Chapter 540: Morin, the Winter Gear Immortal

The car pulled to a halt on the gravel driveway of the Falkenstein estate. Morin hopped out first and turned to help Patricia with her briefcase.

This blonde noblewoman, whose archetype was practically on the verge of obsolescence, clearly hadn't recovered from the sudden embrace in the carriage.

She had even forgotten to push him away, allowing him to hold her for quite a while until Morin voluntarily let go. As a result, she entered "mute mode" for the rest of the ride. When stepping out of the car just now, she had to grip the door frame tightly just to steady herself.

"Welcome back, Master Morin."

Head Maid Luna stood at the porch with two junior maids. Seeing the two arrive together, she maintained a perfectly neutral expression—a testament to her excellent professional training.

"You must be tired as well, Miss Patricia. Madam mentioned that since it's a rare occasion for everyone to be gathered, dinner will be served in the main hall. You two can rest for the afternoon. I will send someone to call you when dinner is ready."

Morin smiled and nodded. Handing the briefcase back to Patricia, he headed toward his usual bedroom in the estate.

Even though his relationship with Cecilia had crossed a certain line, Morin wasn't quite shameless enough to move into her room full-time. And of course, he definitely wasn't doing this just to leave the door open for "night raids."

When Patricia took the briefcase, her fingers brushed against Morin's. She froze again. Only after Morin had walked a good distance away did she lean against the wall, letting out a stifled breath.

"Miss Patricia?" a maid beside her whispered.

"I'm... I'm fine."

She waved her hand and walked briskly toward her own room, her mind already conjuring up scenarios of what the upcoming dinner would look like.

The afternoon slipped by, and dinner began promptly at seven o'clock.

The dining table in the main hall of the Falkenstein estate wasn't particularly large. For most of the pre-war period, Cecilia had dined alone. Even now, only Helga and Patricia joined her.

For tonight's seating arrangement, Cecilia took the head of the table, Morin sat opposite her, while Helga and Patricia sat on either side.

Candlelight flickered gently. The estate's head chef had prepared a lavish menu.

Beef ribs stewed in red wine, roasted pork knuckles with sauerkraut, a Black Forest sausage platter, pan-fried fish in butter sauce... topped off with a newly developed dessert.

Having eaten this kind of food for so long, Morin was getting a bit tired of it. Still, he had to admit that these were delicacies he rarely saw on the front lines.

Logically, such a rich menu and a cozy gathering of four should have made for a warm, relaxing feast.

But from the moment he sat down, Morin felt something was off.

Cecilia was as elegant and poised as ever, gently slicing her beef ribs and occasionally taking a sip of wine.

Patricia sat perfectly straight, embodying standard aristocratic etiquette, her knife and fork making almost no sound.

...Yet her gaze drifted toward Helga or Morin every few seconds.

Whenever Morin caught her looking, she would immediately avert her eyes, pretending nothing happened.

As for Helga, the frequent target of Patricia's scrutiny, she had her head lowered, hyper-focused on the pork knuckle on her plate as if it were her mortal enemy.

The problem was, Helga never ate with her head down. She might not be an expert in aristocratic etiquette, but she didn't bury her face in her food either.

Furthermore, the bright red hue of her ears completely betrayed her true state of mind.

Morin knew exactly why she was blushing.

As a mature military officer, his battle-hardened situational awareness told him exactly what to do right now.

Eat. Just eat. Ignore everything else.

So, Morin began piling food onto his plate. Two beef ribs, a massive chunk of pork knuckle, three sausages, and a good portion of the fried fish.

"Fritz, you have quite an appetite today. It's rare to see you eat so well after attending meetings~" Cecilia's voice floated across the table, gentle but laced with a hint of teasing.

"I've had too much field kitchen sludge. A change of pace is always appetizing," Morin replied vaguely, swallowing a mouthful of beef.

Cecilia chuckled softly and didn't press the issue.

Seeing Morin bury his head in his food, Patricia finally diverted some attention from her "reconnaissance mode."

