As for the subject that had shifted their attention, the current battle situation was already quite clear.
The Lanforthian army, paving their way with blood, had successfully stormed across the bridge and established a foothold on the right bank, utilizing smoke screen cover and suppressing the right bank’s defenses with artillery fire.
The Diacla army abandoned the right bank bridgehead and some of their positions, causing both sides to fall back into a stalemate.
At least this time the defensive line hadn’t been completely breached in a single assault; they had to be content with that.
For reasons unknown, the Lanforthian artillery had lost its former precision, unable to conduct accurate strikes against the Diacla positions.
During their furious assault across the bridge and onto the positions, numerous shells even landed directly amidst the charging Lanforthian infantry.
Of course, the primary reason lay in the right bank’s robust and well-prepared defenses, which could not be destroyed by Lanforthian shelling in such a short span of time.
Diacla soldiers were thus able to hold their ground within the trenches, pinning the Lanforthians at the bridgehead and thwarting any further breakthroughs.
As night fell, the close-quarters assaults ceased, and both sides began preparing their next moves.
****
Within the command post of the 104th Reserve Regiment, Commander Mo was fraught with worry over the reports.
The casualty figures indicated that his forces could no longer withstand such fierce assaults; continued fighting would shatter their very structure.
Standing beside him was the commander of a brother unit, with whom he had just engaged in a minor dispute over command authority.
The other commander, citing that the main frontline force now fell under his purview, demanded to take over command, brazenly proclaiming, “Give them to me to command, and I’ll surely drive them back to their starting positions.”
Naturally, Commander Mo would not agree.
Relinquishing command now would cement his record in the negatives: he had lost the left bank’s positions and the critically important railway bridge.
“The General Staff has explicitly ordered that all reinforcements are to follow my command.
Should there be any dissent, please report it through official channels, rather than engaging in meaningless arguments with me here.”
Having sternly rejected the other party’s unreasonable demand, Commander Mo returned to poring over the map, lost in thought.
Throughout history, in battles where the weak triumphed over the strong, the disadvantaged side invariably seized upon a crucial vulnerability that the dominant force had overlooked, thus securing victory.
The Lanforthian army, numerically superior, now pressed against the final trench on the right bank, undoubtedly holding the upper hand at this moment.
If he couldn’t devise a counterattack soon, his only recourse would be to send in a suicide squad to demolish the bridge.
Blowing up the bridge would have been simple before, but now it was a formidable task.
All the tempting reasons he had cited for refusing demolition operations after the left bank fell had now transformed into venom, poisoning him.
If he ultimately failed to regain control, all his considerations would merely serve to benefit those Lanforthian devils (TL Note: A derogatory term used in wartime propaganda, akin to ‘Japs’ or ‘Huns’ in English).
Preserving the bridge was meant to facilitate subsequent offensives—though now, it seemed, it would only aid the Lanforthian advance.
He continued to stare at the map, lost in contemplation, searching for any clue, for the “key” to turn the tide of defeat into victory.
Easier said than done.
“Report!”
“Enter.”
“Commander, this is the latest communication received, from the 136th Infantry Brigade.”
“The 136th Infantry Brigade?”
Commander Mo found the unit designation vaguely familiar; it seemed to be…
The unit initially stationed to the east of the 224th Defense Brigade?
Having suffered a collapse on their front and lost their flanks, they had been forced to retreat with light equipment.
By normal calculations, they should have long since fallen back to the rear.
He silently read the contents line by line.
“Our forces have reached the enemy’s right flank in ambush.
Please respond if coordinated attack is required; otherwise, await us on the left bank to assist with crossing the river…” Commander Mo’s brows furrowed deeply.
“Crossing the river?”
He immediately put down the paper bearing the decrypted dispatch and, following the coordinates described earlier, located the 136th Brigade’s exact position on the war zone map.
They were situated on the left bank of the Mang River, approximately nine kilometers in a straight line from the left bank positions occupied by the Lanforthian forces.
Blocked by mountains, they must have successfully concealed their traces within the hills.
“On the left bank?”
A daring idea began to form in Commander Mo’s mind.
An even bolder plan was sketched onto the map with his pencil: a large arrow pointing from the front line to the rear, and a smaller arrow pointing from the left bank toward the bridge.
