Chapter 553: The Grand Stage of Rus

On the way back to camp, Major Klose sat in the back of the truck, leaning against the swaying cabin wall in a daze.

He knew perfectly well that his performance today had been abysmal.

From being completely disarmed by Morin's overly enthusiastic attitude at the start, to tailing him the entire time without recording a single thing of value...

If he handed this daily report to the Director of the Military Inquisition Department, the feedback would likely be a blunt, "Completely Ineffective."

But Klose also knew another truth—just managing what he did today was already an overperformance for him.

Fundamentally, he wasn't cut out to be a "Military Inquisitor."

Three years ago, Klose was just a desk officer in the War Ministry's Logistics Department, handling nothing more than balancing ledgers and approving purchase orders.

Back then, he was only a lieutenant. Relying on his own abilities to climb the ranks would have taken until his hair turned white.

Ultimately, his father-in-law opened another door for him.

The Military Inquisition Department.

This department, universally despised across the Imperial Army down to the stray dogs, possessed one advantage no other department could match: an incredibly fast promotion rate.

Even the clerical position Klose initially took offered a massive promotional advantage over other branches.

This was primarily because no one wanted to join the Military Inquisition Department.

Traditional Junker families would rather their sons risk their lives on the front lines than have any ties to the inquisitors.

To them, honor mattered more than life itself. An officer who climbed the ranks by backstabbing comrades and filing petty reports wouldn't find a single person willing to clink glasses with him at a Junker banquet.

But Klose's father-in-law was not a Junker.

The old man belonged to the rising capitalist faction that emerged alongside the Empire's radiant crystal industry, making his first fortune during Saxony's rapid industrialization wave.

To these new elites, traditions, honor, and the dignity of the officer corps meant nothing compared to tangible military ranks and networking.

So, Klose transferred from Logistics to the Inquisition Department, beginning a "gilded journey" as a desk jockey.

The plan was originally solid.

Spend two years coasting in the Inquisition Department, secure a rapid promotion, transfer to a combat unit's logistics branch to add another layer of gold plating, and finally retire with a high rank following a little push from his family, completing a brand-new social network.

But no one anticipated that just two months before Klose was scheduled to transfer out, war would break out.

What followed was an unprecedented total mobilization.

The Army's rapid expansion caused an immediate shortage of military inquisitors.

The department had no choice but to expand its ranks, pushing its clerical staff through a brief training course and reclassifying them as field "Military Inquisitors."

Consequently, reclassified desk officers like Klose were hurled straight into frontline units after less than two weeks of training.

Since then, Major Klose had "supervised" a total of seven units.

Seven. This number was two to three times higher than his peers.

This wasn't because he was highly efficient and frequently reassigned. It was primarily because out of the units he supervised, three rotated back home to rest, and the remaining four were entirely chewed up in the Western Front's meat grinder.

During the Saxon Empire's campaign sweeping across Gaul, apart from the "right hook" where the Instruction Brigade fought a continuously victorious advance, the other armies suffered heavy casualties in the meat grinder against the Gauls.

Battalions and regiments were frequently wiped out down to the last man in the trenches.

The four units Klose supervised were among those "unfortunate souls."

But coincidences are tricky. Happen once or twice, nobody cares. Happen three or four times, it becomes a "pattern."

[The Supervisory Reaper]

That was the nickname his peers and several army units privately gave him.

Whenever units learned they were about to be "supervised" by Major Klose's team, every face from officer to enlisted man soured.

It wasn't just because they hated inquisitors—though they certainly did—but mostly because they considered the man bad luck.

After that, the Inquisition Department headquarters "considerately" benched Klose for a while, until the Eastern Front campaign kicked off.

Then he was drafted back out to cover for inquisitors needing a rotational rest.

The truck hit a bump, jarring Klose from his thoughts.

He instinctively patted the notebook in his pocket. It contained only a few sparse lines today, mostly nonsense.

The lieutenant next to him, Fisher, leaned in close, taking advantage of the engine noise masking their voices from the driver in front.

"Major."

Fisher glanced at the Instruction Brigade soldier driving, lowering his voice.

"Were we... too passive today?"

Klose turned to look at him but didn't speak.

"I mean, General Morin strung us along from start to finish," Fisher continued. "When to meet the garrison commander, what to discuss, where we stood... he orchestrated it all."

"And?"

"And?" An edge crept into Fisher's voice, his volume unconsciously rising.

