The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 125 The Forgotten Ghost

These German-made MP38/40 submachine guns in my hands are indeed very useful, and the Maybach engines of those Panzer IV tanks are indeed powerful.

But then what?

While the British Empire could also produce 9mm Parabellum rounds, that wasn't a concern. The problem lay in the wear and tear on the machinery.

When the firing pin of the MP40 broke due to metal fatigue, and when the recoil spring lost its elasticity, this precision weapon became nothing more than a fire poker. Even more fatal was the situation with heavy equipment—after the gearbox gears of the first Panzer IV tank broke, and after the cylinder head gasket of the Maybach engine burned through, could he still write to the Krupp factory in Essen to order spare parts?

Entrusting one's life and fortune to the enemy's logistics is something guerrillas do, not the mindset of a regular army.

More importantly, time.

Only Arthur, the time traveler, knew the terrifying and insane exponential growth that the technology tree would experience during this great war.

It's 1940 now.

While everyone was still using 37mm guns as "door openers" to scratch each other's itch, the Panzer IV's short-barreled 75mm gun was enough to dominate.

But this is only the beginning.

Arthur closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples.

Deep within his mind, visible only to himself, he seemed to have already glimpsed that insane future:

He saw the "Tiger" and "Panther" tanks still lying on the Henschel drawing boards.

er）」.

They will soon teach the Western Allied forces a lesson with their terrifying 88mm or 75mm long-caliber main guns on the scorching sand dunes of North Africa, in the wilderness of Tunisia, behind the hedgerows of Normandy, and in the icy snowfields of the Ardennes Forest.

A kilometer away, all the British tanks currently in service—whether Matilda or Crusader—are like cans of luncheon meat delivered to their doorstep, easily torn apart.

But that wasn't the part that sent chills down his spine.

Arthur's thoughts drifted beyond Berlin, gazing towards the more distant East.

There, it was the Soviet Union's steel torrent.

Although in future textbooks they will be classified as "Allied forces".

But in this space-time he has disrupted, in the meat grinder of geopolitics, who can guarantee how long the word "ally" can last? Once Berlin falls, once the Iron Curtain falls, or even—once this space-time undergoes some unpredictable deviation.

He saw those steel monsters called "Stalin (IS series)" being conceived on the assembly lines of Soviet tractor factories.

The IS-2, carrying a massive 122mm cannon, and even the IS-3 with its bizarre bulletproof design, were capable of crushing anything that stood in their way—including the Sterling family of tanks.

"The day this war ends may be the beginning of the next." Arthur suddenly opened his eyes, his deep blue pupils reflecting the sparks flying past the window. "In this madhouse-like world, no one can predict what the future holds. I must prepare for the future. To avoid being eaten by a Russian bear or a German tiger, I must create monsters that are tougher and more ruthless than them."

If the course of history is not changed, if the planning is not started now—by then, the Panzer IV tanks in his hands, and even those thin-skinned, large-filled dumplings made by the British themselves called "Crusaders" and "Cromwells," will not even qualify as targets in front of those monsters—it will simply be sending soldiers to their deaths.

Moreover, he wasn't just arming these few thousand men. He wanted to arm the entire Sterling private army, and even infiltrate every corner of the Royal Armoured Forces in the future. He couldn't forever rely on following Rommel around like a scavenger picking up equipment.

He needed thicker armor, more ferocious main guns, and more advanced fire control. He needed to slap the blueprints of the future "Centurion," or even the "Chieftain," in the face of the Director of Ordnance ahead of time.

Arthur closed the folder, gazing out at the dark night sky, his eyes deeper than the darkness itself: "If we don't drive those German engineers who developed the Tiger II tank to the brink of defeat, this battle isn't truly won."

The RTS interface flickered briefly.

No ready-made industrial blueprints were detected.

The host needs to use "industrial knowledge" and "current level of spacetime technology" to deduce the results.

Arthur was not surprised.

A system is ultimately just a system; it's not Doraemon's magic pocket, much less God's scepter.

