The scene unfolding before her eyes was by no means a complete rout for Diacla with the Lanforthians pressing their advantage.
Instead, those clad in Diacla Army uniforms were jogging forward, while the blue gleam of rifles flickered further ahead.
Medics had already retreated with the wounded, yet these soldiers were still advancing? Had they not given up on treatment?
What a resilient commander—no, what a stubborn commander.
To complete the mission, they were willing to sacrifice their remaining forces on the riverbank, futilely increasing their own losses and the enemy’s gains.
Alas, let them be.
Lin Yu did not possess the omniscient perspective of a real-time strategy game; in fact, her transmigration came with virtually no “cheats” (TL Note: ‘wàiguà’ refers to an unfair advantage or special ability, often in games), save for the thousands of CET-4 and CET-6 English words she had memorized in her previous life.
Moreover, this could hardly be considered a benefit, as each word had been painstakingly committed to memory through countless days and nights, involving immense effort and the loss of much hair. How could this be called a “cheat”? All she saw was hard work and sweat.
Had she truly possessed a god-like perspective, she would never have questioned the Diacla army’s counterattack.
For, from beginning to end, the right bank position had never fallen; the Lanforthians, who were fond of planting flags on ruined buildings, had merely raised their national banner on the left bank position at most.
That was the section they had seized under the cover of overwhelming artillery superiority—the Diacla artillery had been crippled by a swift river-crossing assault, rendering them incapable of providing any substantial support, which ultimately led to the failure of the left bank’s defense.
Just like the initial stages of the fifth assault, and those native soldiers of the Auliang 36th Regiment on the first day, they were utterly routed without artillery cover, a predictable outcome.
However, the Lanforthians’ victory ended there.
The Reserve 104th Regiment was deployed on both the left and right banks of the river; the right bank position, having been reinforced day and night, had not yet been shelled and was considerably more robust than the left bank.
And—between the left and right banks, there was still a bridge.
This bridge was merely a railway bridge, its deck narrow, not much wider than a mountain tunnel. Forget about artillery bombardment; even if a single machine gun were mounted at the bridgehead, the defenders could hold that bridge until they grew old and died.
As long as ammunition and gun barrels were plentiful.
What? The otherworld hadn’t seen Dr. Gatling invent the machine gun yet? No matter, having dozens of people crouch behind and fire in rotation could achieve the same effect.
To avoid damaging the bridge, the Lanforthians would certainly not call for artillery support near the bridgehead. Against the Diacla army blocking the bridge and charging tolls, the only method was to fill it with human lives.
The myriad Diacla soldiers Lin Yu observed across the landscape were partly dispatched to the right bank fortifications to strengthen defenses, while the vast majority were redeployed to concealed positions along the riverbanks, vigilant against any potential forced crossing attacks.
The battle had devolved into a stalemate, a grueling deadlock of offense and defense.
Now, death occurred on the bridge deck; at every moment, those charging forward were struck by bullets, collapsing askew, tumbling, and falling through the gaps in the bridge’s railings into the shimmering Mang River.
Blood spread across the bridge deck, dripping through the crevices. If one were to look up from beneath the bridge, they would find the structure above resembling a leaky roof, constantly dripping “rainwater” that was either warm or icy cold.
Red rain, staining the Mang River crimson.
The casualty count continued to climb, and national grievances and personal vendettas continued to accumulate.
Had anyone been observing the scene, they would likely have involuntarily wondered: how many more lives must be sacrificed to seize this bridge? How much more blood must be shed to end this war?
Both warring parties had already suffered too many sacrifices in the trenches; countless names of young, able-bodied men were inscribed on casualty notifications, accompanied by the formulaic eulogy: “He fought bravely and died faithfully for his country.”
Even more individuals never received formal notification, merely a terse “missing.”
As long as a death was not officially confirmed, no pension would be disbursed, denying even monetary compensation.
Everyone was embroiled in this war, a war that had never changed, a war that spanned from her past life into this one.
****
“John, it’s our turn.”
“…Alright.”
On the left bank of the Mang River, two Lanforthian soldiers in khaki uniforms conversed.
