I Don’t Need a Guillotine for My Revolution

Chapter 152: Krafte War - Prisoner of War

After Damien De Millbeau, Commander of the Southern Army, saw the first defense line in Alsace collapse so easily,

we prepared to move our forces in haste, intending to halt the Krafte Army's advance into Francia at the second defense line of Barua and Franche-Comté.

Upon arriving at Barua,

I sighed, looking at my generals and staff, all grimacing.

“Wrong again, are we?”

“My apologies, Your Excellency, Marquis Lafayette…”

Berthier, who had assisted me and Desaix as chief of staff during the war with the Germania Empire by drafting and executing excellent operations, apologized, his spirits low.

“No, it’s not just your fault.”

I too, having heard the opinions of my generals, had thought the Krafte Army would strike immediately to exploit their surprise.

That was why I had accepted Eris's desperate measure to rally the soldiers' morale, which had been crushed by Millbeau's defeat, and moved with such urgency.However, the 200,000-strong Krafte Army, once again shattering our expectation of an immediate advance after crossing the Rhine, remained camped in Alsace.

“Haha… Honestly, I thought they would attack immediately…”

Louis Desaix also said with a bitter smile.

Rationally and logically, it was an entirely natural course of action.

Although the enemy had succeeded in their surprise attack, they had only just crossed the Rhine.

No matter how great the Krafte Army was, as long as they were human, they couldn't possibly be tireless after a night march followed by a river-crossing battle.

Furthermore, although a considerable number of the residents of Alsace had been evacuated, the locals who remained would be extremely hostile to the Krafte invaders.

If they had hastily launched an offensive in such a situation and failed to win, a disaster would have occurred if their supply lines had collapsed.

I, too, had bet on that, deciding that if we could just win one battle, even by putting Eris at the vanguard, we would have a chance at victory, and had urgently assembled the entire army.

However, they had come up with a tactic we had never even considered—a breakthrough in Alsace—and even after succeeding in crossing the Rhine by surprise with almost no damage, they simply settled in.

They were conventionally assessing the terrain, managing the security of the occupied territory, and solidifying their bridgehead to establish a supply line.

They had shattered the common sense of securing various attack routes for strategic stability and had thrown all their forces into Alsace like lightning, yet instead of pressing their advantage with the tactical superiority they had gained, they were reorganizing.

It's easy to say, but it means that even after achieving an overwhelming victory with a challenging tactic, they were not intoxicated by it and were in perfect control of their subordinates who would be eager for further military glory.

“An army that is young enough to use tactics that break conventional military common sense, yet mature enough not to make a strategic mistake by being captivated by that success… is it.”

An enemy that possesses both flexibility and prudence, qualities that are generally difficult to coexist, is the Great King.

I smirked at the stiff-faced generals.

“Let's discard all the common sense and expectations we've held until now.”

When the Great King threw all his forces into Alsace, I mistakenly thought he was disregarding strategy, confident of an unconditional victory.

All the generals had also expected an immediate attack, unwilling to consider defeat. But that was not the case.

The Great King had accurately judged that while an offensive on Alsace could be retried if it failed, advancing into enemy territory without a proper bridgehead was truly a gamble.

“They possess extreme tactical capability, yet they have the patience not to make a strategic mistake.”

I think this is the first time I've fought while feeling so manipulated by the enemy.

“In the end, this is a war where unorthodox and orthodox methods coexist. So what can we do here?”

At that, Jerome Morelle raised his hand.

“Is it my turn?”

“Yes, General Morelle. If they won't make a strategic mistake, we'll have to induce one.”

Now, let's see how they respond to harassment and supply disruption using the Chasseurs.

*

While the Krafte Army, having crossed the Rhine, was methodically controlling the remaining residents in the occupied territory of Alsace and establishing their supply lines,

a fierce battle of reconnaissance and checks was also taking place between the cavalry of Francia and Krafte.

A vast expanse of rolling hills, where the sound of galloping hooves and sporadic gunshots continued to echo.

Jerome Morelle was observing the battlefield from atop a high hill overlooking the rolling terrain, mounted on his horse.

The Chasseurs, aiming their guns while galloping, fired—

And one of them tumbled from his horse.

