The [Intelligence] tab did not reveal any more information.
Morin looked at the [Intelligence] interface in his field of vision, which quietly refreshed as the topic deepened, a strange ripple rising in his heart.
To be honest, up to now, Morin hadn’t been able to completely summarize the specific rules for triggering intelligence.
Sometimes it was touching key items, sometimes it was being in a specific location…
And more often, it seemed to be communicating with key figures about specific topics.
It was like a person who loves listening to gossip; only when you talk about a topic it’s interested in, or when you have explored the edges of this topic, will it throw you a little bit of core information.
However, if it failed to provide key intelligence consecutively multiple times, the system seemed to also have some kind of “pity mechanism”… After triggering the pity, it would directly provide some key intelligence.
You see, even after experiencing something like transmigration, the “soft pity and hard pity” (gacha game terms) still wouldn’t let him go.
Previously in the underground research institute, no matter how Morin tossed about and probed regarding that old fox Heinrich’s ultimate plan, the system just held back and didn’t provide key information.
It wasn’t until things blew up completely, and that flesh monster was blown to ashes, that the relevant background information came out a little bit like squeezing toothpaste.
And now, regarding the life and death of that Gallic Tier-9 mage, Pierre de Cuvier, it was also only after His Highness the Crown Prince detailed that battle, and the topic was highly directed, that the word [Alive] popped up.
All in all, this was a very “mysterious” system—but the occasional outbursts of “System’s Divine Power” also made Morin unable to stop.
Once a person accepts the setting of “weak guarantee software” (a joke term for a system that only guarantees the minimum), they can’t leave it…
Morin picked up his wine glass, using the action of drinking to cover the deep thought that flashed in his eyes.
Since the system showed him alive, that meant under the artillery coverage that day, this Tier-9 Evocation mage standing at the apex of spellcasters in this world did not die.
It had to be said, this was also a bombshell.
It’s just that Morin didn’t plan to say it out loud either. Some secrets are only safe when you are the only one who knows them.
Not to mention, even if he said it out loud, someone had to believe it, right?
Having figured this out, Morin put down his wine glass, the expression on his face not changing at all, as if he had never seen that piece of intelligence.
And Crown Prince Georg’s interest in this topic had obviously passed. He cared more about Morin’s judgment of other situations.
In his view, his investment in Morin, this “famous Dresden playboy,” back then was simply the most cost-effective deal he had made in his life.
Not only did he gain an indestructible tactical sharp knife, but he also unexpectedly unearthed a staff talent with strategic vision.
“Sir Friedrich, your vision can always pierce through the fog and reach the essence.”
Georg poured a little more wine for Morin, adopting a posture for a long, heart-to-heart talk.
“Since the surrender of the Gauls is already a certainty, then…” The Crown Prince’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, asking another question he cared about very much, “How do you think those islanders across the Channel will react?”
“The Holy Britannia Empire…”
The magically modified Union Jack surfaced in Morin’s mind, as well as that British Empire which, compared to the world before transmigration, could completely be called a super-enhanced version.
He didn’t answer immediately, but picked up a piece of sausage and threw it into his mouth, seemingly organizing his words.
A moment later, he swallowed his food and spoke:
“I think it should be flying into a rage out of humiliation after being betrayed~”
An unconcealable smile curved at the corner of Morin’s mouth. He was just this kind of person.
As the “Chief Daily Brit-Roaster,” once he heard news about the Great Brit suffering a loss or being deflated, he couldn’t help but be happy and applaud.
“Your Highness, you must understand, for the Britannians, this is a match where their teammate chose to surrender alone before they even started truly exerting their strength.”
“The Gauls making a separate peace means Britannia has lost its biggest meat shield and cannon fodder on the Europa continent… If the war continues, they will have to face the pressure of the Empire’s military edge alone.”
“This is unacceptable for the islanders accustomed to reaping the spoils from offshore balancing.”
Georg nodded thoughtfully: “So, they will obstruct it?”
“More than just obstruct.” Morin shook his head and continued: “Based on my understanding of them, it should be said they will resort to all conceivable means.”
“Sir Friedrich, please elaborate…”
Morin: “First is coercion and bribery on the diplomatic level. They will promise the provisional government in Bordeaux a greater share of colonies after the war, provide massive interest-free loans, and even directly ship gold to stabilize the franc’s exchange rate…”
“In short, use interests to keep the Gauls on their last breath so they don’t die completely.”