They exchanged glances, checked that their rifles were loaded, then followed the whistle’s command, climbing out of the trench.
Keeping low, they sprinted forward, bodies bent.
“Charge—”
The leading sergeant, his charging cry of “For the—” still hoarse and incomplete, tumbled twice and fell to the ground, never to utter another sound.
The ripple of rifle fire emanated from directly ahead, and the light of magic formations dyed the smoke blue.
“Sergeant, what happened to you…”
The sergeant had been shot in the head, a terrible gaping hole in his face, clearly beyond saving.
“John! Keep running! Don’t…”
Shortly after releasing the corpse, his comrade, who had charged onto the bridge with him, was also struck by a bullet, falling stiffly to his right.
On the smoke-shrouded bridge, countless figures pressed forward relentlessly, only to be pierced by bullets one after another. It was like autumn winds sweeping fallen leaves, like sickles harvesting wheat.
Crawling forward through a pool of blood, he felt countless bullets whistling overhead; with every inch he advanced, someone nearby would fall.
“Ah—”
“Charge—”
Dying screams, furious battle cries, and the whizzing bullets in his ears collectively formed a scene of hell. He struggled, rolling to his left, leaning against a bridge pillar, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with crimson.
The blood had already stained the concealing smoke screen red, as if it were destined never to remain pristine white.
“Attack! Keep attacking—”
The young Lanforthian’s eyes gradually dimmed, as if falling into a deep slumber.
‘Why…why am I here…’
The smoke screen covering the bridge assault comprised three colors: the blue of the magic formations, the white of the smoke, and the red of the blood. It was like a flag draped over the bridge’s surface, like the Lanforthian national flag.
Another volley of rifle fire, another wave of figures fell. The young man hiding behind the bridge pillar was also hit by a stray bullet, crying out in pain as his body tilted to the right.
His body hung suspended, falling towards the river below, his clothes trailing a streak of crimson in mid-air.
Without a struggle, he plunged straight into the red river.
‘Why…must there be war?’
The young man’s question grew ever larger, overshadowing the ideal of sacrificing for his country, eclipsing the glory of enlisting, and occupying his nearly fading consciousness.
Before being swallowed by the icy river water, this young man finally understood whose fault this situation truly was.
It was not the fault of Diacla’s enemy forces, nor the fault of the regimental commander who ordered the charge, and certainly not his own fault.
Rather—it was the fault of those council gentlemen.
Having realized all of this, he exerted all his strength to unfasten his heavy equipment, discarding his rifle, ammunition, and carrying gear, and began swimming towards the left bank as if reborn.
The young man named John would carry this epiphany with him for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile, a certain foolish medic girl, nearly a decade younger than him…had not received any insights worthy of a lifetime’s remembrance.
She was currently conversing with a wounded soldier, and it was merely inconsequential small talk.
“Doctor, what…what’s your name?”
“I…” Remembering the soldier’s direct gaze when she had previously used her healing art, Lin Yu decided to slightly conceal her true identity. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Just a passerby with some medical skills. By the way, have you heard of the Nangong Immortal?”
“You are…Are you her—”
“Calm down, calm down, be careful not to tear your wound. How could I be the Nangong Immortal? I’m just an ordinary medic…an ordinary soldier who aspires to become like her.”
Lin Yu, who could not perform immortal arts, naturally could not become such a great person. She was merely an ordinary medic; more often than not, she was a “quack” who couldn’t save everyone.
Because she couldn’t stand by and watch others die, she unhesitatingly stepped in to help. Even if she couldn’t save everyone, at least she could do her part.
“You’re so young…and you’re already a soldier?”
“You don’t look much older yourself; you’re only twenty.”
There are countless moments worthy of being immortalized in history, and the instant that determined the fate of this otherworld had already transpired.
A survivor of the Mang River battle would give rise to a terrifying behemoth within the Lanforthian army, its colossal shadow destined to envelop the entire Lanforthian nation.
Subsequently, it would impact Lanforth’s vast colonies, and indeed, the entire world.
Even including the new continents humans had not yet dared to tread.
As a direct participant in this history, Lin Yu merely needed to smile, just as she did after healing these four wounded soldiers.