Steel Speaks Faster Than Words
The first strike had landed perfectly, but it was far too early to relax.
Even amid the chaos, a few of them were moving with sharp, practiced urgency. Those ones had to be put down as quickly as possible.
Sweeping the binoculars across the red dots on my Minimap, I hunted for the next target. And there it was — a suitable mark at ten o'clock.
'Status Analysis.'
▸ Target: Pillbox No. 3
▸ Notes: Preparing machine-gun fire; observation slit open
I jammed the radio button immediately.
"Next. Pillbox number three, right flank. Observation slit confirmed open. Ten o'clock."
"Roger!"
Whiiiine—!
At my order, the 88mm barrel shifted in minute increments. The gunners leveled their bubble sights and bent to their optics, a brief pause —
"Fire."
KWAAANG!
With a razor-edged crack, the armor-piercing round crossed the river and was sucked clean into the narrow firing slit.
Kwarururung!
The rear blast door tore away and flame gushed back out through the gun ports, black smoke boiling upward like a chimney.
'Clean.'
I nodded in satisfaction. But there was no time to enjoy it.
"Next. Behind the sandbags, eleven o'clock."
I pointed with my finger. Soldiers who had bolted out under the covering fire were frantically trying to mount a machine gun.
Tududududu!
This time it was the coaxial machine gun that spat fire. The Republic soldiers cowering behind the sandbags turned into honeycombs and danced.
And still the enemy kept moving.
"Get up! Counterattack! They're across the river!"
▸ Name: André
▸ Rank: Captain
▸ Condition: Rousing his subordinates in an attempt to hold the line.
Second floor of the building at the center of town. A man who looked to be an officer was bellowing himself hoarse from the window.
"One loudmouth, I see. Central command post, second floor. Window, left column."
"Vehicle One! Second-floor window on the front building! Blow it away!"
This time it was Major Frederica's voice.
KWANG!
The tank cannon roared. The shell's trajectory was visible to the naked eye.
PWOK! KWACHIK!
The top of the building was sheared off whole. The window where the officer had been standing became a gaping hole, and the collapsed ceiling came crashing down over it. The obnoxious shouting cut off mid-cry.
Whiiiiine—!!
And at that very moment, from the sky came the rending metallic shriek unique to dive bombers.
"Good timing."
Smiling with satisfaction, I picked up the radio for the next phase. Now came the most critical step of all: I needed a force that could punch through this wall of fire, cross the river, and secure a bridgehead.
"Lieutenant Franz. Sergeant Gunter."
"Yes, sir! Standing by!"
"Rubber boats ready?"
"Pumped up good and stiff, sir!"
"Now. Cross while their heads are down. Plant the flag and hold."
"Understood! Assault team! The Lieutenant Colonel is watching! ROW, you dogs!"
"UWAAAAAH—!"
An abyss of chaos — dive bombers screaming in low, tank shells scything overhead — and beneath it all, dozens of black rubber boats slid out onto the river. Franz and Gunter led the way, paddling like madmen.
'Status Analysis.'
▸ Condition: Blind loyalty toward Max Jäger; elation; heroic fervor
Ordinary soldiers would never have managed it. But my men, brimming with loyalty to me, executed the order without a flicker of hesitation.
Finally, I turned my gaze to the engineer commander.
"Engineer company, in. Get the pontoon bridge up."
"L-Lieutenant Colonel! The shelling hasn't stopped yet! If a mortar round lands—!"
The engineer company commander screamed, his face drained white.
Right — that was the normal reaction, to be fair. Ordering a man to build a bridge while tank shells whistled over his head was the same as telling him to go die.
But there was no time to wait.
'Charming Speechcraft.'
I seized the man's shoulder in a tight grip.
Skill Charming Speechcraft (Lv. 3) is now active.
"Captain. Look over there. My men are crossing that river with nothing but their hides and a rubber boat between them and death. Do you see them?"
"……!"
"Are you planning to let them die like dogs on the far bank? Your bridge is what gets my tanks across — and my tanks are what keep my men alive."
The skill is stimulating the target's sense of duty and comradeship.
"Save your comrades. Isn't that the engineer's whole purpose?"
"…I— I'll do it!"
The engineer company commander declared, his face set with grim resolve.
"All units, launch the pontoon modules! If we die, we die on the water! Get it assembled — MOVE!"
Splash, splash!
The engineers hurled themselves into the river.
Shells raining overhead. Rubber boats racing across the surface. And beneath the water, engineers lashing the bridge together — a strangely surreal tableau of war.
Through the Minimap, I watched the red dots scatter in utter panic.
The first thread of the Sickle Cut Operation was being stitched through its eye, and stitched beautifully.
Forty kilometers behind the Rosenheim front.
The morning at Soissons — the Republic's vital stronghold and rear supply city, home to the 2nd Corps headquarters — was peaceful.