"Friedrich, the way you're eating... the estate's chef isn't going anywhere. Are you worried we're going to steal your food?~"

"Mhm~" Morin grunted noncommittally, stabbing a forkful of sauerkraut.

His current situation could be described as taking crossfire from three sides. His only cover was the spread of food in front of him.

Helga remained mostly silent, only offering brief replies when Cecilia actively engaged her in conversation.

Her behavior looked highly suspicious to Patricia. In the past, while Helga was a woman of few words, she could talk for half an hour straight without pausing for breath if asked about firearms or the company.

Yet today, when Cecilia asked about the progress of the latest light machine gun project, Helga merely muttered, "Um... it's fine..." and lowered her head again.

"Helga, are you alright?" Patricia finally couldn't hold back.

Helga's shoulders gave a visible jolt.

"Of... of course... I'm fine. Just a lot going on at the company lately... a bit tired."

"Why is your face so red?"

"...Probably the heat."

Patricia instinctively glanced at the dining room window. Night had fallen over Dresden, and the evening breeze carried a distinct chill, gently billowing the curtains.

Heat? Yeah, right.

Cecilia chimed in at just the right moment. "Patricia, Helga has indeed been busy. Military orders haven't stopped, and with the development of new projects, she's been working a lot of overtime lately."

This comment naturally deflected the pressure off Helga. Cecilia even shot Helga a reassuring glance, prompting the younger woman to grip her butter knife with near-tearful gratitude.

Patricia hummed skeptically but didn't push the matter.

Sensing the tense atmosphere, Cecilia took charge of steering the conversation for the rest of the meal. A few lighthearted topics gradually eased the tension at the table.

However, Morin noticed that even during casual chatter, the emotions in Cecilia's eyes when she looked at him were more complex than usual...

Morin stuffed the last piece of pork knuckle into his mouth and decided to dock this meal half a star.

Not because of the taste—the estate's food was exquisite—but the portions were simply too small, making it tedious to eat. On the front lines, the rough cooks in the field kitchens might lack finesse, but they served massive, filling portions.

The estate prioritized artistic plating. For someone like Morin, who preferred devouring his meals, it always felt a bit lacking.

Fortunately, he had passed the adaptation phase for the "Heaven No. 3 Concoction." The modification process in his body had slowed down, no longer burning calories at an insane rate, so this amount was enough to sustain him.

After dinner, the servants cleared the plates and brought out tea and dessert.

The four moved to the adjacent parlor. Cecilia leaned back on the sofa with a teacup, while Patricia and Helga each took a piece of cake and sat in armchairs.

Helga hesitated before choosing the corner furthest away from Morin.

"By the way, have you heard the latest news from the Eastern Front?" Morin asked, initiating a safe topic to break the silence.

Cecilia set down her teacup. "The 'White Army' suffered a setback at the gates of Kyiv... I received some information through my channels."

"More than just a setback," Morin shook his head, recalling the details from the military briefings and the 【Intelligence】 interface. "The battle for Kyiv has raged for over a month, and the White Army still hasn't taken it. If this drags on, it's not good news for us."

"Why?" Patricia asked, biting her fork. "Isn't the White Army our enemy? Every day they're bogged down is another day they burn through the supplies the Britannians give them, right?"

"The logic works the other way too," Morin explained. "The White Army's failure to take Kyiv means the proxy force the Britannians are backing in the East is facing a real threat. To save the White Army, the Britannians might actually increase their investment."

"But looking at the Balkans, the Britannians didn't seem to care much about their allies?" Patricia remained confused.

"The White Army in Rus holds a completely different level of strategic importance compared to those small Balkan nations." Morin shook his head. "Furthermore, both the Empire and the Britannians have pulled their punches back from the Balkans and the Western Front. Since the Empire plans to push more chips onto the Eastern Front, the Britannians will have to match the bet. The situation in the East is far more complex than it appears."

Patricia nodded thoughtfully. This topic triggered a new thought in Morin's mind. After a brief calculation, he looked up at Cecilia.

"Sister Cecilia, do I still have ample liquid funds under my name?"

