Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 397 - 264: Facing Directly (Part 2)

Chapter 397: Chapter 264: Facing Directly (Part 2)

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"I thought you were here to send a penal soldier." After the lad named Maiseer was assigned to the squad, Political Commissar Virit shook hands with Malin, "Welcome back to the North, Mr. Malin, your fame has already reached here lately."

"Perhaps that’s what they call ’a person’s shadow longer than their height’; I actually prefer to keep a low profile." Malin smiled as he shook hands, then saluted the middle-aged man who approached, "Major General Ataf Ivanovich Ivantaf."

"Quite a surprise that Mr. Malin still remembers my name." The evidently aged man laughed as he reached out for a handshake with Malin, "To be honest, as soon as I heard the messenger mention your name, I came over right away."

"I am here today to teach a rash young man a lesson. A child of his age doesn’t quite understand the difference between competition and the battlefield, so I decided it would be best for him to see the battlefield with his own eyes."

After shaking hands with the Major General, Malin then looked at him, "Could you give me an overview of the upcoming combat mission?"

Under Major General Ataf’s briefing, Malin heard some rather concerning news.

Recently, the friendly forces on the Northern defensive line have been facing onslaughts like a tide of Chaos, with divisions on the front line suffering heavy losses, including the 17th Infantry Division, among twelve divisions that had to cancel their leaves. They had just arrived at this forward base today and had received a mission—to march northward with their allies toward the frontline.

For Malin, the current front line sounded like a black hole; any division thrown into it was like flesh entering a mill.

But for any division of the Northern Legion, this was as routine as eating and drinking.

Fight, maim, retreat to recover, then fight again.

That was the life they were facing.

"Well, it looks like I’ve come at just the right time. What about your sharpshooters? How many squads do you have?"

"Seventeen teams of three, they are our most treasured assets, sir." The Major General and Political Commissar both said with pride, "Over these years, they have eliminated hundreds of Chaos Sorcerers; we’ve even had to establish an independent trophy room to store those Chaos Skulls. Each of them has offered at least three skulls as a sacrifice to the Lord of Justice and most have the assistance of a Sharpshooter’s short sequence."

"That’s excellent. I wasn’t prepared with my firearm today, so do you have any guns here?" Malin wasn’t particular about firearms, as long as they functioned well, and as for the ammunition, he could make it on the spot.

"Yes, we have fifteen spare firearms purchased from your workshop."

Since they had guns, Malin immediately went to their arsenal and chose one. After some adjustments, he left the storage with the short-barreled precision rifle.

There was no helping it; being small was a disadvantage. Although he was strong enough to handle a longer-barreled weapon, being oversized in any place also meant being a more obvious target, and Malin wasn’t about to burden himself foolishly.

"By the way, Mr. Malin, what about that boy?" asked Political Commissar Virit.

"You arrange it, let him follow any second-line squad, to get a feel for the low-intensity battlefield atmosphere. That’s good enough," Malin replied—despite what was said about taking him along without regard for life or death, Malin couldn’t really return a corpse to the Church of the War God.

"You are quite considerate, aren’t you?" Both the Division Commanders and the Political Commissar laughed.

Malin smiled helplessly and explained to the two why the young man had ended up under his charge: "Although the boy is unruly, the World Tree Sapling judged that his crime was not deserving of death. So I prepared this battlefield visit for him to understand that those he harmed in competition could be the same comrades who will join him in this hell."

"...You are still merciful. If a lad like that were in our army, he would have been executed by firing squad a long time ago," said Political Commissar Virit, shaking his head and giving a resigned pull from his gun holster.

"You’re good at this?"

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"No, the task of executing deserters and troublemakers usually falls to battalion commanders and political commissars below me," said Lord Virit, slapping his chest. "I am a follower of the Church of Justice, normally in charge of anonymous confessions."

"That’s a tough job, the enlisted men like to spill everything during confession. I sat in once, and the stuff those soldiers mumbled about felt just like the hardships I faced when I was promoted to Sequence Six—those guys even complained about getting one less piece of meat in their canned rations. Poor Virit has to listen and then comfort them every time," the Division Commander lamented. "I’m not saying those boys are bad, but if they can complain about that, no wonder it takes three months for everyone in our division to get a chance for a second confession."

"I think it’s not a problem. It’s a very good thing if the soldiers can vent their grievances on such a harsh battlefield, Ataf. Think about it, being able to confess and find solace means the soldiers will have fewer distractions in battle."

