Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Masterstroke (3)
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His mood felt a bit strange.
An hour ago, he'd been at the vanguard, enemies right in sight.
Now, only allies filled his view.
He wasn't just hanging back to slack off, but the feeling was still oddly off.
"Don't let your guard down just because you're behind friendly lines instead of the vanguard. This is the battlefield!"
Humans were creatures of adaptation.
They could adjust to the tropics or even the everyday freeze of Siberia.
That same instinct let them slowly grow accustomed to war.
Adapting boosted survival odds and cut useless tension—not a bad thing...
'But loosen up too much, and disaster strikes.'
He took a deep breath.
Gripping his matchlock musket tight, he steeled his resolve—not to waste the chance bought by the regiment's sacrifices.
His heart pounded so loud he swore he could hear it.
From a bit farther off, allied soldiers shouted.
"Enemy at 50 meters ahead! Prepare to fire!"
Their battalion's role was to strike the enemy's flank when they grew careless.
A stab to the side would deal massive damage and throw them into panic.
One hard push, and the enemy regiment would crumble.
Repeat the same at regiment, division, corps level...
'This battle belongs to the Imperial Army.'
He reaffirmed his conviction of certain victory.
"Battalion commander, sir, shouldn't we start flanking the enemy side now?"
"Wait until the battle heats up more."
"But our allies' sacrifices will mount..."
"A soldier's duty is to achieve strategic and tactical goals, even at the cost of death. And if we move now, the Republic commander isn't pasta-brained enough not to spot the threat on his flank."
Only in true, total focus did surroundings fade away.
Half-focused, even a single footstep could break concentration.
Right now, those enemies still had enough spare attention to watch their flanks while facing front.
"Tell the men to tie their boot laces tight."
"Yes, sir."
"Our battalion flanks to the enemy's side at top speed once melee breaks out."
The allied regiment held a three-rank line formation.
From there, roughly 400 meters to their target flank.
Full sprint might be too much, but a quick march...
Factor in forming up, and 4-5 minutes would do it.
"Once in position on their flank, shift to diagonal formation. That's the order."
"Yes, Battalion commander."
He sent off the company commander who'd asked, then cinched his own boot laces tight.
One loose lace mid-run spelled catastrophe.
Right then, matchlock shots rang out.
Lieutenant Lina, waiting at his side, glanced his way.
"Battalion, quick march! Follow your battalion commander!"
Flanking maneuvers like this were usually cavalry work.
Infantry like them going around the side...
Lucky the distance was short, or he'd have lost his mind.
He stepped off at near-running pace.
The soldiers, himself included, moved in total silence, no chatter.
Any voices would tip off the enemy.
"We've got their flank."
"Lieutenant Lina, relay the battalion commander's orders by flag."
With prior instructions given, the company commanders would handle it.
And sure enough, they swiftly reshaped the battalion into diagonal formation.
"Charge into melee right after the volley. Lieutenant Lina."
"Yes, sir."
"Take the battalion flag and lead from the front."
Not discrimination against women, but nothing boosted soldier morale like a junior female officer charging with the colors.
The Empire's culture still held that any man outdone in courage by a woman ought to be castrated into an eunuch.
"Yes, sir."
With final orders given, he leveled his musket at them.
The hefty weight of the 5kg-plus matchlock.
"Fire."
The battalion unleashed a volley at the enemy.
They hadn't spotted the battalion until the shots cracked.
Too busy in melee with the allied regiment up front.
But brother lead ball's lesson hit home...
"Ambush! Enemy support unit!"
"Damn it! Mercy!"
"Hold formation! Panic and you're dead!"
The dead stayed silent; the living thrashed in chaos.
Shock in a controlled, expected fight? Maybe.
But this unforeseen mess made fighting on impossible.
"Charge!"
At the word, Lina bolted into the enemy lines, battalion flag high.
With their formation broken, not suicide... but still insanely risky.
The soldiers' morale soared at the sight.
"Lt. Chaplin's charging with the battalion flag—fall behind now?!"
"Kill all those pasta-brained bastards!"
"Fortuna forever! His Majesty the Emperor forever!"
He drew his sword.
Pointed ahead, then charged.
The flag advancing was the charge order itself.
All leaped into the fray, weapons ready, not a soul lagging.
"Smash the Republicans to bits!"
The battalion pierced the enemy regiment's right flank and rear in a flash.
Now their right wing faced attacks from three directions.
No genius like Kim Si-min or Gwak Jae-u commanding there—they couldn't hold.
"Rack up big merits here, and as battalion commander, I'll send you home right now. Not leave—full discharge!"
Now their job was just pumping morale.
So he played his ace: even the shortest-term veterans got instant discharge promises on the spot.
Morale pierced the heavens.
"The battalion commander promised us discharge!"
"End this damn service quick and head home!"
Soldiers glared at the Republicans like blood-sworn foes.
Already high spirits, now baited with discharge...
They turned to asuras risen from hell.
Beggars for mercy got throats slit personally.
Laughing madly, they dyed uniforms in blood.
"War's so cruel."
Though that was war's essence.
Lieutenant Lina with the flag drew endless enemy bids...
"Protect Lt. Chaplin!"
"Lose the flag or the lieutenant? Might as well castrate yourselves!"
Soldiers and officers guarded her with sheer grit.
One rushed her? Two or three piled on, stabbing.
Whole platoons ringed her...
The flag's importance meant any male lieutenant holding it got similar, but...
A beauty defending the colors fired them up more.
War's for protecting your nation's women, after all.
And Lina held her own fierce.
"Die, you whore!"
A Republic soldier charged, sword drawn at her.
Flag in one hand, but...
She parried his blade with her sword.
One clean slash severed his exposed neck.
Chaplin house an old military line, sure...
'A woman one-shots a throat?'
Better not bully her by rank.
No joke—he might die.
"Battalion commander, sir—our troops over there!"
Glancing, allies indeed.
Proof they'd mopped up most.
"War ain't over! Keep pressing their flank!"
Melee was melee, past or present.
Clash front-on, hammer flanks and rear, gut as many units and men as possible.
"Keep it up like this—we win!"
Thus they annihilated the enemy regiment.
Battle by battle, they dragged the war's tide toward the Imperial Army.
Endless reports poured into the Imperial Army's Dolce front commander.
"13th Division has smashed an enemy regiment!"
"5th Division commander requests withdrawal to rear after heavy losses!"
"7th Division commander requests reserve support from the rear!"
The commander's view of the battle: 55:45.
Imperial Army 55, Dolce Republic Army 45.
Favorable, but could flip any second.
Too soon to relax.
"...Send 13th to support 7th. Tell 5th commander to fall back here after retreating!"
"Yes, sir."
The commander lit another cigar.
"Damn it."
Amid this, fresh news hit.
"Enemy division on our right wing repelled by two of our regiments!"
He clenched his fist.
A variable that could shift the entire war.