The interface floating on the retina won't conjure up an AK-47 or an M1A2 tank out of thin air and shove them into this dilapidated carriage in a flash of golden light.

It can only give him absolute control from a god-like perspective at the tactical level, but it cannot create something out of nothing for him at the material level.

Data streams cannot create steel, nor can code turn into gunpowder.

The shortcomings of industry must be made up with steel and fire; the gaps in logistics must be filled with assembly lines and workers.

He must create what the system cannot provide himself.

But this didn't stump Arthur. As a soul from the future, his mind contained the history of weapons development for the next hundred years.

His mind started racing.

First, there's the submachine gun.

Following the original historical trajectory, in a few months, the British Ordnance Department, driven to desperation by the Dunkirk blunder, would have produced the infamous "plumber's nightmare"—the Sten submachine gun.

That thing only costs $9 to make; it can be assembled using a few pipes and springs.

Is it cheap? Yes, it is.

Is it any good? It's a disaster.

That thing had an astonishingly high rate of jamming; it would automatically fire if it fell to the ground. Many British soldiers didn't die at the hands of the Germans, but instead had their toes or testicles crushed by their own Sten guns.

Arthur silently calculated in his mind that at this moment, he was more like an arms dealer than a general.

But the low price is the biggest value of the Sten submachine gun, and it can be made in any bicycle repair shop.

This means it is ideally suited for arming the hundreds of thousands of members of the soon-to-be-formed National Guard.

"Guard", or to fill the ranks of those cannon fodder recruits who have just put down their hoes.

This was due to the national circumstances, the impending bankruptcy of the British Empire's finances, and the price of evacuating 400,000 people.

"A mix of high and low" is the strategy Arthur proposed.

Let the second-line troops spray bullets at the enemy with sheer numbers.

But—Arthur's gaze swept over the veterans in the carriage who were wiping their MP40s, and his eyes instantly sharpened.

His elite troops, his Cold Creek Guard, his private army, must never touch that kind of industrial junk that will misfire at the slightest touch and jam after firing two bursts.

That would be a desecration of the lives of these veterans.

"That thing can be manufactured, even mass-produced. But I absolutely cannot let my own soldiers go to their deaths with that kind of junk."

Arthur mentally ruled out the possibility of Sten entering the Sterling battle group's armory.

His trusted men must be equipped with truly reliable automatic weapons—at least Thompson, or the Sterling that was about to be born in his mind.

As for those green recruits who only have enthusiasm—God help their Sten guns not explode at the crucial moment.

So, what about the Sterling submachine gun (L2A3)?

This was an excellent weapon that replaced the Sten in history, and it was extremely reliable.

But Arthur frowned.

He couldn't help but chuckle to himself, a self-deprecating laugh. Even he, who had almost been dragged down with him, was now caught in the same trap.

Just a few hours earlier, when he was designing the blueprints for the new gun, his first thought was to draw the magazine on the left side of the gun.

It must be admitted that the "side-mounted magazine" design is a kind of morbid obsession in the British small arms industry, even an incurable hereditary disease. From the Lanchester submachine gun to the Sten under development, and even the famous Sterling in history, they are all crazy about this design.

The stubborn old men at the Enfield Armory always argued, "Oh, the side-mounted magazines allow soldiers to lie prone in the mud and fire with their bodies pressed lower, so the magazines don't push them up and expose their position."

But that's utterly inhuman logic. It treats soldiers like stationary artillery emplacements who only lie in trenches firing at targets—typical WWI zombies.

Arthur is now clear-headed.

He realized that side-mounted magazines were a disaster in modern mobile warfare:

First, there's the nightmare of the center of gravity.

A heavy magazine filled with 32 rounds, mounted on the left side, shifts the gun's center of gravity significantly to the left, requiring extra wrist strength to correct the tilt when aiming; and as the bullets are emptied, the center of gravity constantly shifts. This is sheer torture for rapid-response shooting.

