Inside the temporary command post of the Fifth Army Group, about forty kilometers away from the current defense line of the "Morin Kampfgruppe," Crown Prince Georg hadn't closed his eyes all night.
He had boiled the coffee pot dry twice, and a small pile of cigarette butts accumulated on the floor—a habit he never displayed in front of others, but he truly couldn't hold on tonight.
Because starting late last night, the "Morin Kampfgruppe" sent a telegram notifying the rear: "Colonel Morin has led the reserve force into action."
Immediately following were several consecutive telegrams reporting that various positions of the Kampfgruppe were under attack.
After that, aside from regular telegrams confirming all was normal at the Kampfgruppe headquarters, there was prolonged silence.
Georg and the others could only piece together a general picture from fragmented information—Morin's Kampfgruppe was simultaneously under night attack from multiple directions.
And the recurring words in the telegrams—"monsters," "non-human targets," "Vukodlak"—made Crown Prince Georg, Chief of Staff Major General Knobelsdorff, and the other staff officers in the command post realize that this time...
The intelligence was real.
For once, the intelligence personnel of the Army General Staff's 3rd Bureau were reliable. In the enemy situation briefing before entering the Balkan Peninsula, they had noted the potential existence of supernatural combat units among the Balkan nations.
"Vukodlak" was just one of them. And according to intelligence, the Kingdom of Greater Serbia possessed another supernatural force besides the "Vukodlak."
At the beginning of the war, the Austro-Hungarian Army's failure to capture several important cities in the Kingdom of Greater Serbia was indeed partially due to these supernatural forces, aside from their own weak combat capabilities...
However, due to the meager magic crystal ore reserves in the Balkan Peninsula, magitech was actually not well-developed here. Instead, they continued a traditional method dating back centuries, using magic crystal ore extracts to augment and modify the human body.
This also led the Balkan nations to develop a technological path entirely different from the rest of Europa.
Coupled with overall national strength, the scale of these nations' supernatural combat units was not large.
In the analysis of the General Staff's 3rd Bureau, they couldn't cause too much impact on a strategic level—provided, of course, the Austro-Hungarian troops didn't encounter them...
Around 5:00 AM, Fifth Army Group Chief of Staff Major General Knobelsdorff walked over from the army group radio tent, holding another new telegram.
"Your Highness, this just came from the 'Morin Kampfgruppe' headquarters."
Georg took it and read it. The telegram was brief, and the wording was very much in Morin's style.
"Night attacks from all directions repelled. Ammunition consumption extremely high. Subsequent combat requires more support from friendly forces. Request reconnaissance aircraft be dispatched immediately at daybreak to scout enemy situation to the north."
Georg stared at the word "repelled" on the telegram for a long time.
"Repelled..."
His shoulders visibly sagged. The string that had been taut all night finally loosened just a bit.
Major General Knobelsdorff noticed the Crown Prince's change in state and spoke at the right moment:
"Your Highness, this isn't the first time Colonel Morin has emerged unscathed from such a situation."
"Of course I know that."
Georg rubbed his temples and handed the telegram back.
Aside from Cecilia, no one understood Morin better than he did...
This young officer could always find a way out of impossible situations. But the problem was—every time, he was dancing on the edge of a knife. Georg had never imagined that as Imperial Crown Prince, he would experience such nerve-wracking moments, and more than once.
"How are the arrangements for the reconnaissance aircraft?"
Georg walked to the map table, cutting straight to the chase.
"The aviation unit directly subordinate to the army group has been notified."
Major General Knobelsdorff, impeccable in handling such matters, opened another record in his hand and replied, "They responded that flight plans are ready, and the reconnaissance aircraft can take off from the field airfield at any time after daybreak."
"Excellent! Have them go up immediately at first light. Lord Friedrich needs the exact position of the Serbian Third Army to the north... Send a few extra sorties; we must ensure optimal aerial reconnaissance results."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Major General Knobelsdorff took the order and quickly left the command post.
Saxon Fifth Army Group, frontline field airfield.
Though called a field airfield, it was in reality vastly different from the "field airfields" of Morin's world.
At best, it was a leveled patch of grass, with the runway consisting of two grayish-white tracks pressed by stone rollers.
Along the edge of the field stood several large wooden and canvas hangars, housing six "Taube" monoplane reconnaissance aircraft belonging to the army group's aviation unit.
