Chapter 75
Chapter 75
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 75
Chapter Title: Thurner Tribe Extermination War (4)
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Extermination warfare—also known as scorched earth tactics—is a strategy that cannot be used unless allied forces, cornered in desperate straits, are fully prepared to abandon their occupied territories completely to repel an enemy invasion or cripple the foe's strength.
Executing scorched earth tactics doesn't just lay waste to the farmlands in those occupied zones—it destroys every scrap of food and livestock left behind, right down to the houses themselves.
Turning a region that's been reduced to utter desolation back into a village fit for human habitation takes years.
On top of that, the villagers lose their fields, their herds, their homes entirely, plunging them into a plight worse than beggars.
Without proper aid afterward, the men turn to crime, the women to selling their bodies—just to survive—which tanks local morale to the depths.
That's why, fighting in Visocia, the Chekavians never resorted to scorched earth, even knowing our Reich Empire forces would requisition their grain stores.
"If we thoroughly raze their villages, the northern barbarians will gnash their teeth at us—but they've been kidnapping our imperial citizens, selling them off as sex toys and slaves to live in luxury. No need for guilt. We'll frame it purely in strategic terms and benefits."
Commanders at the colonel level have to treat allied lives as mere ledger entries on the battlefield sometimes.
No need to weigh the feelings or plights of those who slaughtered and looted our empire's people. We're just paying them back in kind.
"Back when Northern Army doctrine was first drafted, they faced scattered nomadic tribes. Even outnumbered, fleeing with minimal livestock and kin kept starvation at bay. But now they've mixed herding with farming—if they abandon fields and bolt, the tribe won't starve outright, but over half will perish from hunger."
In the Chekovia War, Reich Empire forces could've plundered any enemy village and butchered the locals whenever they pleased.
But it stayed mere potential—they held back.
Those lands and people would fold into the Reich Empire eventually anyway.
Our army's play now? Torch the barbarians' villages—their lifeline.
Watching village after village vanish into Reich Empire hands, the barbarians will panic, left with no choice but to fight on ground that favors us alone.
"Of course, Thurner—leading some twenty tribes large and small under self-styled Khan Ludwig—won't crawl out to unfavorable turf over one razed village. We'll chip away steadily until he has no choice but to meet us where it hurts him most."
One village down—one small tribe gutted—Thurner can cry 'imperial trap!' and stonewall our taunts without budging.
But nomads at a level below tribal states, let alone centralized power? Two or three tribes stripped bare, and his underlings start questioning his lead. He'll have to fight where we dictate.
Otherwise, the tribal chiefs draw blades, snarling that tailing this bastard means losing families and starving out.
Better a long-shot reversal on bad ground than rotting in place.
"Question: After razing villages, what of survivors? Slaughter them all?"
Frankly, they started it—murdering and trafficking innocents—so mirroring them isn't some grave sin, but it's wasteful killing off manpower.
Slaughtering enemy families sans cause pre-battle just pumps their morale needlessly.
"Kill all who resist during the razing. Capture and segregate those who surrender or lack fight—men from women as best we can—bind limbs, and lock them down somewhere suitable in the village."
But sparing them? Crushes enemy spirit nicely.
Even with regimental autonomy in the Northern Army, mindless barbarian slaughter just builds infamy.
"Once they bite and march out soldiers for battle, we clash head-on full-force. Battle flows like this."
With that, I set three wooden horse figures for the barbarians—knights, mages, infantry for our regiment—onto the desk map.
"Enemy playbook: central force around their chieftain, split into left and right wings—three prongs total. Flanks lure us, scattering the regiment. Lures target our left and right."
Earthlings called it the Parthian shot: horseback bows for hit-and-fade, then plunge the line when we're reeling—their hallmark to shatter foes.
Sure, farming means no hunting, so versus pure nomads like Mongols, their skill's leagues below—not total routs, just solid hits.
"But horseback bow range? Roughly 100 meters—our mages, crossbows, archers handle it. Minimal riposte to flank lures; we hammer central."
An officer piped up.
"But they're no fools—won't central bolt under focus fire? Their usual setup has infantry with the chieftain's core, so blind flight's off-table."
I nodded anyone field it; Laura took point.
"Colonel, in Chekovia you stalled an enemy infantry battalion's aid with twelve knights timed right. Same here: swing knights 'round central rear, hit opportune—pins them. They might cavalry-strike from core to repel, but plate the mounts on Major Werner's fifty knights, and enemy arrows won't drop 'em easy."
Classic Laura—academy top, staff college top.
I floated central assault; she nailed the pin and counterplay.
"We'll run Captain Laura's central pin as-is. Plus, they can't force-unit sacrifices like us. Stretch it: Thurner chieftain's just top dog in a local thug crew."
Officers shot me odd looks.
Fair—no call to trash their boss mid-brief, dubbing him thug boss.
Ludwig's banner unites 'em; merits earn 'ten-heads,' 'hundred-heads' posts, tribesfolk, land, herds—so kinda state-shaped.
Victory? War-chews warriors, shrinks labor pool, tanks food output.
No central dole—they starve.
"Trained cavalry aside, infantry's trash—worse than Reich greenhorns. Our Northern vets? They'll reap 'em. Enemy horse charges to save 'em."
Everyone knows: footmen rank below riders, no powerhouse force.
Yet rough-farm toil, odd jobs, beast fights toughen 'em past our rookies. Morale boost to hype it, though?
"We feign oblivious. When their herd-charge locks—no turn—pivot infantry front, pike-wall halts the horse rush cold."
Skilled horse-archers? Charges pack tight; sudden swerve? Self-trample city.
Pros won't veer from pike-squares with mages/archers baiting—even plate knights perish there plenty.
Light gear, bows, short-lances? Our pikemen mulch obvious.
We hashed hours: plugged ops gaps, debated, divvied tasks.
Timing perfect—meat and beer arrived, my pocket-funded bounty for all.
No-feast grumbles soured; now deputy regimental lead and officers gazed grateful tears.
"Staff college buzzed your Northern grind. Ops first though—feast-talk scatters focus, so held tongue. Fetch troops; feast-setup now."
Truth? Craved instant march.
But cementing me principled-yet-lax, generous? Keys trust, amps grind for glory-rewards.