usatvline Chapter 53 The Fall of the Knight
Chapter 53 The Fall of the Knight
Chapter 53 The Fall of the Knight (Nine Updates)
"Stop! Captain!"
Captain Kleist rushed up to Monk, panting, and stood like a mud-covered wall between the SS captain and the trembling French prisoners of war.
His chest heaved violently, not only because of the frantic run through the mud, but also because of an anger that surpassed even fear.
Monk stopped in his tracks.
He did not fly into a rage at being stopped; instead, he tilted his head and looked at the mud-splattered, unshaven captain of the National Defense Army with the same interest one would show when observing a rare animal.
On one side was von Kleist, battalion commander of the 69th Infantry Regiment of the Wehrmacht. His field uniform was covered in mud from the trenches, his collar was open, his face was covered in soot from gunpowder, and the Iron Cross First Class from World War I on his chest was dull and lackluster due to oxidation. He looked like a rough but hard granite piece just dug out of the ground.
On the other side was William Monk, battalion commander of the SS Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. He wore a black leather overcoat that seemed never to be stained, white gloves, and riding boots that reflected a cold gleam in the firelight. He was elegant and refined, completely out of place on this battlefield filled with the stench of corpses and sulfur.
"I'm cleaning up the trash, Captain."
Monk's voice was soft and pleasant, with a well-educated Berlin accent, as if he weren't talking about twenty lives: "These Frenchmen were trying to escape. According to wartime regulations, deserters have no right to live."
"lie!"
Kleist pointed behind him at the French soldiers kneeling in the mud, hands raised high, and roared angrily, "Open your eyes and look! They've laid down their weapons! They've even taken off their shirts and are waving white flags! They've surrendered!"
The old captain's voice echoed across the desolate, deathly silent battlefield: "This violates the Geneva Convention! This will tarnish the honor of the German army! We are soldiers, not executioners!"
Upon hearing the words "Geneva Convention" and "honor," Monk smiled.
It was a laugh that came from the heart, filled with contempt and pity. Like an adult hearing a three-year-old talk about how Santa Claus really exists.
"honor?"
Monk removed his snow-white glove, gently clapped his palm, and said slowly, "Captain, you see, this is why your National Army can never understand the Führer's grand vision."
"You're still playing that outdated game of chivalry. Do you think war is still those gentlemanly duels where people wear bright uniforms, line up, exchange salutes, and then fire?"
Monk's gaze instantly turned cold. His once azure eyes were now devoid of any human emotion, only a morbid chill, as if he truly saw the new order established by the Nazi empire: "Wake up, old man. This isn't the nineteenth century."
"This is a racial war. It is an ultimate purge for living space. Our opponents are not some esteemed sir," but rather the pests that hinder our Aryan progress, the biological waste that must be eradicated.
He pointed his gloved fingers at the French prisoners of war who were already paralyzed with fear: "For garbage, there is no need for a convention, only an incinerator."
"You're a madman—"
Kleist trembled with rage; the pride of the Prussian officer corps made this blatant humiliation unbearable. He instinctively placed his hand on his holster: "This is the 10th Panzer Division's area of responsibility! As the battalion commander of the 1st Battalion, 69th Regiment of the Wehrmacht, I order you to hand them over to me!"
If you dare to do anything reckless—”
Click.
A crisp metallic clang interrupted the captain's words.
Monk was a step ahead, like a black mamba snake poised to strike—because he already held the gun in his hand. Before Kleist could even draw his Walther P38 pistol, the cold barrel of the Luger P08 was already pressed firmly against his forehead, even tilting his military cap askew.
"You—you dare—" The old captain stared wide-eyed at the young man in front of him in disbelief.
"You think I wouldn't dare? Cowards of the National Defense Forces."
Monk's smile deepened, but his eyes remained indifferent, as if he were holding not a colleague's head, but a target: "Want to try and get a hole punched in your head too, Captain?"
Crash—!
Almost at the same second that Monk pointed his gun at the target, the previously deathly still air suddenly exploded.
That wasn't the voice of one person; it was a metallic wave of sounds from hundreds of bolts being pulled and bullets being chambered simultaneously.
This is the territory of the 10th Armored Division.
Crouching in that trench were elite Wehrmacht soldiers who had followed Guderian in his campaigns. They might have revered the Führer, or they might have disliked the French, but they would never allow a foreign SS bastard in a black uniform to shoot their battalion commander on their own territory.
"Put down your gun! You SS bastards!"
"Take your hand off the trigger! Or I'll turn you into a sieve!"
Angry roars echoed throughout the area. Dozens of Wehrmacht soldiers, armed with submachine guns or Mauser rifles, leaped out of the trenches, their dark muzzles pointed at Monk and the twenty guardsmen.
