Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 270 The Last Shield
The troops of the Sixth Gallic Army Command quickly set off again.

However, this time they changed direction and began to evacuate southwards.

Only Paris, an isolated and helpless city, was left to face the impending apocalypse alone.

The news that General Gallieny had fled south with his command spread like wildfire among the retreating Gallic soldiers.

The troops, whose morale was already low due to the crushing defeat, have now completely lost their leader.

Panic and despair gripped every Gallic soldier.

They were like a swarm of headless flies, aimlessly wandering along the country roads, thinking only of getting as far away from their pursuers as possible.

However, amidst this chaotic torrent of defeat, a small countercurrent emerged.

"We can't leave! We can't just abandon Paris!"

At a crossroads, a Gallic sergeant covered in mud and with bandages wrapped around his arm stopped several of his fellow countrymen who were preparing to follow the main force south.

"Pierre, are you crazy? The officers have all run away! What are we still doing here? Waiting to die?"

A young soldier cried out.

"Yes, we simply can't stop the Saxons' attack!"

"My home is in Paris! My wife, children, and parents are all still in the city!"

Sergeant Pierre, his eyes red, roared:
"Now the general has fled, and the government has fled! Who will protect them? Are we just supposed to stand by and watch the Saxons storm into the city, burning, killing, and looting?"

His words silenced the soldiers around him who were preparing to flee.

Many of them, like Pierre, were residents of Paris or the surrounding area.

Their family, friends, and everything they had were in that city.

They had retreated with the army because they believed the general would lead them to regroup and defend the capital.

But now, they have been abandoned.

“But what can we do if we go back? There are so few of us,” a soldier said in despair.

"We are soldiers of the French Republic!"

Pierre stood tall, despite his tattered uniform.

"Defending our homeland is our sacred duty! Even if only one person remains, even if we know we will die, we will go back! We will die on the barricades of Paris! We will let those Saxon barbarians know that the Gauls are not so easily bullied!"

"For our homeland!" Pierre raised his rifle and shouted in a hoarse voice.

silence
However, after a brief silence...
"For our homeland!" The first soldier stepped forward and raised his rifle.

"For home!"

"For Paris!"

More and more people stepped forward, their eyes rekindling with a determination to fight to the death.

They may not be qualified soldiers, but at this moment, they are qualified sons, husbands, and fathers.

Soon, this small countercurrent coalesced into a team of moderate size.

About a third of the soldiers who withdrew from the Kree Line eventually chose to turn around and head towards the city that was being shrouded in the shadow of death.

They had no commander, no logistical support, and didn't even know what to do when they got back.

All they knew was that their home was there.

Because the sentry detachments of the training assault battalion had already occupied several high grounds with good visibility on the outskirts of Paris, the system map was constantly updating the movements of the Gallic army.

Morin looked at the red arrows representing the fleeing Gallic soldiers on his system map, which, after a brief period of chaos, clearly split into two groups.

A large force is desperately fleeing south.

The other, though much smaller, resolutely turned back and rejoined the giant 'anthill' of Paris.

Even without any other information, Maureen knew roughly what had happened.

“Perhaps some things are more important to them than life itself,” Morin murmured with a sigh.

There was a time when countless people in his hometown, when their country was destroyed and their homes were destroyed, resolutely chose the same path.

Although he was now a Saxon officer, he couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for these Gallic soldiers.

"What a pity," Morin sighed.

Faced with an absolute disparity in strength, courage and conviction often have only a one in ten million chance of turning the tide.

The ancestors of Morin's hometown seized this one in ten million opportunity.

But these Gallic soldiers... Morin shook his head.

For the next few hours, the roar of 'Gungnir' became the only dominant melody on this battlefield.

One by one, the fortresses on the outskirts of Paris were reduced to piles of smoking wreckage by the targeted magic railgun.

The Paris defenses, painstakingly constructed by the Gauls, were by no means inferior to other fortresses in the region.

The fortress acceptance committee conducted the most rigorous inspection of this last line of defense protecting Paris.

Unfortunately, the fortress complex proved to be as fragile as paper in the face of the war behemoth from Saxony.

As darkness fell, the fortresses northeast of Paris had been completely cleared.

On the ground, only huge craters, like those from a meteorite impact, remained, silently telling the story of the one-sided massacre that had just taken place.