Even more deadly is its use in close-quarters indoor combat. That long, protruding magazine is like a tree branch ready to snag on something at any moment.

In the narrow corners of trenches, on the hatches of armored vehicles, or on the doorframes of houses, even if that damned side magazine only snags on clothing or a doorframe for a second, the price is a soldier's life.

"Screw the side-mounted magazine, that thing is heretical." Arthur marked a red X on the blueprint in his mind called "Sterling L2A3".

"What I want is a killing machine, not a crutch that sacrifices everything for the sake of comfort."

His gaze fell upon the Germans across the strait and the Americans across the ocean.

The German MP40, the American Thompson, and even the Soviet PPSh-45.

They all have one thing in common: a bottom-mounted magazine. This is ergonomic and represents the future mainstream.

A brand new blueprint, never before seen in this world, began to slowly take shape in Arthur's mind: it should combine the stamping process of the MP40 (for low cost and mass production) with Thompson's ergonomics (for ease of use).

Casing: Made of cylindrical steel tubing, as robust as the Stirling, but with a simplified manufacturing process.

Feeding method: It must be a vertically mounted magazine with 30 rounds in a double-row, double-feed configuration to ensure that the center of gravity is on a straight line.

Stock: The MP40-style folding stock, or simply a telescopic stock, is convenient for use in trenches and vehicles.

Principle: Blowback, open bolt firing. Simple and brutal, as long as it doesn't misfire like the Sten gun.

"It doesn't need to be too precise. It just needs to be as durable as a tractor," Arthur calculated silently in his mind.

If this gun were to be built, it would be a nightmare for the MP40 and a savior for British logistics officers.

But then, an even bigger ambition surfaced in his mind.

Automatic rifle.

He had seen German firepower in France.

Although the German army's main force still uses the 98k, he knows that in two years, the epoch-making StG44 assault rifle will appear.

That was a nightmare for all Allied infantry.

Although the Enfield rifles in the hands of the British had a high rate of fire, they were still bolt-action rifles. In future urban and jungle warfare, they would be unable to raise their heads against German assault rifles.

"Intermediate power round—" Arthur muttered to himself.

To build assault rifles, the first problem to solve is the bullet problem.

The British .303 bullet was too big, too heavy, and had too much recoil, making it unsuitable for fully automatic fire.

He needs an intermediate-power ammunition, similar to the German 7.92.33mm short round or the Soviet 7.6239mm.

But then, Arthur opened his eyes, a hint of helplessness flashing in them.

Industrial reality.

He is not a god. He cannot conjure a bullet production line out of thin air. Under the current industrial system of the British Empire, forcibly promoting a new caliber of bullet would completely collapse the already strained logistics system.

Even if Churchill could support him, the old fogies at the Ordnance Department, and even Lord Sterling, wouldn't approve it, because it's not child's play.

"Taking too big a step will tear your balls." Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke.

Automatic rifles and intermediate-power cartridges can only be used as technological reserves or for small-scale testing.

The most urgent task is to get the submachine gun sorted out.

But this raises another issue—production capacity.

Although Arthur Sterling is the heir to the Sterling family business, he actually knows nothing about it.

As I recall, the Sterling family owned two machinery factories in Birmingham and Manchester.

But what do they produce? It seems to be—textile machine parts? And some agricultural machinery?

"A spinning machine—" Arthur's eyes lit up.

Factories capable of producing precision textile machines can also produce firearms. The precision requirements for the shuttles, gears, and transmission rods of textile machines are no less than those for gun bolts. With just a slight modification to the molds and lathes, those assembly lines that produce textile machines can be transformed into arsenals that produce killing machines.

But he didn't understand the technical details.

He didn't know if the lathe at home could cut gun barrels, whether the existing steel reserves were enough, or even whether the old workers would be willing to switch to the arms industry.

"Looks like the first thing I'll do when I get home," Arthur said, looking out at the darkness rushing past the window, "is to ask my old man."

"The Earl of Sterling ran the family business for forty years. He knew exactly where every single screw was."

