Chapter 574: The Black Baron or the Black Raven?

The temporary headquarters of the White Army's First Reserve Army was located roughly twenty kilometers from the main force of the Southern Army.

A gap of this size was rarely seen in the Saxon Army. For Saxon generals, leaving a twenty-kilometer void between two army groups constituted a massive tactical risk.

However, in the sparsely populated expanse of Rus, such distances between army groups were commonplace, even considered quite close.

The center of the encampment was a requisitioned rural landlord's estate. It was a two-story masonry building. The flower gardens outside had long been churned into mud by hooves and boots, but the interior maintained a semblance of decency.

When the first urgent telegram arrived, Pyotr Nikolayevich Wrangel—known as the "Black Baron" or "Black Raven"—was sitting at the dining table, using a silver knife to slice a piece of white bread and spread premium butter on it.

Before him sat a breakfast typical of the Russian nobility: boiled eggs, ham, caviar, and thick buckwheat porridge cooked with cream and mushroom sauce.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, the Russian nobility prided themselves on employing Gallic chefs. Thus, their breakfasts featured a dual character: predominantly Gallic with supplementary Russian elements. They had long shunned traditional Russian food, deeming it "vulgar."

Although the Holy Britannian Empire's influence was gradually reaching its zenith during this era, they still clearly couldn't compete with the Gauls—the "Benchmark of Europa"—in the culinary realm.

Especially the "Britannian Fry-up"—a greasy combination of bacon, sausages, baked beans, and fried eggs that became popular among the Britannian nobility in the early 20th century—which couldn't even catch the eye of traditional European gourmands...

As a member of the Wrangel noble family of Saxon descent from the Baltic region, Wrangel retained some habits of the old nobility regarding food, clothing, housing, and transportation, even amidst the civil war.

The table before him was draped in a white cloth. Though washed to a yellowish hue, it was at least free of holes.

The silver cutlery was brought all the way from St. Petersburg. It had followed him across half of Rus and was more resilient than the lives of most of his subordinates.

Two servants stood by the door, one holding a coffee pot, the other with an ironed towel draped over his arm.

Of course, maintaining such living standards in such difficult circumstances was obviously not simple.

Therefore, even within the South Rus Volunteer Army, many privately gossiped that this was overly extravagant and wasteful.

Rumors even circulated that if Wrangel would cut back on his lifestyle, he could afford to field significantly more troops.

Denikin had little reaction to these rumors and didn't restrict Wrangel's lifestyle.

Wrangel himself paid the rumors no mind. After all, in his view, this was merely his normal daily routine.

During the old Imperial era, Wrangel had been educated as a mining engineer. He later volunteered for the Russian Imperial Guard and executed numerous combat missions brilliantly during the Second Crimean War.

After the civil war broke out, Wrangel and several Imperial Guard officers escaped St. Petersburg, traveling through various regions before finally joining Denikin's South Rus Volunteer Army.

He subsequently distinguished himself through his outstanding military command abilities, growing into one of Denikin's right-hand men in the crucible of the civil war.

However, regarding the Battle of Kyiv, Wrangel harbored some grievances about being left in the rear to command the reserve forces...

"General."

When the adjutant pushed the door open, Wrangel had just placed a piece of bread in his mouth.

He looked up. Seeing the telegram paper in the adjutant's hand, he didn't rush to take it. Instead, he finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped the corners of his mouth with the towel.

"Read it."

The adjutant cleared his throat and rapidly recited Denikin's urgent telegram.

Hearing the contents, the ever-elegant Wrangel finally set down his knife and pushed his chair back half a step.

"Saxons? On the left flank?"

"Yes, General... The three infantry regiments on the Southern Army's left flank were attacked simultaneously. General Denikin assesses that a Saxon armored force completed a flanking maneuver from the south..."

Wrangel didn't need to hear the rest; he stood up immediately.

He didn't spare another glance at the steaming breakfast on the white tablecloth, striding out of the dining room.

The command tent was less than a hundred meters from the residence. Wrangel walked briskly, his black military boots crunching on the gravel path.

He was tall and thin, with a dark complexion, and he constantly wore a long, black Cossack-style coat. From a distance, he truly looked like a raven that had landed on the ground.

