Cannon Fire Arc

Chapter 974: Chapter 21: Reunion with an Old Friend_2

The Chief of Staff walked up to him and said, “It’s said that even in the second year of invading the Anteans, the Prosens didn’t think much of them, which is why they insisted on stationing heavy troops on the Western Front to guard against an Allied landing.”

General: “Why bring this up? The facts have already turned out the way they are. The higher-ups are probably considering negotiating with Ante to agree to a divided occupation of Prosen territory. Especially Leonard from the United Kingdom—he would definitely want this.”

Chief of Staff: “A massive secular Prosen… Prime Minister Leonard will never sleep well again in his lifetime.”

General Gary: “I think that’s not the only thing he’ll worry about—among the United Kingdom’s high-ranking staff, it’s said that there are already quite a few secular faction followers.”

“As if the Federation doesn’t have any,” he replied sarcastically.

————

Bucephalus galloped wildly, making Wang Zhong’s backside ache terribly.

Riding a bicycle for extended periods makes your rear sore and tired—how much worse, then, is horseback riding?

As Bucephalus ran, the horse’s strides were enormous, causing the saddle to jolt far more than Wang Zhong had anticipated.

When there were only 25 kilometers left to the destination, Wang Zhong couldn’t bear it anymore. After confirming there were no hostile targets nearby, he yanked the reins hard to make Bucephalus stop.

The jeep following behind also came to a halt immediately. Grigori shouted loudly, “What’s wrong? Can’t handle your sore butt?”

Wang Zhong nodded, dismounting while clutching his aching hips and grimacing.

The road ahead still had troops marching, but most merely dismissed Wang Zhong as yet another decoy staged by Vasily’s Psychological Warfare Headquarters.

However, as Wang Zhong stopped to rest, those passing by began sensing something amiss.

“Hey, why do you look so much like Marshal Davarish from the newspaper?” an old soldier passing by asked in confusion.

Wang Zhong replied, “Because I *am* Marshal Rokossovsky. This horse here—this is my steed, Bucephalus.”

The veteran froze in shock. “Truly?”

“He has to say that,” joked a Private Second Class next to him. “Otherwise, if the Prosens overhear that their dreaded ’Marshal’ is just a stand-in, they’d have nothing to fear anymore!”

“No, I wouldn’t mistake him—this is the Marshal from the photos! Marshal Davarish, please issue your commands!”

Wang Zhong: “Keep advancing—our target is Plowsonia!”

“Yes, sir!”

The old soldier saluted and rejoined the marching unit.

The warriors passing by after him all gazed at Wang Zhong with admiration, some even switching their rifle grips into ceremonial salutes.

After resting briefly and drinking some water, Wang Zhong mounted Bucephalus once more and resumed galloping toward Plowsonia.

By now, the densely packed buildings of the Satellite City alongside the road were already visible.

Stas had taken over part of the city, and soldiers patrolling along the streets were easily observable.

Evidently, these soldiers hadn’t seen Wang Zhong’s photograph; they entirely dismissed him as an impostor.

When he rode into the central square of a village, he saw members of Stas and the Antean secular Church distributing food. Wang Zhong stopped and asked a Priest standing by the cauldrons, “What’s the condition of the Prosen civilians?”

The Priest answered, “Terrible. Many haven’t had meat in a long time, and the only vegetable they get is cabbage.”

At this point, a Guardian Army soldier nearby added, “These folks eat poorly and have even had all the metal in their homes confiscated, but what remains still shows they’re far better off than us. You can tell they’ve lived far wealthier lives—so why did they invade us?”

Wang Zhong: “I’m heading to ask their Emperor that exact question. I’ll make sure his answer is published in the newspapers.”

Guardian Army soldier: “You say it so confidently, like you’re really Marshal Rokossovsky. Aren’t you just a stand-in from the Psychological Warfare Unit?”

Wang Zhong thought to himself, *Even a Guardian Army soldier knows about this. The Prosen regulars probably know too.*

And yet Vasily hadn’t reported the plan’s failure.

Which meant that even if the enemy knew about the fake Rokossovsky, they were still afraid.

