After seeing the warning message pop up from the system, Morin felt entirely unwell.
If he had to use a sense of déjà vu to describe his mood at this moment, Morin felt it was probably like when he played Red Alert 2 as a kid, and the emotionless electronic female voice suddenly sounded in his headphones:
"Warning: Weather Control Device Detected."
Except in the game, Morin still had room to operate, and could even directly chronosphere to swap bases.
But here, as that biting chill crawled up his spine, Morin found that for the moment, he had no way to deal with it.
This was the first time since his transmigration that Morin truly faced the coercive pressure of a high-tier spell head-on.
In the magic system of this world, the presence of Tier-8 and Tier-9 spells was actually very subtle.
Because the number of spellcasters who mastered this level of power was as rare as giant pandas... No, there are way more giant pandas than these high-tier spellcasters...
Coupled with the fact that high-tier spellcasters were basically all concentrated in the Highland Mage Order of the Holy Britannia Empire, and rarely went on field missions on regular days, preferring to conduct research in mage towers.
So even after the outbreak of this all-out war, no spells of Tier-8 or above had appeared on the conventional battlefield.
As for Tier-9 spells, their strategic status now was basically equivalent to the "nuclear deterrent" of Morin's previous life.
This point also had to be credited to that bunch of "magic barbarians" in the Highland Mage Order who specialized in the Evocation and Transmutation schools.
In the cognition of the vast majority of ordinary people, a Tier-9 spell roughly equaled [Meteor Swarm]—that kind of world-destroying, apocalyptic spell that directly summoned extraterrestrial meteorites to wash the ground.
Back then, the Britannians and Saxons had a dispute in the North African colonies, each deploying troops and fighting fiercely. The North African Legion led by General Mackensen once held the upper hand.
But all this was completely reversed after a Tier-9 Legendary Archmage arrived in North Africa and released [Meteor Swarm] while the two armies were engaged in battle.
That battle could be called "General Mackensen's heartbreak moment," making the old general deeply taboo about Britannian mages ever since...
And it also directly smashed the Saxons to the negotiation table, thoroughly deifying Tier-9 spells and making them the Sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of all nations.
Although the Tier-8 spell released by the opponent right now wasn't as intuitively devastating as [Meteor Swarm], it was no joke.
Morin, shivering while buttoning up his collar tightly, looked at the system's [Spells] tab.
Although his current spellcaster level was not enough for him to master this strategic-level spell, the system's database thoughtfully refreshed the relevant information the instant he came into contact with the spell's magical fluctuations.
[Tier-8 Transmutation Spell — Weather Control]
[Duration: Concentration. During the spell's duration, the spellcaster can completely control the weather conditions within a 2.5-kilometer radius.]
[The spellcaster can alter precipitation, temperature, and wind conditions. After a condition change is complete, the spellcaster can act upon the current weather conditions again.]
[Each weather change takes approximately 10-20 minutes to take effect, but after taking effect, the next adjustment can also be made at any time.]
"This thing feels fiercer than a 'Lightning Storm'..."
Morin complained. Although northern Gaul in December had also entered winter, it was at least still within an acceptable range.
But the surrounding temperature was currently dropping crazily at a speed violating the laws of thermodynamics.
Even though he was currently at the very edge of the spell's area of effect, the feeling of plummeting temperature was terrifyingly obvious.
This wasn't an ordinary change in weather.
Morin reached out his hand and caught a piece of white crystal falling from the sky. It wasn't a snowflake, but ice formed directly by water vapor sublimating under extreme cold. Landing on exposed skin, it actually gave a slight stinging sensation.
"Ice Storm? Damn it... Are they trying to pull that 'General Winter' stunt?"
Morin shivered violently, instantly realizing what the other party wanted to do.
He looked at the system map. The center point of the spell's effect happened to be located on the main axis of the Saxon First Army Group's counterattack.
If this spell were allowed to take full effect, this area would turn into a freezing hell in a short time.
Right now was the critical moment for the Saxon First Army Group to launch a large-scale counterattack. The soldiers had just climbed out of the trenches after finishing the previous round of fierce fighting, covered in either sweat or muddy water.
If the temperature suddenly dropped to minus ten degrees Celsius or even lower at this time, coupled with the accompanying blizzard...
