Helga listened to the Magic Guided Technology terms she had never encountered before. Although much of it was incomprehensible, she could sense the shared, engineering-like obsession with technical problems that Patricia was describing.
She couldn’t help but say: “Although I don’t understand Magic Guided Technology, it sounds somewhat similar to the problems we face when designing precision machinery. For example, how to fit more components into a limited space, while ensuring they don’t interfere with each other and can operate stably for a long time.”
“Exactly!” Patricia’s eyes lit up. She hadn’t expected this seemingly reserved girl to instantly grasp the core of the problem. She looked at Helga seriously, her tone losing some of its former detachment, shifting into a professional discussion: “You are absolutely right. The essence of miniaturization design is a trade-off between space and performance.”
Cecilia watched the two girls, who had initially been reserved with each other, now passionately discussing a technical problem. She couldn’t help but smile knowingly. She signaled the maid to bring exquisite tea and pastries, then watched the two young women discuss intently, her mind contemplating other matters.
The afternoon quickly passed. The setting sun, streaming through the large French windows, cast a golden glow on the three women of exceptional grace, giving them a halo. The three letters on the table no longer seemed like ordinary paper; they were threads tightly weaving together three women who would otherwise never have met.
When Patricia bid farewell, her demeanor was completely different from when she arrived. As she sat in the returning carriage, she looked back at Falkenstein Manor, which appeared even more magnificent in the twilight, then looked up at the sky, and finally toward the distant, war-torn West.
“Friedrich Morin.” She silently repeated the name. “You had better return alive and see with your own eyes what I have accomplished for you. When you do, I want to see if you can still pretend to be the know-it-all you were last time.”
Morin was unaware of the upheaval his three casual letters had caused in the distant Imperial rear. The three genius women, each in their respective fields, were mobilizing their resources because of his ‘requests,’ striving to turn his ideas into reality.
He, meanwhile, was enjoying the rare downtime at the Field Hospital. The wound on his waist was healing day by day thanks to the careful attention of the nurses and was no longer severely hindering his movement.
Life in the Field Hospital felt like being imprisoned to Morin. He knew the Generals forcibly sent him here for his own good; the wound was serious, and poor care could lead to major complications. But the problem was that after a month of high-intensity fighting, Morin noticed a change in himself. He couldn’t stand being idle in the rear anymore. He no longer resisted going to the front; instead, he yearned for the embrace of battle.
Morin wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad development—a soldier yearning for the glory of battle was good, but it also meant dancing on the line of fire. Unable to judge his current mental state, he could only try to distract himself. So, aside from taking medicine and eating, Morin spent most of his time with Ludwig—the patient in the next cot. Ludwig, who was still bandaged up like a mummy, was the best audience for him. Especially after the bloody Street Fighting in Amiens, Morin’s mind was overflowing with new ideas, and he urgently needed someone to talk to or write them down for.
The two comrades-in-arms, who had walked through the gates of hell together, naturally had endless topics in common. Just as Patricia had observed about her brother, Ludwig was a ‘divine man’ who would readily discuss Armored Knight charge tactics with anyone at a banquet.
The two discussed everything from near-death experiences on the battlefield to complaining about the stupidity of the bureaucrats in the rear, and to projections for the future of warfare.
“Honestly, Friedrich, if it hadn’t been for you this time, I think I would have truly been left behind in Amiens.” Ludwig suddenly said one day, leaning against the headboard.
“Nonsense, your iron can is tough. Even after being slammed into a wall, you’re still jumping around.” Morin leaned back against his headboard, peeling an apple with a bayonet, and said casually: “Besides, if your Teutonic Knights weren’t leading the charge, the casualties for our Instruction Assault Battalion would have been much higher in the early stages.”
“That might be true,” Ludwig shook his head. “But truthfully, I felt helpless in Amiens this time. Especially after the Shaped Charge Armor-Piercing Rounds appeared, I was constantly worried about the enemy suddenly using similar weapons to ambush us in Street Fighting.”
“While Armored Knights can evade artillery fire under certain conditions, avoiding it in the narrow confines of Street Fighting is not easy.” Morin naturally understood Ludwig’s point. Through their discussions, Morin had also clarified an important piece of information: Armored Knights could not unconditionally evade artillery fire. There were strict limitations based on the shell’s muzzle velocity and the distance between the two parties. If the shell speed was fast, or the distance was close enough, Armored Knights could not guarantee 100% evasion.
