xymnovel Chapter 50 Your Highness! My life and loyalty belong entirely to you at this moment!
Chapter 50 Your Highness! My life and loyalty belong entirely to you at this moment!
The operations room was deathly silent.
A cigarette slipped from a general's fingers, burning a small, charred hole in the carpet, but he was completely unaware.
A crystal wine glass fell from a politician's hand with a sharp "crack," the sound particularly jarring in the otherwise quiet hall, but no one bothered to even glance at it.
Everyone's gaze was fixed on the enormous sand table, like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
That's no longer a simulation.
It was a cold-blooded, one-sided massacre.
The red flag, like a calm and cruel hand, precisely plucked every unit of the blue army. The blue side, on the other hand, was like a bull chained to a slaughterhouse, possessing brute strength but only able to utter desperate and meaningless cries of agony as it was dismembered.
The Metaxus was as calm as a precisely calculated difference engine.
"Artillery position number three, extend your firepower towards the valley entrance, and coordinate with several assembled infantry companies to completely block the enemy. Order the reserve force to infiltrate through the western pass, ignoring the remaining enemy, and head straight for the Blue Army command post."
His instructions were all brief, clear, and deadly.
His mastery of artillery firepower, his understanding of infantry-artillery coordination, and his control over the entire battle situation completely shattered the perceptions of all the Greek officers present.
They weren't watching a war game; they were attending a lesson on warfare from the future.
Fear, like a cold vine, climbed from the soles of every old-school general's feet all the way to the top of his head.
If... if you encountered such an opponent on a real battlefield...
All the generals present broke out in a cold sweat. They asked themselves, if they were replaced by the disgraceful Papagiorou on the sand table, would the outcome have been any different?
The answer is, no.
They might even lose more badly and faster.
"No! No! Hold the line!"
Papagiorou completely broke down.
He looked like a gambler who had lost everything, his eyes bloodshot, wildly waving the control stick at the sand table.
"Cavalry! Where are my cavalry? Charge! Charge up the hill! Cut down those damned artillerymen! Where is my artillery battalion? Analyze the enemy's shell impact points to deduce firing data, go up and counter-fire, cover the cavalry's charge at all costs!"
His adjutant was deathly pale, his voice trembling: "General... the cavalry, the cavalry is gone... Metaxas artillery is on the other side of the valley, our artillery can't hit them at all from inside the valley!"
"Then send in the infantry! Fill the gaps! Fill them with men's lives!"
He roared madly, but every move he made was like a moth drawn into a spider's web, only to fall right into the next trap that Metaxas had already set up.
His remaining troops, like a flock of sheep being driven, were precisely herded to the slaughterhouse by the sheepdog of artillery fire.
This is a complete crushing defeat in terms of intelligence, ideas, and even dimensions!
Less than an hour.
On the sand table, the once invincible blue flag has withered beyond recognition.
Just then, the referee picked up a long pole and pointed it at the rear of the blue camp, at the flag representing the command post.
A squad of red assault team members, seemingly out of nowhere, had silently appeared there.
"The Red Army commando team has successfully infiltrated the Blue Army command post."
The judge's voice, in the deathly silent room, was like a tolling death knell.
"It has been determined that the Blue Team command post has been destroyed."
"Deduction... over."
Metaxas slowly lowered the baton.
He raised his head and looked calmly at the person opposite him.
General Papagiorou stood there, frozen like a statue with all its spines removed.
His face was as pale as paper.
Metaxas straightened his uniform collar and strode up to him. He stopped, stood ramrod straight, and gave the just-arrogant general a flawless salute.
There was no mockery, no pity.
There is only one statement.
"General, you have lost."
These five words, like the final hammer blow, shattered Papagiorou's nerves completely.
His body swayed suddenly, and he staggered back two steps, almost falling on his buttocks.
Humiliation! Shock! Unbelievable!
A jumble of emotions swirled wildly across his face, which was flushed and purplish from alcohol.
He felt that he hadn't lost to a mere lieutenant.