Although the Saxon Empire already had an independent Air Force branch, this branch was initially established solely for armored airships... After airplanes were invented in recent years, though the Air Force procured a batch, the Saxon Imperial Army was actually equipped with a far larger quantity. These early monoplanes were basically attached to army groups as aerial reconnaissance assets.
Given the lack of proficiency in joint operations between branches, the Army equipping its own reconnaissance aircraft was clearly much more convenient than calling on the Air Force when needed.
The ground crew at the field airfield had been busy since receiving the order from the army group headquarters.
They turned on the lighting in the hangars and began inspecting engines, control cables, and fuel levels one by one...
In the pilots' standby tent, six young officers, awakened early, sat in camp chairs waiting for takeoff orders.
Some were gnawing on bread, some flipping through yesterday's flight logs, and others simply dozing with their flight caps in their arms.
These pilots were all very young—the oldest no more than twenty-five, the youngest just twenty.
Although "synchronization gears" had been invented, and various army groups had begun installing machine guns on their aircraft, the young pilots in this tent had not yet experienced true combat flying. Their previous missions consisted primarily of training and short-range reconnaissance.
The tent flap was suddenly lifted, and a head poked in.
It was the aviation unit's adjutant—a first lieutenant who always sported dark circles under his eyes and looked ten years older than his actual age.
He swept his gaze over the young faces in the tent, then locked onto the person sitting in the farthest corner.
It was a lean young second lieutenant with slightly messy golden-brown short hair, head bowed, writing something in a leather-bound notebook.
Compared to the other pilots, his expression was exceptionally quiet, even somewhat nonchalant.
The adjutant cleared his throat and shouted loudly:
"Manfred, you're first today!"
The young pilot called by name raised his head. He looked to be in his early twenties, with chiseled features.
Unlike the other pilots in the tent, a small hunter's badge was pinned to the collar of his uniform—a traditional ornament of certain noble families in the Saxon Empire.
"Is it a reconnaissance mission?" The young pilot hung his flight goggles around his neck while standing up and walking briskly out of the tent.
"Yes, direct order from Army Group Command... Fly northeast to reconnoiter the movements of the Serbian Third Army... This was personally urged by His Highness the Crown Prince, so you'd better—"
"Understood, I'll head out right away."
Manfred smiled, saluted the other, then ducked out of the tent.
The field airfield outside the tent was in organized chaos.
When Manfred von Richthofen stepped out of the tent, the morning breeze carrying the scent of dew on the grass hit his face, making him subconsciously take several deep breaths of fresh air.
His aircraft had already been pushed out of the temporary hangar by the ground crew.
This improved "Taube" monoplane reconnaissance aircraft differed significantly from early two-seater versions. Structural and material optimizations provided a qualitative leap in flight performance, and the latest synchronization gear along with a 7.92mm heavy machine gun were mounted in front of the nose.
But the price was the removal of the rear seat due to payload issues.
Piloting, combat, reconnaissance—all relied on him alone.
Manfred didn't rush to board the plane, but walked a lap around the fuselage.
Were the wing fabrics loose? Were the control cables worn? Were there cracks in the landing gear joints? Even though the ground crew had just checked, he went over everything again from start to finish.
This habit was taught to him by an old pilot when he first joined the aviation unit.
"Your life hangs on this plane. Don't entrust it entirely to others."
At the time, Manfred thought those words were a bit melodramatic... but after experiencing his first control cable snag in mid-air, he never felt they were melodramatic again.
Finishing the inspection, Manfred patted the fuselage, climbed nimbly into the cockpit, and slid into the seat.
The leather seat was icy cold. He rubbed his hands together and quickly fastened his seatbelt.
"Magnetos off! Prime!"
He shouted outside.
NCO Frey, the ground crew chief responsible for this plane, and another mechanic jogged to the front of the propeller.
This was the heart of the entire aircraft: a Mercedes D.I, 100-horsepower inline six-cylinder radiant crystal engine.
Since it was a cold start, Frey picked up a primer and injected a small amount of radiant crystal fuel into the cylinders.
"Priming complete!"
Having finished, Frey stood in a lunge, one hand resting on the propeller, the other raised high with a thumbs-up. The other mechanic also took his position beside him.
Manfred leaned out, glanced at the ground crew NCO's thumbs-up, flipped the magneto switch to "On," and gently pushed the throttle.