"Tanks? In the Ashen Forest?"
Peaceful, that is, except for the news that had just landed on the table.
"Did I hear you correctly just now?"
Lieutenant General Henri de Dubois, commander of the Republic's 2nd Corps, pulled an unpleasant face. He had been pleasantly slicing a croissant for breakfast, and now here was this utterly preposterous report.
The chief of staff answered as he spread several black-and-white aerial reconnaissance photographs across the desk.
"Yes, sir. Taken at dawn today as a reconnaissance plane passed over the Ashen Forest. Through gaps in the dense canopy, objects believed to constitute a large armored force were identified."
"…Hah."
Henri picked up the photographs with a hollow laugh. The blurry images showed dark, hulking masses lurking in the shadows of the trees.
"A large armored force, you say."
Stroking his chin for a moment, he turned toward the map hanging on the wall. The Ashen Forest. Dense woodland and treacherous terrain — a mire for a floor and a labyrinth for a road. A region where, by every doctrine in the textbook, armored operations were impossible — where movement itself was a suicidal act.
The thoroughly commonsensical conclusion assembled itself in Henri's mind.
"A deception."
"Sir?"
"Think about it, Colonel. If the Imperial swine had tanks to spare, why on earth would they bury them in that godforsaken forest? They'd have driven them straight down our throats at Rosenheim instead."
Full of conviction, Henri slapped the photograph down on the desk.
"It's a fake. Models — plywood or cardboard draped over trucks to make them look like tanks. In other words, a deception tactic. Their manpower is stretched thin, so they're scraping the bottom of the barrel. Typical."
"But… according to our intelligence, there are rumors that the Imperial 1st Armored Division is on the move…"
"Ah, Falkenhein."
Henri snorted.
"Wilhelm von Falkenhein, the Emperor's hunting dog. The man's finally old. His instincts have gone dull. To think he'd plant such an obvious scarecrow and try to lure our corps toward the forest."
He clicked his tongue. A master may recognize a master — but this move was far too shallow.
"A textbook feint, wouldn't you say? They make a racket in the forest, show us their little models, and try to turn our eyes that way — all while swinging the main force somewhere else entirely. It's transparent."
DR-R-RING—!
Just then, the direct line on his desk erupted into frantic ringing.
Henri set down his coffee cup with unhurried ease and lifted the receiver.
"Corps commander speaking."
"Reporting, sir! Forward Rosenheim front! The Imperial army — the Imperial army has launched a major offensive!"
The thunder of gunfire carried through the receiver, underscored by a desperate courier's voice.
The corner of Henri's mouth curled upward.
"Just as I thought."
"It's the 7th Infantry Brigade, sir! They're pouring every piece of available ordnance into us! This — this is a full-scale breakout attempt!"
"Understood. Do not panic. Hold your current positions."
Henri hung up and turned back to his chief of staff, certainty blazing in his eyes.
"You heard it. Rosenheim. In the end, what they're really after is the frontal line."
"Ah…!"
The chief of staff slapped his knee as though the truth had only now dawned on him.
"Of course…! The tanks in the forest were bait! If we scatter our forces into the woods chasing those models, they'll punch through our thinned Rosenheim line in the gap — that was the whole design!"
"Falkenhein's edge is rusting. Did he imagine I'd fall for such a vulgar trick?"
Henri dabbed his mouth with a napkin and took up his command baton.
"Concentrate our main force on the Rosenheim defensive line. Leave only the bare minimum with the reserve units and send everything else forward. Ignore the forest."
"However… sir. Regarding the garrison on the Bern River."
The cautious chief of staff ventured his question carefully — one last time.
"The scheduled contact window with the river garrison has passed with no reply. Ought we not to look into that?"
An armored force discovered in the Ashen Forest — and now the Bern River garrison failing to respond, again and again. From the chief of staff's standpoint, the situation was more than a little odd.
But Henri only furrowed his brow.
"…Must I concern myself with every little thing? Investigate it yourself and handle it."
He dismissed it as a routine line failure, nothing worth his attention. The Republic's technology did, in truth, outstrip the Empire's across the board — radio and communications were the sole exception, and this was the consequence. Vacuum tubes that wilted in the humidity, lines that dropped at the slightest provocation — a chronic headache for every Republic commander.
'The signals section is probably down in the mud again, groaning about mismatched frequencies.'
So Henri thought, wiping his mouth with the napkin.
He did not know.
He did not know that the telephone lines had been severed under the Empire's merciless bombardment. That the underperforming radios were silent, choked by jamming and panic. That even the trusted couriers had long since evaporated — one puff of an 88mm high-explosive round the instant their motorcycles kicked over.
A handful of ragtag survivors were indeed fleeing toward them in terror — but the treads of Imperial tanks moved far faster than their two legs could carry them.
In other words: sometimes, steel arrives faster than information.