"Black Baron" or "Black Raven"—he had heard both nicknames countless times from both friends and foes.

Wrangel himself was noncommittal about them. As long as he won battles, they could call him whatever they wanted~

Seven or eight officers were already gathered in the command tent. When Wrangel entered, everyone snapped to attention simultaneously, and the atmosphere in the tent shifted.

"Map."

The Chief of Staff had already spread the map of the relevant area on the table. Wrangel walked over, leaned on the edge of the desk, and swept his gaze over the map twice.

The positions of the three infantry regiments on the Southern Army's left flank were detailed in the telegram. The three regiments formed a triangle, tasked with covering the main army's flank... Now, all three had lost contact.

"Calculating from downstream of the Dnieper..." Wrangel gestured a distance with his hand. "The nearest viable crossing point is here."

His finger stopped at a location marked as a river bend, then he drew an imaginary line from there to the three left-flank regiments.

"Hoh, these Saxons took a detour of at least a hundred kilometers."

Wrangel straightened up. His expression wasn't one of panic, but rather something akin to admiration for the enemy.

"These Saxons can really march..."

"General, a second urgent telegram." Before he could finish, a comms officer ran in.

Wrangel took it and scanned it. Denikin's tone was noticeably more frantic than the first.

"Orders." He turned to his Chief of Staff. "The 21st and 22nd Divisions are to depart immediately, force march, and converge on the Southern Army's left flank... The main force will follow."

The Chief of Staff nodded and immediately began relaying the orders.

A third urgent telegram arrived minutes later. Reading it, Wrangel could practically feel Denikin standing in front of him, screaming at him to hurry.

"Deploy the independent cavalry brigade as well. Have them flank around from the south."

The Chief of Staff looked up at him. "You want the cavalry to harass the rear flank of this Saxon force?"

"Correct... They should be in a long marching column right now. The cavalry brigade doesn't need to defeat them; they just need to distract them."

The tent was quiet for a moment. After the comms officer left, Wrangel put his hands on his belt and stared at the map, lost in thought.

"This battle is far more complicated than we imagined."

The Chief of Staff walked over to him. "General, General Denikin was originally brimming with confidence, thinking Rzhyshchiv was within his grasp..."

"Hah."

Wrangel snorted through his nose, his tone carrying an indescribable nuance.

"What did I say during the operational conference? The Saxons are not the opponents we've faced before... And the result?"

He didn't continue. Personal grievances between military men aside, there was still a war to fight.

"Chief of Staff." Wrangel looked back at the map. "Do you think we can envelop this sneak-attacking Saxon force while converging on the Southern Army?"

The Chief of Staff was stunned for a moment, then rubbed his chin, considering the idea seriously.

"They executed such a massive flanking maneuver; it's impossible for them to have any reinforcements trailing behind them... This means if they want support, they must punch through the Southern Army's defensive line and link up with the Rebels crossing frontally at Rzhyshchiv."

"Exactly." Wrangel nodded. "If we can sever their connection to the south, this force will become an isolated army with no logistics."

The Chief of Staff frowned in thought, carefully choosing his words. "But General, according to the Southern Army's telegram, the enemy is an unprecedented armored force. Their mobility and firepower vastly exceed our infantry's. Trying to chase them down from behind and encircle them, I'm afraid..."

"We don't need to chase them down."

Wrangel walked to the other side of the map and pointed behind the Instruction Brigade's line of advance.

"They are already attacking north. Their route back is fixed... I'll send a light infantry division to cut across from this direction and occupy the road nodes behind them."

"Cut off their retreat?"

"Yes... The further north they push, the larger the pocket behind them becomes."

Wrangel traced a semicircle on the map with his hand. "The 21st and 22nd Divisions block them from the front, the cavalry brigade harasses them from the flank, and a light division seals the pocket from behind... Even if we can't devour them, we can at least trap them in a dilemma."

The Chief of Staff stood silently, running the deployment through his mind, then nodded slightly.

"Yes, My Lord. I will arrange it immediately."

"Mhm, go quickly."

After the Chief of Staff left, Wrangel stood alone before the map. The chaotic sounds of voices and hoofbeats drifted in from outside the tent; the First Reserve Army was mobilizing at top speed.