Even more chilling was the low, rumbling sound of a hydraulic motor.
From a bunker behind, the turret of a Panzer IV tank slowly rotated, its short-barreled 75mm howitzer pointing directly at the group of "uninvited guests" in black uniforms with a suffocating sense of oppression.
The situation spiraled out of control in an instant.
The soldiers of the Guards regiment reacted immediately.
This instantaneous action completely exposed the vast difference between this unit and the "cannon fodder" who blindly threw themselves to their deaths at dusk.
That was the biological instinct ingrained in their bones through the most rigorous Spartan training—they showed no panic whatsoever, completing their tactical deployment in almost half a second, instantly forming a defensive circle with no blind spots, protecting Meng Ke tightly at the core.
More than a dozen MP40 submachine guns were simultaneously raised to the side, their dark muzzles coldly aimed at the National Defense Forces that surrounded them, which outnumbered them by dozens of times.
Despite being pointed at by dozens of machine guns and tank cannons, the fingers of these fanatics remained firmly on the trigger guards, their eyes showing no fear, only a chilling calmness that suggested they were ready to take everyone down with them at any moment.
The situation on the battlefield between the two armies has become a "Mexican stalemate" within the German army.
Hundreds of dark gun barrels pointed at each other, the air thick with the pungent smell of gun oil and the tense stench of sweat. If even a single finger trembled in tension, this place would instantly descend into a bloody civil war.
However, Monk, who was at the center of the storm, still did not remove his gun from the captain's head.
He glanced around at the gun barrels pointed at him and the tank cannon, his face showing no fear, but rather an expression of utter contempt.
"Is this the discipline of the 10th Armored Division, Captain?"
Monk whispered in Kleist's ear, his voice low but each word like a poisoned dagger: "Pointing the weapons the state gave you at the Führer's Imperial Guard?"
"You can order them to open fire. Really, I wouldn't mind dying here; it would be an honor to serve the Führer."
Monk was now acting like a gambler: "But I assure you, Captain. As soon as my blood is spilled on this ground, tomorrow morning, Himmler's investigation team will take over your division headquarters. And you, and all the soldiers behind you who dared to point their guns at the 'ADF' armbands, will all be hanged for treason."
"Your families will be sent to concentration camps, your honors will be stripped, and your names will be engraved on the pillar of shame."
Monk took a step closer, the muzzle of his gun pressing so hard it dented the old captain's forehead: "Now tell me, Captain. Are you willing to risk the lives of your entire battalion for these few French scum?"
Kleist froze.
Sweat streamed down his face and into his eyes, stinging painfully.
Looking into Monk's fearless eyes, he realized that he was not facing a soldier, but a political monster. In this monster's logic, life—whether enemy's or ally's—was merely currency on the path to power.
He could die for the so-called chivalry, but what about his brothers who followed him?
At this critical moment.
"Put your guns down, all of you!!!"
A powerful shout rang out behind the crowd.
The crowd parted automatically, and an old man in a general's overcoat strode in, his face ashen. His steps were heavy and hurried, each footstep splashing through the mud and water, raising a cloud of filth.
Lieutenant General Ferdinand Schar, commander of the 10th Armored Division, has arrived.
The general, who had distinguished himself in the Polish campaign, was now staring at Monk with an almost cannibalistic gaze.
He walked up to the two men, looking at his subordinate with a gun pointed at his head, then at the arrogant Monk, his chest heaving violently.
"Commander! He—" Kleist seemed to have seen a savior and was about to speak.
"Shut up, Friedrich."
Lieutenant General Schar's voice was icy. He turned and stared intently at Monk, his gaze filled with the utter disgust of a professional soldier for a political thug: "Major Monk, if I were you, I would put the gun away first. This gun was given to you by the Führer to kill the enemy, not to point at the heads of Wehrmacht officers."
"If my battalion commander dies here today," Lieutenant General Shar lowered his voice, his tone carrying an undisguised threat, "I guarantee that before Himmler's investigation team arrives, my tanks will crush your entire squad into mincemeat. Then, the dead can't complain."
This is a death sentence.
Monk narrowed his eyes. He heard the threat in Schar's tone—if things really came to a head, this old Prussian was capable of it.
The standoff lasted for a full five seconds.
Monk suddenly laughed.
He slowly and deliberately sheathed his Luger pistol, elegantly placing it back in its holster. Then, straightening his collar, he gave Lieutenant General Schar a perfectly standard Nazi salute: "You're right, General. We should save our bullets for the enemy."
Lieutenant General Shar did not return the salute. He simply turned and waved to his soldiers: "Put your guns down. Go back to your posts."