"Plenty. After the Army accepted the half-track armored vehicles, Demag received its first batch of orders, and the deposit has been paid. Add that to Schmeisser's profits and your remaining patent royalties... it's a very substantial sum."

Cecilia managed Morin's corporate affairs with great dedication and had the answer ready immediately. "Why do you ask? Are you planning to invest in something new again?"

"Spot on~ Sister Cecilia, you really know me." Morin smiled. "The Empire is practically guaranteed to launch a massive offensive on the Eastern Front. Winter will hit Rus in a few months, so there will be a huge demand for winter gear. I was wondering if we could acquire and expand a few clothing factories to start producing winter uniforms."

The standard uniforms for the Saxon Imperial Army were usually dictated by the Army Ministry. The quartermaster bureaus of various military districts would purchase raw materials, place orders with authorized private clothing companies, and then the military would inspect and store the goods.

Based on his memories and his understanding of the Imperial Army's current logistics, Morin knew there would likely be issues with winter gear distribution. Moreover, the current winter uniforms of all nations were outdated and offered poor insulation.

This prompted Morin's idea: acquire a few authorized factories, design brand-new winter combat uniforms (much like he did with the chest rigs), and issue them to the Instruction Unit first. If they performed well, they could be promoted army-wide.

Listening to his explanation, Cecilia nodded thoughtfully and promised to scout for suitable factories the very next day.

The conversation lasted for another twenty minutes. Morin glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall; it was nearly nine.

"Alright, today's meetings have worn me out. I'm heading back to my room." He stood up and nodded to the three women.

"Fritz..." Cecilia called out.

"Yes?"

"Get some rest."

"Yes, ma'am~"

Morin waved and left the parlor. After he vanished, a brief silence settled over the three women left in the room.

Back in his bedroom, Morin washed up quickly, changed into a loose bathrobe, and collapsed onto the bed.

Honestly, dinner today was more exhausting than fighting on the front lines.

On the battlefield, the enemy is clear and predictable. You can analyze their troop deployments, firepower, and likely avenues of attack. Everything can be quantified and wargamed.

But facing three women, each harboring their own secret thoughts?

Morin rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

"I'd rather face down a few army groups."

After resting for a bit, Morin crawled out of bed and sat at his desk.

He thought back to the chat about winter gear, which led him to consider the upcoming winter operations the Instruction Unit would face. The "General Winter" in Rus was no joke.

Currently, the Saxon Imperial Army's specialized winter combat gear was practically nonexistent.

Just as he had overhauled the infantry loadout, Morin felt it was time to overhaul winter gear, specifically focusing on individual soldier insulation. He didn't want the Instruction Unit suffering massive non-combat casualties due to the weather.

Given current technological constraints, Morin couldn't make drastic improvements to materials. Synthetic insulation and high-tech fabrics like Gore-Tex were out of the question.

So, Morin approached it from the angles of modern systems engineering and ergonomics.

The first step: introduce the concept of a "layering system."

Right now, the primary winter garment for an Imperial soldier was an incredibly heavy, full-length overcoat. Once a soldier started sweating, it was neither breathable nor insulating, and it severely restricted movement.

Morin planned to follow the standard practice of his old world: deconstruct the heavy single-piece overcoat into a three-piece system—an inner vest, a quilted mid-layer jacket, and a lightweight outer shell.

The inner lining would use wool felt, the mid-layer quilted cotton. Elite units could even use down filling; Richthofen's aviator jackets already used this technique, though it was expensive.

The outer shell would use Gabardine, invented by the Britannians. Since they were at war anyway, patent laws didn't matter.

Soldiers could flexibly adjust their layers based on whether they were standing guard, marching, or assaulting, preventing hypothermia caused by sweating.

To address heat dissipation after intense physical activity, Morin designed concealed openings with flaps and snap buttons under the armpits and around the shoulder blades of the heavy coats.

During a march, soldiers could unbutton them, allowing the airflow from movement to draw out hot, humid air. When stationary, they simply buttoned them back up.

This didn't require any new materials—just a change in the tailoring pattern—yet it effectively prevented the dangerous scenario of being "wet inside, freezing outside."