The Sterling family doesn't need a "transformation," it just needs an "awakening."

Arthur knew very well that his family's business empire was already a behemoth—from the shipyard on the River Clyde that forged armor steel for the Royal Navy to the precision workshop that manufactured the core components of the "Merlin" engine for Rolls-Royce, Sterling's tentacles had long been deeply embedded in the veins of the British Empire, covering the lifeline of the navy and air force.

But this is not enough.

What Arthur wanted was for this empire to expand to the point of blotting out the sky.

Only after persuading the old man to shift the family's massive industrial capacity from "behind-the-scenes manufacturing" to "front-line leadership"—Arthur seemed to see an unprecedented military-industrial Leviathan slowly rising from the industrial fog of England.

He wanted to intercept Sten. He wanted to use the advantages of his family's existing production line to force submachine guns labeled "Made by Stirling" into the hands of every British soldier before the slow-witted bureaucrats in the Ordnance Department were still arguing over Sten's blueprints.

This is not just about winning, but also about control.

When the entire army's ammunition consumption and weapon maintenance are inseparable from the Sterling family's assembly line; when every soldier pulls the trigger and fires bullets produced by Sterling;

Arthur Sterling himself would no longer be merely the son of the Earl of Sterling, nor simply an officer wearing brigadier general's epaulets. He would become the true "invisible marshal" of Whitehall.

At that time, even without the old Earl standing behind him to support him, Arthur's scepter would be enough to make the entire War Department tremble.

Even the Imperial Chief of Staff, before deciding to launch a campaign, must first respectfully knock on Arthur's office door, glance at the Sterling Armory's production report, and then decide whether he dares to speak loudly to him.

Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke and, using his consciousness, wrote a new chapter in the memo pad on the left side of the RTS interface:

【Mission Generation (Custom): The Rise of an Arms Tycoon】

Phase 1: Go home and take over/persuade the head of the family business.

Phase Two: Producing the first prototype gun.

Phase Three: Equip the first batch of special forces and use real combat data to humiliate the Ordnance Bureau.

"Special Forces—" Arthur muttered to himself.

SAS (Special Air Service) Formation Plan

Those loyal veterans, especially the 3200 elites marked as "zealots" by RTS, cannot all be wasted in the trenches; that would be a huge waste.

He needed a scalpel, a poisoned scalpel that could pierce the ribs of Germans, cause trouble behind Rommel's back, and wreak havoc right under Little Mustache's nose.

"Detachment L — or Special Boat Team —" Arthur thought to himself.

He thought of his cousin, David Stirling.

That crazy cousin of mine, who's six feet six inches tall and still doing nothing in the Scottish Guard.

"Maybe I should go see him when I get back. He's born for this."

These special units require special weapons, special training, and—a special commander.

Screech! The ear-piercing sound of brakes interrupted Arthur's thoughts.

The train began to decelerate sharply, and the enormous inertia caused the carriages to tremble slightly.

Outside the window, the outline of London was faintly visible through the fog. Due to the blackout, the city looked like a huge, silent black tombstone.

But in Arthur's eyes, what flickered in that darkness was not fear, but countless ambitions and opportunities waiting for him to seize.

Arthur stood up, straightened his collar, and carefully put the half-smoked cigar back into the aluminum tube—this was a rare find.

The blue data stream flickered on my retina one last time before disappearing into the void.

The system interface is closed.

Those grand plans about assault rifles, special forces, and military-industrial empires were temporarily hidden in the darkness.

Reality flooded back into my senses. It was the monotonous rumble of wheels hitting the rails, the metallic scraping of the carriages, and the lingering scent of cigars in the air.

Arthur stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it precisely into the brass ashtray on the armrest.

He let out a long breath, turned his head, and saw the light fall on the opposite side.

On that excessively large, dark green velvet chair, a wounded "beast" was curled up.

Lieutenant Jeanne.

The French Valkyrie who drove a B1 heavy tank into German lines in Berg, the madwoman who cursed the Germans' ancestors in the silliest French over the radio, was now exhausted and curled up asleep.