He reached out and tapped the map twice near the Instruction Brigade's likely position.

"However..."

He muttered a sentence so softly only he could hear.

"Who exactly is this commander... having the guts to lead such a small force deep into the belly of an army of two hundred thousand."

Rzhyshchiv frontal battlefield.

The White Army's counterattack was far more ferocious than anyone expected.

At 10:30 AM, over eighty thousand men of the Southern Army's main force leaped from their positions almost simultaneously, launching a full-line counterattack against the allied forces that had just established bridgeheads on the east bank.

The first to feel the pressure were the National Army infantry on the flanks of the bridgeheads.

They had landed successfully against only sporadic resistance, leading many to believe the White Army would continue to retreat.

But then the horizon swarmed with a dense sea of humanity, accompanied by pillars of mud blasted by artillery and the distant roar of "Ura!"

One National Army frontline company was crushed in less than three minutes, its company commander killed in his trench. This scenario played out simultaneously across several of the established bridgeheads.

Some surviving soldiers even began retreating toward the riverbank. If not for the barrier troops and the Saxon Army units that had completed their crossing standing firm, the newly acquired bridgeheads might have been lost immediately.

Panic spread throughout the bridgeheads until a sound drowned out the gunfire and artillery.

It was the muffled sound of metal crushing dirt, accompanied by the distinct whine of hybrid power cores.

Ludwig's "Siegfried Mark I - Modified" charged up from the rear of the bridgehead, its six-meter-tall steel body planting itself in front of the routing National Army soldiers.

The mech's twin MG08 heavy machine guns opened fire simultaneously, sweeping across the White Army infantry charging 150 meters ahead.

The sound of bullets tearing into flesh was drowned out by the sheer volume of gunfire, but the effect was immediate. The first wave of charging White Army soldiers fell in entire rows; those behind were forced to hit the dirt or seek cover.

"Entire squadron, deploy rapidly! Break this wave of enemies!"

Ludwig issued orders via his portable magitech comms terminal. The other eight Armored Knights that had landed moved swiftly. The nine Armored Knights split into three squads, securing a front nearly 3 kilometers wide.

The modified "Siegfried Mark I," equipped with flamethrowers and heavy machine guns, arguably possessed the highest lethal efficiency against unarmored infantry formations of any Armored Knight in service worldwide, leaving the runner-up in the dust.

The White Army's first wave was repelled, but the second followed closely behind.

"My Lord, enemy massing forces spotted on the right flank!" a comms soldier's voice rang out through the speaking tube.

Ludwig shifted his symbiotic vision and quickly spotted at least two White Army battalions massing six or seven hundred meters away on the right flank. They were using a village complex for cover, seemingly intending to flank around the Armored Knights' kill zone.

"Units Three, Four, and Five, push the right flank! Do not let them deploy!"

Three Siegfrieds took massive strides toward the right flank, their metal feet punching deep craters into the mud.

Ludwig led the remaining machines to hold the center. This time, commanding a fully staffed Armored Knight squadron, they too became a breakwater against the "tide."

But this defense didn't last long before the situation changed again.

"My Lord, enemy Armored Knights spotted dead ahead!"

Ludwig also noticed the "high-threat units" ahead. Several massive gray silhouettes were moving slowly in the distance. Their height and bulk were a full size larger than the Siegfried.

These were the White Army's heavy Armored Knights: the "Linebreakers"...

"The inevitable arrives..." Ludwig exhaled, but didn't feel overly anxious.

After all, their assault guns firing shaped-charge AP warheads could still inflict effective damage on them.

The only problem was that while focusing on the enemy Armored Knights, they might not be able to cover the allied infantry around them.

"Rock calling Watchtower!" Ludwig contacted the armored airship via the magitech comms device.

"Need to engage enemy 'Linebreakers.' Request armored airship to provide fire support for surrounding friendly forces!"

On the bridge of the L15 armored airship, Lieutenant Colonel Andreasia received the request and immediately ordered the Gunnery Officer to adjust targets. They were to temporarily suspend suppression of the enemy staging areas and prioritize close air support for the bridgehead below.

But no sooner had he issued the order than the observation deck shouted a warning through the speaking tube.

