Chapter 7: The Electronic Fulongzhi Academy’s Top Scholar

No wonder Zhang Shan’s mind kept stalling.

He had initially thought this broken world was just a worn-out variant of Earth’s World War II, but he never expected it to resemble a ludicrous novel penned by an amateur writer—constantly presenting him with things that made his vision go dark.

“Your Highness, after you were blown up by that grenade, did you forget something?” Natalie was thoughtful; she leaned in and whispered, immediately easing someone’s awkwardness.

“Uh.”

“When you were a child, you even had Sir Titan Train transform for you. After watching, you said, ‘Not as pretty as the palace maids,’ and lost interest. That upset the Titan Machine Soul for weeks,” she said, pulling out a book about the “Sir Titan Train” from somewhere.

Ah, isn’t this just the otherworldly version of Iron-Bullet Train Hero?

Zhang Shan wanted to complain but didn’t know where to start.

Question: What happens when an armored train grows legs?

Answer: It stands up and runs at five kilometers per hour to within ten kilometers along the railway line, beating up the enemy.

“…”

Is this absurd world really this magical?

Zhang Shan’s headache worsened.

At that moment, someone shouted, “Enemy aircraft!”

In the distance to the south, a plane painted with the plaster flag flew in. The entire train station immediately erupted in commotion.

Without orders, as the plane approached, the station’s only 37mm anti-aircraft gun began firing rapidly.

This was Lasia’s air defense—those who know understand.

Air defense, air defense, ten defenses, nine misses!

The anti-aircraft gun rattled away for a short while and at least drove off that Yamato reconnaissance plane.

As for how many high-altitude reconnaissance photos were taken or whether any telegrams were sent—that was anyone’s guess.

Zhang Shan scowled and issued a strict order: “We must depart within half an hour. Otherwise, when the enemy bombers arrive, we’ll all be dead!”

Some things are just like that. Civilians are reluctant to part with their belongings, and officers naturally have even more. There’s only one train; if some bring too much, others inevitably bring less.

There might have been issues with dividing up the spoils, but with the Yamato plaster flag reconnaissance plane’s arrival, the Lanud people finally quieted down.

Previously, the train roof was packed with people; now even outside the cars, a group of young men who fancied their strength dangled from handrails or window frames with one hand, signaling repeatedly to start moving.

Zhang Shan’s eyelids twitched uncontrollably.

Strangely, he found himself somewhat nostalgic for the Indians. Look at them—they had a single motorcycle that could carry an entire squad. If the Indians stacked like this on the train, as long as it moved, you could pile ten thousand people on.

“Dirty, dirty, dirty!” The train finally let out its classic whistle.

Though said to have eight cars, not many were usable.

The first was the locomotive; the last was a flatbed car. Not wanting to leave the 45mm anti-tank guns and the 37mm anti-aircraft gun to the Yamato, the soldiers had forcibly loaded all the artillery onto the flatbed.

Counting the ammunition crates taken along, Zhang Shan dared not imagine what would happen if a plane bombed this place.

The penultimate car was the VIP carriage where he stayed.

The outer layer of the carriage was fine walnut wood, intricately carved, declaring the prestige of the Berlia family. Inside was 20mm homogeneous steel plating—regular machine guns could not penetrate it. The interior decoration was luxurious, almost Baroque in style; although much of it was brass rather than gold, it still dazzled brilliantly.

The carriage’s front hall was packed with twenty guards and several staff officers, already the maximum allowed by protocol.

The carriage was divided into two parts; only Zhang Shan and Natalie could enter the rear hall.

There should have been a maid as well, but unfortunately, in the prior assassination attempt, the maid had become a maid corpse.

This was a source of profound regret for Zhang Shan.

The train set off, gradually accelerating to fifty kilometers per hour—basically safe.

“Your Highness! Several border states and republics want you to take command,” Natalie said.

“What does the General Staff say?”

“They have approved.”

“Hmm…” Zhang Shan barely held it together.

Could it be that his cheap old man and half the General Staff were wiped out by spies?

Zhang Shan rubbed his brow and ordered, “Issue the command—All Far East affiliated states and provinces enter Level One combat readiness. Mobilize supplies and personnel to the stations along the Berlia Great Railway, ready to deploy at any time. Also, I want Lanud, Hongta, and Barovsky area airports to dispatch at least five reconnaissance squadrons each, searching southwards in a fan shape. I want to find out where the enemy’s main force is. Oh, and have them focus on the enemy’s transport trucks.”

Commanding in reality was truly a nightmare.

Playing a game, Zhang Shan could clearly see the status of each unit—their numbers, equipment, organization, supplies.

In real command, it was pure blindness.

Though Zhang Shan had claimed before crossing over that he graduated from the “Fulongzhi Military Academy,” that was the “Electronic Fulongzhi”!

He had only watched a few videos starting with “To the audience familiar with frequent urban warfare…”—could that really compare to a professional officer?

Don’t be ridiculous!

One of the biggest problems in reality was that subordinates deliberately exaggerated enemy numbers in their reports.

“Report! Our side is hit by a steel flood of over a thousand tanks!”

“Report! Our regiment is attacked by tens of thousands of enemies—at least one army division!”

“Report! Enemy artillery fire is fierce, at least one 155mm heavy howitzer brigade is bombarding our position!”

Listen to that! Is that what a competent commander should report upward?

Zhang Shan fully understood what “the crying child gets the milk” meant on the battlefield. Subordinate officers often exaggerated enemy numbers to request reinforcements or, out of cowardice, inflated enemy strength to escape military law.

Extracting useful information from mountains of garbage intelligence files worse than a pile of code was the real test of a commander’s skill.

If this were Earth, at this point, the enemy would only have five divisions, and none of them elite—mostly mediocre B-grade divisions.

Historically, to plan a possible offensive, “special large-scale exercises” later increased forces to sixteen divisions and 700,000 troops.

Even that number had considerable padding, including numerous auxiliary troops and farmers drafted locally.

The real elite A-grade divisions—the old Japanese—would cause casualties the moment their Arisaka rifles fired.

But judging by the average soldier height—166 cm for A-grade, 155 cm for B-grade, 145 cm for C-grade—you could gauge the vast difference in troop quality.

Back to the present: after reviewing the complex intelligence, Zhang Shan couldn’t understand—wasn’t Yamato busy fighting Selis to the death? At this point, where the hell is their strength to fight a two-front war?

Lasia had about 200 million people; Selis over 400 million.

Where did Yamato find the courage to simultaneously launch otherworldly versions of “Winter Fury” and “Great Wall Watch”—two hellish-level operations?