She was fast asleep, but her posture was defensive. She was pressed tightly against the corner of the chair back, her arms crossed over her chest, as if that were her only cover.

Arthur's gaze shifted downwards.

She had long since taken off her heavy, mud-caked French military boots, wearing only a pair of rough gray socks. Her feet were swollen from the long march and blood stasis. At her left ankle, a dark red stain of blood seeped through the sock—an old wound had reopened.

The bloodstains had dried, turning dark brown, and stuck to the gray socks.

Arthur frowned slightly.

Throughout the journey, whether on a forced march or boarding a train, she didn't utter a sound, and even her walking posture showed no sign of abnormality.

This woman's stubbornness was sometimes tougher than the armor of the Germans.

As she slept, she shed that tough, barbed armor. The dim light from the counter lamp shone on her face.

Her brows were still furrowed, her eyelashes were trembling slightly, and her eyeballs were moving rapidly under her eyelids—that was the REM (rapid eye movement) sleep stage, which is usually accompanied by intense dreams.

Clearly, that was no dream.

Her hand unconsciously gripped the armrest of the chair, her knuckles digging so hard that her nails dug deep into the velvet—it was like a tank driver desperately clutching the control lever in the final moments.

The temperature inside the carriage dropped.

The damp, chilly air characteristic of British nights seeped in through the cracks in the old-fashioned carriage windows, carrying a musty and sooty smell.

Jeanne shuddered in her sleep.

She shrank back, letting out a muffled, helpless moan: "Papa...la"

"Dad—the house is on fire..." (Dad—the house is on fire...)

This faint French phrase sounded so weak amidst the roar of the train.

Arthur looked at her.

In that instant, she was no longer the ruthless warrior who killed without blinking an eye.

She was just a girl who lost her home, lost her country, watched her house being bombed into ruins by the Stuka, and watched her father die in the rubble.

She was all alone in this world.

Apart from the gun in her hand and the British man opposite her, she had nothing left.

Arthur stood up.

The luxury train had a good shock absorption system, but he could still feel the floor vibrating beneath his feet. He picked up the black leather coat that was on the seat next to him.

The black leather gleamed with a cool sheen under the light, and the collar was made of soft, expensive otter fur.

Arthur picked it up in his hand; it was very heavy.

When it comes to making clothes, those master tailors in London are indeed generous with their materials.

He walked over, very quietly, and unfolded the large black coat, gently covering Jeanne with it.

Black leather covered her ill-fitting uniform, encasing her thin, trembling body.

The scene possessed a strange tension—the Nazi uniform, a symbol of conquest and violence, now served as a protective shield for an exile, isolating her from this cold world.

Jeanne felt warmth in her sleep. It was a thick, impenetrable warmth.

She instinctively reached out and grabbed the collar of the coat, burying half her face in the soft fur trim.

She took a deep breath.

She smelled the aroma – a strong tobacco scent, a mixture of Aberdeen Angus beef and gunpowder.

That's the smell of Arthur Sterling.

Her brows slowly relaxed, and her previously rapid breathing became steady. Her grip on the handrail loosened, and she instead clutched the lapel of her coat tightly.

Arthur sat back down in his seat.

He neither woke her up nor called a medic to treat her wound.

Some wounds only stop hurting temporarily when you're asleep.

Arthur turned his head and looked out the window.

At this moment, where is the majesty of the "heart of the British Empire" in London?

The once-brilliant lights that pulsated day and night, pulsating with the world's money and power, have long since gone out. The outside world is a thick, impenetrable darkness, with only the occasional fleeting afterglow of air raid searchlights.

The cold car window glass, against the backdrop of the night, became a deep black mirror.

It silently reflected the scene inside the carriage, superimposing two completely different yet intertwined figures: Arthur's face, tempered by the smoke of battle, cold and unyielding, revealing neither joy nor sorrow; and the woman opposite him, wrapped in the enemy's black coat, curled up and fast asleep like a wounded beast.