"Contact!"
"Whoosh—"
Frey and the mechanic forcefully pulled the propeller blade down simultaneously.
The engine coughed dryly twice, spewed a puff of blue-white oily smoke, and died.
"Again! Harder!" Frey yelled at the mechanic.
Second try.
"Boom!"
The propeller spun violently. The engine let out an explosive roar, the spinning blades instantly becoming a blurry disc, while Frey and the mechanic quickly ran to the side.
The entire wooden fuselage shook violently with it; Manfred felt his teeth chattering.
He wasn't in a hurry to go, letting the engine idle. The cylinders and oil needed to reach operating temperature; this couldn't be rushed.
During this time, Manfred began pushing and pulling the control stick in small increments and tapping the rudder pedals.
Left, center.
Right, center.
Push forward, pull back.
The control unit's response was fairly sensitive, without snagging.
When he estimated the temperature was about right, Ground Crew NCO Frey moved to the side of the runway, looked left and right, and gave Manfred a thumbs-up—runway clear.
Manfred released the tailwheel brake.
The "Taube's" taildragger landing gear had a fatal flaw—when taxiing on the ground, the nose pointed high up, completely obstructing the forward view with the engine cowling and upper wing.
He couldn't see a thing.
So at this time, he could only judge his heading by the small patches of ground visible under the wings on both sides.
Manfred immediately began "S-turns" according to takeoff regulations.
He leaned out to look left, stomped hard on the right rudder pedal, then glanced right, and stomped the left rudder.
The tailwheel dragged a meandering groove in the grass as the plane twisted its way toward the end of the runway.
After confirming a headwind via the windsock erected beside the runway, Manfred took a deep breath and pushed the throttle to the firewall.
"Full speed."
The whine of the Mercedes engine jumped an octave as the plane began accelerating across the grass.
However, this acceleration wasn't something that finished in a short while. The entire fuselage bounced wildly on the uneven grass. With every jolt, Manfred worried if that fragile landing gear would snap clean off.
The airspeed indicator needle climbed.
50... 60... 70.
At 70 km/h, he felt the tail begin to lighten.
Manfred gently pushed the control stick forward, lowering the nose to lift the tailwheel off the ground. The plane sprinted across the grass on just its two main wheels.
At the end of the runway was a patch of shrubs, approaching at a visible speed.
Feeling the speed was sufficient, Manfred decisively pulled back on the stick.
The nose pitched up abruptly, and the main wheels left the ground.
The plane paused at an altitude of less than two meters, as if hesitating—ground effect was holding it back.
"Get up..."
Manfred gripped the control stick tightly.
Speed continued to climb, lift finally overcame gravity. The "Taube" wobbled into the morning mist, its wheels narrowly brushing the tops of the shrubs.
50 meters... 70 meters... 100 meters...
The altimeter needle turned sluggishly, but Manfred's heartbeat finally steadied.
The world below unfolded.
The fish-belly white of the eastern horizon dyed the distant river surface a grayish-blue. The Serbian mountains further away were still wrapped in morning mist, revealing only blurry outlines.
Manfred adjusted his heading, pointing the nose southwest—towards the "Morin Kampfgruppe"—and accelerated.
His flight path today was roughly a triangle: taking off from the field airfield, first arriving at the "Morin Kampfgruppe," then turning north for reconnaissance, and finally flying straight back to the field airfield.
Standing by the runway, watching the monoplane fly higher and higher, Ground Crew NCO Frey looked down, picked up a pen with oil-stained hands, and wrote a few lines in the takeoff log:
"May 1, 0552 Takeoff. Pilot: First Lieutenant Manfred von Richthofen. Mission: Frontline Tactical Reconnaissance."
Meanwhile, at the 4th Battalion's position.
Morin leaned against the trench wall, his double-barreled shotgun resting on his knees, eyes closed, resting.
Traces of battle were everywhere—spent casings, splintered wood, scorched earth, and corpses covered with canvas.
Just then, a line of text scrolled across the pitch-black field of his closed eyes—[Friendly reconnaissance aircraft airborne, map information updating.]
Seeing this prompt, Morin immediately woke up and called up the system map.
From the direction of the Fifth Army Group headquarters, a unit card representing an aircraft was moving rapidly, its speed far exceeding any ground vehicle.
