Chapter 416: He Actually Kidnapped Him?

The waters of the Danube seemed exceptionally turbulent this night, as if deliberately trying to obstruct these uninvited guests traveling upstream.

The route from Budapest back to Vienna was upstream against the Danube’s current, requiring about an extra hour of travel time. Furthermore, upon entering Austrian-controlled territory, Morin and his team opted to travel by land using the instruction unit’s radiant crystal trucks. Consequently, it was just past 7:00 AM when the convoy arrived in Vienna.

At this moment, within a brightly lit makeshift war room inside the Army General Staff building in Vienna, the air felt incredibly heavy after a night of “settling.”

The hour hand on the wall clock had just passed seven.

For soldiers accustomed to waking early, this should have been a time when their biological clocks made them feel energized.

But the people in this room had been in a state of extreme tension since 2:00 PM yesterday. Having stayed awake until now, both their mental and physical stamina had reached their limits.

Moreover, this era clearly lacked any means of live-broadcasting the operation. Everyone could only roughly deduce what stage the operation had reached based on the current time and the overall operational plan.

In other words, a group of people was just suffering through a sleepless night here…

Field Marshal Conrad, the Austro-Hungarian Chief of the Army General Staff—an old man who usually kept his back ramrod straight, constantly maintaining the majestic bearing of an Imperial soldier—was currently slumped undignifiedly over the long table covered in maps.

In a chair not far from him, the young Saxon Crown Prince, His Highness Georg, wasn’t faring much better.

Although he still had to maintain some royal decorum and didn’t slump over the table directly, his head was tilted, resting against the back of the chair with his eyes tightly shut.

As for the other staff officers, some were struggling to keep their eyelids open, writing nonsensical things, the nibs of their pens poking several inkblots into the paper. Others simply propped their heads up with their hands, nodding off as if kowtowing on the spot.

This was a universal manifestation of human physiology. Even a Field Marshal or a Crown Prince holding immense power looked no different after an all-nighter than a corporate drone passed out on the subway after pulling an all-nighter at work.

Bang!

The heavy doors of the conference room were suddenly smashed open with immense force. The massive sound echoed in the silent room.

For the room full of dozing people, the effect was akin to a 105mm howitzer shell blasting into the room.

A communications officer stumbled in, the expression on his face truly a mix of “angels and demons.”

It possessed both the distorted look of someone who had just seen a ghost, and the ecstasy of someone who had just won the lottery jackpot.

“Field Marshal! Your Highness! They’re back! They’re back!”

With this roar, the people in the room jerked upright one by one.

Field Marshal Conrad snapped his head up so fast his neck let out a crisp crack.

He blinked in confusion, a suspicious trail of drool even hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes as hollow as an old man with dementia who had just been woken up.

Crown Prince Georg in his chair also jolted. He looked blankly at the shouting officer at the door, his brain clearly still in the process of booting up.

This brief collective bewilderment lasted for about three or four seconds.

Immediately following, the advantage of youth became apparent.

Crown Prince Georg’s eyes instantly went from cloudy to clear. As if he had springs under his butt, he bounced straight up from the chair, the movement so large it even caused the table in front of him to make a loud clatter.

“What did you say?!”

The Crown Prince’s voice cracked from excitement, sounding like a strange squawk.

“Colonel Morin is back! The convoy has entered the designated area! All personnel confirmed safe! The target… the target is also in the vehicle!” the major panted, finishing the sentence in one breath.

“Ah?”

The entire conference room instantly exploded.

Field Marshal Conrad, ignoring the soreness in his neck, leaned on the table with both hands and stood up. Because he got up too fast, his vision even went dark and he swayed twice.

The surrounding Austro-Hungarian officers who had still been dozing jumped up one by one as if they had been electrocked.

They looked at each other, their eyes full of the absurd feeling of “Am I still dreaming?”

“They really… did it?”

“My God, that’s Budapest… Did they really snatch him back like ghosts?”

“Am I still dreaming? It’s only been one night!”

Although Morin’s plan was ultimately executed, in the eyes of these traditional Austro-Hungarian Army officers, it was fundamentally an impossible mission.

They sat here pulling an all-nighter, not so much waiting for news of victory, but rather waiting for the bad news of “operation failed, all personnel killed in action” or “diplomatic crisis triggered.”

In fact, most people had long pronounced a death sentence on this allied colonel in their hearts.

Yes, Colonel Morin indeed had a dazzling combat record, but that was all achieved on conventional battlefields relying on tactical and equipment advantages.

But that didn’t mean he could just waltz into the capital of the Kingdom of Hungary and bring their Prime Minister back, right?

But reality told them that this allied colonel from the Saxon Empire had truly done it.

“Prepare the cars! Prepare the cars immediately! We’re heading over right now!”

Field Marshal Conrad finally found his voice. He grabbed his military cap from the table and haphazardly slapped it on his head, not even noticing the brim was askew, and strode towards the door.

Crown Prince Georg followed closely behind. The exhaustion on his face was swept away entirely, replaced by an uncontrollable ecstasy.

Several black cars raced through the early morning streets of Vienna, completely ignoring all traffic rules, speeding all the way to that closed training ground in the suburbs.

This was also the safe house ultimately decided upon to receive the “package.”

When the convoy stopped in front of the massive warehouse at the training ground, and Georg, Conrad, and the others jumped out of the cars, Morin was standing at the warehouse entrance, directing his operatives to disperse.

After boarding the ship, he and the others had already changed into clean clothes, and diving suits and other gear had been properly stowed after being tied together and dragged back. Morin’s face also showed some exhaustion now, but compared to the others, he could be considered quite energetic.