“So, I’ve always thought the way you use Armored Knights has a fundamental flaw,” Morin said, handing Ludwig the peeled apple, and then picking up a new one, continuing to share his long-held idea.
“A flaw? What flaw?” Ludwig asked curiously. In his view, Armored Knight tactics had been passed down for centuries. Although constantly evolving, the core philosophy—the noble duel between Knights—had never changed.
“The flaw is that you think of yourselves too much as ‘Knights’ and not as ‘fire platforms.’” Morin pointed out incisively.
“Fire platform?” Ludwig chewed on the unfamiliar term.
“Yes, a high-mobility, heavily armored fire platform.” Morin’s excitement surged when discussing large robots. “Ludwig, think about it. Your iron shell weighs dozens of tons, and the Radiant Crystal Engine provides ridiculously strong power. Yet, your main offensive weapons are still a broadsword and a long lance? The only ranged weapon is an Assault Cannon with pathetic ammunition capacity?”
Morin grew more incredulous: “Heaven knows what the old men in the Imperial Army leadership are thinking, truly treating you as oversized tin cans meant only for dueling the enemy’s tin cans! Do you only encounter enemy Armored Knights on the battlefield? What do you do when you run into infantry? Do you stomp on them with your big feet?”
Though crude, Morin’s words struck a chord with Ludwig. Even if he wanted to argue, he found Morin was correct. “So, what do you think we should do?” Ludwig asked humbly.
Aside from their life-and-death friendship forged in Seville, Ludwig now profoundly respected Morin, the man who always conceived strange yet effective tactics, especially after Amiens.
“Simple! Mount Heavy Machine Guns on your iron cans!” Morin said with certainty.
“Mount machine guns?” Ludwig was stunned. This idea was far too… unconventional.
“Yes! Think about it: install two MG08 Heavy Machine Guns on your shoulders or arms, loaded with thousands of rounds of ammunition. When you encounter infantry again, do you still need to precisely target each one with the Assault Cannon or chase them like a groundhog with a war hammer?”
“Just sweep the area with two whips of fire! Whether they hide behind a wall or in ruins, you’ll shred them all! Can the current killing efficiency compare to that?”
The image Morin painted quickened Ludwig’s breathing. He could visualize himself driving his Armored Knight, like a god of war, tearing the enemy infantry position apart with a dense hail of bullets. That feeling… that would be exhilarating.
“But… that violates the Knight’s tradition,” Ludwig still hesitated, arguing quietly: “Combat between Armored Knights should be a fair duel. Using machine guns to slaughter common soldiers… that goes against the spirit of chivalry.”
“Chivalry, my ass!” Morin interrupted him unceremoniously: “Ludwig, wake up! The times have changed! This is war, not a medieval jousting tournament! You talk about chivalry, but does the enemy? If you cling to that outdated ‘unchangeable ancestral law’ mindset, you will pay a heavy price sooner or later!”
Morin knew that the military ideology of this world was at a violent crossroads. The old glory of chivalry was clashing fiercely with the new doctrine of victory at all costs. He had to use the most direct method possible to awaken Ludwig and the entire Armored Knight community behind him.
“Think about it. If your Armored Knights had powerful anti-infantry capability, wouldn’t fewer of our infantry die when we attack?”
“The role of the Armored Knight would no longer be limited to trading blows with enemy Armored Knights, but to become the spearhead and core of the entire assault force! Isn’t that an even greater glory?”
Ludwig fell silent. He had to admit Morin was right. The ultimate goal of war was victory, and minimizing the sacrifice of comrades. If clinging to tradition meant greater casualties, then that tradition was worthless.
“You have a point,” Ludwig was finally convinced, but he raised a new technical issue. “However, there is still a technical problem. We need to focus all our mental energy to control the Armored Knight’s every movement. As it stands, we have no surplus energy to operate additional weapons, especially machine guns that require precise aiming.”
“Who said you had to operate it alone?” Morin smiled, giving him a look that said, You are still so young.
“If not me alone, then who? Do you want my Knight Squire to hang outside and pull the trigger?” Ludwig looked confused.
“You idiot!” Morin slapped his own thigh. “Did you never think about adding another seat inside your iron can?”
(End of this Chapter)