Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 125 A Young Man Arrives at the War Academy
With all the basics in place, the formation of the training assault battalion proceeded smoothly, like a clockwork mechanism.

Although the newly transferred officers, Kleist and Manstein, lacked combat experience, their professional competence was beyond question.

All Morin needed to do was provide a clear general direction, and they could arrange all the remaining details perfectly, even more thoroughly than Morin himself had considered.

The documents for troop deployment circulated among the various departments of the Army with the highest efficiency, and soon, the transfer orders were delivered to the designated units.

Outside Dresden, the new outpost, built by the fortified soldiers working overtime, welcomed its first inhabitants.

The atmosphere in the camp became somewhat subtle.

On one side were soldiers drawn from the Royal Guard and the Bavarian Jäger.

They stood tall and straight, their military bearing impeccable, and their brows carried the pride of an elite force.

On the other side were the old soldiers of the 1st Company who had just received orders to end their leave and had rushed over from Tswickau.

An emergency recall order abruptly dragged them out of their warm beds, bustling pubs, or the embrace of their families.

When they finished assembling at the camp, took their equipment, and boarded the train to Dresden in a daze without seeing their company commander, they still had no idea what had happened.

When Klaus, Bowman, and other soldiers from the 1st Company arrived, everyone was stunned.

The renovated barracks, the strange training grounds, and the flag bearing the Royal Guard insignia fluttering in the wind at the entrance to the camp.

"Sergeant Klaus, what... what's going on? When did our unit rotate to Dresden? Why are we still flying the Imperial Guard flag?"

Platoon leader Kahn approached Klaus and asked, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Klaus was equally puzzled until he saw that familiar figure at the entrance of the camp.

"It's Commander Morin!"

When the soldiers of the old 1st Company saw Morin's smiling face, they were first surprised, and then burst into a deafening cheer.

When they learned that their entire company had been directly transferred to a newly formed Imperial Guard unit, and that Morin was still the commander, everyone felt like they were dreaming.

The 32nd Infantry Regiment of Tswickau was considered a regular combat unit in the Saxon Army.

In the hearts of ordinary soldiers, the Royal Guard is the most elite and glorious force in the entire empire.

In the blink of an eye, these farmers and miners from Tswickau had become members of the Imperial Guard.
The slight dissatisfaction caused by the interruption of the holiday vanished instantly, replaced by an indescribable excitement and pride.

Meanwhile, Kleist, Manstein, and the newly arrived guards and javelin soldiers watched the lively scene from afar.

Besides noticing that the relationship between these veterans and the new battalion commander was unusually close, they also keenly sensed something else amiss.

The aura of this unit was unlike any they had ever seen before.

Those soldiers looked like ordinary country folk from Tswickau.

But when their gaze swept over them, their calm eyes sent a strange chill down the spines of these self-proclaimed elite Imperial Guard soldiers.

That wasn't murderous intent, nor was it hostility.

Rather, it is a kind of indifference and resilience that has settled down after experiencing truly brutal battles, belonging to the survivors.

It was as if, in their eyes, everything around them was insignificant, and only the young captain who issued the order was the sole focus of their attention.

This situation reached its peak the day before Morin was to report to the War College.

On this day, all the selected soldiers arrived.

The Army also specially dispatched a lieutenant colonel to collectively award the Seville Battle Medal to the soldiers of the old 1st Company in front of all the officers and soldiers of the battalion.

At the same time, the vast majority of them were awarded the Iron Cross Second Class.

When the other soldiers and officers saw that the officers sent by the Army had several velvet trays filled with gleaming Iron Cross Second Class medals carried by their orderly, the atmosphere on the entire training ground changed.

Their gazes toward the soldiers of the old 1st Company shifted from initial curiosity to genuine respect.

After the medal awarding ceremony, Morin took the opportunity to conduct the first formal inspection of the entire battalion.

He stood on the makeshift reviewing stand, his gaze sweeping over the four companies lined up neatly below.

"Gentlemen! From today onwards, you will have a brand new identity: the First Training Assault Battalion of the Royal Guard!"

"You will become the benchmark for the entire Saxon Empire's army! On the battlefields of the future, you will use the sharpest blades to pave the way to victory for His Majesty the Emperor and the entire Empire!"

"But before that, I ask you to forget the units you once belonged to, and to forget all the honors you once received!"

"Because from this moment on, all of you are just instructing a new recruit in the assault battalion!"

Molin's gaze lingered for a moment on the old 1st Company's formation.

"Especially you! Don't become arrogant and complacent just because you have some combat experience!"

"I assure you, the training ahead will be far more brutal and arduous than any battle you have ever fought in the Kingdom of Aragon!"

"Your only task here is to obey orders and complete the training!"

"If anyone falls behind, they will be eliminated!"

"Do you understand everything?!"

"Yes, sir!"

The deafening shouts echoed throughout the camp for a long time.

After the inspection, Morin specially called Klaus, Bowman, and several other senior sergeants from the old 1st Company to the temporary office at the battalion headquarters to get acquainted with officers such as Kleist and Manstein.

"Captain Kleist, Lieutenant Manstein."

Morin pointed at Klaus and the others.

"These are the sergeants I trust the most. They have a wealth of experience in infantry tactics and front-line command."

"If you encounter any problems during the training, you can ask them for help at any time."

Morin was initially worried that Kleist, a Junker aristocratic officer of pure birth, would be too proud to ask a group of non-commoner officers for advice.

But he was clearly overthinking it.

Kleist and Manstein showed no airs whatsoever, and instead displayed considerable respect for Klaus and the others.

"Sergeant Klaus, I'll be looking forward to your guidance in the future." Kleist even extended his hand to Klaus.