“Tsk. Have they perfectly absorbed our style?”

Jerome Morelle looked through his telescope at the enemy light cavalry, dressed in splendid uniforms.

Their attire was similar to the Hussars of the Germania Empire, but their black uniforms, characteristic of the Krafte Army, had skulls painted on their hats.

The Krafte Hussars, armed with carbines and swords similar to the Francian Chasseurs, were fighting back similarly.

There had been no intelligence indicating they operated their light cavalry in such a way, meaning they had observed the war between the Germania Empire and Francia and had begun training them since then.

“Messenger! General, a dispatch from the Commander-in-Chief!”

“Oh, good. Let's see what our Marquis Lafayette has in mind.”

Jerome Morelle unfolded the dispatch sent by Pierre and burst out laughing.

“Hah, hahaha… This old boy is playing hardball this time, eh?”

The content of the dispatch was concise.

It was unknown why the enemy had been conducting reconnaissance battles for several days, but as long as they were effective and inflicted losses on the enemy, they were to continue.

Their own forces would continue to suffer losses, but in a one-for-one exchange, Francia had more troops.

As long as the enemy fought an expeditionary war with a smaller force, simply inflicting continuous losses would bring them, however slowly, closer to victory.

Jerome Morelle raised his telescope again.

“Is the Great King at a loss for what to do in this kind of guerrilla warfare other than to fight fire with fire, or will a different response come…”

At that moment, Jerome Morelle witnessed a cavalry unit in white uniforms, unlike the Hussars, charging at the Chasseurs.

They deflected the Chasseurs' bullets with a magic barrier, then charged at the bewildered men, cutting them down with their swords.

“Son of a bitch, are those Cuirassiers?”

Since the Germania Empire had already taught their Cuirassiers to use mana, it wasn't surprising that the enemy's heavy cavalry, who had brought out Hussars mimicking the Chasseurs, could also use mana.

However, heavy cavalry had traditionally been considered a key strategic force, to be conserved and used sparingly.

Francia, too, would occasionally send in a small number of Cuirassiers when the confrontation between the light cavalry became intense, but to think they would commit them all at once.

He had wondered why they had been accepting the reconnaissance battle for several days. Could it be that they wouldn't be satisfied unless they won even in a cavalry engagement?

“Well, good, good. Fighting fire with fire is fine. Let’s commit our Cuirassiers as well. Relay to the Cuirassiers! Deploy as planned, organized to support the Chasseurs!”

“Yes, sir!”

Organizing mixed light and heavy cavalry for enemy cavalry engagements was a Francian invention, and the formation for such a situation was already complete.

If nothing else, they were the strongest heavy cavalry, the first to master mana, taught by the noble knights who had survived the nation of knights.

However great the Krafte Army was, it was unimaginable that Francia's Cuirassiers would be inferior in combat power.

Jerome Morelle licked his dry lips and muttered.

“Picking a heavy cavalry fight with Francia? Let’s see you get crushed.”

*

Revolutionary Army of Francia, Cuirassiers. Captain José Vachet, mounted on his horse atop a hill, was looking down at the Chasseurs and enemy Hussars who were disappearing into the distance as they exchanged fire.

The Revolutionary Army's Cuirassiers had initially caught the enemy off guard and inflicted some damage, but after that, they failed to achieve any significant results.

The Krafte Army's Cuirassiers were Cuirassiers in name only; they wore neither a backplate nor a breastplate.

At first, he had thought they were insane, but seeing them move in concert with the Hussars, he understood the enemy's intention.

Bullets could be blocked with a magic barrier anyway, and if the magic barrier broke, it didn't matter if one wore a breastplate or not, everyone was equal before a bullet.

Since they couldn't gain an advantage in melee combat against Francia's Cuirassiers, the strongest in the Central Continent, they abandoned their armor altogether and focused on mobility, hitting and running with their light cavalry.

To the Cuirassiers of Francia, who prided themselves on charging bravely at the forefront to smash enemy lines, the Krafte Cuirassiers were shameful, pathetic cowards, unworthy of the name.

