There Is No Way to Punch Through the Republic's New Tank

The incident exploded without warning.

I was just about to pour the Duke of Stahlberg's gift — a bottle of top-shelf brandy worth a full year of a private's salary — when it happened.

**CRASH—!**

The hotel door burst open as if it had been blown off its hinges. No knock, no rank and name announced.

The one who stormed in was Major Helga von Strauss. As the brigade commander's personal adjutant, her face was pale — no, positively ashen.

"Pack your things, Captain Jaeger."

"Don't tell me it's parade time again. The eastern plaza this round?"

I asked with feigned nonchalance, but Helga was in no mood for it.

"No."

What she held out was not an event schedule but a manila document envelope. Across its face, the words TRANSFER ORDER were written in red.

"Your leave is over. As of today, the 7th Brigade is moving to the Western Front."

"...The Western Front? You can't be serious."

I swallowed dryly.

"That's right. The Republic launched a preemptive strike. They seem to have felt a great deal of alarm once we took the Ashen Forest."

It goes without saying that the Western Front is long. The Empire is vast, and its western border touches a whole host of powers. There were savage non-humans like the orcs of the Ashen Forest, but the most troublesome opponent was another entirely.

The human power known as the Republic.

The Republic was a nation that might as well have been the Empire's sworn enemy. They shared a long border, and they possessed immense national power and technological might. Naturally, the two countries had clashed countless times throughout history.

They had even fought a war just ten years ago. By now they were supposed to be in an armistice.

"They broke the ceasefire agreement. At dawn today, they shelled the border fortress with new-model tanks leading the way. The 3rd Corps' defensive line collapsed within half a day. The situation is critical."

I stared at the brandy bottle.

My stocks. My real estate. And the peaceful military life I had dreamed of.

I could hear all of it shattering to pieces. Not orcs, but fellow humans — the Republic, with technology equal to or greater than the Empire's.

"...Goddammit."

The profanity finally crawled out of my mouth.

Several hours later, Platform 4 of the Imperial Central Station.

The scene was utter pandemonium. The acrid smoke belched out by the steam locomotive mixed with the body heat radiating from thousands of soldiers until every breath was a struggle.

"2nd Company! Look alive! You never ridden a train before?!"

Gunter's roar thundered across the platform.

"No dawdling — shove them in! Load the equipment first, then jam the men into whatever gaps are left!"

Under his brutish command, our company men were crammed into the freight cars like sacks of cargo. They called it troop transport, but it was practically livestock hauling.

"Ugh... Captain, this is really no place for a human being."

Sergeant Kurt came sidling up, sweat pouring down his face.

"Endure it. What, you expected a sleeper car on the way to a war?"

"No, it's just — we were the hero unit of the Ashen Forest, and this is the treatment we get..."

"Go make sure the boys have their biscuits. Once we reach the front, there may not even be time to eat."

I booted Kurt in the rear. Sniveling, the man scurried off toward the supply crates all the same.

The atmosphere was definitely different. Far graver than it had been during the Ashen Forest subjugation. The soldiers knew it too. They knew we were heading to a battlefield where the odds were stacked against us.

'Damn it all.'

I yanked my tie loose and walked toward the front of the platform, where the special compartments for officers and senior staff were located.

"Damn it, damn it, DAMN it!"

The moment I stepped into the special car, I was greeted by the hysterical shrieking of Brigadier General Karl von Dietrich.

"My star! My career as a general! I'd only just set foot in the capital's political circles, and now it's the Republic! An armored division! This is insane!"

'Status Analysis.'

'Ha. The old fox's heart has shriveled to a pea.'

I clicked my tongue. It would be a disaster if the brigade commander lost his mind. When the commander issues stupid orders, it's us who die for it.

'Charming Speechcraft.'

I spoke in a deliberately calm voice, but pitched so that it would carry clearly.

"Brigadier General. This is, in fact, an opportunity."

"...What? An opportunity? Have you lost your mind, Jaeger?"

Dietrich glared at me as if I'd just spouted nonsense. But I met his gaze without a flicker of hesitation.

"Think about it. The orc subjugation was a mere localized skirmish on the frontier. The high and mighty in the capital don't rate the capture of a few savages very highly. They're too busy sneering that we simply got lucky."

I took one step closer and whispered, conspiratorially.

"But a front against the Republic is another matter entirely. That is the main theater His Majesty the Emperor watches over, losing sleep at night."

"W-well, that's..."

"Is the 7th Brigade not the strongest unit in the Empire? If we stem the crisis on the Western Front, then promotion from Brigadier General to... Major General — no, even Lieutenant General — would hardly be a dream. A seat at Central Command would be as good as reserved."

"L-Lieutenant General... Central Command..."

Dietrich's pupils wavered. In those eyes, once brimming with pure terror, a new light — the light of greed — had begun to kindle.

