General José Sanjurjo, commander of the 24th Division, was a man who slept very well.
When cannon fire rumbled outside Seville, he was still trapped in a land of tenderness, snoring away.
Only after his chief of staff charged into the detached little house he had personally “requisitioned” and rudely woke him from his mistress’s arms did this division commander of the Royal Army learn that the enemy had already launched their attack.
When he heard from his chief of staff that seventy percent of the magic crystal cannon positions outside the city had been struck by precise artillery fire, his entire mind simply crashed.
He shoved his mistress off the bed, sprang up abruptly, his face filled with disbelief.
“What did you say? Seventy percent of the magic crystal cannon positions are gone?!”
“Yes, General. The enemy’s artillery fire is far too accurate. And for some reason, they seem to have a very thorough grasp of the locations of our magic crystal cannon positions.”
Sanjurjo felt the world spin around him. He had originally planned to withdraw into Seville, forcing the enemy’s main force to gather and take the initiative to attack.
Then he would use the magic crystal cannons’ powerful anti-concentration capability to inflict massive casualties on them—this tactic had achieved excellent results against both the Nationalist Army and the International Brigades on other fronts.
The Britannians had also said that even Saxon infantry would suffer heavy losses when facing bombardment from magic crystal cannons.
What the Britannians had not told Sanjurjo, however, was that Saxon artillery would not be suppressed.
The battle had only just begun, and their most important heavy firepower had already suffered grievous losses. Sanjurjo was immediately overcome by the feeling that he had no idea what to do next.
He forced himself to calm down and nearly roared at his chief of staff:
“Pass on my orders! All units are to enter their designated positions immediately! Organize the defense according to the original plan! We must not let the enemy approach Seville!”
The chief of staff nodded and was just about to say something when the door to the room was flung open again.
A messenger stumbled and scrambled in, his voice carrying a sob.
“General! Disaster! The main body of the enemy’s ground forces is attacking our southeastern defensive line across the entire front!”
—
When the whistling of the final salvo faded into the distance, the shrill sound of charge whistles cut through the brief silence on the battlefield.
“Entire company, advance!”
Captain Hauser’s roar rang out over the position of 3rd Company. Immediately afterward, numerous figures in field-gray uniforms leapt up from behind the earthen slopes and shell craters where they had been hiding.
The three companies of 1st Battalion spread out into multiple skirmish lines, each soldier separated by four or five paces.
The entire formation was like a thin gray line, surging toward the heights ahead that were still belching black smoke.
On this front outside Seville, a total force of twenty thousand men participated in the attack: the Saxon Expeditionary Force, the International Brigades, three infantry brigades of the Nationalist Army, and two cavalry regiments.
The 1st Battalion of the 32nd Regiment, where Molin was, was merely one tactical unit in this large-scale offensive.
As far as the eye could see, soldiers were rushing forward across the entire horizon. Battle cries, officers’ commands, and heavy footfalls mingled together.
This was a symphony that belonged solely to war.
Molin, too, was one note in that symphony. This was the first time since arriving in this world that he had personally taken part in such a grand charge on such a scale.
Or rather, under the military technology and rules before his transmigration, charges on this scale of manpower could no longer be seen.
Right up until the moment before he crossed over, Molin’s career plan had been to enter the army after graduating from the military academy, undergo tempering, and steadily build up his professional abilities and specialized skills.
Then, at some point in the future, he would command Blue Star’s strongest heavy combined-arms battalion across the battlefield, water his horses at Zhurihe, and climb Naroda.
But why was he now charging across an unfamiliar battlefield with a long, heavy, old-fashioned rifle in his hands, at constant risk of being struck by a bullet?
And on his head was that damned spiked helmet, which offered no protection whatsoever and did not breathe at all.
He gripped the rifle in his hands tightly, his heart pounding violently in his chest. He could not tell whether it was anger, nervousness, or excitement.
On the system map in the upper-left corner of his vision, countless blue arrows representing the 16th Infantry Brigade and allied forces were like a gigantic comb, combing through the land outside Seville.
The 32nd Infantry Regiment was positioned on the far left wing of the entire brigade, and their 1st Battalion was, in turn, the far left wing of the regiment.
As a unit that had already suffered casualties earlier, 1st Battalion’s responsibility this time was a magic crystal cannon position that had already been struck by artillery.
The effectiveness of the 105-millimeter field howitzers was obvious. The process of charging up the heights met with almost no proper resistance.
Across the shattered artillery position, twisted corpses of Royal Army soldiers and weapons blown into pieces could be seen everywhere.
The air was filled with the pungent mixture of gunpowder smoke, earth, and blood.
Molin led the soldiers of 3rd Platoon, stepping over the soft scorched earth, and swiftly occupied this position that had belonged to the enemy only moments before.
Those magic crystal cannons that had once troubled everyone had now become several piles of twisted metal belching black smoke, no longer posing any threat.
—
Molin carefully made his way to the side of the heights facing Seville, and his field of vision suddenly opened up.
With the guidance of the system map, he could clearly see the situation across the entire battlefield. This was the first time he had truly felt what it looked like when an army of twenty thousand launched a frontal assault.
In the center, the three infantry regiments under the Saxon Army’s 16th Infantry Brigade, serving as the main attacking force, were arrayed in a straight line. Like a sharp dagger, they had already driven directly into the Royal Army’s defensive line.
And roughly six hundred meters to the left of 1st Battalion, another force was launching an equally fierce attack.
They were the soldiers of the International Brigades.
Their clothing was of every imaginable variety, and their equipment consisted only of obsolete rifles provided by the Saxon Empire. They did not even have heavy machine guns or mortars to provide fire support.
Yet their will to fight was so tenacious that it was shocking.
Facing the Royal Army’s defensive line, they were practically forcing their way forward with flesh and blood.
After only a brief exchange of fire, they launched a fearless charge. With bayonets and shovels, in close-quarters hand-to-hand combat, they drove back an enemy superior in numbers again and again.
“Attention, all companies! Establish defensive lines on the spot! Hold this high ground!”
Just as Molin’s blood was boiling from the International Brigades’ assault, Major Thomas, the battalion commander, quickly passed his order through runners to every company.
This was a decision fully in line with current Saxon military regulations.
This high ground offered an excellent view and overlooked a large area. It was an outstanding artillery observation post and fire support point.
Later, artillery could even be deployed here directly and use this position to cover the whole of Seville with shellfire, so it had to be firmly held.
The soldiers immediately sprang into action, beginning to use the existing shell craters, along with crates and sandbags abandoned by the enemy, to quickly construct simple cover.
But in Molin’s heart, a strong unease rose.
He knew very well that the earlier reconnaissance could not possibly have marked out all of the enemy’s artillery positions.
So no matter how beautifully the counter-battery operation had been fought just now, it was still highly likely that not all of the enemy’s long-range firepower had been destroyed.
And since this place had previously been a Royal Army magic crystal cannon position, the enemy was certain to possess precise coordinates and geographical information for this high ground.
Now that the Saxons had occupied it, as long as the enemy’s surviving artillerymen were not idiots, the target of the next round of shelling would inevitably be here.
At present, 1st Battalion had already concentrated almost all of its manpower into this narrow area.
It was practically as if they had written the words “come bomb me” across their faces.