Cannon Fire Arc

Wang Zhong: “No problem, you continue preparing for the attack on March 1 next year. We need to tackle it with a two-pronged approach.”

Vasily: “I thought of a good idea!”

Popov: “Our idea master has already started his real job!”

Vasily: “I think we can add dye to the ordinary smoke bombs, making the smoke they emit turn yellow-green, like toxic gas. Fear of poison gas is a form of fear, right?”

“Great.” Wang Zhong laughed, “You really are the expert.”

Pavlov teased from the side: “If we really manage to conquer Plowsonia with these tricks, future historians might think Plowsonia was taken over by bizarre tactics.”

Wang Zhong: “We are ending the war, not seeking historical fame. Let’s do our job well and leave the rights and wrongs for future generations to judge.”

————

Meanwhile, in the royal bunker of Plowsonia, the Plathen Emperor was staring at the aggressive doctor.

Emperor: “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

The doctor stepped back half a step, adopting a respectful posture: “Apologies, I got a bit carried away.”

Emperor: “So you think once Rocossov attacks, a part of our forces will immediately have a morale collapse?”

Doctor: “And then the collapse will spread like an epidemic, eventually causing all our troops defending all of Plowsonia to scatter like animals.”

“No, the Asgard Knights won’t succumb to this, they are the elite of the Empire, handpicked Aryan Warriors!” The Emperor slammed his fist on the table, “Guards, seize this rabble-rousing guy, drag him out, and torture him severely, see who’s behind this!”

The doctor was unyielding: “It’s said that the Emperor uses the Awakening Agent too much, it seems true—”

He didn’t finish his sentence as the special agents from the Imperial Ministry rushed in and slammed his head with a pistol grip, knocking him out cold.

The Emperor took out a handkerchief, trembling as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“Rabble-rousing!” he reiterated.

————

Three days later, on the front line, the east bank of the Oder River, 77 kilometers away from the city center of Plowsonia, at the first mechanized Guards division position.

Filippov, having rejoined the formation, was shaving in the regimental command post.

Opportunities to shave on the battlefield were rare; it’s said that a Prosen top sniper let all bearded men off, only targeting those with clean-shaven chins, using this method he killed a lot of Ante officers.

Not long after, a female sniper platoon was dispatched specifically to deal with this Prosen top sniper.

This top sniper was eventually discovered by the female snipers and died under heavy artillery fire.

Indeed, once the female snipers detected his approximate location, they called for heavy artillery without wasting a moment.

After shaving, Filippov’s guard lifted the bunker flap and came in: “Reporting, last night the patrol returned.”

“Was there any gain?” Filippov asked while wiping his face.

Guard: “Captured three prisoners, they are being escorted here.”

The Guard First Mechanized was equipped with numerous portable radios, and even during night patrols they took two, so they could alert the main force to prepare for combat at the first sign of unexpected situations.

Filippov put away the towel, tidied his uniform: “Good, once they return, bring the prisoners directly to the regimental headquarters.”

“Yes!”

After the guard turned to leave, the new regimental staff entered the regimental headquarters bunker: “This is the first time I’ve seen a Prosen, I’m a bit nervous, Comrade Filippov.”

Filippov: “Relax, it’s no big deal. The first time we saw Prosens was on Loktov’s battlefield, and back then the enemy was more ferocious than now, yet we still defeated them!

“Just treat it like a trip to the zoo, checking out gorillas, and practice your Prosenese while you’re at it.”

“Yes, Comrade Regimental Commander Filippov.”

At this moment, the sound of cars came from outside, Filippov: “They should be back, guessing they hijacked an enemy vehicle to drive back, follow me.”

Filippov lifted the curtain and stepped out of the regimental headquarters bunker, only to be met by an Opel Blitz truck flying a white flag.

The patrol captain jumped out before the car completely stopped and saluted Filippov: “We are back, Commander.”

“Three prisoners?” Filippov asked.

“Yes.”

The rest of the patrol also disembarked, bringing the three prisoners before Filippov.

The new staff couldn’t help but curse: “This can’t be real, these are three kids!”

Filippov: “This is the front line situation, besides kids, you might also see elderly people and young damsels.”

New staff: “So we have to interrogate them? Even a Judge wouldn’t have the heart to interrogate kids like this, right?”

“Don’t worry.” A blue-hatted Judge popped out from nowhere and said, “We are from rural backgrounds; when we messed up as kids, our fathers would beat us terribly, now we beat kids who mess up terribly too. These look like kids who messed up.”

Filippov noticed something amiss with the patrol: “Missing three people?”

“Yes, they died in battle, we brought back their Soldier’s ID tags and marked their location of death.”

The new staff pushed his glasses: “Truly surprising, it seems the direct enemies still have a bit of fight left in them.”

Filippov: “Actually, it’s the camouflaged enemies that have battle prowess. They belong to the Asgard Knights, whereas the non-camouflaged enemies have little desire to fight, and surrender after some losses.”

The Judge asked: “Comrade Regimental Commander, are these three prisoners for the new staff to practice on, or shall we take them directly?”

At this moment, a motorcycle sped from a distance, and Vasily, wearing a leather coat, leaped off, yelling to Filippov: “Hold on, I just heard on the radio you have prisoners! I’ve been ordered to conduct an investigation! I must interrogate them personally!”

Filippov: “What are you up to now?”

“Marshal’s order, a cultural mythology investigation, to find out what the Prosens fear, especially what Prosen children fear.”

The blue-hatted Judge quipped: “What could it be if not the ‘Baba Yaga (Swamp Witch)’ that lives in the swamps?!”

Vasily: “Melania indeed has a variant of the Baba Yaga legend, but there aren’t that many swamps in Prosen. I’ve checked the literature, they seem to have tales of a Long-armed Gentleman in the woods.

“Anyway, let me ask thoroughly, it’s the Marshal’s order.”

As he spoke, Vasily took out an order signed by Marshal Rocossov.

Filippov then explained for his old friend: “Since Loktov, he’s been Marshal’s follower, though back then it wasn’t Marshal yet.”

The blue-hatted Judges gestured, “Go ahead,” and stepped aside, hands on their belt.

Vasily, looking intrigued, stared at the smallest of the prisoners: “This child flinched just now when hearing Rocossov’s name.”

He crouched before the boy and asked in Prosenese: “Child, are you afraid of Rocossov?”

The boy trembled visibly, then shouted: “I’m not afraid! I will fight Rocossov to the end and die gloriously!”

Vasily pointed to the signature on the order, saying to the boy: “This is the signature of that Rocossov.”

The boy backed up, only to be bumped back by the Ante Warrior holding him.

Vasily grinned: “You are afraid of Rocossov!”

“I’m not afraid!” The boy’s face turned red.

Vasily: “No, you fear Rocossov. You all are scared to death of him.”

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