“What if this trick doesn’t work?” Georg pressed.
“Then resort to extreme measures!”
Morin sneered, as if related images had already appeared in his mind.
Or rather, when it came to being inhumane, the Great Brit truly achieved what is called “universal acclaim”…
“They will promise to increase troop deployment, not only the expeditionary force from the homeland but also mobilize an even larger number of colonial legions from other colonies.”
“They will tell the Gauls: ‘Look, reinforcements are on the way. Just hold on for another month, or half a year… the situation will reverse.'”
Georg frowned: “But this cannot change the fact that the Gallic homeland has already collapsed.”
Morin nodded: “That’s right, this is the third point I want to make, and personally, what I find most disgusting… If the provisional government in Bordeaux is dead set on surrendering, then the Britannians will directly bypass them.”
“They will prop up a new proxy regime in Gaul’s overseas colonies, such as Algeria in North Africa, or Morocco.”
“An obedient ‘government-in-exile’ willing to continue bleeding.”
“They will declare that the government in Bordeaux is illegal, a puppet forced by Saxon bayonets, and that only this one overseas is the legitimate regime representing the Gallic national spirit.”
“This way, the war has not legally ended.”
After hearing these words from Morin, Georg suddenly found that he actually didn’t feel surprised.
Or rather, this kind of operation indeed fit his consistent impression of those island politicians very well.
“And Your Highness, don’t forget… the Britannians have bargaining chips in their hands now.”
Morin pointed to the northwest.
“Their expeditionary force has already occupied important port cities in the northwest of the Gallic Republic like Rouen and Le Havre. These are not just landing points, but their bridgeheads on the Europa continent.”
“These hundreds of thousands of well-equipped, fully supplied troops cost astronomical military expenditures to transport over. Would they slink back just swimming because of a single surrender document from the Gauls?”
“This is obviously impossible…”
“As long as these nails are still stuck on the continent, the Saxon Empire must maintain massive military forces to guard against them, and also cannot truly complete the assimilation of the occupied Gallic territories.”
“This is the logic behind the Britannians’ response to this war, Your Highness.”
“They can tolerate the existence of two evenly matched great powers on the Europa continent slaughtering each other, but they cannot tolerate the emergence of a hegemon capable of integrating the resources of the entire continent.”
“The current Saxon Empire, in their eyes, is exactly that giant beast about to swallow everything.”
“So, they have no choice now.”
Morin downed the red wine in his glass in one gulp, as if putting a temporary period to this conversation.
“Either they shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place, but always remained a spectator.”
“Since they have already entered the field, then there is only one ending—first let their allies bleed dry, and then throw the blood of an entire generation of their own young men into this meat grinder as well.”
“Fight until one dies…”
His Highness the Crown Prince did not speak, just quietly looking at Morin. He discovered for the first time that this overly young army lieutenant colonel actually exuded a sense of vicissitudes that saw through the fog of history.
Across the Channel, the capital of the Holy Britannia Empire.
London was currently shrouded in a cold and damp fog.
Fine rain beat against the thick glass windows, making an irritating sound.
Inside a conference room in the Admiralty building, the swirling smoke made the people inside look somewhat hazy.
The blue smoke from burning expensive cigars intertwined with the occasional crackling sparks in the fireplace, reflecting three gloomy faces sitting around the long table.
“Cowards! A bunch of out-and-out cowards!”
An angry roar broke the deathly silence in the room.
The 41-year-old First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, in his prime and as vigorous as a bulldog, violently slammed the document in his hand onto the table.
Printed clearly on that document was a copy of the diplomatic note from the Gallic Republic requesting a ceasefire from the Saxon Empire through a neutral country.
We agreed to form a lifelong “Anti-Saxon Alliance,” so why is it that after only such a short time, the Gauls jumped ship first?
“These Gauls… how dare they?!”
The face of the Empire’s First Lord of the Admiralty, Churchill, which wasn’t considered round yet at this time, flushed red.
He chewed on his cigar, cursing indistinctly yet through gritted teeth.
“To support them, we hollowed out the treasury and mobilized an entire generation of young men! Our fleet escorted them on the sea, our soldiers bled on their land!”