"I understand, you’re just Mr. Nice Guy. All other chief political commissars in other divisions are eager to execute deserters, only you delegate this task downward."

"I can understand what those deserters are thinking in their desperate bid to live. Who isn’t afraid of death? But I can’t let myself get my hands bloodied by them, especially because they might have been confessing to me just a few days ago. I can’t be a listener on one side and then blow the head off a complainer on the other."

At this point in the argument between the two men, it seemed neither could persuade the other, so they both looked at Malin simultaneously: "Your Excellency, what do you think?"

"Why not tell the soldiers what they are really fighting for?" Malin said to the two before him. "Deserters run away to survive, but have you ever told them that if everyone were a deserter, who would protect this world? Who would protect their loved ones and friends back home? Lord Virit, you should organize a large scale motivational speech for the soldiers every week to make them understand they are not here as salaried employees; they are here to protect their families alongside countless others like themselves."

At this point, Malin thought that Political Commissar Virit was too soft, but on second thought, he was just being indulgent in discussing sweet and bitter memories with these people from a steampunk another world.

"Eh... That might be worth a try, but as part of the Royal Army, our most righteous duty is our loyalty to His Majesty," Lord Virit said, chin in hand.

"Then perhaps you could try talking to the soldiers about how to be loyal patriots." Malin smiled, then noticed a messenger jumping off a motorcycle: "Division Commander Ataf, the high command orders you to depart half an hour earlier!"

"Ah, I see. Our allies are still fitting their new uniforms, right? Those poor guys, they probably aren’t even used to the breech-loading rifles just issued to them yet." Ataf nodded with a smile. "Understood. Please tell the command that the Seventeenth Division will depart immediately."

After sending off the messenger, Malin learned new intelligence from the conversations of the two—those divisions from the Engma Free State are currently getting their old breech-loading rifles that had been handed down from the Sydney Union.

To the soldiers of the Sydney Union, the new breech-loading rifles have larger magazines, better rifling, superior sights, and improved operability—Malin had copied the design from the British Lee-Enfield SMLE No.4 MKI, and with the help of the Dwarves, improved the accuracy with a calibrated sight and fixed the inconvenient bayonette mount. The Sydney military couldn’t stop praising it; they bought the design plans from Malin, and their armament factories are still working at full capacity to meet demand—this new type of rifle is now considered by the Karam Kingdom and other Northern nations to be the best new firearm. Malin gave his father-in-law a tip by letting their commerce department purchase a certain quantity and then granting them production authorization so they could profit from each rifle sold, causing the Nobles in commerce to view Malin with great admiration.

Consequently, the significance of the old breech-loading rifles plummeted in the eyes of the Sydney troops, yet to the soldiers in the Engma Free State, these outdated weapons were like magical arms. After discussing with everyone, Malin decided to give away all these old rifles for free—taking them apart would only net the value of scrap metal, it was better to gift them to the Engma Free State in exchange for their genuine gratitude and to tie them to the war chariot of the Sydney Union—the defensive line in the North was now pushing close to the Central Administrative Province of the Engma Empire and the situation had never been so favorable, everyone in the Sydney Union had their own subtle thoughts on this, but on the issue of sparing their own people from death, they were unanimously in agreement.

Every additional Chaos slain by a soldier from the Engma Free State might mean one less death among the Sydney troops.

"It looks like our chat needs to come to an end, Mr. Malin. Are you planning to ride in my vehicle or choose Lord Virit’s?" Division Commander Ataf inquired.

Malin had a different view: "How do your sharpshooters usually get close to the front line?"

"They have their own small motorcycles, three to a group, free to hunt as they wish, and it will be the same this time."

"That’s perfect, I plan to do the same."

Makin made his decision. As for whether he would press the accelerator... Ha, with three World Tree Saplings in hand, if he couldn’t manage such a trivial matter, Malin would find living rather meaningless.

Then Malin saw the so-called ’motorcycle’ they mentioned—it was essentially a nearly bare engine with an oil tank, a seat cushion, wheels larger at the back and smaller at the front, and adjustable handlebars.

"Can you handle it?" Division Commander Ataf was still a bit worried.

To that Malin climbed onto the ’motorcycle’, twisted the throttle, and the little machine shot out of the staging area. He maneuvered it in a big circle right in front of them, then stopped it before Ataf: "I’ll take this ride."