Military trousers could utilize a similar concept, adding a zipper system along the legs for easy donning and doffing. However, considering the issues exposed by the zipper system in a certain type of military boot, Morin kept this design as "pending."

For the neck and face, current military overcoats had collars that could be popped up, but they were rigid, unadjustable, and let freezing wind pour in.

Morin's solution was to issue separate knitted wool neck gaiters... or simply jump straight to issuing balaclavas.

He didn't know if the Britannians of this world used them, but in his original timeline, the balaclava was adopted by the British during the Crimean War in 1854 to combat extreme cold.

Beyond clothing, one issue constantly plagued soldiers on both sides during WWI: the waterproof and moisture-resistant design of military boots.

The main culprit behind "trench foot" was the inability of moisture to escape from inside the boot, coupled with muddy water seeping in from the outside. In upcoming winter operations, frostbite on the feet would be a primary cause of non-combat casualties.

However, in Morin's original world, the design and technology of military boots had undergone countless iterations. Many of those techniques were impossible to replicate under current conditions.

Therefore, Morin opted for a traditional approach: issue low-cut marching boots with puttees for normal wear, and high-cut boots for winter combat to provide better waterproofing and warmth.

The winter combat boots would also feature a modular design. The inner boot would be a seamless, thick wool felt liner, while the outer boot would be made of roughout cowhide heavily treated with fish oil or beeswax.

This waxed-cotton waterproofing technique was already used in military raincoats and could be directly applied here.

For insoles, they could use waste material from large-scale paper and textile manufacturing, pressing it into disposable "moisture-absorbing insoles." Changing them every few days would guarantee dry feet.

Morin didn't expect to solve all problems at once. Just like with the chest rigs, he aimed to establish a baseline first, then incrementally improve the designs through actual combat feedback.

As Morin fleshed out the winter combat gear step by step, the 【Scientific Research】 interface unsurprisingly kicked in to handle the "optimization" work.

The primary optimization this time took Morin's illegible scribbles and transformed them into aesthetically pleasing, professional fashion design blueprints, complete with annotations explaining every detail.

Looking at the winter gear layout, which had essentially evolved to Cold War-era standards, Morin shook his head in smug satisfaction.

"Morin, oh Morin, you are an absolute genius. If I patent this and push it into mass production, I'll make a fortune..."

In a guest room on the second floor of the estate, Patricia sat in a chair before a vanity mirror. Behind her, two maids were using thick towels to repeatedly press the moisture out of her hair.

Her freshly washed blonde hair gave off a faint fragrance and gleamed softly in the candlelight. She certainly hadn't enjoyed this kind of treatment while working on the task force project.

Because her hair was so thick and long, just the towel-drying step required swapping out several towels.

Patricia closed her eyes, letting the maids handle her hair, but her mind refused to settle.

During the carriage ride back from the palace that afternoon... when the carriage jolted, she could still vividly recall the strength of Morin's arm wrapping around her shoulder.

And then she had just stayed frozen in his embrace. By the time she snapped out of it, the carriage had stopped shaking, and she hadn't managed to utter a single word.

"...How embarrassing."

Patricia muttered to herself. She had never felt this way about him before.

"Did you say something, Miss?" the maid behind her asked softly.

"Nothing."

"We need to switch to a fresh towel now."

"Mhm."

The maids expertly swapped out dry towels, pressing repeatedly to absorb the water. Because her hair was so long and dense, this step had to be repeated multiple times.

Once the towels could no longer draw out any moisture, a maid wheeled over a floor-standing brass machine. Plugging it into the estate's radiant crystal power circuit, it began blowing a steady stream of warm, dry air.

This newly invented device drastically reduced the cost of previous "magitech hairdryers," making it easier for women with long hair in ordinary households to dry their hair.

The machine hummed with a low pitch as warm air poured from the brass nozzle, wafting through Patricia's unbound blonde hair.

The maids parted her hair into sections, clipping the top layers up and starting the drying process from the bottom layers.

