The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 1 Azheimbrook's "Vase"

May 27, 1940, Azheim, northern France.

Pain. It felt like someone had poured a whole bottle of cheap Scotch whisky into my head and then thrown a pulled-string grenade into it.

Lin Rui regained consciousness amidst excruciating pain.

There was no gentle wake-up service. Instead of the comforting smell of old books and instant coffee in his London university dormitory, his nostrils were filled with a nauseating odor: stale mold, strong brandy, sweat, and a smell he had only ever encountered in the Imperial War Museum—gun oil and stale gunpowder.

Worse still was the vibration. A deep, continuous rumbling sound made the whole world tremble, and dust kept falling from the cracks in the wooden planks above his head, sprinkling onto his face.

Lin Rui suddenly opened his eyes.

Dim. Extremely dim. A kerosene lamp hung overhead, its glass shade blackened by soot, the weak yellow flame flickering in the murky air, distorting and grotesque the huddled figures around it.

"Damn it...where am I?"

He instinctively tried to sit up, but found his body as heavy as lead. He looked down and his heart skipped a beat.

Instead of lying on his dormitory bed, he sprawled on a Louis XVI-style velvet sofa that was clearly moved down from upstairs. Although it looked worn, it was still luxurious.

And what he was wearing wasn't Uniqlo pajamas, but a well-made, tan officer's uniform with brass buttons that gleamed faintly in the dim light. The arrangement of the buttons on the cuffs—four in a group—clearly told him that this belonged to one of the oldest units in the British Royal Guard: the Coldstream Guards.

His right hand was still tightly gripping a nearly empty flat wine jug, its silver surface engraved with an intricate family crest.

In that instant, a massive amount of memory fragments, like a flood bursting its banks, violently entered Lin Rui's brain and forcibly merged with his original consciousness.

Arthur Sterling. The second son of the Earl of Sterling, a graduate of Eton College. Aside from being born into a wealthy family, he was utterly useless, managing to get into the army through a huge family donation to the War Department. To his colleagues, he was a walking joke; to the soldiers, he was a disaster who only knew how to drink tea and shine shoes.

It is now April 1940.

"I've traveled through time..."

Lin Rui—or should he be called Arthur now—let out a sigh of utter helplessness. He raised his hand, rubbing his temples which felt like they were about to explode. As a seasoned military enthusiast, he quickly sorted out the current situation in his mind, and then fell into a state of despair that was both laughable and frustrating.

Good news: I didn't end up dressed as an Italian. I won't get speared in the backside by Ethiopians, nor will I have to cook spaghetti in the North African desert and then surrender. Another piece of good news: I didn't end up dressed as a Japanese person. I won't have to charge into battle on a Pacific island, nor will I become a beast devoid of humanity atop Nanjing.

The bad news: he didn't even dress like a German. If it were Hans, even if they were to lose in the end, at least now—in 1940 France—it was their moment of victory. He could be sitting in a tank drinking champagne instead of hiding in a burrow like a mouse.

The best news: I didn't dress like a Frenchman, thus avoiding the hellish joke that "no one could occupy Paris before France surrendered."

The worst news: he had transmigrated into the body of an Englishman, but ended up in the same predicament as the Frenchman—now shivering in the same drafty latrine.

Identification confirmed: British Expeditionary Force (BEF). That is, the "Imperial Army" that was chased so badly by Guderian's tanks that they were almost stripped of their underwear and were about to take a collective bath in the sea.

"This is Azhaibrook..." Arthur murmured to himself, his memory telling him that this was the last line of defense outside Dunkirk.

If his memory of history is correct, at this point in time, most of the British troops on this land faced only two fates: either die to the shrill roar of Stuka bombers or be sent to German prisoner-of-war camps to mine coal. As for whether they could squeeze onto the last few evacuation fishing boats? That depended on whether God also wanted a cup of afternoon tea.

On this battlefield, from the lowest-ranking soldiers to myself, a mere major, anyone who doesn't have a historical aura like Montgomery could be taken away by a stray bullet.

Arthur looked down at the gleaming family crest on his chest.