"Observation deck to bridge! Multiple ground-based mana signatures detected! Quantity... at least five, and intensity is rising!"

Lieutenant Colonel Andreasia's heart skipped a beat. He gripped the handrail in front of him tightly.

"Characteristics?"

"Extremely similar to large-scale anti-air magitech devices! But the power output is noticeably smaller... Wait, they are still climbing. They appear to be entering attack mode!"

Lieutenant Colonel Andreasia didn't hesitate. "Helmsman, commence evasive maneuvers! Maximize spell shield intensity!"

The L15's massive hull began to slowly alter course, its bow sluggishly yawing to the right. Given the airship's maneuverability, this evasive action was agonizingly slow.

Simultaneously, Andreasia's mind raced, analyzing the situation.

The White Army clearly lacked the time and capability to construct large-scale anti-air magitech devices on the front lines... Based on experience from the Western Front, those required permanent fortifications.

But the units exhibiting these highly similar signature characteristics made him worry that the Britannians had developed some sort of modification. After all, the enemy wasn't standing still in this arms race.

Meanwhile, the helmsman had barely completed the turn when the ground lit up.

Five crimson beams shot into the sky almost simultaneously, piercing the thin clouds and stabbing toward the L15's hull.

Three beams missed due to the airship's evasive maneuver, grazing past the sides and dissipating higher in the atmosphere.

But of the remaining two, one struck the auxiliary gas cell armor plating below the starboard side, while the other hit the mid-section dead-on.

The entire airship shuddered slightly, but fortunately, the power of these attacks wasn't massive; they fell within the defensive threshold of the spell shield.

Andreasia steadied himself and quickly moved to the observation window to look down. The light sources on the ground had already gone dark, making it impossible to pinpoint their exact locations with the naked eye for the moment.

"Those things..."

The Executive Officer stepped up beside him. "Lieutenant Colonel, those aren't fixed anti-air magitech devices... Judging by their firing patterns, they look more like the mobile field variants reported previously from the Western Front!"

Andreasia nodded, then turned to the comms officer on the bridge.

"Telegram Major General Morin and the Rzhyshchiv Battlegroup simultaneously... The airship is under attack by new ground-based anti-air weapons. Fire support density may decrease!"

He paused, then added another sentence.

"Tell Major General Morin, the airdrop of the 'Valkyries'... may have to be slightly delayed."

Instruction Brigade flank, 10:50 AM.

After Morin read Andreasia's telegram, Rundstedt and Manstein leaned in.

"General, is there a problem with the armored airship?"

"The White Army deployed anti-air magitech devices... likely provided by the 'shit-stirrers' (Britannians). Lieutenant Colonel Andreasia is handling it."

Morin briefly explained the situation, then added,

"However, it will be difficult for them to disengage and drop the Armored Knights in the short term."

Rundstedt's expression changed. "Then our flank..."

"We never counted on Armored Knight support on the flank anyway. We can't always rely on support to fight our battles."

Morin wasn't surprised. During the operational planning phase, he had already factored in the high probability of the L15 being tied down.

And it was highly probable...

After all, the White Army retained a massive numerical advantage, which would be further amplified during their counter-crossing offensive.

Anyone with half a brain could figure out the immense pressure the first wave of allied forces forcing the crossing would face.

Therefore, Morin had concluded earlier that, assuming the enemy lacked sufficient numbers of Armored Knights, the Instruction Brigade's priority for support was actually the lowest.

Because conventional White Army units wouldn't last a single round against the Instruction Brigade's offensive.

But regardless, punching through the Southern Army's temporary defensive line ahead remained their most critical task.

As Morin spoke, he picked up the long, cloth-wrapped object.

Rundstedt and Manstein knew exactly what it was. Manstein, in particular, had actually seen Morin chop people up with it.

"General, are you truly going to personally..."

"I said earlier, I'll be gnawing on this tough bone alongside everyone else."

Morin smiled, then took an MP14 submachine gun equipped with Helga's modified drum magazine from Manstein.

When Manstein handed the gun over, his expression was complex... saying he was "reluctant" was putting it mildly. It was closer to the agonizing conflict of "I know I can't stop you, but I really, really want to try."

"...General, at least take enough drum magazines."

"I did. Got five right here~"