Chapter 7: The Otherworld Military Academy Student Becomes a Chain Believer...

While Albert II was discussing matters with two influential officials in the Palais Sans Souci, Morin, after greeting Schmidt and the sentries, entered the encampment of the 1st Battalion, 33rd Infantry Regiment.

This temporary camp of the combat unit was noticeably louder and more chaotic than the regimental headquarters.

The air was heavy with the mingled scents of damp earth, sweat, and low-quality tobacco. Windproof oil lamps flickered in the night breeze, casting elongated and shifting shadows of the soldiers.

Here, the roughness and simplicity characteristic of a World War I-style battlefield camp pervaded, familiar to Morin.

Though it was already late at night, the unit was clearly still on standby, not yet retired for the night.

Soldiers wearing the classic spiked helmets gathered in small groups inside and outside the tents—some cleaning their rifles, others speaking in hushed tones.

Yet most sat silently, their vacant eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

Evidently, not everyone could, like the messenger Schmidt, grasp why they had come to fight in a foreign land.

Most were simply soldiers obeying orders.

Schmidt led Morin through the temporary encampment. His usual liveliness seemed subdued by the somber atmosphere, and his words grew sparse.

Soon, they stopped before a somewhat larger tent.

“Lieutenant, this is the battalion headquarters. Major Thomas is inside,” Schmidt said, pointing to the tent before lifting the heavy flap and stepping in.

Morin took a deep breath, straightened his somewhat rumpled and stained uniform, and followed inside.

Only a single oil lamp burned within, its light dim and yellowish.

A burly middle-aged officer, sporting the standard Saxon eight-shaped mustache, stood before a campaign table spread with maps, his brow furrowed.

Hearing the flap lift, he looked up, first at Schmidt, then at Morin behind him.

On seeing Morin’s face bruised and swollen, with bandages visible at his collar, the major’s eyebrows involuntarily lifted.

Schmidt stepped forward, handing over a dossier, and rapidly recounted Morin’s ordeal.

Morin was momentarily taken aback; he had not expected Lieutenant General Mackensen to allow the matter to be openly disclosed.

“...That’s the situation, Major! General Mackensen ordered me to bring Lieutenant Morin directly to you for reporting.”

Major Thomas studied Morin again, a complex expression crossing his face.

“You’re certainly lucky...” he murmured.

He opened the dossier, glanced over the orders inside, then nodded.

“Understood. You may return and report back.”

“Yes, Major!”

Schmidt saluted crisply and quickly left the tent.

Thomas placed the orders aside, then gestured to an ammunition box nearby, his tone softening.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant. Your experience is... quite remarkable.”

Morin was unsure how to respond and gave a sheepish smile before sitting down.

The major looked over the documents brought by the messenger, then sighed.

“Morin, given your past and current condition, I should have you rest first... but the situation has changed. The unit may be moving out soon...”

“I’m fine, sir!” Morin responded firmly.

Knowing he was new here, he wanted to make a good impression, and in this straightforward military environment, that meant simply asking for orders.

“Please give me your commands!”

“Good! Company 3 has been waiting a long time for you as their platoon leader. I’ll send someone to take you there immediately.”

Thomas was evidently pleased with Morin’s attitude. He called out, and a quartermaster entered promptly.

“Take Lieutenant Morin to Company 3 and hand him over to Captain Hauser.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaving the major’s tent, Morin was quickly led to Company 3’s quarters.

The atmosphere here was livelier than at headquarters. A sharp, capable-looking captain was assigning tasks to his non-commissioned officers.

When he saw Morin arrive, his eyes lit up, and he strode over eagerly.

“You must be Lieutenant Morin! Thank God you’re finally here!”

The captain’s firm handshake was almost painful.

“I’m Karl Hauser, commander of Company 3.”

“Sir!” Morin saluted instinctively, the muscle memory of his current body guiding him.

“No need for formalities!” Hauser patted his shoulder, his joy unmistakable.

“You know, our previous platoon leader suddenly fell ill and died on the train to Aragon! Our 3rd Platoon has been without a leader for nearly a month, with the platoon sergeant acting in command. It’s nearly worn him out!”

Morin finally understood: he had been brought here to fill a vacancy.

Hauser was clearly decisive. After a brief exchange, he summoned the company staff and other officers.

“Everyone, meet Lieutenant Morin, our new 3rd Platoon leader! Get acquainted!”

The group gathered around, and the friendly Morin greeted them in return.

Taking advantage of the moment, he quickly familiarized himself with the Saxon Empire’s infantry unit structure.

An infantry company, aside from the commanding officers, had quite a number of personnel.

There was one company sergeant major as the core figure;

one quartermaster sergeant assisting with supplies, clothing, and barracks;

two clerks handling paperwork and reports, relieving the commander from administrative tasks;

four medics equipped with basic medical kits for battlefield first aid and evacuation to aid stations;

a six-man communications squad responsible for establishing and maintaining contact with battalion headquarters—usually acting as messengers, but they would set up telephone lines if needed;

and finally, an eight-man logistics team managing the field kitchen carts, food reserves, drinking water, additional ammunition crates, spare weapon parts, and tools during marches and encampments.

Of note, among those eight were a farrier and a harness maker.

Besides officers and messenger horses, the Saxon infantry company was also allocated two supply wagons, responsible for transporting the company’s baggage during marches.

Truly a relic of the old Holy Roman Mule and Horse Empire...