"Major, we are military inquisitors, not this Junker's entourage! If we can't even hold the basic initiative—"

"What do you expect me to do?" Klose cut him off. The sheer weight of his superior rank instantly silenced the lieutenant.

"Butt heads with a red-hot newly promoted Major General on day one?"

Fisher's mouth twitched. He desperately wanted to argue, but ultimately kept his mouth shut.

Klose shook his head. "The Instruction Brigade isn't like the units we've supervised before... I know you're eager for merit, and I know you hold grievances against these Junkers, but this isn't how you handle things."

"How is it different? Aren't the regulations all—"

"Regulations are rigid; people are flexible."

Major Klose cut him off again, pulling his hands from his pockets and clasping them on his lap.

"His Highness the Crown Prince formed this unit. Its direct commander is Major General Morin, the Empire's sole frontline spellcaster. He is the 'Butcher,' the 'Mage Killer,' the 'Kingslayer,' and a general freshly promoted for his massive merits in the Balkans..."

"Combine that with his intricate web of connections. If any one of them drops a letter at the War Ministry, how many more days do you think people of our rank would survive in the army?"

Fisher fell silent, cooling down as Morin's rumored exploits caught up with him.

Clearly, this army officer was unlike any target they had overseen before. The elements surrounding him were far too complex.

If they offended the wrong person, even their status as military inquisitors wouldn't save them.

After all, their authority only applied within the military structure.

And this Major General Morin obviously held considerable influence beyond the army.

"Therefore, unless Major General Morin and his troops do something entirely out of line..."

Major Klose rested the back of his head against the cabin wall, half-closing his eyes.

"Isn't it better to maintain a cordial relationship than to tear at each other's throats?"

"But what if he does do something out of line?"

Klose didn't answer.

Fisher waited a few seconds before scoffing and turning away to watch the scenery blur past.

In his mind, Major Klose's performance today was unworthy of the silver badge on his chest.

A military inquisitor's duty was to supervise and record, not to act as a frontline commander's lackey.

If he were leading this team...

The truck hit a pothole, throwing the cabin into a violent lurch. Fisher grabbed the handrail, temporarily shoving the thought away.

That same evening, Kyiv.

The capital of the Western Rus Provisional Government basked in the fading glow of the setting sun.

The Dnieper River flowed past the city's east side. The broad river lay empty of ships. Its banks had long become a no man's land, littered with corpses yet to be collected.

The atmosphere inside the city wasn't exactly tense, but it was far from relaxed.

Squads of National Army soldiers occasionally marched through the streets. Horse-drawn carts hauling supplies clogged the main intersections, while officers stood by the roadside, shouting themselves hoarse to direct traffic.

Inside a building heavy with old Imperial architectural style in the city's northeast, the Western Rus National Army General Staff Headquarters hummed with activity.

For the Western Rus Provisional Government, there was no retreat left.

Thus, even while facing hundreds of thousands of White Army troops, the Provisional Government continued to operate within Kyiv under Prime Minister Alexander Fyodorovich Kerensky's order to "hold Kyiv and never retreat."

This was one of the few orders from the Provisional Government leader that Alekseyev actually endorsed.

After all, if they abandoned Kyiv, they would have to fall back into East Saxony. It was highly uncertain if the Provisional Government could survive that. Most likely, they would scatter to the winds.

The doors to the war room were shut tight; bright lights blazed inside.

Alekseyev stood before a massive operational map mounted on the wall, a telegram paper clutched in his right hand, his left hand resting behind his back.

The General Staff's core operational officers surrounded him. Some flipped through notebooks, while others stared blankly at the map's marked lines.

"This afternoon's combat results are confirmed."

Alekseyev spoke. His voice was hoarse, likely from severe overwork.

"In the Rzhyshchiv sector, the Saxon Instruction Brigade's advance battlegroup, utilizing roughly the strength of a reinforced regiment, cleared both of Denikin's west bank bridgeheads within an hour and a half of their arrival."

He set the telegram on the table.

"The White Army lost two entire battalions annihilated, and over a dozen river crossing boats were sunk or damaged. As for our casualties... the Rzhyshchiv garrison lost about fifty killed in action. The Saxons suffered twenty-three wounded and zero killed."

Silence hung in the war room for a moment.

A middle-aged staff officer was the first to speak. "General, that exchange ratio..."

"I know what you want to say." Alekseyev raised a hand to stop him. "You want to say this exchange ratio is too good to be true."