“Send word to select everyone in the forces who speaks Lanforthian and have them assemble in the rear!”
The command post immediately buzzed with activity, as they formulated detailed, minute-by-minute operational objectives for this audacious plan.
****
In another command post across the river, a man in a military officer’s uniform lay unconscious on a cot.
‘Damn it, damn it, damn it! Why is this happening! How did those Diacla bastards manage this!’
The man raging within the dugout was not the Lanforthian supreme commander, who was already confined to his bed; it was his deputy now speaking.
‘First, spies sabotaged our ammunition, then our accompanying mages died unexpectedly, and now they can assassinate our commander from a distance!’
‘What other tricks do those Diacla people have up their sleeves!’
‘Could it be their immortal arts at work!’
No one dared to respond.
Since the commander himself had suddenly collapsed, the place had already endured too much chaos.
Decades ago, Diacla possessed beings whose power far surpassed that of mages: “Cultivators” (TL Note: Individuals who practice ‘xianxia’ or ‘cultivation,’ a form of spiritual and physical training to achieve immortality or god-like powers).
Even though they paid little heed to state affairs, the mere existence of such powerful individuals was enough to deter other nations.
As a power entirely distinct from the magical system, the Lanforthians understood little of it.
Facing a situation so beyond their comprehension, it was understandable that they would suspect its influence behind the scenes.
Yet, the Great Collapse had occurred decades ago; blaming a long-vanished technique now was futile.
No matter how much the deputy raged, the unconscious man remained so.
After a bout of impotent fury, he calmed himself and began to solicit opinions from those around him.
“Now… who will take over command?”
A group of Lanforthian officers exchanged glances, seemingly ready to push responsibility onto one another, whispering for a long while without reaching a conclusion.
A moment later, all eyes fell upon the person with the highest rank present.
‘I… I cannot undertake this task…’
‘…’
At this declaration, everyone present fell into an awkward silence.
‘My apologies, sir, but that is not for you to decide.’
The person fully responsible for devising the offensive plan had fallen, but the plan they had set would not vanish with them.
The one who took over command merely needed to issue orders according to the plan to secure victory.
They simply dared not seize this glory, for storming the Mang River and capturing the bridge had been a designated honor for the colonel on the sickbed.
‘I can take over command, but all operational deployments will remain unchanged, following the original plan.’
The timid and corpulent officer reluctantly took command, even stipulating that operations should continue according to the previous commander’s deployments.
Little did they know, this very demand sealed the Lanforthian army’s easily achievable victory into ruin.
Battlefield situations changed in an instant; a correct decision made minutes ago could become the wrong choice moments later, and a winning move could transform into the pivotal cause of defeat.
Even if the previous commander had been a brilliant strategist, a heaven-sent genius, they could not have accounted for every shift in both friendly and enemy forces.
Moreover, he was merely an excellent commander, not some “Lanforthian God of War”.
Blindly adhering to the plan would be the cause of the Lanforthians’ next defeat, especially as the Diacla army was forging an audacious, unexpected plan.
Meanwhile, the mastermind behind all this—or perhaps, the greatest contributor—medic Lin Yu, was waiting in the rear for arrangements concerning her new unit, all the while savoring the memory of that unknown bird’s flavor.
Having earned merit twice in a row, yet twice remaining oblivious to her own accomplishments, the girl certainly possessed a remarkably long reaction time.
“Sister Nangong… are we really going to wait until dawn?”
“Possibly.
It’s already dark, so anything important will likely be announced at daybreak.”
“Ugh… this is so frustrating.
There are so many wounded who need treatment, yet we’re just sitting here, molding away… it’s simply outrageous…”
Lin Yu yearned for something to occupy herself with, to relieve her pent-up energy and expend her overflowing magic.
The effect of that “stewed goose” had been even more potent than a magic potion; now she was a vibrant, full-mana mage, practically bouncing with energy.
‘If she only knew healing magic, wouldn’t “healer” be a more fitting term?’
‘But then again, she was a regrettable washboard…’
In any case, Lin Yu diligently suppressed the urge to leap up and rush to the hospital to help, quietly waiting with everyone else for the so-called “next arrangements”.
She waited until someone nearby began calling out for anyone who spoke Lanforthian.
“I do! I do!”
She immediately volunteered, running over and asking what they needed her for.