As Morin mingled, much of the knowledge he had gained at Reichsfeld Central Military Academy resurfaced, and his “golden finger” continuously popped up with updates and notifications.

He realized that his compulsive nature would soon lead to a thorough inspection and tidying of any “red flags.”

After the others dispersed, two other platoon leaders—a taciturn lieutenant and a cheerful second lieutenant—approached to greet him.

This relatively friendly atmosphere within the company relaxed Morin’s tense nerves considerably.

After brief pleasantries, a middle-aged sergeant with a stern expression and senior non-commissioned rank approached Morin.

“Lieutenant, I’m Klaus, platoon sergeant of 3rd Platoon.”

“Hello, Sergeant Klaus,” Morin nodded, shaking his hand.

“Please assemble the troops. I’d like to meet them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Soon, the soldiers of the 3rd Platoon were assembled on the clearing before the tents.

At present, the Saxon Empire’s infantry squads comprised nine men.

Two squads formed a section; four sections of eight squads—72 riflemen—made up the main combat personnel of the platoon.

Adding the platoon leader, platoon sergeant, four NCOs (non-commissioned officers), and two messengers, the “super-sized” infantry platoon totaled 80 men.

Aside from the platoon leader, the most critical figures were the platoon sergeant and the four corporals, usually ranked as corporals.

The platoon sergeant was the leader’s deputy, much like a company sergeant major, the soul of the platoon and the bridge between commander and soldiers.

Many of the platoon’s daily affairs were arranged by the platoon sergeant.

Sergeant Klaus, assisting Morin, was a veteran with over sixteen years’ service—a veritable “family treasure” for any infantry platoon.

The four corporals handled routine training and led the four sections in combat.

The assembled soldiers formed neat ranks, turning their young or weathered faces toward their new commander under the cold moonlight.

The Saxon Empire’s rigid military hierarchy ensured absolute silence.

Though Morin had not yet reached the point of assignment to a unit before graduation in his former life as a military academy cadet, he recalled advice from senior cadets: Never show nervousness or stage fright in this situation, or it would spell disaster later.

He sensed many eyes furtively examining the bruises on his face, some soldiers barely restraining their amusement.

Clearing his throat, he spoke:

“I know what you’re looking at.”

He pointed to his face.

“If you want to laugh, go ahead. Don’t hold it in.”

A momentary silence fell before suppressed laughter erupted.

Morin smiled along, and when the laughter died down, he continued:

“From today on, I am your platoon leader. My demands are simple: obey orders, trust your comrades, and never show cowardice! This applies to the entire platoon, myself included. Any violations will be dealt with severely under military law! Is that clear?!”

“Yes, sir!”

After addressing discipline and combat matters, Morin dismissed the formation.

Watching the soldiers disperse, he understood that the laughter had only bridged a superficial gap.

Their respect was largely due to his rank.

Earning their genuine loyalty would be a far longer journey.

Recalling some “tips for new platoon leaders” shared by seniors before, Morin gathered the platoon sergeant and the four corporals for a brief discussion to understand the platoon’s current status—an opportunity to build rapport.

They exchanged simple introductions and talked about their service history.

Morin noted that aside from Sergeant Klaus, the others were also experienced, each having served for a considerable time.

That was unsurprising since these NCOs rose from the ranks without formal commissions, much like in the pre-World War I German army—where a high proportion of experienced NCOs forged a highly capable fighting force.

However, many such NCOs were lost in the early years of conflict, leading to a sharp decline in NCO numbers at the grassroots level.

As mutual familiarity grew, Morin sensed Klaus and the others relaxing.

One corporal curiously asked Morin where he was from.

Without hesitation, Morin replied, “I’m from Dresden.”

“Ah! So you’re from the capital!”

“No wonder you have a different bearing. Your family must be quite distinguished...”

Startled by their eager gazes, Morin realized that in this world, the capital was not Berlin.

Thinking that this country had become the Saxon Empire, he found it reasonable.

In this timeline, it was likely not the Hohenzollern dynasty ruling these lands, but the Saxon Wettin family.

Thus, Dresden, the “cradle” of the Wettin dynasty, becoming the Saxon Empire’s capital made perfect sense.

After inquiring about non-combat injuries and soldiers’ morale and confirming the platoon’s basic combat readiness, Sergeant Klaus led Morin to a small tent.

This was the independent tent set up for the platoon leader, just erected alongside the quartermaster.

“Lieutenant, you should rest now. I’ll get you some hot water.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Klaus.”

After Klaus left, Morin sank heavily onto the camp bed, overwhelming exhaustion flooding through him as if his bones might disintegrate.

Before long, his duty quartermaster—a similarly young soldier—entered carrying a cup of hot water and some hard bread.

“Sir, I checked. The company kitchen wagon’s fire is out. Here, have something to eat first. Sergeant Klaus prepared the hot water.”

“Thanks. You should rest too. I’ll manage on my own.”

Morin nodded and nibbled on the hard black bread with the hot water, his mind swirling with the day’s events.

The strange transmigration, mysterious capture, inexplicable rescue...

And now, inexplicably, he had achieved the “cadet assigned to a unit” milestone.

After a few bites, his eyelids began to droop.

Just as he prepared to undress and sleep, urgent whistles sounded.

The tent flap was lifted, and Sergeant Klaus poked his head inside.

“Sir! Orders from battalion! All personnel assemble; departure in two hours!”

“Ah?”