Cannon Fire Arc

While Wang Zhong and the Ceres representative were drinking and enjoying themselves, Filippov was leading his troops into a new village.

Skana Village, located 49 kilometers from the center of Plowsonia.

Filippov was the regiment commander. By the time he entered the village, it had already been captured two hours earlier.

A group of prisoners was digging pits in a clearing beside the village.

Filippov patted the driver's shoulder: "Stop here."

The Jeep halted beside the prisoners digging pits.

"Priest!" Filippov shouted at the guards. "What are they doing here?"

"Making them bury their own comrades. We can't just leave the bodies lying around, can we? We considered piling them up to burn, but it's getting dark, and that would be an obvious target for artillery."

The Priest paused. "Don't worry, Comrade Commander, we won't execute the prisoners. Although, back in the day, they forced our comrades to dig their own pits and then killed them all!"

Filippov nodded and motioned for the driver to move forward.

The Jeep sped into the village.

Filippov saw the corpses of women and children hanging under the eaves and cursed.

His signal operator asked, "Commander, why are all the hanged victims women and children?"

"The men are either dead or have joined the People's Self-Defense Army. If you ask me, they brought it upon themselves. Don't pity them—not even a bit!" Filippov said.

Signal Operator: "But isn't it said that the Prosen people are ones we can unite with?"

Filippov: "Yes, that's what the Marshal and Grand Patriarch Belinsky say. But those holding guns—we don't consider them Prosen people."

The Jeep reached the center of the village.

Every Prosen village seemed to be the same, organized around a church, a village office, and a post office.

But this village center had an additional feature: a gallows.

Filippov's curiosity was piqued, and he ordered the vehicle to stop in front of the gallows, asking an elderly man standing nearby: "What's with these gallows?"

Old Man: "What do you mean by 'what's with them'?"

Filippov: "The other corpses are just hanging from eaves and streetlights. Why bother constructing a gallows here?"

Old Man: "Oh, you're asking about the gallows? They were built specifically to hang traitors. After they were hanged, their bodies were displayed here. Eventually, there were so many traitors, they started hanging them anywhere."

Filippov said "Oh" and asked again: "Were there really that many traitors?"

The old man shook his head: "I don't know. Maybe."

At that moment, the First Battalion Commander leading the vanguard approached Filippov and saluted: "Reporting, Commander! The entire village has been searched—no hidden Prosen soldiers were found. According to the residents, the enemy has already retreated."

Filippov returned the salute and asked, "What's the situation with the residents? Do they still have enough supplies to live on?"

First Battalion Commander: "They're lacking iron household tools—they claim they've donated them all to the nation. Supplies like coffee and cigarettes are severely scarce. Many are suffering from malnutrition; we've had reports of dozens of cases of night blindness, nearly everyone has it."

Filippov nodded: "Tell them the Church will take care of all these issues when it arrives. Until then, we can only spare a bit of Spam cans to them."

"Understood."

Filippov was about to ask more questions when the Battalion Commander suddenly said: "Commander, it's less than fifty kilometers now."

Though Filippov had momentarily failed to catch what he meant, he quickly deduced the meaning and replied easily: "Yes, less than fifty kilometers. When I was a kid, my grandfather would take me to the market—it was this far of a distance. Between us and the capital's heart, just the span of a market trip."

Saying this, Filippov looked southwest, his gaze fixed on the post office there.

The people around him also turned their gazes toward the southwest.

————

Plowsonia, the Royal Palace Front Square.

Thirty-six adolescents stood in neat formation, trying their best to mimic the proud demeanor of adults.

The Plathen Emperor was inspecting them.

"How old are you?" The Emperor stopped in front of one boy.

"Ten years old, Your Majesty!"

The Emperor asked again: "How many Ante tanks have you destroyed?"

"Three." The boy hesitated but admitted, "Not tanks—three enemy armored vehicles."

The Emperor turned to his aide: "What's this all about?"

"Three tanks, Your Majesty."

Boy: "They were armored vehicles, although they had turrets—they ran on wheels."

The Ante Troops were equipped with a significant number of Greyhound armored cars for reconnaissance purposes. This boy must have taken out these forward reconnaissance units.

The Emperor seemed disappointed, muttering softly, "Three armored cars." "Not tanks."

Boy: "I'll destroy tanks! I definitely will!"

The Emperor glanced at him and smiled, gently stroking his head: "I know you will. Even destroying three armored cars is a remarkable accomplishment—you've eliminated at least ten invaders of our nation! This Iron Cross belongs to you, young man."

At this point, the officer organizing the ceremony stepped forward: "Your Majesty, the medal ceremony hasn't started yet."

The Emperor screamed hysterically, "I said award him! Bring the medals here!"

The boy flinched, instinctively trying to step back, his head pressed firmly by the Emperor.