"But Commander—"
"Execute the command!"
The guns of the Wehrmacht lowered. The tank turrets stopped turning. The newly formed will of resistance belonging to the Prussian soldiers was forcibly suppressed in the face of this distorted political reality.
Monk watched all this and nodded in satisfaction. He knew he had won.
He turned away, no longer glancing at the Nationalist troops, and walked towards the group of French deserters who were already paralyzed with fear.
"Well, since your army seems to be having trouble with the task of handling the garbage—"
Monk's voice returned to that chillingly pleasant tone: "The guards will take care of it."
He drew his Luger pistol, not even giving the kneeling Frenchmen a chance to speak. He simply kicked aside a pebble as casually as if it were a roadside stone, without even pausing, and walked directly to the first surviving French soldier at the head of the line.
The young man was raising his hands, his face streaked with tears, trying to explain: "Please, my home is in Marseille, I have—"
boom.
A sharp, chilling gunshot rang out.
There was no trial, no reprimand, not even anger. That 9mm bullet simply ripped the young soldier's skull open.
Monk stepped over the still-convulsing corpse and moved on to the next one.
boom.
Another shot.
The roof of Berg City Hall.
Major General Ryoma still held up his binoculars, but he had long since stopped cursing the deserters.
When he saw through the camera dozens of Wehrmacht soldiers angrily raising their guns, and saw the turret of the Panzer IV tank turn towards the SS, this old general, who had spent his life fighting against the German army for France, felt an extremely absurd yet incredibly real expectation.
In that moment, for the first time, he genuinely hoped that the "Hans" driving tanks on the other side could win.
He screamed inwardly, hoping that the Wehrmacht captain would have even a second of courage to pull the trigger and riddle the Nazi madman in the black leather coat with bullets. Because that would at least represent a soldier's bottom line, that some cruel but still understandable order still existed on the battlefield.
But this expectation lasted for less than two minutes.
When he saw the IDF general intervene, and when he saw the IDF soldiers, who represented "normal people," finally lower their guns in despair, Mori felt a despair more chilling than the coldest winter.
Reason lost. The knight died. The madman won.
Immediately afterwards, it was as if an invisible hand had suddenly grabbed his throat, blocking all of Major General Mori's breath from his chest.
In the telescope's view, the victorious German officer turned around and was undergoing a one-sided execution.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Every gunshot felt like it was hitting the old general himself.
He slowly lowered the binoculars, unwilling to look for even a second longer.
As the last French prisoner fell to the ground, Monk finally turned slowly to face Berg.
As the flare's light gradually dimmed, the SS battalion commander raised his right hand, which had just finished killing someone, and extended his index finger, slowly and forcefully making a throat-slitting gesture on his own neck.
He is laughing.
That smile held no warmth whatsoever, only a provocation from the depths of hell.
Arthur also put down his binoculars.
Unlike Major General Jean-Pierre, who watched the entire event from the moment the flare was raised to the final shot, every detail, every drop of blood, every follow-up shot, even the cruel smile on Monk's lips, was magnified before his eyes by the high-magnification optical lens.
The rooftop was deathly silent.
This deathly silence is more unbearable than the sound of gunfire.
Captain Higgins covered his mouth and rushed to a corner to vomit violently again, as if trying to expel the scene he had just witnessed along with his stomach acid. The other French observers were ashen-faced; some were making the sign of the cross with trembling hands, while others were muttering curses under their breath.
But for those who have truly experienced the baptism of fire, the reaction is quite different.
"Click."
A crisp metallic clang.
Sergeant McTavish sat in the shadows of the bacon, expressionless as he pulled the bolt of his Bren light machine gun. The Scottish veteran didn't look at Higgins, but instead focused intently on checking each bullet in the magazine, muttering in a deep, almost emotionless voice, "Looks like I'll have to save the last bullet for myself from now on, boys."
He raised his head, two cold, ghostly flames burning in his gray eyes: "These bastards don't take prisoners. That's perfect—saves us the trouble of digging a pit for them."
Beside him, Private Miller seemed frozen in place. He was gripping the cooling cylinder of the Vickers machine gun tightly.
"How could they—how could they do that?"
Miller's voice trembled, carrying a bewilderment born from the collapse of his worldview: "Those people have already surrendered—that was illegal—"
"There are no laws here, child."
Major Ryder leaned against the sandbag wall, his face pale. He closed his eyes, seemingly unable to bear looking at the blood-stained mud: "We're not fighting a regular army anymore. Even the Germans of the past, even the Prussian Guards of World War I, wouldn't do this."
The major took a deep breath and looked at Arthur's retreating figure: "We're fighting a plague. If we don't burn them, they'll devour everything."
