There was a hidden passage on the Saxon trench specifically leading to an external observation post.
However, this so-called “hidden passage” was actually just a shallow groove forcibly dug out in the muddy ground.
Its depth was less than half a meter, and the bottom was full of sticky mud.
To move in it, one had to stick tightly to the ground like a gecko. Lifting one’s butt slightly higher might attract a stray bullet from the opposite side.
Morin felt the cold mud drilling in along his collar and cuffs. That wet, slippery, and greasy touch was like countless cold little snakes wandering on his skin.
Although his physical fitness far exceeded ordinary people, it didn’t mean he could feel comfortable in this environment.
On the contrary, his sharp perception allowed him to smell the stench in the mud more clearly than ordinary people.
Crawling and crawling, Sergeant Fischer ahead stopped.
This veteran lay in the mud like a stone, only the heel of his mud-covered military boot twitching slightly, signaling the people behind to keep up.
About eight meters from the trench, there was a tree stump cut in half by an artillery shell. Under the stump was a natural crater.
This was an observation post extending outside the trench, and also the first designated foothold for Morin and the others.
Following the soldier ahead, Morin crawled into that crater using both hands and feet.
As soon as he entered, the oppressive feeling that his skull could be lifted by a bullet at any time dissipated a lot.
Several people squeezed into this muddy pit of only three or four square meters. No one spoke; only heavy breathing rose and fell in the dark.
Sergeant Fischer wiped the muddy water off his face, his eyes, which seemed exceptionally bright in the dark, looking at Morin.
Morin nodded slightly.
Upon confirmation, Sergeant Fischer didn’t speak nonsense. He waved his hand and led everyone to crawl out of the crater again, feeling towards the deeper, more unknown darkness.
Crossing this crater was officially entering the core zone of this “no-man’s land.”
This was a true land of death. No protection from trenches, no support from friendly forces, only corpse remains everywhere.
While controlling his body to minimize friction sounds with the ground, Morin focused his attention on the system map in the upper left corner of his vision.
The green dots representing friendly forces in the trench had been left behind. Ahead was a grayness representing the fog of war.
Under the cover of night, Morin, Fischer, and the others didn’t know how long they had crawled.
Just as they were close to the centerline of the no-man’s land, several red dots popped out on the system map without warning.
Extremely close!
Right ahead, less than twenty meters away!
Morin’s heart jumped. Just as he was about to issue a warning, he noticed that Sergeant Fischer ahead obviously also sensed something was wrong.
This experienced veteran stopped his movements abruptly, raised his right fist high, and instantly stiffened in place, as if melting into the surrounding mud.
Although the several soldiers following behind were nervous, their strict daily training made them react instinctively—everyone immediately stopped squirming, held their breath, and brought their weapons in front of them.
Morin slowly raised his head and looked ahead.
The clouds were thick tonight, starlight was dim, and visibility was extremely low.
But in eyes adapted to the dark, several unnatural black shadows faintly appeared in the originally empty muddy ground ahead.
Those black shadows were also moving.
Or rather, they were moving just now, but now they had stopped.
The two sides were like two packs of beasts foraging in the dark, crashing into each other at the corner.
With a gust of breeze, the clouds parted slightly, and an extremely faint ray of starlight spilled down.
This little bit of light was enough.
Morin clearly saw the outline of the person at the very front opposite—it was a figure also half-lying on the ground, wearing that iconic shallow, flat helmet like an overturned plate on his head.
Britannian.
The distance between the two sides was terrifyingly close. In this completely quiet situation, Morin even felt he could hear the sound of the opposite person swallowing saliva—of course, this must be an illusion.
And in the next second, not knowing what triggered it.
Almost simultaneously, both sides reacted. More than a dozen dark muzzles were raised in the darkness, pointing at each other’s heads.
But no one fired; time seemed to freeze at this moment.
On the system map, the other party’s unit card information also refreshed.
The words [Holy Britannia Empire – North American Colony Legion] did not surprise him.
Morin narrowed his eyes, the MP14 submachine gun in his hand pointing opposite, staring at the figure also holding a gun opposite.
As long as his finger moved slightly, the guy opposite’s head would blossom.
But immediately after, this place would turn into a living hell.
At this distance, as long as there was a gunshot, the light and heavy machine guns and hundreds of rifles in the trenches on both sides would instantly pour ammunition into this area.
Whether you were a Saxon or a “Britannian,” in this flat ground without any cover, you would all be beaten into a sieve.
This was an extremely absurd yet extremely realistic balance.
Everyone wanted to live, so everyone dared not move.