The process was long and tedious. Patricia's thoughts naturally drifted to Helga at the dinner table.

That evasiveness, that sudden inability to form a complete sentence when facing her... it was all too familiar.

Patricia von Seeckt was not a dense woman.

After dissecting every one of Helga's reactions at dinner, she was absolutely certain of one thing: Helga felt guilty toward her.

And the only thing that could make Helga feel guilty toward her...

Patricia's fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her bathrobe resting on her knees.

"Miss? Do you need a break?"

"No, keep going."

The maids let down the first dried layer, unclipped the next section, and continued working. The warm air flowed through the strands, carrying away the lingering moisture.

Patricia stared at her face in the mirror. She didn't want to admit she cared.

But she did.

Nearly three hours later, Patricia's long hair was finally completely dry. For women with long hair in this era, washing it was an incredibly arduous task.

The maids gave her hair a final brushing, ensuring the golden strands fell smooth and neat, then bowed and exited the room one by one.

The grandfather clock pointed to 12:05 AM.

Patricia paced her room a few times, telling herself she just couldn't sleep.

After another lap, she opened her door and stepped out.

The hallway was quiet and dim. Only the dimmed wall sconces provided faint light, accompanied by the ticking of a clock from a distant room.

Patricia's slippers made almost no sound on the thick carpet. She rounded the corner of the hallway, heading toward Morin's guest room.

She knew Morin definitely wasn't asleep yet, and she truly had questions she wanted answered.

But just as she approached the stretch of hallway leading to Morin's door, her footsteps abruptly halted.

A figure was standing outside Morin's door.

Moonlight streaming through the window at the end of the hall illuminated the familiar silhouette and the mix of honey and pale blonde hair.

Sister Cecilia!

Patricia's breath hitched.

Almost simultaneously, Cecilia sensed the movement behind her and turned around.

Their eyes met. Cecilia was the first to smile—her usual gentle, big-sister smile, no different from any other day.

"Patricia? Up so late?"

Patricia opened her mouth, her brain racing. She quickly realized she couldn't conjure a single logical excuse to explain why she was standing outside Morin's bedroom at past midnight.

"I... I went the wrong way."

The excuse was so pathetic she wanted to turn and run, but Cecilia's smile only deepened.

"Did you? This room is an entire hallway away from yours."

Patricia's face burned, but she quickly steadied herself and launched a counterattack.

"What about you, Sister Cecilia?" She lifted her chin. "Why are you standing here so late?"

"I think you know the answer to that question very well~ Don't you?"

Cecilia maintained her poised expression. Her refusal to hide anything completely checkmated Patricia.

The hallway was so quiet they could hear the chirping of night insects in the distant garden.

"I... I'll head back now..."

Patricia was the first to surrender. Stammering, she prepared to retreat to her room. However, Cecilia let go of the door handle, took two steps toward Patricia, and smoothly linked her arm through hers.

"Let's go. I'm actually quite tired today too; it's best we rest early... Standing in the hallway at night is a good way to catch a cold."

Guided by Cecilia, Patricia allowed herself to be led back. Her mind churned with countless thoughts, but ultimately, she asked no further questions.

Their footsteps faded away, and the hallway returned to silence.

About ten minutes later, soft footsteps approached from another direction.

Helga, clutching her pillow and wearing a clearly oversized cotton nightgown, stood barefoot outside Morin's door.

Her face was so red it looked ready to bleed, the tips of her ears burning hot, but she still reached out and gently knocked on the door.

Over the next few days, citing "heavy military duties," Morin moved out of the estate and back to the Instruction Unit garrison.

He wasn't running away. Absolutely not.

A mature Imperial officer simply needed to be at his post, that was all. Plus, he genuinely needed to dedicate the vast majority of his energy to the reorganization of the Instruction Unit.

The Instruction Unit's expansion was nearing its end. The final batch of recruits had begun weeks of intensive training on the parade ground. The core veterans of the "1st Class" being transferred out also gradually departed for their new units.

During these days, Morin made unusually frequent trips to the city district, specifically heading to the Imperial Air Force Ministry in northern Dresden.