As a result, while the light cavalry ran around, exchanging fire, the Cuirassiers, who had to follow along as escorts, grew increasingly frustrated and discontented.

“Damned Krafte bastards…”

Among them, Captain José Vachet, who especially hated Krafte, felt it most keenly.

In Ciudad, Iberica.

With his own hands, he had cut off the head of his brother, who, taken away by the king's minions, had returned as a monster.

He had wanted at least to bury him in his hometown, but even his brother's head, which he had carried with him, had turned to dust.

Marquis Lafayette had been considerate toward him, but he had not been able to publicize his brother's terrible fate.

Because the other nations of the Central Continent had dismissed the tragedy his brother had suffered, specifically the atrocities of demons that had trampled on the bare minimum of human dignity, as a fantastic tale.

He had screamed at the ending, which seemed to deny the very existence of his brother in this world.

Moreover, when humans should unite to strike down the demons of that cursed Abyss Corporation, they were shedding blood among themselves because of those damned warmongers.

Feeling a black flame burning in his chest, Vachet audibly ground his teeth.

“Captain Vachet! Enemy Cuirassiers near the 289th Company!”

No sooner had he received the report from his adjutant than José Vachet kicked his horse's saddle and shouted.

“Advance! Forward!”

“Yes, sir!”

Pressing his body tightly against his warhorse, he felt the heat and dynamism of its muscles, and the fierce wind that greeted him as he descended the hill fanned his flames even more ferociously—José Vachet charged down at high speed, leading the charge into the flank of the enemy, who were engaged with their own Chasseurs.

“Crush those cursed invaders of Krafte!”

“Uh, oh—”

His sword, imbued with mana, cut through the faint resistance, sending an enemy’s head flying.

Feeling the hatred, laced with blood splattered on his cheek, burn even more fiercely, Vachet swung his sword frantically.

By the time his uniform and armor were stained with blood, a trumpet sounded, and the Krafte cavalry began to flee.

“Chase them! Don't let them escape alive!”

“Yes, sir!”

Vachet pursued them relentlessly, and his sword tasted the blood of the invaders a few more times.

After some time, when the heat of the charge and battle had passed, he belatedly began to realize something was strange.

The Krafte cavalry had previously tried to avoid a full-scale battle with the Francian cavalry. This time, however, they had engaged in one.

Moreover, both were cavalry. Even in pursuit, the fleeing side is more desperate, and as pursuers handle stragglers, their follow is limited.

But strangely, a seemingly attainable distance was maintained, as if to lure them in—at that moment, a gunshot rang out.

“Kugh!”

As José Vachet froze in shock, his unhorsed adjutant writhed, clutching his side and spitting blood foam.

“Ambush! Protect yourselves!”

José Vachet hurriedly deployed a magic barrier, but the surprise volley unhorsed many of his subordinates.

And then—

“Hee-hee-hing!”

“Ugh?!”

Gunshots from behind made his warhorse scream and collapse, leaving Vachet pinned under its lifeless form, unable to move.

“Kuuugh…!”

When he raised his head, he saw the enemy's skirmishers and light infantry, who had emerged from all sides, annihilating the pursuing cavalry.

An infantry ambush? In Francian territory, no less?

Only then did José Vachet realize the true purpose of the reconnaissance battles continuing for days.

They weren't simply engaging in cavalry duels. Instead, they had thoroughly assessed the terrain and chosen a suitable ambush location.

To lure out the Cuirassiers, who had only engaged in tedious standoffs until then.

“Damn it all!”

Vachet reached for the sword he had dropped after being unhorsed, but before he could retrieve it, a Krafte soldier approached and kicked it away.

While the warhorse crushing him was removed and he was bound, all Vachet could do was offer futile resistance and be soundly beaten.

At the place he was dragged to, half-conscious from the beating.

“To be taken prisoner. What a lucky fellow.”

A leisurely voice, unfitting for a battlefield littered with blood and corpses, spoke.

José Vachet slowly raised his head.

An old man, standing with a cane, looked down at him, wearing a military uniform and hat.

“Yes, Captain. What is your name? Your unit? Ah, but before all that.”

Karl II looked down at José Vachet, an expectant look on his face, and asked.

“Was my performance worth watching?”