It isn't courage that conquers fear. It's a bigger desire.

"R-right? We're a hero unit! We have you, Major Seraphina..."

"Of course. I will be at your side advising you every step of the way. After all, who are we?"

"Yes... yes! Captain Jaeger, I'll trust your word! Hahaha, right. Crisis is opportunity!"

"Well then, I'll take my leave."

I saluted and slipped out of the special compartment.

Click.

The moment the door closed, the brigade commander's laughter was cut off. In its place, the rattling clatter of the train and the acrid smell flooded in.

"Hoo..."

I let out a long sigh and tightened my tie again. That had been nothing more than a sugar-coated lie to soothe the old man. The reality — that we were headed straight into a cesspit — hadn't changed one bit.

'Crisis as opportunity, my ass.'

Screeeech—!

With a shriek of brakes, the massive steam locomotive ground to a halt. Outside the window, the vista of Rosenheim station — the key strategic hub of the Western Front — came into view.

"Everyone off! Move it, move it! No dawdling!"

At Master Sergeant Gunter's bellow, the soldiers began scrambling out.

"AAAAGH! My leg! My leg!"

"Medic! Get a tourniquet over here!"

And the moment we disembarked, what welcomed us was a scene of pandemonium straight out of hell. Wounded evacuated from the front lines lay sprawled in every corner of the platform. The stench of stale blood, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠antiseptic, and burning flesh stung my nose.

I looked over a wounded man being carried out on a stretcher.

'Status Analysis.'

'High-explosive shrapnel, is it.'

This was nothing like the orcs' crude axes or their sloppy shamanic tricks. These were the marks of modern shells fired from precision-machined rifled barrels.

And then—

**WEEEEEEEEOOOOON—!**

An air raid siren, shrill enough to split the eardrums, ripped through Rosenheim station.

**BOOOM—!**

There was no time to think. The station roof tore away like paper, and shrapnel came pouring down like rain.

"Airstrike! Get down!"

Along with someone's scream, I hurled myself to the floor. Compared to this, the Ashen Forest orcs had been child's play. What rained down from above wasn't shamanic nonsense — it was a deluge of bombs and the deafening roar of 88mm anti-aircraft guns shredding the sky. Modern war, in full voice.

"Everyone, MOVE! If you stay here, you die!"

I seized a green recruit frozen in place, staring blankly at the sky, and dragged him along by the collar.

"Where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to, Captain?!"

"Into the underground bunker!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠We left the bombardment-raked station behind and sprinted across the half-collapsed city. Such was Rosenheim's welcome.

The makeshift command post in the underground bunker.

The place vibrated with every distant impact, damp and thick with the smell of mold, and was already a shouting match between the 7th Brigade staff and the officers of the 3rd Corps who had been holding the existing line.

"The tank armor is too thick! Even our anti-tank guns can't penetrate it!"

"Where's the rear support?! If Sector 5 falls, it's a straight highway to headquarters!"

Amid the cacophony of raised voices, Brigadier General Dietrich stared down at the operational map with a grave expression.

'...What a mess.'

As I approached, the brigade commander looked up as though he'd found a savior.

"Ah, Captain Jaeger! There you are. The situation is... not good at all."

He pointed a trembling hand at the ceiling.

"The Republic came at us with everything they have. This is no mere border skirmish. An armored division — and a first-rate elite one at that — is leading the spearhead."

**BOOM! Ka-ruuuumble...**

Before the words had even left his mouth, the entire bunker shook violently.

"They're getting air support as well."

"That's not the problem."

Dietrich let out a sigh and held out a black-and-white photograph that had been shoved in the corner of the table.

"Look at this. The reconnaissance team bled to bring it back."

In the photo was a blunt-faced steel monster. Sleek sloped armor, a long, thick main gun. A beast in an entirely different weight class from the Empire's aging tanks.

'Insane.'

I frowned. It was the Republic's standard medium tank model from the game.

That armor — a distillation of mid-20th-century engineering — absolutely could not be pierced by anything an infantryman could carry. Even Seraphina's Mana Bullets would most likely ricochet off.

"Headquarters has given us one order."

Brigadier General Dietrich said, his voice shaking.

"Hold the line, even if you die."

It was effectively a death sentence. Stop an elite armored division with a single infantry brigade? No sane command would issue such an order. Despair was etched deep into the faces of the staff officers around us.

But my gaze wasn't on the despairing command post, nor on the tank in the photograph. It was on an odd memory from the train station just a while ago.

The massive gun barrels that had been defending Rosenheim station.

'There were anti-aircraft guns there. Definitely.'

You're telling me they absolutely can't pierce armor?

"Brigadier General, there's no need for anyone to die."

I twisted the corner of my mouth upward and addressed the man.

"All it will take is for a few of us to lower our heads a little."