Chapter 19: A Language Prodigy?

Morin and his five companions pedaled their bicycles, quickly leaving the outskirts of San Isidro behind. The aftertaste of that invigorating drink still lingered in his mouth, a bitter, scorched flavor that made him want to stick out his tongue every few moments.

He had truly never tasted coffee this foul.

The country road was bumpy and uneven. The wheels crunched and creaked as they rolled over gravel and clods of earth. As Morin rode, he focused a portion of his attention on the mini-map in the upper left corner of his field of vision. Perhaps because he had seen the information on the battalion's military map, his own "system map" had updated accordingly. The region ahead, extending all the way to Seville, was now visible in detail, though it was still covered by a layer of translucent "fog of war." As they advanced, this fog—representing the unknown terrain—slowly receded around them, revealing clearer geographical details. It was a surreal sensation, much like playing a real-time strategy game and personally controlling scout units to explore the map.

"Don't just keep your heads down and ride!" Morin lowered his voice to warn those behind him. "Keep an eye on the woods on both sides and the high ground. Tell me immediately if you see anything suspicious!"

"Yes, sir!" Corporal Baumann responded promptly.

The others also lifted their heads, scanning their surroundings vigilantly. They assumed this was simply a routine order from their platoon leader born of caution, unaware that each of their lines of sight was providing Morin with invaluable data, refreshing the content of his mini-map. In previous skirmishes, Morin had already roughly figured out how this "system map" updated: any unit that appeared within the field of vision of friendly forces would be displayed on the map, regardless of whether the friendly troops themselves had noticed or identified them.

Look at that; when it came to "cheats," the system map was certainly quite thorough.

Their first objective was the next village marked on the map: Arcolea. Morin’s plan was to scout the outskirts of the village first; if it was safe, they would go inside to assess the situation and, incidentally, let this makeshift reconnaissance squad get accustomed to working together. Afterward, they would decide whether to continue scouting toward Seville.

Perhaps luck was on their side, as the journey was smooth and uneventful; they didn't encounter a single soul.

About two hundred meters from Arcolea, Morin raised a hand in a signal. Everyone immediately slowed down and came to a stop.

"Dismount, push your bikes, and find a place to hide them."

They pushed their bicycles into a dense grove by the side of the road, carefully laying them down behind some bushes and using a few branches and fallen leaves to provide simple camouflage.

"Remember this location," Morin pointed to a withered tree nearby that looked as if it had been struck by lightning. "We’ll need to retreat back here later!"

He unscrewed his canteen for a sip and gestured for the others to take a moment to hydrate. After a brief rest, the six men, rifles in hand, moved toward the village in a loose formation. Morin took the lead, his eyes darting between the village entrance and the surrounding buildings, his finger habitually resting on the trigger guard.

He glanced back and noticed that Corporal Baumann and the other soldiers had their index fingers hooked inside the trigger guards, appearing ready to fire at any moment. His heart tightened, and he quickly signaled for everyone to halt.

"Get your fingers off the triggers and onto the guards! Remember that!" he whispered sternly. "I don't want someone’s foot to slip, causing an accidental discharge that hits my backside or gives us all away!"

Hearing this, the soldiers followed his instruction immediately, though they seemed slightly unaccustomed to it. Staying within the shadows of the earthen walls, they cautiously crept into the village.

To their surprise, the village was entirely peaceful. A few children were chasing each other on the dirt path, women were washing clothes and chatting by a nearby well, and some elderly folk could even be seen sitting in front of their homes, lazily basking in the sun. There was no trace of the gloom of war here; it felt as if they had stumbled into a secluded paradise.

This abnormal calm heightened Morin's vigilance to the maximum. He decided to find a villager to ask about the situation, a form of "civilian reconnaissance" in his field of duties.

Morin gave Corporal Baumann a look, and the latter understood, stepping forward to intercept an old farmer carrying a hoe. Unexpectedly, the old man, upon seeing these armed soldiers, seemed surprised but not panicked.

Corporal Baumann pointed toward Seville and made a few gestures, blurting out a few words that were not in the Saxon language. The old farmer looked at the tall foreign soldier with a blank, confused expression, muttering something in a different language and waving his hands repeatedly.

"Sir, he doesn't understand my Aragonese..." Corporal Baumann turned back helplessly.

"Are you sure you were speaking Aragonese?"

"..."

Morin frowned and looked at the others. Everyone shook their heads, indicating that besides a few officers in the platoon who knew basic conversational phrases, none of the rank-and-file soldiers spoke Aragonese.

This was a problem.

Just as Morin was about to give up and search the village for other clues, the old farmer spoke another long string of words to him. Then, something strange happened. As the rapid, unfamiliar syllables reached Morin’s ears, they seemed to be automatically translated; he understood the man’s meaning perfectly.

"If you are looking for those soldiers in black uniforms, they left quite a while ago..."

Morin froze. Subconsciously, he opened his mouth, and fluent Aragonese poured out.

"My friend, do you mean to say that those soldiers in black were here in the village earlier?"

As soon as the words left his lips, not only was the old farmer stunned, but Morin himself was taken aback, and even Corporal Baumann and the others behind him widened their eyes.

"Hey, Lieutenant, I thought you didn't speak Aragonese..."

A flood of complex memory fragments surged into his mind. It was the original owner of this body—the man General Mackensen had labeled "a guy with bones softened by alcohol"—who had spent painstaking effort learning these languages to hunt for romance in the high-society salons and galas of various nations during peacetime. To that playboy, language was not knowledge; it was a key to different exotic bedrooms.

"Damn, this guy was a talent..." Morin silently gave the original owner credit. Although the motivation was impure, the skill was a godsend in the current situation.

"You speak our language?" The old farmer was surprised.

"A little." Morin steadied himself and continued in Aragonese, "So, do you know how many of those black-clad soldiers there were, and which direction they headed?"

"Just an hour ago, there were several hundred of them passing through the east end of the village. They were noisy and even snatched several chickens from the village!" The old farmer raised his wrinkled hand and pointed toward Seville. "They went that way."

Having obtained the key information, Morin kindly asked a few more questions about the village and the surrounding terrain, which the old farmer answered one by one. Finally, Morin had Corporal Baumann hand over a piece of unfinished black bread, which he pressed into the old man's hand.

"Sorry to bother you, friend."

With that, he led his men and quickly withdrew from the village. Back at the hidden spot in the woods, Corporal Baumann could no longer hold back—and it wasn't about the bread. He leaned in, his face full of admiration.

"Sir, you actually speak Aragonese? My god, how did you learn it?"

Morin couldn't exactly say he’d learned it to pick up women, so he cleared his throat and assumed a profound, inscrutable expression.

"A little bit, a little bit. Just a mandatory course at the military academy."

He bluffed and immediately changed the subject, his expression turning serious.

"The situation has changed. A unit of several hundred Kingdom soldiers left here an hour ago, heading toward Seville."

Morin spread out his crude map and pointed to a spot on it.

"But it's unclear whether they returned directly to Seville or plan to set an ambush on the outskirts, so we need to scout a bit further ahead."