Chapter 52 General Pskov

Just as Harald was about to deliver the finishing blow to Chen Lai, two gunshots rang out simultaneously from the east and west.

Korchagin was holding a Mosin-Nagant rifle that had been hidden beneath the cart, the muzzle slowly trailing wisps of white smoke.

His eyes were not golden; Korchagin was originally an ordinary man. His ancestors had been serfs, and it was not until the Federation era that he received an education and became a political commissar.

His bullet failed to pierce Harald's scapula; the distance was too great, and his aim had been slightly off.

However, the other bullet was different. That second bullet was "special," specifically designed to kill Prosen half-breeds. It was not a rifle bullet, but one fired from a revolver.

Inscribed with alchemical runes, this bullet traversed a distance of two hundred meters, striking Harald directly in the head and bursting into a spray of blood in the cold air.

"Oh, got him."

A somewhat raspy male voice said flatly, his fingers then nimbly spinning the revolver a few times before slipping it back into his deerskin holster, patting it affectionately as if for reassurance.

His face was dry and peeling, as rough as if it had been scoured by sandpaper, and his nose was large and red—the clear sign of a habitual drinker. Combined with his heavy Rosa coat, anyone would take him for a thorough Rosa drunkard.

That was, of course, if one ignored the dozen or so men behind him whose eyes glowed with golden light as they carried Stg rifles.

"General Pskov, it is truly wonderful to see you again."

As soon as he entered the village, Korchagin hurried over to Pskov and extended his hand.

Pskov glanced at Korchagin, rubbed his soot-stained hands together, and then grasped Korchagin's hand firmly. After shaking it slightly a couple of times, he let go and turned his attention to Chen Lai on the ground.

"Is this another half-breed exiled by Stolt?"

As he spoke, Pskov's tone carried a hint of mockery, and the dozen Rosa soldiers behind him also wore dissatisfied expressions.

"No, no, no. He was injured at the front and sent to us for recuperation. But isn't it because the Prosen army has advanced too quickly..."

"Hmph, if you ask me, Stolt is a foolish tyrant!"

"What time is it now? The Prosens are almost about to march into Moskau! And he is still purging the golden-eyed ones. Without half-breeds, how far has the combat effectiveness of the army collapsed?"

"Sending half-breeds to the front lines for guerrilla warfare day in and day out—do you have any idea how many golden-eyed soldiers are defecting to the Prosens now? Even ones of Vlasov's rank have gone over! Every single day, they just create trouble for me!"

Pskov pulled a pipe from inside his heavy coat, roughly jammed it into his mouth, and when Korchagin smiled apologetically and stepped forward to help light it, Pskov waved him away like a bothersome fly.

"It's only you, little Paul. If anyone else had come, I wouldn't even care to spare them two words."

"Yes, yes, yes. I know how hard you've been working to hold the rear together, and it's completely normal to have complaints. Sometimes I don't quite understand Comrade Stolt's thinking either."

Korchagin played along with Pskov's train of thought. He understood this old general well; Pskov had joined the White Army during the civil war and later turned to the Federation. He was patriotic, but possessed a rather straightforward and prickly personality that made him difficult to get along with.

"Ulya!"

Korchagin turned to Ulya, who was walking over tentatively, asking her to help Chen Lai into the house to rest. He then instructed the villagers to gather the bodies and burn them collectively. Kashi Village was now in "enemy-occupied territory," and it would be very dangerous if Prosen corpses were discovered.

After settling these matters, he went into old Cantor's house and found Pskov conversing with old Cantor. The two old men were talking with such animated gestures, ranging from "Tsar Peter the Great" to "Empress Catherine."

Given this old Tsarist sentiment, an execution by firing squad would not have been undeserved.

Yet Korchagin, acting in his capacity as political commissar, simply pretended not to hear. Having worked for many years, he now understood the importance of uniting all forces that could be united. Many elderly people simply could not accept Federation ideology; were they to be forcefully changed in their twilight years?

"General Pskov, I would like to talk to you about what we should do next... Old Cantor, would you mind going next door to sit for a moment?"

"Of course not, Paul." Old Cantor doffed his cap in respect, picked up his small stool, and went into the adjoining room.

"What is it?" His conversation interrupted, Pskov was not very pleased.

Korchagin sat up straight. "It's like this: the bridge over the Yancheklak River has been blown up by the Prosens. Right now, hundreds of thousands of officers and soldiers are swarming at the river bend waiting to cross. Repairs might take three days, and I want to hear your thoughts."

Pskov kept frowning. "Three days? Haven't these hundreds of thousands of people been made prisoners yet?"

Korchagin was choked by the remark. "Surely not? Among those hundreds of thousands are our most elite Guards, as well as..."

"Oh, come off it, Comrade Korchagin. You still don't have a sufficient understanding of the Prosens' military tactics... Schyrmer calls this set of tactics 'Blitzkrieg,' and I must say it is quite fitting."

"I bet you, Paul, if we cannot repair that bridge within two days, those hundreds of thousands of people will be plucked by the Prosens just like ripe fruit. The men will go to prisoner-of-war camps, and the women—heh."

Pskov chuckled, but there was no laughter whatsoever in his eyes. As a soldier himself, he found it difficult to accept such "futile" casualties.

Korchagin felt helpless. His rank was too low, and regarding these matters at the front, he could only watch helplessly, often powerless to change anything.

Just as the two fell silent, Ulya rushed in, her face beaming with joy.

"Comrade Korchagin, the commander has woken up!"

"Splendid! General Pskov, let's go take a look at this hero. His performance is entirely worthy of the Order of the Red Banner, and after the war, I will definitely help him apply for this honor!" Korchagin stood up.

Pskov pulled his coat around himself and also rose from his chair. In truth, he was quite curious about Chen Lai. If there really were such a super half-breed at the front, he ought to have known about him, yet he had absolutely no recollection of the name.

"By the way, Korchagin, do you have the special medicine sent from the rear on you?" Pskov suddenly recalled something and looked at Korchagin.

Dazed for a moment, Korchagin suddenly slapped his forehead and shouted, "I gave the medicine to Alexander! That's our commander who just woke up. Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

As the two stood up and rushed out the door, Pskov was suddenly struck by an ominous premonition. The "special medicine" sent this time was reportedly a new drug that had not yet undergone clinical trials, specially developed for the war by comrades in the rear scientific bureau.

This war was not only driving the advancement of weaponry and equipment, but had also greatly accelerated research into half-breeds—a fact Pskov had witnessed firsthand.

"That fellow couldn't have injected the entire dose into his own body, could he? In that kind of dangerous situation at the time." Pskov could not help but think.