Chapter 272: Battle of Mazuri Lake

The wind sliced across the Mazuri Lake area of East Prussia like a knife.

Major Zhongcun Jiluo buried his face in a coarse woolen scarf, exposing only his eyes, yet frost clung to his lashes. Each breath he exhaled formed white ice crystals on the scarf's edge, which the wind scattered into the endless snowfield.

"Major, the thermometer reads minus twenty‑three degrees."

It was the aide Xiaolin, a First Lieutenant, whose voice sounded muffled through the scarf, trembling despite his effort to hide it. The twenty‑four‑year‑old had been at home in warm Kyushu three months ago, and now stood in ice and snow ten thousand kilometres from his hometown.

"Understood," Zhongcun replied shortly, raising his binoculars toward the front.

In his view stretched a frozen lake, extending under a gray sky like a huge shattered mirror. Farther away, dark forest outlines—spruces and pines bowed under the snow's weight—loomed like a herd of silent giants.

This was the Mazuri Lake area. Zhongcun had studied a map before departing—more precisely, a map supplied by Deguo. Blue lines traced dozens of lakes of varying size; in summer the region was marshland and swamps, impassable. Now the bitter cold had turned them into flat passages—and deadly traps.

"How are the troops?" Zhongcun set down his binoculars and asked, turning his head.

"The Third Battalion is at full strength, with seventeen non‑combat casualties," Xiaolin opened his notebook, reading by the faint daylight, "nine frostbite, five severe diarrhea, three missing but recovered. But…"

"But what?"

"But morale… isn't good," Xiaolin lowered his voice, "the soldiers don't understand why we're here, Major. They say this is a war between Deguo and Russia; why are we fighting for Deguo?"

Zhongcun was silent for a few seconds. He could not answer that question, or rather, he could not give the true answer.

Because of money. Because of foreign exchange. Because politicians in Tokyo need Deguo marks to buy food, pay reparations, and keep the country running.

But those words could not be told to the soldiers.

"Tell them it's an imperial order," Zhongcun finally said, his tone as flat as a weather report, "We are soldiers; obeying orders is our duty."

"Yes," Xiaolin lowered his head, but Zhongcun saw confusion flash in his eyes.

From afar came the creak of boots on snow. A tall figure walked forward from the front of the formation, his steps steady, starkly contrasting with the huddled, shuffling Japanese soldiers around him.

It was Captain Hans Feng Shite Laixi, the Deguo liaison officer.

"Major Zhongcun," Hans began in halting Japanese, a language he had crammed in the past two months, thick with a German accent, "we need to speed up. According to the plan, we must cross the Third Lake area before four a. m. and reach the designated point."

Zhongcun glanced at his pocket watch—eleven twenty‑three at night.

"Less than five hours left, Distance twelve kilometers," Hans added, his blue eyes flashing behind his goggles, "If we don't arrive on schedule, the whole flanking maneuver will be compromised."

"Understood," Zhongcun nodded, then turned to Xiaolin, "Relay the order: rest period is over, resume the march. Tell the troops to hold on; this is the critical phase."

Xiaolin saluted and turned away. Soon the command spread along the ranks, accompanied by low mutters and the sound of boots stepping back into the snow.

Hans stayed, standing beside Zhongcun, pulling a flat metal flask from his coat, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip, then handing it to Zhongcun.

"Vodka, a fine Russian thing," Hans grinned, "found among the spoils. One sip will warm you up a bit."

Zhongcun hesitated, took the flask and took a sip. The spirit burned like fire from throat to stomach, giving a brief warmth.

"Thank you," he handed the flask back.

Hans pocketed the flask, his gaze falling on the pistol at Zhongcun's waist—a Southern Fourteen Model pistol, standard issue of the Japanese army. His eyes quickly shifted farther, toward Japanese soldiers bearing strange weapons.

"Those machine guns," Hans pointed with his chin, "your new gear. They look… unusual."

"They're supplied by Lanfang," Zhongcun replied simply, "the 'Eleven-Year Light Machine Gun', that's what they call it."

In fact, the soldiers nicknamed the weapon 'Crooked Handle' because its magazine sits on the left side, forcing an awkward loading posture, like a tilted neck. Zhongcun did not tell Hans the nickname.

"Lanfang…" Hans repeated, his tone complex, "a strange country. They beat you in Yazhou, now they sell you weapons and send you to Europe to fight for us."

Zhongcun said nothing. He knew Hans was probing, seeking more about the tangled relationship between Lanfang and the Sakura Nation. He could not speak— the contract contained a confidentiality clause, and it concerned imperial dignity.

"War is like that," Zhongcun finally said, skirting the substance, "there are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests."

Hans nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. He patted Zhongcun's shoulder—a gesture a Sakura Nation officer might consider too casual—but Zhongcun did not pull away.

"Regardless, it's good you're here," Hans said earnestly, "the East Front needs soldiers—many, many soldiers. The Russians come like tides, one wave dies, another comes. We've already heard of your bravery."

"Heard?" Zhongcun raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, your performance in the Russo‑Japanese War."

Hans paused, "Shall we keep moving? Time waits for no one."

"Advance."

Zhongcun issued the order, and the troops moved again. The six‑hundred‑strong battalion formed a long Column across the snowfield, each man battling his own fatigue, cold, and fear.

The march was monotonous, and monotony gave thoughts room to wander.

Zhongcun walked in the middle of the line, his boots sinking deep into the packed snow, each step demanding extra effort. His mind drifted back two months, back to Nagasaki Port.

It had snowed that day too, but the wet, sticky Japanese snow. The pier was packed with people—soldiers, officers, and families granted permission to see them off. Cries, shouts, and bugle calls blended into a heartbreaking symphony.

Zhongcun recalled standing beside the gangway of the transport ship Tai Shan, watching soldiers board. Most were young, around twenty, faces marked by bewilderment and anxiety. Some turned back toward relatives on shore, tears spilling and freezing quickly in the cold.

"Battalion commander."

A voice pulled Zhongcun back to reality. He turned, seeing Private First Class Matsumoto Koji—no, now a Corporal, promoted for his "good" performance on the transport ship.