He lost to a war demon from the future, disguised in human skin!
He lost. In front of all his colleagues, political enemies, and foreign envoys, he lost everything.
Just when everyone thought he would faint or fly into a rage on the spot, Papagiorou made an unexpected move.
He didn't look at anyone, but stared intently at the sand table with its withered blue flags, his chest heaving violently. He was a rough man, a drunkard, an arrogant warlord, but first and foremost, he was a soldier who had fought half his life!
He could understand what was displayed on the sand table—a terrifying logic he had never heard of before, yet it made his soul tremble!
Why?
He suddenly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes staring intently at Metaxas, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded.
"Review!"
He practically roared it out, like a wild beast driven to the brink of despair.
"You fucking explain yourself! How the hell did you do that?!"
This wasn't a plea for mercy; it was a veteran's last shred of dignity. He wanted to know how he died!
Everyone was stunned.
Constantine had been watching quietly, and now a playful smile appeared on his lips. He walked to the sand table and gestured for him to proceed.
"Metaxus, satisfy the General's curiosity."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Metaxas picked up the command stick again. At this moment, he was no longer a bullied lieutenant; he had become the only instructor in this operations room.
"General, your tactics are not wrong, the problem lies in the times."
He pointed with the baton to the high ground on both sides of the valley, "What you think of as artillery is direct fire, hitting targets you can see. But my artillery is firing at targets it can't see, but I can."
"I don't need to see your troops, I just need to know where you are. With pre-calculated firing data, my artillery fire can cover every corner of this area."
He then pointed to the wreckage on the sand table, ravaged by artillery fire.
"The purpose of artillery fire is not just to kill. It is also to divide, block, and drive away. I use artillery fire to separate your infantry and cavalry, to cut off your vanguard and rearguard. I am not attacking your army, I am 'managing' your army. I am driving them to where I want them to go."
One after another, unheard-of terms were clearly uttered from Metaxas's mouth.
The generals present went from initial bewilderment to shock, and then to breaking out in a cold sweat.
Papagiorou listened blankly, the color draining from his face until it was ashen. He understood; his defeat was not unjust. He had fought a ghost from the next century.
When Metaxas finished his explanation, the entire room fell silent.
Papagiorou remained silent for a long time. Slowly and very solemnly, he picked up the baton he had dropped on the ground, held it in both hands, and walked to Constantine.
He didn't look at the Crown Prince, but at Metaxas, who was standing next to him.
"Your Highness." He lowered his proud head deeply, his voice no longer carrying any arrogance, but only a hoarse pleading tone.
"Please...send this...send Lord Metaxas to my division."
"We...we need to learn...how to fight."
The entire audience erupted in uproar!
Constantine looked at the veteran who had been completely defeated, and for the first time, his smile softened.
He walked over to Metaxas and, in full view of everyone, personally adjusted his silver insignia. Then, he turned to the group of old-school generals, whose faces were equally ashen.
His voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly.
"Does anyone still think that my people are all talk and no action?"
No one dared to answer.
Constantine stopped looking at them and, with Metaxas in tow, walked out through the deathly silent crowd.
As he passed by Sir Harding, the British ambassador, the old fox bowed deeply to him for the first time, his eyes filled with deep apprehension and solemnity.
As Metaxas walked alongside the Crown Prince past the group of generals, he could feel their gazes shift from disdain to awe.
He straightened his chest.
He knew that from this day forward, no one would dare to look down on him anymore.
Because he is the crown prince's weapon.
A blade that will drink blood today and win the heartfelt respect of its opponent.
As he stepped out of the operations room, the bright lights shone on his face. He turned his head to look at the tall and composed figure beside him.
Without hesitation, he knelt down on one knee again.
This time, it wasn't in an empty study. It was in the long corridor of the palace, under the watchful eyes of everyone.
"Your Highness!"
His voice trembled violently with excitement, yet it was filled with an unprecedented firmness.
"My life, my loyalty, from this moment on, belong entirely to you!"