The Britannians wouldn't even need to fire a shot; hypothermia alone could cause tens of thousands of Saxon soldiers to lose combat capability.
Gun bolts would freeze, recoil springs would become brittle, originally muddy ground would turn into hard and slippery ice, and even the spades of the artillery in the rear might be unable to anchor because the ground was frozen.
This was not a simple tactical strike, but an attempt to directly disable this wave of the First Army Group's offensive through this hour-long extreme weather change.
"This won't do. I must go scatter that guy who is currently casting..."
Realizing the severity of the problem, Morin could no longer care about resting.
He grabbed the double-barreled shotgun leaning against the dirt wall, turned around, and sprinted wildly toward the communication trench.
"Regimental Commander! Where are you going?!" Rommel yelled from behind, but Morin didn't even have time to turn his head to explain.
"Hold the position! Guard against Britannian attacks!"
The wind grew stronger, carrying fine ice crystals that hit the face like countless tiny needles pricking.
Morin felt his hands and feet becoming somewhat stiff in this rapidly dropping temperature, and the cold air drawn into his lungs scraped his trachea like razor blades.
It felt like he had traveled from northern Gaul to Siberia, and this was only the fringe area of the spell's effect.
As for the situation in the core area, Morin didn't even dare to imagine...
The wind grew even stronger.
What was originally just a biting cold wind had now turned into a howling gale, sweeping up the newly fallen ice crystals, hitting the face with stinging pain.
By the time Morin rushed into the basic command post of the instruction unit located in the second trench, a layer of white frost had already formed on his eyebrows and hair.
"Bang!"
That makeshift door pieced together from wooden boards was violently pushed open by him. Kleist, Manstein, and Paulus, who were originally arguing about something in front of the map, were startled by this sudden commotion.
But upon seeing clearly that the person was the "missing person" who should be fighting bayonets on the very front line, the expressions of the three instantly changed from vigilance to pleasant surprise, and then immediately turned into worry.
The current Morin indeed looked a bit miserable.
His combat uniform could no longer show its original color, plastered with mud, bloodstains, and soot marks from gunpowder smoke.
The hair under his helmet was plastered messily on his forehead, and a faint layer of white frost hung on his eyebrows and eyelashes.
"God bless! You're finally back, Lieutenant Colonel!"
Kleist was the first to rush up, looking Morin up and down, seemingly wanting to confirm if his regimental commander was missing any parts.
"I swear I will not let you charge to the front line again next time..."
Although the "chief steward" of the instruction unit said this, he was obviously relieved, his tightly knitted brows also relaxing.
Manstein had a look of "Your Excellency the Lieutenant Colonel, I knew you would act recklessly." He just wanted to open his mouth and preach some nonsense about how a commander shouldn't lead the charge when he was abruptly interrupted by Morin.
"Alright, don't talk about this now! The telephone! Connect me to the Army Group Headquarters!"
Morin's voice was hoarse and urgent, carrying an unquestionable oppressiveness. He didn't even have time to wipe the frost water off his face, rushing directly to the table where the field telephone was placed.
Seeing Morin acting like the sky was falling, the several people in the command post also realized that things were serious.
Thanks to the First Army Group strictly following standards during the construction of the trenches, a large number of telephone lines were also laid.
The section of the trench where the instruction unit was located even had a dedicated line pulled through a relay station directly to the Army Group Headquarters.
Manstein didn't say a word, running directly in front of the wired telephone, personally grabbing the crank, and starting to turn it frantically.
"This is the basic command post of the instruction unit! We need to connect to the Army Group Command! Yes... urgent military intelligence! Highest level! Transfer me!"
"...Bzz... This is the Communications Office of the First Army Group Headquarters, please speak."
Morin snatched the receiver and roared, "I am Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Morin! I have extremely urgent intelligence to report directly to General Mackensen!"
The other end of the phone fell silent for a second, seemingly thrown off by this sudden request, before a somewhat troubled voice came: "Sorry, Your Excellency the Lieutenant Colonel... General Mackensen and Chief of Staff Seeckt, along with the staff group, went to the forward observation post to inspect the battle situation twenty minutes ago, and are currently not at the headquarters..."
"Going to the front line at a time like this?!"
