Chapter 321: Three Hundred Kilometers

"Gentlemen!" his voice rang especially loud in the drizzle, "I have just received the report forwarded by the Division Headquarters from the Berlin Supreme Command! Under the brave fighting of the units on the Eastern Front, the Russian army has completely retreated!"

The crowd murmured low.

"Since the May offensive began, our army has fought side by side with Degjun, achieving consecutive Breakthroughs of three Russian defensive lines! The total enemy killed exceeds one million! Captured 150,000! We seized two thousand pieces of various artillery!"

Colonel Tanaka waved the telegram paper: "The Russians have abandoned Poland! Abandoned Lithuania! Abandoned western Belarus! The entire Eastern Front has advanced three hundred kilometers! Three hundred kilometers!"

This time, applause rose. First sparse, then growing, until the whole assembly area was filled with soldiers' weary yet exhilarated clapping and cheering.

Mutou did not clap. He stared at Colonel Tanaka's flushed, excited face, while his mind recalled the rookie taken down yesterday—the child named Xiaolin, whose abdomen was torn open by shrapnel, intestines spilling on the ground, crying "Mother" on the stretcher.

"Gentlemen!" Colonel Tanaka raised his voice, "This is not an ordinary victory! It is the Imperial Army's brilliant achievement on the European battlefield! It proves to the world the great deeds of Great Sakura Empire soldiers, whose martial virtue is abundant!"

He paused, his tone becoming fervent: "Just today, in Berlin, Emperor William II, Your Majesty, personally ordered commendations for the Eastern Front units! At the same time, His Majesty the Celestial also issued an imperial edict in Tokyo, praising the dispatched troops' loyalty and bravery!"

"Long live!" someone led the chant.

"Long live His Majesty the Celestial!"

"Long live the Imperial Army!"

The shouts rose and fell. Mutou saw Shankou beside him, his face flushed as he shouted with all his might. Other soldiers did the same—those fresh recruits just arrived from home, those youths who had not yet seen real combat but had witnessed horrific casualties; now they seemed to have found an outlet, screaming desperately.

Colonel Tanaka watched the scene with satisfaction. He waited for the shouts to subside before continuing: "To honor your merits, the Division Headquarters has decided that all combat units will rest for two weeks! Meanwhile, the relief supplies shipped from home have arrived at Kiel Port, including sake, canned food, cigarettes, and also…"

He deliberately elongated his voice, then grinned: "And also letters of consolation from home! At least one per person!"

This time the cheers were even more fervent.

Mutou remained silent. He recalled the letter his brother Mutou Shintada had given to Matsumoto Koji at Nagasaki Port, remembering the words "Come back alive." Three months later, the letter was still tucked in his close pocket, the paper frayed at the edges.

"Furthermore!" Colonel Tanaka shifted his tone, "Compile the list of soldiers with outstanding combat achievements from each company and report to the Brigade Headquarters! The Empire will confer honors! Let all citizens know who is defending the Empire's glory on the European battlefield!"

The speech ended amid a frenzy. As the soldiers dispersed, they continued excitedly discussing the honors, the relief supplies, and the legendary two‑week rest.

Mutou was called over by Sergeant Zuoteng.

"Mutou." Zuoteng handed him a cigarette, "Your merit report has been submitted. In the last attack, you led a squad to Breakthrough the Russian machine‑gun position from the flank, killing at least fifteen, and also seized a perfectly intact Maxim gun."

Mutou took the cigarette and lit it. The harsh taste of the low‑quality tobacco burned his lungs, making him cough a few times.

"What's wrong?" Zuoteng asked, looking at him, "Not pleased? This is a chance for an honor. If you could get a Golden Rooster Medal, you'd be a hero back home."

"Sergeant." Mutou exhaled a puff, "You say, why are we actually fighting?"

Zuoteng was momentarily stunned, then laughed, "What, you're starting to think about this now?"

"I just…" Mutou said, looking at the newly erected wooden sign in the distance, "just feel that, where is the 'glory' of those who died?"

Zuoteng's smile faded. He silently took a few drags before slowly speaking: "Mutou, I arrived before you. I have seen the veterans of the first dispatched troops. They told me that at first, everyone thought they were here to 'help the Deguo allies.'"

He flicked off the ash: "Later we learned we were sent to die. The Germans buy our lives with money, the home front exchanges our lives for foreign exchange. That's all there is."

"Then why keep fighting?"

"Because there is no choice." Zuoteng's voice was calm, "Do you have land at home? A business? Can you support a family?"

Mutou recalled the contents of his brother's letter—his father's lung disease improving, his sister continuing school, and a monthly twenty‑yen 'Military Family Special Allowance.'

"I can't," he said.

"I can't either," Zuoteng stubbed out his cigarette, "That's why I'm here. Trading lives for money, supporting families. As for the Empire's glory, the abundant martial virtue… those are stories the big figures need. For us foot soldiers, having a story to hear is enough."

He patted Mutou's shoulder: "Don't overthink. Being alive, getting a medal, sending money home—that's profit. The rest doesn't matter."

Zuoteng finished speaking and left. Mutou stood where he was, watching the battlefield in the drizzle.

A three‑hundred‑kilometer victory.

One million enemies slain.

Honors. Commendations. Long live.

These words floated in the air like a layer of ornate wrapping paper, enveloping the rotting corpses beneath the soil, the intestines spilling from the stretcher, and the ashes of burned photographs.

Mutou took his brother's letter from his pocket and read it again.

"Come back alive."

He whispered the four words softly, then carefully folded the letter and slipped it back into his pocket.

The rain fell even harder.

Berlin, Wuyou Palace.

Emperor William II stood before a mirror, while two attendants adjusted his military dress. His deep‑blue Prussian Army field‑marshal uniform, gold braid, and chest laden with medals—the Hohenzollern Royal Order, Black Eagle Medal, Merit Medal… each representing a victory, or at least a successful political performance.

"Your Majesty, Admiral Tirpitz has arrived," the attendant whispered.

"Let him in," William II said without turning, continuing to study his reflection.

Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz entered the room. The sixty‑seven‑year‑old naval founder still stood tall, though deep eye bags and a furrowed brow bore lingering worry.

"Your Majesty," he saluted.

"Alfred!" William II turned, his face radiant, "Look, what do you think? Prepared especially for today's celebration. The Eastern Front troops have achieved such a brilliant victory; I must honor them in the grandest manner."

Tirpitz looked at the emperor's shining medals, yet his thoughts were on the silent Yingguo battleships across the North Sea. He still nodded, "Very majestic, Your Majesty."

"Tell me, have you read the Eastern Front report?" William II walked to the table, picking up a document, "Three hundred kilometers! One million people! The Russian bear's spine has been broken by us! Now the entire Eastern Front is under our control!"