“And the result? Without even saying a word, they are preparing to kneel before the Saxon Emperor and lick that old guy’s boots?!”
Sitting opposite him was the exhausted-looking Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey.
Facing Churchill’s roar, this diplomat who single-handedly facilitated the “Triple Entente” merely rubbed his throbbing temples helplessly.
“Winston… calm down a bit.” Grey’s voice was hoarse and weak, “Anger solves nothing at this time.”
“Calm down? How do you expect me to calm down?”
Churchill was like an enraged lion, pacing back and forth in the narrow conference room.
“Her Majesty the Queen hoped to see decisive progress in the first half of this year…”
Churchill glanced at the portrait on the wall, and his whole person calmed down slightly, but a trace of worry still remained in his tone.
“But looking at it now, the first thing we have to consider is how to avoid a disastrous rout.”
Hearing “Her Majesty the Queen,” the other two present involuntarily straightened their backs, a trace of awe flashing in their eyes.
In this Empire, that “Eternal Queen” sitting on the golden throne was the true master of will.
Her disappointment was something no cabinet minister could bear.
Not to mention, the Empire had just experienced an unprecedentedly heavy defeat on the “Prometheus Project.”
The elite troops of the Coldstream Guards, and quite a number of Highland Mages, were all buried in the underground laboratory in Paris.
Only two Highland Mages successfully escaped back, but they only brought back some incomplete research data.
Upon learning that the research progress of the “Super Soldiers” would be significantly extended due to missing data, the Queen had already flown into a rage at a meeting a few days ago.
So at this time, no one wanted to touch bad luck again.
Secretary of State for War Lord Horatio Herbert Kitchener, who had been silent all along, finally spoke at this time.
This Field Marshal with the iconic mustache, whose recruitment posters were plastered all over the Empire’s streets and alleys, looked exceptionally gloomy at this moment.
“Sir Grey…” Kitchener looked at the Foreign Secretary, “Is there any room for retrieval through diplomatic channels?”
Sir Grey smiled bitterly and shook his head.
“Very difficult, Lord… extremely difficult.”
“Our ambassador in Bordeaux has almost worn out the threshold of the Gallic Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but you also know…”
Grey spread his hands. This figure who could be said to be an all-powerful presence in the diplomatic arena of Europa had a strong sense of brokenness about him at this moment.
“Paris is gone… gone in the true sense.”
“So the Gauls feel they have been bled dry, and fighting on means the subjugation of the nation and extinction of the race… This kind of fear cannot be eliminated by us promising some benefits.”
“Then let them go to hell!”
Churchill took a fierce puff of his cigar, the spark flickering uncertainly in the smoke:
“Since the homeland cannot be defended, then go to North Africa! To Algeria! They still have a massive fleet, and so many colonial troops! Relying on the cover of the Royal Navy, they can completely continue fighting!”
“As long as they are willing to evacuate overseas, this war can still be fought!”
“Why not look at the Eastern Front? Huh?!”
Churchill walked quickly to the world map hanging on the wall, poking fiercely at the right side of the map with his finger.
“Look here! How beautifully Kolchak and Denikin have done!”
“They have already severed the connection between that so-called ‘Western Rus Provisional National Government’ and the ‘Black Sea Republic’ to the south, their vanguard pointing straight at Kiev! Those ‘revolutionaries’ who overthrew the Tsar are shivering!”
“As long as the Eastern Front can open up the situation, the Saxons will have to divide their forces! The situation can be completely reversed! But this bunch of Gallic softies chose to kneel at this very moment!”
Churchill turned around, a fanatical light flashing in his eyes.
“And our expeditionary force! We have garrisons in Rouen, Calais, and Le Havre! We control the Channel, we control the Atlantic!”
“Even if the Saxons swallow Gaul, they will have indigestion! We have the capability to drag this war on, drag it until their economy collapses, drag it until they explode internally!”
This passionate speech made the atmosphere in the conference room slightly more active.
But Field Marshal Kitchener’s face remained grave. He scoffed at Churchill’s optimistic attitude—especially regarding the optimism about the war on the Western Front.
As an experienced Imperial general, he knew better than Churchill how huge the chasm was between “refusing to leave” and “achieving victory”…
“Winston, I appreciate your optimism.”
