Chapter 755: Our Goal Is to Defeat Charles
Behind the German frontlines, the city of Metz stood still under the wind and rain, its stone Porte des Allemands—the "German Gate"—silent, as if echoing the centuries of sieges it had endured.
(Image: Porte des Allemands, Metz. A medieval fortified gate.)
(Image: Location of Metz—central city of Lorraine, rich in minerals, geographically advantageous, built on islands between rivers—making mechanized assault difficult. In WWI, the French under Joffre lost over 300,000 men trying to recapture it, in vain.)
On the small island of Sablon, the grand Metz Opera House, now converted into a military barracks, stood in faded elegance.
Outside, troops from the German army trained in rows beneath the gray skies, their formations crisp, their movements precise, their discipline intact—
but the air around them was heavy.
Not with tension, but with resignation.
A deep, inescapable gloom.
(Image: Metz Opera House, built between 1728 and 1752, still in use today.)
During breaks, soldiers gathered, smoking in silence. When the officers were out of earshot, low conversations started:
"The war's almost over, isn't it? I heard the Eastern Front's falling apart."
"The East doesn't matter, Jeffrey. It's Charles.
He's nearly retaken all of France."
"Yeah… if you don't count Alsace-Lorraine, he just needs one more step. Then it's done."
Their eyes held despair.
No one wanted the war to end this way.
But none of them could see a way out.
Someone finally asked:
"Do we still… have any hope?"
More silence. More shaking heads.
Then, slowly, they all turned their gaze toward a third-floor dormitory window—
the room of Major General Erwin, commander of the 1st Panzer Division.
…
Inside, the room was in chaos.
Erwin—usually meticulous about appearance—was slumped in a chair, collar undone, hair a mess, red wine dripping from his mustache as he drank straight from a goblet.
He looked more like a drunk peasant than a general.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, to a half-unfurled map.
"Why…" he muttered.
"Why did it turn out like this? Everything I did…
In front of Charles, it's worthless."
"Is he really unbeatable?"
Then he clenched his jaw.
"No.
No one is invincible. Not even Charles."
But even as he said it, he knew deep down—
He didn't believe it anymore.
Charles had become… a force of nature.
At the Battle of Trucq Forest, Erwin had been certain of victory.
Even if his 1st Panzer Division couldn't destroy Charles' 1st Armored Corps, they could bleed him—
force him to exhaust ammunition, to suffer losses—
enough to stop his breakthrough at Verdun.
It would be a tactical loss, but a strategic win.
Charles' army would be trapped in the encirclement and wiped out.
But then…
One invention.
A single new weapon: the incendiary bomb.
And Erwin's division, built over years of planning, was annihilated.
Charles barely even used any conventional ammo.
"He's a demon…" Erwin spat.
His hand, still bandaged from burns, ached.
He could still hear the screams of his men—burning alive inside their tanks.
Then—
A knock at the door.
Erwin didn't move.
He didn't want to hear anything more.
If they couldn't defeat Charles, this war was over.
Continuing was pointless.
Germany should surrender.
Head spinning, he slumped over his desk and dozed off.
CRACK
The door burst open.
A tall colonel entered.
Sharp features. Eagle-like nose.
Eyes like steel.
Straight posture. A man carved from discipline.
He stepped up to the drunken heap that was Erwin and barked to the guards:
"Bring me a glass of water."
"Yes, Colonel."
But instead of offering it… he splashed it in Erwin's face.
Erwin gasped and shot up, confused, furious, disoriented.
"Who the hell are you? Is this how you greet a superior officer?"
"Apologies, General," the colonel said flatly.
"But I only respect commanders who haven't given up.
You've been defeated, General. Defeated—completely—by Charles."
Erwin blinked, then gave a deranged laugh:
"So what? Everyone's saying that. Charles can't be stopped. So, unless you beat him yourself, don't lecture me."
The colonel snorted.
"Being defeated by Charles isn't shameful. But surrendering is."
Erwin laughed again, then slumped back down.
He didn't want to hear it.
But the colonel's voice didn't waver:
"Germany needs men like General Nikolaus. He never stopped fighting—not until the very end.
But you—you've given up. And it's laughable, because many believed you had more potential than he did. Some even said you should've been in command. That he held you back."
That struck a nerve.
Erwin's eyes twitched.
"What do you mean, the end?" he asked suddenly.
"What happened to Nikolaus?"
The colonel looked him square in the eye.
"He didn't make it out. When a shell hit near him, he was thrown—gravely wounded.
And then, as a soldier should… he used his sidearm. He ended it himself."
Erwin stared blankly.
"No… No one told me that."
"Because you've been hiding in this room," the colonel replied coldly. "Are you planning to stay here until Charles marches into Metz? What then? Crawl to him on your knees and beg for mercy?"
Suddenly, Erwin lunged, grabbed the colonel by the collar, fists clenched, rage—and something more—in his eyes.
The colonel smiled.
That's more like it.
If he could still get angry…
Then he wasn't broken. Not yet.
Slowly, Erwin let go.
"Who the hell are you, Colonel? Why are you here?"
The man stepped back, straightened his uniform, and saluted.
"Colonel Erich von Manstein. The General Staff has sent me to assist you. We are going to rebuild the 1st Panzer Division. And our objective—"
He leaned forward.
His voice calm.
But every syllable sharp as a blade:
"—is to defeat Charles."
Erwin stared at him for a moment— Then nodded.
"Alright. Show me what you've got."
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