Two people. One is a soulless transmigrator, the other an exile who has lost his home. In this madly collapsing world, on this train heading towards an unknown destiny, this moment of tranquility seems so luxurious, so precious.

Suddenly. Clang! The train ran over a switch, and the train shook violently.

Jeanne moved.

The movement was incredibly fast, unlike someone who had just woken up.

She suddenly opened her eyes, her pupils instantly contracting.

At the same time, her right hand quickly reached for her waist.

Click. That was the sound of the safety being released on a Luger P08 pistol.

This is a soldier's instinct.

It's a conditioned reflex only someone who worries about having their throat slit every night would have. Her eyes were empty for a moment, filled with pure killing intent, as if she were still in the ruins of Calais, as if the SS soldiers sitting in front of her were holding bayonets.

Arthur sat opposite him, motionless.

He didn't draw his gun, and he didn't even blink.

He simply looked at her calmly.

Jeanne's gaze focused. She saw the person opposite her clearly. She saw the blond hair, the red collar insignia, and the pair of deep blue, expressionless eyes.

That suffocating murderous aura vanished like a receding tide in that instant.

Her tense muscles relaxed, and her hand, which had been gripping the gun handle, slowly loosened and fell to her thigh.

She blinked, somewhat bewildered, as if trying to confirm whether this was also a dream.

Then, she looked down and saw the black leather coat covering her, and the familiar otter fur collar.

She paused for a second, then looked up at Arthur again.

A complex emotion flashed in his eyes: embarrassment, lingering fear, but mostly a silent dependence.

"Sir, where are we?" Her voice was languid from just waking up and dry from not having drunk water for a long time.

Arthur turned his head and looked out the window at the faint red glow on the distant horizon.

That's the reflection of the city.

"We're almost at the heart of hell," Arthur said casually, his tone neither sarcastic nor expectant. "Or, as the map calls it, London."

Jeanne straightened up but did not remove her coat.

Instead, she pulled her leather coat tighter, enjoying the sense of security it provided. Her fingers unconsciously traced the cold leather surface.

"This coat is very warm," she said softly, a hint of self-deprecation in her voice. "Even though it's German skin, it's really warm once you peel it off."

"I'm warm too." Arthur took out a silver cigarette case from his pocket and flicked it open. There were only two cigarettes left inside. He took one out and handed it to him.

“I mean—” Arthur looked into her eyes, “I’m still alive. And you’re still alive. For two ghosts who should have died in France, that’s warmer than anything.”

Jeanne paused for a moment. She reached out and took the cigarette. She didn't light it, but simply held it under her nose and took a deep drag of the tobacco.

Then, she looked at Arthur, and a beautiful, French-style smile slowly appeared on her lips.

That smile contained blood, tears, and fire.

"Yes, young master." She tucked the cigarette behind her ear and retreated back into her black coat. "We're ghosts who crawled back from hell. As long as we're not sent back—this coat suits us quite well."

22:30, on the edge of Greater London.

The train's rhythm changed.

The rapid, powerful crashing sounds disappeared, replaced by a heavy, slow gliding as the steel behemoth instinctively lowered its breath as it approached its lair.

The view outside the window has changed.

No longer were the gentle, rolling green hills of Kent, no longer were the hedges and fields exuding the fragrance of earth. A huge shadow of the industrial age loomed over it.

Dense clusters of Victorian terraced houses huddle together, their rooftops forming a grey sea; massive factory plumes pierce the night sky, spewing smoke darker than the darkness itself; tributaries of the Thames flow silently beneath the bridges.

Looking up, countless huge, silvery-gray shadows floated in the night sky.

Those are barrage balloons.

They were tethered to the ground by steel cables, floating silently beneath the clouds, awaiting non-existent German bombers.

This is London under Blackout.

To evade Göring's air force, this once-world center extinguished all its lights. There were no streetlights, no neon lights, no warm yellow glow from family windows. All of London was plunged into a suffocating, artificial darkness.