Its heading was northeast—flying straight toward him.
"Having friends in high places makes things so easy, aerial reconnaissance is basically on call..."
"Say, does this count as a 'killstreak reward'?"
Strange thoughts involuntarily flashed through Morin's mind while he zoomed out the map, preparing to focus on the broader battlefield situation once the reconnaissance aircraft completed its mission.
Immediately after, unable to sit still, Morin stood back up, preparing to stretch his limbs.
Major Hoffmann, dozing nearby wrapped in his overcoat, was awakened by the movement and sleepily raised his eyelids.
"Colonel, what's the situation?"
"Nothing, just warming up."
"Warming up? Hasn't the battle already ended?" Major Hoffmann was somewhat puzzled. He had fought a truly high-intensity battle all night, and his energy was failing to keep up.
"You'll know later... It's almost fully light now. Have your men make the most of this last bit of time to eat and resupply ammunition."
Morin brushed the dirt off his clothes and answered calmly:
"We might have to fight again soon."
"Fight again?" Hoffmann's drowsiness vanished for the most part. "Weren't those monsters cleared out?"
"The monsters are cleared." Morin slung his shotgun over his shoulder. "But the people who sent them haven't left yet."
Manfred flew the reconnaissance aircraft over the "Morin Kampfgruppe's" position.
He deliberately lowered his altitude to about one hundred meters. At this height, he maintained some safety while seeing the ground much more clearly.
Right now, the full view of the defensive position the plane passed over was taken in by Manfred—the spiderweb of trenches, the destroyed barbed wire, the craters large and small on the ground.
And the charred earth in front of several positions, along with some corpses that hadn't been cleared away yet.
But Manfred didn't have time to look closer; his mission was to reconnoiter the north.
So he quickly pulled up again, adjusting his course to fly northeast.
However, as his altitude increased and his field of vision broadened, Manfred caught a glimpse of a scene that made his pupils shrink violently.
The two Serbian infantry divisions blocked by the "Morin Kampfgruppe" were not hunkering down in place at this moment; they had begun to move.
Massive numbers of infantry were pouring out of their temporary positions, advancing along several predetermined routes. The small number of artillery that had obviously been heavily damaged were also adjusting their firing angles. The intent was crystal clear.
"They're going to attack!"
Manfred subconsciously wanted to contact the ground, only to remember there was no radio on this plane.
"Damn it..."
He gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to turn back.
If he turned back to report now, he wouldn't get the northern intelligence, and what the army group headquarters wanted was precisely the position of the Serbian Third Army in the north.
But if he continued flying north, by the time he flew back, the Serbian attack might have already begun, leaving the soldiers on the ground completely unaware.
Manfred hesitated in the cockpit for about three seconds.
"Complete the mission first."
He pushed the throttle forward, and the "Taube" accelerated northward.
And the situation in the north indeed didn't make his trip vain... but it clearly wasn't good news.
When the plane flew about seven or eight kilometers north past the "Morin Kampfgruppe's" defense line, Manfred saw a scene that made him gasp—the ground was densely packed with people.
The main force of the Serbian Third Army, in an extremely long marching column, was advancing southward.
Infantry, artillery, supply trains... the numbers were too vast to count from the air.
Manfred pulled a pencil from his kneeboard, controlling the plane with one hand while rapidly recording on his reconnaissance pad—the approximate bearing of the marching column, the direction of extension, and estimated troop size.
"This should be the first wave of attack troops, at least the size of two or three regiments... no, more."
He squinted, identifying horse-drawn equipment in the column—field artillery.
Finished recording, Manfred immediately banked the plane and began heading back.
However, he didn't fly straight to the field airfield. After confirming he had enough fuel left, Manfred flew the reconnaissance aircraft over the positions about to be attacked.
Bold and highly skilled, he pushed the plane to an extremely low altitude, a height even he felt was a bit risky.
The roar of the engine swept overhead, causing many soldiers in the position to look up.
Manfred freed one hand, pointing frantically and repeatedly toward the other side—the direction where the two infantry divisions of the Serbian Second Army were massing.
Once, twice, three times.
He saw a few soldiers below waving at him, but couldn't tell if they were responding to his warning or just greeting the plane.
"This is all I can do, please understand it..."
Manfred muttered silently in his heart, then pulled the nose up and flew full speed toward the field airfield.