaned against the hull of the vehicle, his gaze passing through the gaps in the trees toward the faintly visible outline of the city to the south.

Rzhyshchiv.

Who were the current defenders of this city again?

Two division-sized units of the Western Rus National Army... Morin mentally flipped through the intelligence briefings from the earlier meeting.

Right. The core backbone of these two defending units in Rzhyshchiv mostly came from the 'International Brigades' that returned from the Kingdom of Aragon...

Morin instantly understood the underlying reason. In the eyes of the Empire's high command, the ideology of these International Brigade personnel was highly sensitive.

And now, the Empire had sent the Instruction Brigade to the Eastern Front to help, objectively fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with these people.

The officers of the Eighth Army were clearly worried about one thing... Would prolonged contact with these people harboring "dangerous thoughts" affect the Empire's elite troops?

So the inquisitors arrived.

And the fact that they arrived in such a rush showed that Army Headquarters took this matter very seriously.

Morin briefly explained his theory to Manstein. Although Manstein hadn't participated in the Aragon civil war, he understood Morin's meaning.

"Ideological issues are as fierce as tigers..." Morin muttered this phrase very softly.

Manstein didn't catch it. "What did you say, General?"

"Nothing."

Morin shook his head, pushing off the vehicle's hull.

"Since you're here, help me prepare for heading into the city to meet the garrison commander."

"You're going now?"

"Of course I have to."

Morin glanced toward another area of the temporary command post. Major Klose and his men had been seated by a truck and were accepting canteens from Instruction Brigade soldiers.

"And we have to hurry, before those black-coats start 'working'."

Manstein froze for two seconds, then grasped Morin's intent.

If the inquisitors officially began their duties, every interaction between Morin and the Rzhyshchiv garrison commander could be recorded and written into a report.

Topics of conversation, whether their attitude was "overly friendly," any "inappropriate remarks"... Once these things were committed to paper, trouble would follow.

Therefore, the first meeting was best accomplished while the inquisitors were still befuddled and hadn't found their footing.

"I'll arrange it immediately." Manstein turned and left.

Morin watched his back disappear between several half-tracks, then looked back at the distant town.

What kind of person would the garrison commander waiting for him in Rzhyshchiv be?

Former International Brigade background... Could he run into a friend he made during the Aragon civil war?

Not far behind him, Major Klose, having just sat down to rest, held the water brought by the Instruction Brigade soldiers, his gaze fixed in the direction Morin had left.

His four subordinates leaned in. One asked quietly, "Boss, this General Morin... is he being a bit too enthusiastic?"

Major Klose didn't answer immediately. He slowly took a sip of water.

After a long moment, he set the canteen down.

"Let's not jump to conclusions. We observe for a few days."

Another lieutenant couldn't help but say, "But... I've truly never encountered a commander this friendly to us."

"Which is exactly why we must heighten our vigilance. Either he truly has nothing to hide..."

Major Klose tapped his finger twice on the canteen cap.

"...Or he's much harder to deal with than we imagined."

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