Only the occasional car passing by on the road has its headlights blocked by specially made louvered sunshades, letting out only a faint, pale light.

This is a kind of wartime darkness.

Unlike the darkness of the countryside, it is thick and oppressive, filled with tension, fear, and the unknown.

It seemed as if spies were lurking on every street corner, and despair was hidden in every shadow.

Sizzle—Sizzle—

Suddenly, the loudspeaker on the roof of the carriage blared, accompanied by static. It was the BBC's hourly news.

"This is BBC Radio, now broadcasting the evening news—" The announcer's flat Oxford accent echoed through the narrow carriage. The voice was elegant, calm, and full of upper-class superiority, as if no disaster in the world could cause even the slightest ripple in its tone.

"—According to the latest official press release from the War Office, under the valiant command of Brigadier General Arthur Sterling, a portion of the British Expeditionary Force has successfully broken out of the encirclement—"

"—This was a great strategic shift, a miracle in the history of military command. Our troops maintained their complete structure and high morale, shattering the Germans' delusion of annihilating our main force—"

"—Our children have returned home. They brought back courage, an indomitable will, and an unwavering belief in victory—"

The sounds continued, and the praise piled up.

Inside the carriage, the real "children"—the soldiers covered in scars, with mud under their fingernails, who had just eaten a pie made from the flesh of the dead—listened to these words, their expressions as complex as an abstract painting.

Some people lowered their heads, staring intently at their boots; others turned their heads, looking out the window at the hypocritical darkness.

It's a nauseating sense of disconnect.

The wars broadcast on the radio were grand, glorious, and epic; while the war they had just experienced was mud,

It's a pathetic sight of severed limbs and intestines spilling out, yet the person still crawls around.

"Ha—" A low, short laugh came from the corner.

Sergeant McTavish leaned back in his chair and picked a piece of meat out of his teeth.

"To hell with the strategic shift," he cursed. But there was no anger in his curse, no more of the rage he had in Dover, only a sense of relief and weariness that came from seeing through everything.

"I escaped back. I escaped back like a dog. What do you mean by shattering the Germans' delusions—the Germans ran out of fuel."

He turned his head, looked at his silent brothers around him, and then a mocking smile appeared on his lips: "But who cares? Just being alive to hear this kind of nonsense is a kind of enjoyment. At least it proves we're still in that other world, and not on God's list."

22:45 PM. Waterloo Station.

With a final, long whistle, the train slowly slid into the belly of the enormous steel monster.

The glass dome here has long been painted a deathly black for air defense requirements, tightly isolating the inside from the outside and locking in all light.

But beneath that black dome, several high-powered military searchlights were deliberately turned on to prepare for this meticulously orchestrated "political show."

Blinding beams of light crisscrossed wildly in the white steam billowing from the locomotive, and after being diffused by the thick water mist, they illuminated the entire enclosed platform as if it were daytime.

It is a psychedelic light that defies nature and is full of unreality. Outside is a deathly still night where you can't see your hand in front of your face, but inside is a blinding daylight as bright as an operating table.

But there was no warmth in that light.

This is completely different from the Ashford station I've been to before. There are no old women with baskets and tears in their eyes, no scalding hot tea, and none of that heartbreaking yet heartwarming atmosphere of everyday life.

Through the car window, Arthur coldly stared out.

The platform was deserted, without a single ordinary citizen. Instead, there were red police tapes erected by military police, keeping the public outside.

The military police wearing red hats and holding batons stood ramrod straight, completely blocking the platform so that not even a fly could get in.

Behind the police tape, rows of black Austin cars were parked, their paint reflecting a cold sheen under the lights.

A group of men wearing black trench coats and top hats were standing next to the car.

They were high-ranking military officials, intelligence agents, and some of the Sterling family's "relatives."

Their expressions were serious, briefcases were clutched in their hands, and their eyes held no welcome, only scrutiny and calculation.

This is London.

Indifference, order, politics.