The most vehement reaction came from Lieutenant Jeanne.
This strong French female officer did not curse or pray like the others. She simply stood there, straight as a statue about to shatter.
She bit her lower lip hard, with astonishing force, until a drop of bright red blood seeped out, dripping down her dusty chin and onto her collar.
Those who died were deserters, cowards, but they were her compatriots. They were Frenchmen, executed like livestock by a pack of foreign beasts on her land.
"Sir."
Jeanne turned to Arthur, her eyes filled with pleading and a thirst for revenge: "Don't let them leave alive. Please—even with anti-aircraft guns, even with your teeth—tear them all to shreds."
But Arthur didn't vomit. He didn't curse. He didn't make the sign of the cross.
His face was completely expressionless, as calm as a stagnant pool of frozen water.
At this moment, the personality named "Arthur" is rapidly cooling and hardening, transforming into something purer and more efficient.
He reopened the RTS interface.
That interface had never been so clear in his vision. He moved his mental cursor across the blood-soaked no-man's-land and locked onto the SS officer standing in the middle of the pile of corpses.
The system's red recognition frame was firmly placed over Monk's head, making the key symbol next to him look particularly ferocious.
Arthur did not hesitate. He marked the name heavily in bright red.
[Marked as: Extremely Hatred Target]
[Tactical Instruction Notes Change: All Rules of Engagement (ROE) are cancelled for this target and its associated units.]
[Added additional command: NoQuarter (Surrender is not accepted/Kill without mercy).]
After doing all this, Arthur did not give the order immediately. He simply stood there, watching the rapidly changing data stream on his retina.
Just over an hour ago, he was still struggling with the near-collapse of morale, worrying about how to appease the French soldiers who were terrified by the "legend of the SS's immortality." After all, the fear of the unknown cannot be eliminated by orders.
But now, even without turning around, he could feel that the air had changed.
That sticky, damp sense of despair vanished. In its place came a dry, scorching, and explosive atmosphere, like gunpowder ready to explode at any moment.
In the bottom right corner of the RTS interface, a series of new system notifications are refreshing rapidly:
[System Notification: Our morale status has changed]
[Negative status removed: Undead Nightmare - No longer valid]
[Gain temporary buff: Blood Feud]
Morale has recovered: 28%...55%...85%...↑
[Buff Description: Having witnessed an extremely brutal execution, the soldiers' fear has been replaced by extreme rage. Now, even as ghosts, they would want to tear that butcher to pieces.]
This is the paradox of the psychology of war: the unknown and fear can destroy an army, but extreme hatred can rebuild it.
Just moments ago, these Frenchmen were afraid that the other side possessed some kind of witchcraft, or was some unkillable monster. But Munch, with his most primal and arrogant brutality, personally shattered this superstition—he proved to everyone that he was not a ghost, he was just a damned...
Inhuman beast.
Ghosts make you want to run away, but beasts—everyone knows how to deal with beasts.
"This saved me a lot of breath from doing pre-war mobilization."
Arthur sneered inwardly, glancing at the SS figure still wiping his gloves in the distance, and silently said to himself: "Thanks, Captain Monk. You've just lit the biggest firewood for your own funeral."
Arthur turned around and looked at the officers and soldiers behind him, who were on the verge of collapse from anger and fear.
"Captain Higgins."
Arthur's voice wasn't loud, but on the deathly silent rooftop, it was as clear as the clash of metal, carrying a chilling undercurrent: "Finished throwing up?"
Higgins wiped the sour taste from the corner of his mouth and straightened up, leaning against the wall. His eyes were bloodshot, and the previous cowardice and hesitation were gone, replaced by a burning rage that wanted to destroy everything.
"I'm done vomiting, sir." Higgins gritted his teeth, forcing out the words, "That bastard—I'm going to kill him with my own hands."
"very good."
Arthur walked to the Bofors anti-aircraft gun and reached out to stroke its cold, rough barrel, as if he were stroking a beast about to be released from its cage.
"Pass down my orders: tell everyone on this front line—from this moment on, forget the Geneva Conventions. Forget chivalry. Forget that we are civilized people."
He raised his head, his gaze piercing through the darkness, fixed on the purple dot of light: "They want to be beasts? Then we'll grant their wish."
The wind stopped.
The night had never been so dark, as if a black velvet curtain had been drawn back for the impending slaughter.
[Next wave of attacks expected to begin: 00:30:00]
On the RTS interface, the final countdown began to flash a scarlet light.
Arthur turned to look at Higgins and said, slowly and deliberately, "Tell everyone, I don't want prisoners."
"I don't want any of them."