The staff officer nodded.

"But the independent report sent back by General Yegorov, the Rzhyshchiv garrison commander, and the Saxon combat report forwarded by the Eighth Army perfectly match."

Another, younger operational officer nearby couldn't hold back. "General! If this Saxon unit can consistently maintain this level of combat effectiveness... I don't even ask them to be stronger. Just this makes many of our previously unfeasible tactical concepts viable."

Alekseyev turned and glanced at the young officer.

"Which concept are you referring to?"

The young officer paused, then walked to the map and tapped the air over the Dnieper River basin near Kyiv.

"Adopting the Saxons' tactics from the Western Front and the Balkans: concentrate an elite assault force and launch a counter-assault at a weak point when the enemy attempts a river crossing..."

"And then?" Alekseyev pressed.

The young officer's finger slid to the far bank.

"And then... seize the opportunity while the enemy is reeling from the sudden blow and launch a full-scale counter-crossing offensive."

The war room went quiet again.

Alekseyev nodded. "Yes, the missing 'fist' has indeed been filled in... But a fist alone isn't enough. At the very least, that boldest concept of a 'full-scale counter-offensive' is impossible right now."

The legendary Chief of General Staff paused with his pointer.

"Those of you who attended the meeting with me should recall what Major General Morin said: to achieve real results, follow-up forces are critical... I personally agree with this completely!"

Alekseyev lowered his pointer and leaned on the edge of the map table. "The total field forces we can mobilize, excluding troops strictly required to hold their sectors, amounts to a mobile reserve of no more than fifty thousand. Even if the two Saxon Armies detach more troops, combined with this Instruction Brigade, we'd have a hundred thousand men at best."

"And the enemy? Kolchak alone can mass two hundred thousand men toward Kyiv, and he definitely has reserves behind that... That doesn't even account for the pinning forces he has on the northern and southern fronts."

A staff officer siding with Alekseyev chimed in. "We also have to consider logistics, especially for our Saxon allies. Their supply lines are already showing cracks... Our railway capacity simply can't keep up."

Alekseyev sighed. Supplies were always the hardest bottleneck.

Western Rus's railway infrastructure couldn't hold a candle to the Saxon Empire's. Be it rail density, locomotive count, or dispatch capability, they were vastly inferior.

It was easy for the Saxons to deploy troops here, but sustaining those troops in high-intensity frontline combat... the railways had become a massive bottleneck.

"So we can only hold the line?" someone murmured.

Alekseyev didn't answer right away.

After a dozen seconds of silence, someone spoke up.

"General, is it possible the White Bandits will deploy 'Behemoths' to take Kyiv?"

The question snapped every head in the war room up.

"Behemoths."

These entities existed during the old Imperial era—ancient beings awakened from beneath Siberia by Orthodox Alchemists through rituals outsiders couldn't comprehend.

Tsarist Rus hadn't become a Eurasian behemoth solely through the iron hooves of Cossack cavalry and the charges of their "gray livestock".

But Alekseyev shook his head.

"No."

His tone was absolute.

"Given Kolchak's temperament, unless he has complete certainty that a Behemoth will seal a decisive victory, he won't deploy one."

"Even when the Tsar was on the throne, they never dared to use those things lightly... The Crimean War got that bad, yet Nicholas I preferred to lose Sevastopol rather than loosen the leash! Even when that bastard Rasputin tried to get his hands on the Behemoths, Nicholas I stopped him..."

"Furthermore, the civil war has dragged on for so long. Countless Orthodox Alchemists have died... Among the survivors, Kolchak himself likely doesn't know how many retain the ability to awaken and control them."

Alekseyev looked up and scanned the room, his tone grave. "If they awaken a Behemoth and lose control, they'll be the first to suffer."

The group fell silent. Everyone wore complex expressions—a mix of dread toward the Behemoths and helplessness regarding their current tactical predicament.

Just as the atmosphere turned deadly still, Alekseyev picked up his pointer.

The tip landed on the far bank of Rzhyshchiv on the map—the control zone of Denikin's Southern Army.

"While a full-scale counter-offensive is impossible... what if we narrow the objective?"

All eyes in the war room snapped back to him.

"Focus solely on Denikin's Southern Army... a hundred thousand-plus men."

He drew a massive circle around the White Army's Southern Army control zone with his pointer.