Cold sweat flowed down Sergeant Fischer’s forehead, flowing into his eyes, but he didn’t dare to even blink.
The knuckles of his hand holding the gun turned white from excessive force, his Adam’s apple rolling up and down with difficulty.
He slightly turned his head and glanced at Morin beside him, his eyes full of inquiry and anxiety.
Shoot? Or not shoot?
As the actual commander of this squad, Morin’s brain spun rapidly.
The opposite side was obviously also a squad out executing a reconnaissance mission. The number of people was about the same as theirs, seven or eight.
Looking at their movements and reactions, they didn’t look like those fanatical suicide squads, but more like unlucky guys kicked out by their superiors to die.
Morin took a deep breath, his lips moved slightly, and a sound only Sergeant Fischer could hear drilled directly into the veteran’s mind.
[Cantrip – Message]: “Don’t speak, don’t shoot, follow my command…”
Sergeant Fischer shook all over, but having been informed of Morin’s spellcaster identity in advance, he quickly realized this was the special ability of this Lieutenant Colonel, and then forcibly controlled his expression.
Morin slowly straightened his upper body. This was a very dangerous move, but he didn’t do it fast, trying not to let the other party feel threatened.
By the considerably brighter moonlight, he clearly saw the leader of the opposite squad.
It was a middle-aged man half-squatting in the middle of the team, wearing the rank of Sergeant on his sleeve, with a stubbly face and heavy bags under his eyes.
Those eyes were written full of fatigue and panic, uniquely lacking murderous intent.
This made things easier.
Morin first slowly raised his left hand, put his index finger in front of his lips, and made a universally understood “shush” gesture.
The opposite Sergeant was stunned for a moment, but he quickly understood Morin’s meaning, and his originally tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
Immediately after, Morin made a bolder move.
He pressed the muzzle of the submachine gun he had been holding in his right hand downwards extremely slowly until it pointed at the ground.
During this process, his gaze never left the Sergeant’s eyes.
The meaning of this action was obvious: Bro, in the middle of the night, let’s not open fire?
The opposite Sergeant hesitated.
He looked at Morin, then at the Saxon soldiers behind Morin who were equally covered in mud and looking tense.
Finally, his gaze landed on the action of the muzzle pointing to the ground.
A few seconds of silence felt as long as a century.
Finally, that Britannian Sergeant slowly let out a breath of turbid air.
He also imitated Morin’s look, slowly lowering the Lee-Enfield rifle in his hand, the muzzle leaving Morin’s chest.
“Phew…”
At this moment, Morin could clearly hear that whether it was the soldiers on his side or those young guys opposite, a sigh of relief came from their throats.
That oppressive feeling of dying at any time receded by more than half like a tide.
Morin himself also secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He equally didn’t want the two sides to fight here.
Although he had [Mage Armor], [Shield], and other life-saving spells on him, he also didn’t want the squad that came out with him to die here.
Morin raised his left hand again, gave a thumbs-up, then pointed behind him, making a “retreat” gesture.
Everyone go back to your own homes, find your own mothers.
That Sergeant didn’t hesitate this time. He also nodded, then waved his hand to his subordinates.
Both sides still maintained high vigilance. Although guns were lowered, fingers never left the trigger guards.
The Saxon soldiers began to slowly squat and retreat backward. Although this action was very uncomfortable to do, they dared not relax at all right now, their eyes still staring fixedly opposite.
And the opposite “Britannians” were doing the same action.
Two hostile forces that wished they could beat each other’s brains out during the day actually reached a strange tacit understanding in this small muddy field at this moment.
Everyone was just making a living; no one wanted to lose their lives in this mud pit for those big shots above.
As the distance widened little by little, those black shadows blended back into the night.
Only after retreating back to the crater serving as a transit station did Sergeant Fischer sit down in the muddy water, panting heavily as if he had just finished a marathon.
The veteran wiped the cold sweat off his face while saying with lingering fear: “Your Excellency Lieutenant Colonel, I thought we were going to end it here tonight.”
The other soldiers also had expressions of surviving a disaster. Some even had shaking hands, almost unable to hold their guns steadily.
Morin leaned against the pit wall and checked the time by moonlight.
From setting out from the trench to retreating, it took no more than twenty minutes.
But the energy consumed in these twenty minutes was more than running ten kilometers on the training ground on ordinary days.
“Sir, just now…” Sergeant Fischer looked at Morin with some awe, “How did you know they wouldn’t shoot?”
“Because they don’t want to die either.”
Morin looked around at the soldiers and said in a flat tone: “You can tell by looking at their eyes. Those were not eyes that wanted to fight desperately…”