*Perhaps if I had joined the frontlines earlier, Plowsonia might’ve fallen days ago,* Wang Zhong mused.

He gently tapped Bucephalus’s belly with his heels, prompting the white horse to gallop once more.

Bucephalus dashed out of the village and charged up a nearby hill, presenting Wang Zhong with a panoramic view of Plowsonia’s main city stretching across the entire horizon.

Dozens of thick columns of smoke rose from the city proper, climbing straight into the sky.

Wang Zhong suddenly heard hoofbeats beside him. Turning his head, he saw Crown Prince Ivan riding a chestnut Don River Horse approaching at a slow trot, followed by the elderly Duke Rokossov, seated atop the family’s old black horse.

The two halted beside Wang Zhong, joining him in gazing at the burning Plowsonia below.

Soon after, Wang Zhong heard a familiar voice call out, “General, it’s Plowsonia!”

Yakov sprinted past Bucephalus, stopping just ahead of the horse and pointing toward the city in the distance. “We’ve finally arrived!”

The cold wind swept through, lifting the tail of Yakov’s scarf—gifted to Wang Zhong—as it fluttered in the breeze.

A moment later, Wang Zhong saw the first-generation 422 crew members, supporting each other, appearing behind their horses and alongside Sergeant Gregory’s vehicles.

Even Alyosha, who had perished at Loktov, stood there. He was holding hands with the girl he loved, side by side in the afternoon sunlight, upon the snowy fields.

Moved, Wang Zhong pulled a notebook filled with names from his pocket.

In truth, after filling the first book, Wang Zhong had stopped recording names—there were simply too many to remember. Countless notebooks would never suffice.

And many people, he thought, no one even knows where or how they fell.

As Wang Zhong flipped open the notebook, he seemed to glimpse countless fallen comrades standing behind him, like a ghostly, summoned army of the dead.

This mighty legion stretched endlessly, covering the entire plain.

Suddenly, a howling gust of wind, carrying flurrying snow, enveloped him, blinding his sight.

When he opened his eyes again, the spectral army had vanished—only Yakov’s scarf remained, fluttering in the wind.

Sergeant Gregory: “Marshal?”

Wang Zhong: “I’m fine. I had a brief hallucination—or rather, a beautiful vision. I imagined that those who sacrificed themselves, the countless nameless heroes, are still with us.”

Gregory: “If only that were true, how great it would be.”

Wang Zhong: “Yes. If only it were true, how great it would be.”

With that, he gently nudged Bucephalus forward again. The white horse reared up on its hind legs, let out a resounding neigh at the sky, and then charged downhill toward Plowsonia.

Gregory hastily jumped back into the jeep, chasing the white horse down the slope.

The sound of the jeep’s engine once again sparked an auditory illusion in Wang Zhong’s mind—he heard a great army thundering after him.

Wang Zhong cried out at the top of his lungs, “ALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Though it was just one man, one horse, and a single jeep, it seemed as if an army of a million surged forward with him.

On December 13, 917, in the afternoon, Marshal Aleksei Konstantinovich Rokossovsky surged into the long-coveted Plowsonia.

————

The bunker of the Prosen Royal Palace.

The Prosen Emperor suddenly thrust open the door to his office.

In the hallway, Celtic Marshal Kyle and his deputy turned in astonishment to look at the Emperor.

The Marshal, assuming the Emperor intended to bid farewell to the corpse of his court chamberlain, began to speak: “We’re still tidying his appearance—”

Emperor: “No, I’m going to the surface.”

“What? The enemy just finished their bombardment, much of the Royal Palace is ablaze, the fire brigade is still—”

Emperor: “I’m going to the surface. I’ll sit upon my throne. I can feel that Rokossovsky has come for me. Giles, you will accompany me up.”

Both Celtic Marshal Kyle and the deputy froze, dumbstruck with terror as they stared at the Emperor.

There was a sharp focus in the Emperor’s eyes, as though his red-haired confidant, Giles, truly stood where his gaze was fixed.

The Emperor, with measured strides, began walking forward.