This isn't about whether Robbie McDonald likes meat pies; it's about whether this unit can be used as a political bargaining chip, and whether these thousands of guns will become an unstable powder keg.

Arthur stood up before the train came to a complete stop.

He walked up behind Major Ryder, who was staring blankly out the window, reached out, and patted him hard on the shoulder.

"Get ready to get to work, Ryder."

Ryder was startled and turned around abruptly. He saw Arthur pointing out the window at the darkness of the so-called "civilized world," at the well-dressed officials, his eyes filled with a hint of mockery and cruelty.

"Stop making that face. I know you don't want to face those families, and you don't want to hand over that list," Arthur said softly. "But tonight, we're facing something far more disgusting than the SS—politicians."

Just before the train came to a complete stop. Click. The door to the private compartment was opened.

Arthur Sterling stood in front of the mirror one last time, straightening his military uniform.

The brigadier general's uniform, custom-made on Savile Row, remained crisp and wrinkle-free.

He put on his peaked cap, his long fingers gently pressing down the brim, casting a shadow over his deep blue eyes, concealing all his emotions and all his weariness.

He turned and strode out of the box. The corridor was already crowded with soldiers peering out. Scotsmen from the 51st Division...

The Englishmen of the Coldstream Guards and the Frenchmen of the 12th Motorized Rifle Division. Countless eyes watched him in the smoke-filled corridor.

They were waiting, waiting for the final command.

Arthur stopped in his tracks. His gaze swept across everyone's face.

"Straighten your backs!" Arthur's voice echoed in the narrow corridor, deep, powerful, and authoritative, instantly drowning out the steam outside. "Don't get off like refugees. Don't let them see your weakness."

"Bring out the same killing spree you had in Calais! Bring out the same madness you showed when facing Guderian!"

He pointed out the window to the black cars and red military police: "Let London see what an army returned from hell looks like!"

"Remember, you are not defeated soldiers. You are the ones who gave the German armored divisions nightmares!"

"Yes, Sir!" A unified shout echoed down the corridor. The voices carried a murderous intent and pride that seemed to emanate from the very core of their being.

They straightened their collars, wiped the grease from their mouths, and gripped their rifles tightly.

The spine straightened up again at that moment.

bang-

The train doors were flung open. White steam billowed out like the breath of a dragon, instantly engulfing the platform and the officials waiting there.

The spotlights came on again.

boom! boom! boom!

This time it's through the lens of an official London photographer, a lens that captures the brilliance of history.

A tall figure emerged first from the white mist. Black military boots slammed heavily on the concrete of Waterloo Station, making a crisp, echoing sound.

Arthur Sterling was the first to step onto the platform.

Behind him stood Major Ryder, fully armed and with a fierce look in his eyes; Sergeant McTavish, carrying a machine gun and with a menacing face; and Jeanne, the French female officer wrapped in a German black overcoat with wolf-like eyes.

Further on, there were tens of thousands of veterans with cold eyes and murderous aura.

They emerged from the steam in two columns. They didn't look like a returning army; they looked more like invaders, a savage, dangerous, bloodthirsty predator that had broken into this sleeping, hypocritical, and fertile city.

Arthur stopped. He stood on the edge of the steam, raising his head slightly. Beneath the brim of his hat, his deep blue eyes coldly gazed at the group of politicians and generals waiting for him ahead, at the inky black London skyline.

In that darkness, he seemed to see the conference table in Whitehall, the Sterling family's board of directors, and countless eyes peering from the shadows.

That was a new battlefield.

Here, there is no smoke of gunpowder, nor the shriek of the Stuka.

Here, the bullets are invisible, but they are more deadly and dirtier than the German 88mm shells.

A night breeze blew by, lifting the hem of his black leather coat and revealing the cold Luger pistol at his waist.

"Let's go." Arthur strode into the thick night, disappearing into the damp London fog: "The show is about to begin."

That's all for today's update. I'm currently stockpiling chapters, and there will be a big update on the 14th. I'd really appreciate any recommendations and monthly votes from you guys. Thank you so much!