Logically speaking, a "blue-blooded aristocrat" like him, even amidst the great defeat, should have held a "first-class ticket" to Dover. He should be sitting in a staff car, escorted by military police, having boarded one of the first evacuating destroyers, and perhaps he's already calming down in a London club.

Why was he thrown out like a expendable pawn to cover the retreat, onto this most dangerous outermost defensive line?

A ridiculously funny fragment of memory surfaced in Lin Rui's mind, making him want to slap his own body twice.

Three days earlier, when the order to retreat was given, Lord Stirling did not stay behind to hold off the enemy out of bravery, but because he got lost.

He disregarded the advice of the military police and junior officers, blindly trusting his own "outdated map" and "officer authority." Disliking the traffic congestion on the main road, he cleverly chose a paved road that "looked shorter and smoother on the map," only to find himself caught in the German pincer attack.

This explains why Sergeant McTavish looked at him with not only disgust, but also deep-seated hatred.

"You're finally awake, Your Excellency."

A voice with a heavy Glasgow accent came from the shadows. There was not a trace of respect for the superior in the voice, only a cold statement, as if discussing a piece of disgusting garbage.

Arthur looked in the direction of the sound.

In a corner piled high with empty barrels sat a burly Scotsman. His face was greasy, and his grey-blue eyes were bloodshot. He held an Enfield rifle in his hand, mechanically wiping the bolt with a dirty oilcloth.

Sergeant McTavish. The actual commander of the platoon, a seasoned veteran who had crawled out of the Somme muds of World War I.

"I regret to inform you that your afternoon tea time has been canceled." The sergeant didn't even look up, continuing to wipe his weapons, his tone sarcastic, "because Jerry's (a derogatory term for a German soldier) tank treads are running over your rose garden."

Boom—

As if to confirm his words, the shaking above became even more intense, and dust fell from the ceiling, sprinkling onto Arthur's expensive uniform.

Arthur knew that sound all too well. It was the distinctive idling roar of the Maybach HL120 TRM engine, heavy and oppressive, like a hammer pounding on everyone's heart.

Then, the sound stopped abruptly. The engine stalled.

The world fell into a deathly silence, a silence more chilling than any roar.

Arthur struggled to sit up. His expensive, custom-made riding boots made a sharp "smack" sound as they stepped onto the waterlogged basement floor.

Besides the sergeant, there were four other soldiers in the basement. They sat against the wall, their faces filled with despair and anxiety.

When Arthur looked at them, no one stood up to salute, and no one even looked him in the eye. They were packing their gear—fastening their ammunition pouches, tightening their leggings, and checking their canteens.

This is a silent signal.

In the hierarchical British army, they wouldn't tie up the political commissar like the Russians, nor would they directly confront their superiors like the Americans. They would do something else: ignore them.

Since this nobleman only knows how to drink and tremble, let's "accidentally" forget about him here during the retreat.

"The situation..." Arthur began, noticing his voice was a little hoarse. He quickly cleared his throat, trying to recapture his arrogant London accent, "What's going on outside?"

"Azhaibulak is finished. We've lost contact with headquarters."

Sergeant McTavish stood up, slung his pack over his shoulder, and did so with the swiftness of someone throwing off a burden. He looked at Arthur with the eyes of someone looking at a dead man.

"The engine noise has stopped. That was the sound of a StuG III assault gun, right by the door. The Germans are either resting or searching the area."

The sergeant walked to the heavy wooden door leading to the ground, listened through the crack, then turned around and waved to the soldiers.

"Now that the engines have stopped, their infantry must be busy settling in or finding drinks. We can rush out through the side ventilation shaft, cross the alley, and still survive."

"Then... what about that vase?" a young private Jenkins asked in a low voice, his finger trembling as he pointed to Arthur, who was still "slumped" on the sofa.

"Let him stay here and drink his fill," McTavish said coldly, his hand already on the door latch. "With him, none of us will get away. God bless the King, and bless the Sterling family. Let's go."

I was abandoned. A naked, undisguised abandonment.

Arthur sat on the sofa, his heart pounding. As a soul from 2024, he instinctively wanted to be angry, to scream. But reason instantly overwhelmed his emotions.

The soldiers' judgment was based on experience, but their experience proved fatal at this moment.