Kitchener said in a low voice:
“But as Secretary of State for War, I must remind you… If the Gauls really surrender, the Saxons will be able to free up over a million elite troops.”
“Our expeditionary force, in those few port cities, will face a siege by enemies several times their number.”
“Unless…” Kitchener paused, his gaze becoming profound, “Unless we can open a new battlefield to distract the Saxons.”
Hearing this, Churchill’s eyes lit up violently.
He walked quickly to Kitchener, lowered his voice, like a merchant peddling contraband on the streets and alleys of London.
“My Lord, you have finally seen the light.”
“Do you also feel… our stalemate on the Western Front is meaningless?”
Churchill’s finger slid down the map, crossed the Alps, and finally stopped on a long, narrow, and fragmented peninsula.
“The Balkans…”
He spat out this word, as if it were some delicious delicacy.
“The Austro-Hungarian Empire, that decaying, tottering old fossil… The whole world has seen their performance in this war, it’s simply a disaster.”
“If we can unite Greece, and other Balkan countries… especially the support of the Ottoman Empire, and land directly here…”
Churchill poked fiercely at the map, pointing straight at the soft underbelly of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
“It’s equivalent to us putting a knife to the waist of Saxony’s ally! At that time, the Saxons will have to divide their forces to rescue them, and the pressure on the Western Front will naturally be relieved!”
This was the “Soft Underbelly” plan Churchill had always been obsessed with.
In another space-time, this plan evolved into the tragic Dardanelles Campaign (Gallipoli).
And in this world, this highly imaginative strategist still hadn’t given up this unconventional risk.
Kitchener looked at the map, his brows tightly furrowed.
This Imperial Secretary of State for War was weighing and calculating the Empire’s gains and losses.
Although this plan was full of risks, in the desperate situation where Gaul was about to exit the stage, this seemed to be the only way to break the deadlock.
“To land in the Balkans, the prerequisite is that we must possess absolute control over the Mediterranean.”
Kitchener suddenly raised his head, staring at Churchill with eyes blazing like torches.
“And to control the Mediterranean… besides our Mediterranean Fleet having to suppress the Saxons completely, there is another unavoidable factor—”
“The Gallic Navy…” Churchill answered without hesitation.
The air in the conference room seemed to freeze at this instant.
“Winston… you have been emphasizing landing from the Balkans, emphasizing striking the soft underbelly of the Austro-Hungarian Empire… Now it seems, you indeed have also thought of the prerequisite for executing this step.”
Kitchener stood up from his chair, walked to Churchill’s side, and the two stood side-by-side in front of that massive world map.
“But you and I both know very well, if the Gallic government really surrenders to Saxony, then according to the armistice agreement, the Saxons will definitely demand to take over, or at least eliminate the threat of Gaul’s armed forces.”
“Among this, what the Saxons dread the most, and what gives us the biggest headache… is the Gallic Navy.”
Undoubtedly, the Navy of the Gallic Republic was the fourth largest naval power in this world.
Only behind the Holy Britannia Empire Royal Navy, the Saxon Imperial Navy… and the American Colonial Garrison Fleet.
Although the current mainstays of the Gallic Navy couldn’t be considered powerful cutting-edge warships, counting those cruisers and destroyers, it was still a fleet possessing the strength to fight.
“If this fleet falls into the hands of the Saxons, or is forcefully commandeered by them…”
Kitchener didn’t continue, but the other two present knew the consequences very well.
The High Seas Fleet and Mediterranean Fleet built by the Saxon Empire with the power of the whole nation had already made the Royal Navy feel it was a thorny problem.
If the Gallic Fleet were added, then the Royal Navy’s advantage in the Atlantic and Mediterranean would vanish entirely.
More importantly, to execute Churchill’s “Balkan Landing Plan,” the transport fleet must cross the entire Mediterranean—otherwise, they would have to spend much more time, bypass the Cape of Good Hope, and pass through the Red Sea and Suez Canal to enter the straits to complete the landing.
If at this time the Saxon Mediterranean Fleet in the Mediterranean was reinforced by the Gallic Navy, it would be a devastating disaster for any landing operation.
Not to mention, the Papal Theocracy was already showing a trend of gradually entering the field.
The navy of this religious country was only second to the Gallic Navy in strength…
“So, you have thought about it long ago… right?”