Meanwhile, the follow-up troops of the First Saxon Army finally arrived at this position.

Seeing this horrific scene, all the Saxon soldiers who arrived later were deeply shocked.

Some senior officers in the army group finally understood why the command had assigned the training assault battalion and that mysterious armored train to carry out this risky assault mission.

With such a powerful weapon, the so-called fortified fortress is simply a joke.

As night fell, bonfires were lit on the Saxons' makeshift positions.

The soldiers sat around the campfire, eating dinner and excitedly discussing the day's events, dreaming of storming Paris the next day.

After more than a month of arduous struggle, we are finally about to achieve final victory.

They, who had been quenching their thirst by looking at plums, were finally going to eat plums.

Meanwhile, Morin didn't rest; he was pestering Colonel Lucas, trying to get more information about 'Gungnir' from him.

Morin's persistent pleading also led to the continuous unlocking of new content in the system's "Information" tab.

This allowed him to roughly figure out the parameters of this 'twelve-stage acceleration magic cannon'.

Maximum range of 75 kilometers, average rate of fire of one round every 14 minutes, and barrel life of 200 rounds.

There is also another mode in the "Information" tab that is not fully unlocked, which seems to be specifically designed to counter fortress-level magic shields.

'Gungnir' is also the latest masterpiece of the Royal Academy of Magic. Although Colonel Lucas talked to me a lot during the day, the general principles and performance parameters he mentioned were just things he memorized from the operation manual.

Other more specific details are currently kept secret.
Moreover, the firing of 'Gungnir' can only be operated by a few magic technicians in the control room; no one else—not even Lucas—has the ability to control the cannon to fire.

The Saxon mages have improved somewhat this time, but only by a small margin.

As the two were talking, a messenger ran over.

"Captain Morin! General Mackenson and Chief of Staff Seekert have arrived! Please proceed to the temporary command post for a meeting immediately, along with Colonel Lucas!"

"Oh, the generals are here?" Morin and Lucas exchanged a glance, most likely about tomorrow's general offensive.

When they arrived at the makeshift command tent below where the L29 armored airship was hovering, General Mackensen and Lieutenant General Seekert were standing in front of a huge map of Paris, discussing something.

Grand Commander Leonia was resting to the side, and when she saw Morin come in, she smiled and greeted him.

General Mackensen turned around, saw Morin and Lucas, and nodded.

"Everyone's here, please have a seat."

"Friedrich, Lucas, you two did a fantastic job today!"

General Mackensen was lavish in his praise.

"You have cleared the biggest obstacle for the army group and bought us valuable time!"

“It’s what we should do, General!” Lucas said, straightening his chest excitedly. Morin followed suit.

"According to the plan, the main force of the army group will rest outside the city for one night." General Mackensen's finger traced across the map. "At nine o'clock tomorrow morning, we will launch a general offensive against Paris!"

"Our goal is to take control of the entire city of Paris in the shortest possible time!"

“If all goes well,” Lieutenant General Seeckt added, “we will end the war on the Western Front at least a week ahead of the timetable set by the General Staff!”

Inside the command tent, everyone's eyes burned with excitement.

They are about to witness history.

However, amidst her excitement, Morin keenly sensed something was amiss.

His gaze fell on the building that was highlighted on the map.

Eiffel Tower.

Shortly after seeing the spire of the Eiffel Tower in the afternoon, information about this 'spectacle' was unlocked in the system's [Information] tab.

In this world, the Eiffel Tower is more than just a symbolic iron tower.

It was also the Gauls' Tower of Magi.
He thought of the Gallic soldiers who had returned to Paris, and of the 'Sentinel' troops who had disappeared on the battlefield.

His intuition told him that tomorrow's battle might not be as easy as everyone imagined.

Paris, 7th arrondissement, Champ de Mars.

The area beneath the Eiffel Tower, usually bustling with tourists, was now eerily silent.

Only the cold moonlight shone on this steel behemoth, reflecting a chilling gleam.

Near the Eiffel Tower, a dim light shines from inside a low-rise building that looks unremarkable.

Its official name is "Fifth Office of the Logistics Department of the Army Ministry of the Gallic Republic." But it has a more clandestine identity—the headquarters of the 'Sentinel' unit in Paris.

The atmosphere in the underground command center was somewhat oppressive.