Because they didn't know what was outside the door.

Just as Private Jenkins rushed impatiently toward the heavy wooden door leading to the courtyard, his hand already touching the bolt—

Arthur felt a strong wave of dizziness.

There was no high-tech "ding" sound, nor a cold, mechanical female voice. It was as if someone had torn open a layer of frosted glass in his mind.

The originally dark basement walls, the thick oak floors and brick structure overhead gradually became translucent on his retina, turning into a three-dimensional model composed of gray lines.

The line of sight pierced through the ceiling, through the brick walls, and reached the ground.

Arthur's pupils contracted sharply.

Outside the ruins of the lobby on the first floor, the StuG III A-type assault gun that had just been shut down did not leave, nor was it "busy settling in" as the sergeant had guessed.

It stood there silently, like a lurking steel behemoth. The dark muzzle of the short-barreled 75mm cannon was, for some reason, pressed down so low that it was almost touching the ground, facing the ventilation shaft door of the basement on the side of the courtyard—the direction the soldiers were preparing to rush out from.

On the side of the assault gun, three red outlines are clearly visible.

Those were three German grenadiers. They weren't "looking for drinks." They had just jumped out of the vehicle and were leaning against it, relaxing their limbs. Their MP40 submachine guns were hanging limply, but if the ventilation door opened, they could instantly riddle the inside with bullets.

This is... God's-eye view? The fog of war in an RTS game is fully revealed?

Arthur instantly understood what the recruit Jenkins meant by "no sound"—it wasn't safety, it was death holding its breath.

If the door were opened, there would be no need to fire the cannons; those three submachine guns plus a 75mm high-explosive shell would instantly turn this basement into a meat grinder.

We must stop them. For their sake, and for our own. If these soldiers die, even with God's-eye view, I, the lone commander, won't be able to escape the encirclement alive.

"If I were you, Private First Class, I wouldn't touch that damn latch."

Arthur spoke.

The voice wasn't loud, there was no hysterical scream, only an extremely cold and arrogant tone. It was the muscle memory of "Lord Sterling," but infused with a calmness from the future.

Jenkins' hand froze in mid-air, just centimeters from pulling the latch. He turned around, looking at his superior officer with fear and confusion.

Sergeant McTavish frowned, turned around impatiently, his Enfield rifle still hanging limply to the ground, but his eyes hardened. "Ignore him, Jenkins. He's drunk. It's quiet outside; the Germans must have gotten out and searched the next house. Open the door! Do you want to die here?"

"They did get off the bus."

Arthur stood up from the sofa. He straightened his collar, and although his legs were still a little weak from the hangover, he forced himself to take a step. His boots stomped through the puddles, his steps carrying a rhythmic quality as if he were attending a royal ball.

He ignored the sergeant's look, which seemed to regard him as a madman, and walked straight behind Jenkins.

He stretched out his hand, clad in a dirty white sheepskin glove, and pressed it against the door.

"But if you open this door, you'll find that the muzzle of that 75mm gun is less than three meters from your nose. And it's already loaded with shells."

Arthur's voice was frighteningly calm, exuding a chilling certainty.

The basement was deathly silent.

Sergeant McTavish narrowed his eyes. As a veteran, he knew that there were indeed people on the battlefield with instincts as sharp as beasts. But this could never be Lord Sterling.

"What nonsense are you spouting?" The sergeant, suppressing his anger, stepped forward, his tall frame almost blocking out the dim light. "The engine's off. If they'd spotted us, they would have thrown grenades in already. They don't know we're here! If you want to die here, don't drag us down with you!"

Arthur did not back down. He didn't even look directly at the sergeant's angry face.

He turned around and gently placed the empty wine jug on the ground. He couldn't make a loud noise at this moment; the German soldiers outside weren't deaf.

He raised his hand, slowly unbuttoned his top button, fastened it again, and then patted the dust off his collar insignia.

"Sergeant," Arthur looked at the sergeant, a self-deprecating sneer playing on his lips, "I thought you'd ask me if my hair was messed up first."

The sergeant paused, bewildered by this completely inappropriate, even absurd, sense of humor: "What?"