"If we strike at the right time and place, massing all our mobile forces in conjunction with the Saxons' elite assault units, we could deliver a devastating blow to Denikin's forces..."

Alekseyev placed the pointer back on the table, turning to face the room.

The Chief of General Staff smiled—a self-deprecating smile born of experiencing far too much.

"I never thought the day would come when I, Alekseyev, would have to consider taking a gamble."

The staff officers blinked in surprise, then chuckled along with him.

"However... a hundred thousand men."

Alekseyev's smile faded. He stroked his chin.

"For us, even if we win... that's a meal big enough to burst our stomachs."

The atmosphere in the war room was entirely different from a few minutes prior. Although everyone knew the immense risks of this concept, they finally had a direction to strive toward.

"Given the current armaments and weather conditions..." Alekseyev added finally, "we only get one shot."

He turned back to the map, his gaze landing heavily on Denikin's Southern Army.

"And this time, I need to have a very serious talk with that young Saxon Major General."

Early the next morning, Alekseyev was shaken awake from a deep sleep by his adjutant.

"General, Prime Minister Kerensky sent someone. He says it's urgent."

He pushed himself up against the edge of the desk, his back aching fiercely.

He had stayed in the war room studying Denikin's deployments until 3:00 AM, finally retreating to rest only when he couldn't keep his eyes open.

"What time is it?"

"Seven-forty."

"Where is he?"

"The Central Building. He requested you come immediately."

Alekseyev rubbed his temples, donned the uniform his adjutant handed him, clamped his peaked cap on his head, and strode out.

Having served the Provisional Government's National Army for a while now, Alekseyev understood Kerensky's quirks. If he sent someone rushing over this early, it was genuinely important.

The Kyiv morning air carried a chill. Military vehicles and supply carts already trundled back and forth through the streets.

Sitting in the carriage, Alekseyev kept churning over the concept of annihilating Denikin's forces.

It still came down to insufficient troop numbers. Denikin, the "Commander-in-Chief of the South Rus Volunteer Army," undoubtedly kept additional reserves.

So no matter how they crunched the numbers, Alekseyev and his operational staff felt they were still falling short.

The carriage halted in front of the Kyiv Central Building. Originally the Tsarist-era residence of the Governor-General of the Southwestern Krai, the Provisional Government had requisitioned it as their administrative hub.

The exterior reliefs and colonnades maintained their old Imperial splendor, but the sentries at the door wore National Army uniforms.

Alekseyev was escorted to the second floor, arriving at Kerensky's office.

The door was ajar, the clatter of a teacup hitting a saucer drifting out.

"Come in, Your Excellency!"

Kerensky called out, sounding energized.

Alekseyev pushed the door open to see the Prime Minister of the Provisional Government sitting behind his desk, several documents spread out before him.

The 35-year-old Kerensky wore a well-tailored suit. Even in wartime, the lawyer-turned-politician insisted on maintaining his refined image.

Endowed with vitality far exceeding the average man, he always looked brimming with energy.

"Take a seat!"

Kerensky gestured to the opposite chair. Once Alekseyev sat, he skipped the pleasantries and cut straight to the chase.

"Your Excellency Chief of General Staff, I have a military question for you."

"Go ahead."

"If we acquire a massive reinforcement force, can we execute a large-scale counter-offensive before winter?"

Alekseyev straightened his spine.

"How massive?"

"Over a hundred thousand."

That number instantly shook off Alekseyev's morning sluggishness.

A hundred thousand... If they could truly scrape that number together, combined with their current forces, the battle to annihilate Denikin's Southern Army would shift from a "gamble" to a "near certainty."

But he didn't eagerly accept. Instead, he asked a question.

"Mr. Prime Minister, where exactly are these troops coming from?"

Kerensky smiled. He pulled a document from the pile and slid it across to Alekseyev.

"The Saxons are actively discussing a proposal with us."

Alekseyev glanced down at the document's header, printed in both Saxon and Russian. His Saxon reading comprehension was solid, allowing him to quickly pinpoint the crucial information.

"The Austro-Hungarian Empire?"

"Correct."

Kerensky leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach.

"The Saxons state that if terms are agreed upon, they are confident they can persuade Vienna to dispatch an expeditionary force of a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand men, entering our borders via Galicia to assist in the war effort."

Alekseyev's expression shifted, instantly plunging into dark fury.

He slammed the document back onto the desk and stood up.

"Out of the question! This is unacceptable!"