A medal case was brought forward, and the officer retrieved the appropriate medal for this ten-year-old boy, handing it to the Emperor.

The Emperor crudely pinned the Iron Cross around the boy's neck, rubbed his head forcefully, and then moved to the next boy.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve years! Your Majesty, I really did destroy a Sherman tank! And I escaped under enemy infantry fire!"

"Excellent, boy, you've done well!"

The Emperor extended his hand to the side.

The officer quickly handed over another Iron Cross.

The chaotic rhythm of the medal ceremony continued in this manner.

Once all thirty-six medals were awarded, the air raid siren, as if perfectly timed, began to blare.

The Allied Forces might have ceased bombing Plowsonia in the past two weeks to slow Ante's advance.

But Ante's Air Force bombing had intensified.

Compared to the high-altitude carpet bombing by the Allied Forces, Ante's airstrikes were mainly dive bombing, more precise, often causing greater damage.

The Anteans liked to install whistles on their planes, creating an sharp, shrill noise during dives—terrifyingly dubbed Death Scream by the Prosens.

At the sound of the air raid siren, some of the lined-up children started to run, but seeing others stand proudly, they stopped and resumed their standing posture.

Several guards rushed forward to surround the Emperor, attempting to escort him into an underground passage, but the Emperor vehemently shouted: "Do not panic! Ante's Air Force will surely target our supply centers and drop their propaganda flyers! Their aim is to continue this damn nibbling tactic!

"Once our battle tanks are operational and drive them back across the Oder River, they'll quiet down!"

At that moment, the sharp scream of diving planes echoed—a clear sign that Ante's dive bombers were beginning their plunge.

Anti-aircraft gunfire and the wailing sirens were all drowned out by the Death Scream.

The Emperor couldn't help but look up: "A few years ago, this used to be the enemy's source of terror! In just four years, it has transformed into our death sentence!"

"Your Majesty! Please move! If you don't go, the children won't go!"

Only then did the Emperor allow himself to be dragged into the underground passage by his guards.

The officer organizing the ceremony then ordered the children: "Turn right and sprint into the royal palace's peripheral Tunnel 445!"

The children began running toward the palace gates.

Explosions sounded nearby; clearly, bombs had already struck.

Just past the grand decorative palace gates, the enormous fireballs from two-thousand-pound bombs were visible.

Suddenly, having completed their bombing run, the Ante bombers flew toward the children's formation.

These bombers were reportedly originally fighters, taking on a bomber role due to their incredibly powerful engines and heavy takeoff weights.

After bombing, they would always use the eight machine guns mounted on their wings for strafing runs.

The leading officer had already dropped to the ground, finding shelter behind a roadside fire hydrant.

The children hadn't yet remembered to dive for cover, and the bullets rained down from the sky.

The dust kicked up by the 12.7mm bullets hitting the ground rose almost a meter high, forming a sudden barrier.

The barrier cut across the formation.

Children hit by the bullets were instantly torn apart.

Due to the astonishing power of the bullets, some children's bodies didn't even have time to absorb the energy of the impact before nearly all the force was expelled.

Nevertheless, the bullets left horrific wounds.

Children struck in the arm lost entire limbs; those hit in the shoulder had their entire shoulders obliterated; the worst-hit fell to the ground with organs spilling out through holes left by the departing bullets.

A single strafing run decimated more than half of the thirty-six young "heroes of the Empire," their promises to the Emperor reduced to ashes forevermore.

————

The Plathen Emperor stormed back into his office, cursing.

At this moment, Admiral Franz, who had replaced General Moochi near Kebao as Armored Corps Director, stepped forward and saluted: "Your Majesty, the Mouse tanks have been fully repaired and are advancing toward the deepest point of enemy lines!"

The Emperor's face lit up: "Repaired?"

"Yes. Alongside them, we've deployed 14 Chaser tank destroyers from the Youth Division and the 336th Armored Grenadier Corps!"

The Emperor's eyes shone with joy: "Excellent! This time, we'll push the enemy back for sure! Mouse tanks will crush them like eggshells!

"Who's manning the tanks?"

"They're operated by Captain Weissmann's crew."

The Emperor paused: "Who is that?"

"He's the top graduate of the latest batch of armored corps trainees, Captain Weissmann!"

The Emperor: "What about our tank aces? Wittman?"

"Dead. At Caen."

The Emperor: "Otto Ka—"

"Seriously injured, recovering. Your Majesty."

The Emperor rattled off several more names, and the Armored Corps Director responded flawlessly: dead, seriously injured, or surrounded near Kebao—no one capable of operating these tanks representing the Empire's last glimmer of hope.

Defeated, the Emperor slumped into his chair: "Fine, if a newly graduated rookie can achieve results, it proves that our weaponry is incredibly effective!"