"My hair is definitely a mess, but that's not important. What's important is..."

Arthur raised his head, and his once cloudy eyes now gleamed with a cold light in the dim light that made even veterans shudder.

He pointed to the inconspicuous ventilation window gap above his head, hidden by weeds and camouflage netting.

From his omniscient perspective, the commander of the assault gun was sitting on the edge of the open hatch, had removed his throat communicator, and was chatting with the infantrymen below the vehicle, a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers.

The train conductor reached his hand directly above the ventilation window, preparing to flick his cigarette ash.

"The important thing is, Sergeant. I know where the Germans are. I also know... that tank commander's ashes are about to fall."

All eyes followed the direction of his finger.

"You're crazy..." McTavish was about to retort.

however--

One second. Two seconds.

A grayish-white cigarette butt, still emitting faint sparks, drifted down through a crack in the ventilation window. It drew a faint yet glaring red line in the dim, murky air, finally landing precisely beside Sergeant McTavish's mud-stained military boots.

It's still smoking.

For a moment, the air in the basement seemed to freeze.

But the chaos that Lin Rui had anticipated did not occur.

Private Jenkins, who was about to pull the bolt, froze on the spot as if struck by lightning. He didn't scream, nor did he make a sound as his military boots rubbed against the floor.

The young soldier's face turned deathly pale instantly, and large beads of cold sweat rolled down his forehead—a fear that had seeped into his very bones from the "devil" outside the door—a fear that had been etched into their DNA by the German machine guns and tanks over the past three weeks.

But in this extreme fear, the muscle memory belonging to the Cold Creek Guard took over his body.

Jenkins slowly withdrew his hand from the bolt like a statue, the movement as gentle as removing a fuse. His thumb silently rested on the safety of his Enfield rifle, and his body instinctively slid to the side, clearing the door from direct fire.

The other veterans reacted even faster than expected.

There was no flustered eye contact, no unnecessary movements, and no clanging sound of trembling rifles.

The moment they saw the cigarette butt, they were like killing machines that had been silenced. Their posture, which had been slumped against the wall, instantly changed to a kneeling alert position. Several rifles silently rose in the darkness, their muzzles clashing and locking onto the weak points of the wooden door and the ceiling.

The whole process took less than a second and was so quiet it was suffocating.

As Arthur watched this scene, his pupils contracted slightly, and he was secretly amazed.

As expected of the Coldstream Guard.

Despite having been routed by Guderian's armored divisions for the past twenty days, their morale nearly shattered by Stuka bombers, and looking like a pack of stray dogs.

But when death truly knocked on their door, the tactical skills they had acquired through centuries of rigorous tradition and countless drills still enabled them to instinctively choose the most correct tactical maneuvers when facing the "invincible Germans."

They were terrified, but they would still pull the trigger with extreme professionalism.

Sergeant McTavish's Adam's apple bobbed as he stared intently at the cigarette butt. He couldn't hear the sounds above, the echoes of the tank engine still reverberating in his ears, but he understood the cigarette butt—the German was right above him, and he was at rest.

If Jenkins had made even the slightest sound when he pulled the bolt... the consequences would have been unimaginable.

What sent chills down his spine even more was how this "vase" in front of him knew.

Arthur offered no explanation. He was pleased with the result—it was a pack of wolves that still had fangs, only their legs had been broken.

In this damned age, on this desperate battlefield, to command obedience from a group of soldiers ready to abandon you requires either strict military discipline or superhuman abilities. Since the discipline of the British Empire has collapsed here, only "miracles" will suffice.

"Now, gentlemen."

Arthur drew the Webley revolver from his waist, a revolver that had never been fired and whose plating was still gleaming.

With a "click," he activated the hammer, his movements so practiced that he didn't seem like a spoiled brat, but rather like a butcher preparing for dirty work.

He looked at the side wall, boarded up and leading to the adjacent wine cellar. In his vision, it was a path to survival without any red outline.

"Since the guests are blocking the entrance and resting, we won't use the main entrance."

Arthur turned around, looked at the stunned sergeant, and gave him a cold, emotionless smile.

"Fix bayonets, Sergeant. We're going hunting."