The seventeen surviving 'sentinels' sat or stood silently.

Each of them was wounded, their combat suits were tattered, and beneath their dark gold masks were pairs of bloodshot eyes filled with exhaustion and resentment.

In the battle at the Kree Line, their elite squad of twenty-five men lost eight members.

After escaping back to Paris through the permanent teleportation array beneath the headquarters, they were met not with reinforcements or new orders, but with the devastating news that the Sixth Army Command had moved south and Paris had been completely abandoned.

Normally, they should have also evacuated from Paris.

Because the main force of the 'Sentinel' unit was already engaged in the offensive in the south, the administrative staff of the Paris headquarters also went to Bordeaux with the government agencies after the Battle of Amiens.

"The general is gone, and the government is gone. They've left all of Paris to the Saxons."

Another 'sentinel' slammed his fist on the table with a thud.

"Bastard! Coward!"

Anger, betrayal, despair—all sorts of emotions fermented in the command room.

"Everyone be quiet!"

A burly 'sentinel' sitting at the head of the table suddenly stood up and shouted in a deep voice.

He was the commander of this remaining force, a sixth-circle sculptor.

His voice seemed to possess a certain magic, instantly silencing the previously noisy room.

"I know how everyone feels right now."

The commander surveyed his subordinates and slowly said:

"But anger and complaining solve nothing."

"The Saxon army is right outside the city. They will storm in first thing tomorrow morning. What we need to consider now is not who abandoned the capital, but what we should do next."

"What else can we do, sir!"

A young 'sentinel' stood up and said excitedly:

"Have you forgotten the oath we took when we joined the 'Sentinels'?! We are the 'Sentinels'! We are the shield of our motherland! Even if we die, we will die on the front lines of the capital!"

"That's right! Let's fight!"

"Let the Saxons know what we're made of!"

"Avenge our fallen comrades!"

The young man's words instantly ignited the suppressed fighting spirit in everyone's hearts.

They are the most elite warriors of the Gallo Republic, battle mages chosen from among thousands.

Each of them had undergone hellish training and brutal physical modifications, and their will had long been hardened like steel.

They are not afraid of dying; they are only afraid of dying in vain.

"I understand how you feel."

The commander nodded, but he remained remarkably calm.

"But with just seventeen of us, even if we all die in battle, how much damage can we inflict on the Saxons? Can we stop them from taking Paris?"

His question silenced everyone once again.

Yes, although they were extremely capable in individual combat, they were like a mantis trying to stop a chariot when faced with the overwhelming force of the Saxons. They were so small and powerless.

"Then what should we do? Are we just going to stand by and watch?"

"Don't we still have those soldiers who were withdrawn?"

The commander said:
"According to the information we obtained during the day, many soldiers who were withdrawn from Creil have spontaneously returned to Paris and are deploying in various districts."

"Although they are leaderless, their will to defend their homeland is unwavering! If we can organize them..."

Just then, the door to the command room was pushed open.

A middle-aged mage dressed in a gray robe strode in.

His robes were embroidered with an eye-like symbol.

This symbol represents the Loire Eye Mage Order, the true creators of the 'Sentinel' forces.

"Commander Bastian."

The middle-aged mage bowed slightly to the 'sentinel' commander.

“Master Eiffel requests that you and your men proceed to the ‘Tower’ immediately.”

“Master Eiffel?” Bastian was taken aback. “Didn’t he retreat to Bordeaux with the mage corps and the government?”

"Master Eiffel has not left."

The middle-aged monk shook his head.

"He said that home is where the Tower of the Magisters is. As the founder of the Tower of the Magisters, he would never abandon Paris."

Upon hearing this, a strange light flashed in the eyes of all the 'sentinels' in the command room.

Bastian was silent for a moment, then nodded sharply.

"Understood! We'll be right there!"

He turned around and looked at his subordinates with eyes as sharp as knives.

"Gentlemen! We are not fighting alone! Master Eiffel is still standing with us!"

"Check your weapons! Gather all potions and magic crystals! Prepare to depart!"

"Yes!"

The seventeen 'sentinels' roared in unison, their voices filled with determination and ferocity.

They may not be able to change the outcome of the war, but they decided to use their lives and blood to defend the oath they took when they joined the team after undergoing reformation.

"We will become the last shield of our motherland."

(End of this chapter)