Kitchener turned his head and looked at Churchill.
Facing the Secretary of State for War’s questioning, Churchill didn’t show the slightest panic.
On the contrary, a smile slowly emerged on that face perfectly expressing “in the prime of life and strength.”
“My Lord, this is why you are the person I respect the most in the Empire’s military.”
Churchill’s voice became very calm at this time, completely lacking the loss of composure from when he was roaring just now.
“You can always see the core of the problem.”
He turned around, his back to the map, facing Grey and Kitchener, spreading his arms as if embracing some inevitable fate.
“Yes, I have considered it long ago.”
“We cannot tolerate the Gallic Fleet falling into the hands of the Saxons. Even if there is only a one-in-ten-thousand possibility, it is unacceptable.”
“This concerns the life and death of the Empire, concerns the glory of Her Majesty the Queen, and concerns the safety of every Britannian citizen.”
Foreign Secretary Sir Grey had already realized something—or rather, the plan First Lord of the Admiralty Churchill was about to say was not much of a secret within the War Cabinet.
Long before the outbreak of the war, long before he facilitated the “Triple Entente,” the Empire’s high echelon had already considered these problems.
But he was still somewhat incredulous, asking with a slightly trembling voice: “Winston… do you really intend to…”
“If they are unwilling to hand over the ships to us for safekeeping, or sail to neutral ports…”
Churchill flicked the ash off his cigar and said lightly:
“Then, this fleet must disappear.”
“You mean… sink them?! Those are our allies! Our warships were fighting side-by-side with them just a few days ago!”
“That was in the past, Edward.”
Churchill coldly interrupted him, not a trace of warmth in his eyes.
“From the moment they sign the armistice agreement, they are no longer allies.”
“But a group of potential enemies, a group of traitors holding deadly weapons who might turn their guns on us at any time.”
“But… this is too…”
Sir Edward Grey was somewhat incoherent. As a classical, traditional diplomat, this kind of backstabbing behavior completely exceeded his moral bottom line.
“Too despicable? Too shameless?”
Churchill sneered, a ruthless, formidable-leader-like cruelty seeping from that smile.
“If I must choose between bearing infamy and plunging the Empire into destruction, I will choose the former without hesitation…” He looked at Secretary of State for War Kitchener, who had been silent.
“My Lord, you think so too, right?”
Kitchener closed his eyes, seemingly undergoing a fierce inner struggle.
As a soldier, opening fire on yesterday’s allies was undoubtedly painful.
But he knew even better that as the Empire’s Secretary of State for War, he must be responsible for the entire battle situation.
If the Gallic Fleet were really taken over by the Saxon Navy, then the Royal Navy would completely lose control over the Mediterranean… Let the Saxons completely control the Mediterranean?
Lord Kitchener didn’t dare to imagine what would happen… He only knew this consequence was something the Empire could not bear.
After a long time, Kitchener opened his eyes again, only an expanse of steely coldness left in those profound eyes.
“If we are going to act, we must be fast… must be ruthless.”
Kitchener’s voice was low and powerful, like pronouncing a death sentence.
“We cannot give them time to react, nor can we give the Saxons an opportunity to intervene.”
“Once diplomatic efforts fail, once it is confirmed they refuse to hand over the fleet…”
Kitchener made a downward chopping motion.
“Then destroy them completely.”
The smile on Churchill’s face widened. As the son of the Duke of Marlborough, he could be called a “true London old Union Jack.” And in the heart of this Imperial noble, there had always been a dream to “Make Britannia Great Again.”
“That’s right, let’s give this plan a name…”
Churchill narrowed his eyes, looking at the gloomy London sky outside the window, as if seeing a bloody storm about to dye the Mediterranean red.
“Operation ‘Catapult’… what do you think?”
Sir Grey sat in his chair, looking at these two men before him who had fallen into some kind of madness because of this war, only feeling a deep sense of powerlessness welling up in his heart.
He knew that no matter how much he opposed it, the Empire’s war chariot had already, on this rainy night, driven onto a path of no return filled with betrayal and blood.
Just like what a young enemy lieutenant colonel across the Channel said:
“First let their allies bleed dry, and then throw the blood of an entire generation of their own young men into this meat grinder as well.”
“Fight until one dies…”