Morin slammed his fist hard on the table, shaking the map and pencils on it into the air.
Why did these old Saxon generals all have this kind of virtue?
These two old men didn't go early or late, but just had to run to the front line to join the fun at this time?!
Especially General Mackensen, clearly having suffered a loss in Seville once already, yet still running to the front line now.
"Then who's in charge at the headquarters now? Who can mobilize the army group artillery? Get him on the phone! Quick!"
"Currently holding the fort is Colonel Schmidt of the Operations Department... please wait a moment."
Those dozen seconds waiting for the transfer felt simply longer than a century to Morin.
He could feel the surrounding air getting colder and colder; even inside this bunker buried deep underground, the temperature was plummeting.
Paulus very observantly handed over a cup of hot water. Morin didn't even look and gulped it down. The warm liquid slightly drove away a bit of the chill inside his body.
"This is Colonel Schmidt." A steady middle-aged male voice finally came from the earpiece. "Lieutenant Colonel Morin, I heard you have an emergency?"
"Listen up, Colonel! We don't have time to go through those reporting procedures!"
Morin took a deep breath and spoke extremely fast:
"The Britannians' Highland Mages are casting a spell! It's a Tier-8 Transmutation spell—[Weather Control]!"
"If we don't interrupt them immediately, in at most twenty more minutes, the entire front line will turn into the Siberian tundra! Our troops within the spell's range will suffer heavy losses!"
A brief silence occurred on the other end of the phone.
"Lieutenant Colonel..."
Colonel Schmidt's voice carried obvious hesitation:
"Are you sure it's a Tier-8 spell? And Weather Control? As far as I know, there is currently no intelligence indicating that the Britannian Expeditionary Force has an archmage of this level accompanying the army... Moreover, mobilizing the army group artillery cluster for suppressive fire just because the weather got colder, this..."
"This is against regulations, right?!"
Morin interrupted him directly, his voice somewhat hoarse with anger:
"Colonel! Step out of the bunker right now and look up at the sky! Is this fucking ordinary weather change?! Where in the world does the temperature plummet like this in a few minutes?!"
"But..."
Colonel Schmidt still hesitated somewhat. After all, this concerned matters involving the entire army group's offensive.
"Mobilizing heavy artillery for suppressive fire requires the General's authorization, and our current artillery shell reserves..."
"Don't talk about authorization and reserves at a time like this!"
"Trust me, I'm a mage! Colonel, do you think I understand magic or you understand magic?!"
This sentence, "I'm a mage," obviously had a certain effect.
In the Saxon army, spellcasters inherently carried a kind of mysterious aura.
Not to mention the name Friedrich Morin had been thunderous in the army recently.
Colonel Schmidt on the other end of the phone was stunned by this roar. After hesitating for a moment, his tone finally softened:
"Alright, Lieutenant Colonel... if you insist. But I need target coordinates, and I must have the artillery observation balloons confirm it first..."
Hearing his words, Morin grabbed the map on the table and continuously switched to the system map for location correlation.
The system map was quite helpful in this regard, not only giving the spell's area of effect but even thoughtfully marking the casting origin point.
"Listen up! I'll give you the coordinates! Have the artillery immediately, right now, carry out suppressive fire on this area!"
Morin stared at the system map and rapidly read out a string of precise coordinate parameters.
"Coordinate system using the Army Group Headquarters as the datum point, azimuth 275, distance XXX, elevation correction XXX!"
"Understood, keep the line open."
After Colonel Schmidt finished speaking, the sound of him loudly calling his adjutant to contact the artillery command post came through the phone.
After Morin finished speaking, everyone in the instruction unit command post was stunned.
Kleist, Manstein, and Paulus all looked at Morin with complex eyes.
They never imagined that their infantry regimental commander would also be so proficient in artillery guidance.
And that roar just now, that domineering aura of bypassing the chain of command, and that absolute control over the situation...
Need not say more; a man among men.
"Why are you all looking at me?"
Morin turned to look at everyone, picked up the water cup beside him, took another sip, and then continued:
"Hurry up, have logistics bring up all the strong liquor, cotton quilts, and overcoats they can find! Our current winter gear is definitely not enough."
"Regardless of whether the artillery can interrupt that spell, this damned weather won't get better for a while!"
"Yes! Sir!"