This was partly out of humility, but more so because Morin was going to report to the War Academy tomorrow.
This also means that the entire training burden of the battalion will fall entirely on their shoulders.

The new training syllabus personally designed by Morin has kept them both up at night for the past few days.

They are not fools.

Why not consult these experienced 'skilled workers' in front of you? Are you going to try to figure things out on your own?
As the sun set, the first newly constructed 400-meter obstacle course in the camp was finally completed. The fortification soldiers were extremely efficient and were experts in this field.

Furthermore, since there was no need to pave the ground, they were able to perfectly replicate the obstacles on the blueprints into reality in just two days.

Looking at the track that was both familiar and unfamiliar, Morin took off his coat, stretched his arms and legs, and unconsciously walked to the starting line.

He took a deep breath, turned to Kleist and said, "Take a timer for me."

Kleist paused for a moment, then realized what was happening and quickly pulled out his pocket watch.

Manstein and several other officers, along with the newly introduced sergeants such as Klaus, all curiously gathered around, wanting to see how this young battalion commander would conquer the 'devil's track' he had designed himself.

To be honest, even Maureen herself wasn't very confident.

The physical abilities I had before transmigrating are a thing of the past.

Although this body has been tempered by the battlefield, it remains to be seen whether it can meet the stringent standards it set for itself.

However, as the highest commander of this unit, he also needed to be the first to step forward.

"start!"

At Kleist's command, Morin charged out.

100-meter sprint, turning around the flag, three-step stakes, trench
Although his body wasn't very coordinated, his movements were fluid, fast, and seamless.

However, when Morin began to pass in the opposite direction, his speed noticeably slowed down.

His breathing became heavy, and sweat soaked his shirt, which clung to his back.

As he scaled the high wall, his arm muscles began to weaken noticeably, and after jumping into the trench, Maureen felt he almost couldn't climb back up.
The moment he crossed the finish line, he felt like his lungs were about to explode. He braced himself on his knees, gasping for breath.

Kleist glanced at his pocket watch, then announced the score in a somewhat odd tone.

"2 minutes 52 seconds."

"grass"

In my previous life, this achievement would definitely have earned me a promotion.

Morin coughed awkwardly twice, straightened up, and waved his hand with feigned composure.

"Cough cough. I wasn't in good form today and didn't perform well."

After saying that, he left the training ground without looking back, afraid that he would lose face if he stayed any longer.

At the same time, he also felt a little regretful.

"Oh no, we shouldn't have set the standards so high in the first place."

Watching Morin's retreating figure, which seemed to be fleeing in disarray, the officers and sergeants who remained behind looked at each other in bewilderment.

The battalion commander personally demonstrated, and although the result was somewhat...unsatisfactory, it successfully aroused their competitive spirit.

"In that case, I'll give it a try first!"

Klaus was the first to step forward. As the most valiant sergeant in the old 1st Company, he always followed closely behind Morin.

Three minutes later, he collapsed at the finish line, just like Morin.

Score: 3 minutes and 10 seconds.

Next, Bowman and several other sergeants took turns running, and their results were all similar; none of them could run under three minutes.

When it was Kleist's turn, this captain, who came from the Imperial Guard and was known for his unwavering will, also experienced what it meant to be 'powerless'.

He gritted his teeth and, with sheer willpower, managed to finish the race, but his time was more than ten seconds slower than Klaus's.

Of course, the one who suffered the most was Manstein from the General Staff.

This young operations staff officer was clearly lacking in physical training; when he ran back to the trench, he jumped in and never came back up.
Finally, it took Klaus, Bowman, and others to pull him out of the trench, leaving him covered in mud and looking utterly disheveled.

In the afterglow of the setting sun, a group of future elite officers and senior non-commissioned officers of the Saxon Empire stood on the edge of the obstacle course, looking disheveled.

We looked at each other, speechless.

After a long while, the battalion adjutant, Kleist, finally sighed and uttered a heartfelt sentiment.

"The battalion commander is right, we do need to train."

Early the next morning, it was just dawn.

Morin was already dressed and had arrived at the Saxon War Academy in the western part of Dresden.

After completing the registration procedures, a staff member from the college handed him a fully scheduled class timetable.

This was a 'crash course' tailored for him by the Army.

He didn't belong to any class in the college; instead, he was like a ghost, 'auditing' classes in various grades.
Meanwhile, all classes are concentrated in the morning.

He had to rush back to the camp in the afternoon to handle various matters related to the training of the assault battalion.

The classes he missed because he joined midway through the semester were made up for in four evening classes a week.

Looking at this schedule with almost no rest time, Maureen felt a headache coming on.

He strongly suspected that the War Department wasn't trying to speed up his training at all, but rather wanted to work him to death in the academy.
I glanced at the time; there were still more than twenty minutes before the first class started.

As a special 'transfer student', Morin took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the large lecture hall where her first class was held.

Soon, the other officers who had arrived in formation noticed the young man sitting in the corner after entering the classroom.

There was no way around it; Morin was just too conspicuous.

It wasn't just because of his excessively youthful face, but also because of the Iron Cross First Class on his chest, and the uniquely designed Seville Battle Medal that they had never seen before.

Unable to contain their whispers, the classroom began to buzz with uncontrollable murmurs.

"Who is that? Which unit is he from?"

"Judging by the shoulder insignia, he's a captain, but he's too young!"

"Look at the Iron Cross First Class medal on his chest?!"

"I remember now! He's that Friedrich Morin!"

"So it was him. The mage assassin from Seville! The Night Ghost of the Valecas Highlands."

Wait, what are those last two nicknames for?

(End of this chapter)