Seeing the Crown Prince and the Field Marshal approaching, Morin adjusted his collar and strode forward to meet them. Stopping five paces away from the two, he gave an impeccable military salute.

“Your Highness, Field Marshal… Fortunately, I did not fail my mission. Operation complete.”

“The target is currently secured in the warehouse behind me. According to pre-arranged procedures, he was brought in hooded the entire way, and is currently unaware of his specific location.”

Field Marshal Conrad looked at the young man before him. His lips trembled a few times, seemingly wanting to say something, but he was too agitated to make a sound. Tremblingly, he reached out his hand, tightly grasped Morin’s palm, and shook it vigorously up and down.

Morin could feel that the hand of this Field Marshal, who commanded the entire Austro-Hungarian Army, was actually trembling slightly at this moment.

“Good… good! Well done!”

A thousand words ultimately merged into these few.

Perhaps for this Field Marshal who had always held a “blunt sword,” this was also his first time tasting what it felt like to wield a “sharp sword”…

Standing beside him, Saxon Crown Prince Georg had regained his composure. He wore a smile that shared in the glory. He looked at Morin and nodded, then turned to Field Marshal Conrad with a “please” gesture:

“Field Marshal, I believe you must be very eager to meet that old friend of yours right now~”

“Hahahaha, exactly as Your Highness says!”

Field Marshal Conrad took a deep breath, calmed his emotions, and then, accompanied by a few trusted aides, walked briskly toward that heavily guarded warehouse.

Crown Prince Georg didn’t rush to follow them in.

He stood where he was. He first watched the instruction unit soldiers who were still unloading equipment in groups after dispersing; though exhausted, their eyes revealed excitement. After watching for quite a while, he let out an indistinguishable sigh, then turned and strode up to Morin.

The Crown Prince disregarded royal etiquette entirely. He reached out both hands and clapped them heavily onto Morin’s arms, his eyes full of undisguised admiration and praise.

“Lord Friedrich… you’ve done it again.”

Georg shook his head, his tone carrying a heartfelt sigh:

“To be honest… until last night, I was still worrying if this was a crazy gamble! But you proved with facts that this wasn’t a reckless gamble.”

“Your Highness flatters me.”

Morin smiled, his tone remaining humble:

“Actually, as long as the plan is meticulous enough, coupled with the rational use of spells, the success rate of this kind of operation is theoretically very high~ After all… this is the first time someone has done this, and the opponent was completely unprepared.”

“The first time…”

Georg keenly caught this phrase.

He released his hands, the expression on his face gradually turning serious.

“Lord Friedrich, this kind of operation—using an extremely small elite force, utilizing special equipment and tactics to carry out surgical strikes against high-value enemy targets… What did you call it when speaking to me before the operation?”

“Special operations, Your Highness.”

“Special operations…”

Crown Prince Georg chewed over the term repeatedly, while the early morning sunlight dappled through the sparse trees of the training ground onto the two of them.

“It is indeed a very apt name.”

Georg nodded, the light in his eyes burning ever brighter:

“Lord Friedrich, I was thinking… Since this combat method is so highly efficient and possesses such extremely high strategic value, shouldn’t we standardize it?”

The Crown Prince paced back and forth in front of Morin with his hands behind his back, his speaking speed also increasing.

“Look, whether it was the previous Liège Fortress air assault or this Budapest operation, we temporarily drew personnel from the instruction unit…”

“Although because of you, the quality of these soldiers is exceptional, it’s ultimately impossible to temporarily draw personnel like this every time…”

“What if… I mean what if, we establish a specialized ‘Special Operations Academy’, just like how we established the ‘Assault Infantry Experimental Combat Academy’?”

Crown Prince Georg stopped pacing, staring burningly at Morin.

“Specialize in researching this tactic, specialize in cultivating this kind of talent… Make ‘special operations’ a standing sharp knife of the Imperial Army, rather than just a flash of inspiration belonging to Colonel Morin alone.”

“After all, both you and I know, Colonel Morin, you will not stop here in the future…”

Looking at the young Crown Prince before him and listening to his words, Morin couldn’t help but feel a bit emotional.

In this era where most noble officers were still obsessed with traditional tactics, and the entire world was in a period of tactical transition, Crown Prince Georg’s forward-looking thinking was simply an anomaly.

For the Crown Prince to be so forward-looking regarding military development, and to be able to support him so much behind the scenes, Morin naturally felt it was a good thing.

“Your Highness, your thoughts are highly insightful.”

Morin didn’t stint his praise; he said seriously:

“Establishing a professional special operations system, in my personal opinion, is indeed the trend of the future.”

“If we have a standing, professionally trained special forces unit, we will have more options when dealing with many sudden situations… rather than only being able to passively escalate the scale of war.”

Hearing Morin’s affirmation, a satisfied smile appeared on Georg’s face.

“Excellent! After returning this time, I will join forces with the Ministry of War and the General Staff, using this Operation ‘Ghost’ as a classic case study, to officially propose the establishment of the ‘Special Operations Academy’…”

However, just as the Crown Prince was enthusiastically planning the blueprint for the future, Morin poured a bucket of cold water on it at the right time.

“Your Highness, your willingness to establish the academy is naturally a good thing, and I am also willing to teach everything I’ve comprehended without reservation, but…” Morin’s tone shifted, becoming unprecedentedly grave:

“There is one matter about which I must issue a warning to you and the Imperial high command.”

Georg paused, his smile fading: “What is it? Speak, Lord Friedrich.”

Morin turned around, looking towards the distant urban area of Vienna, his voice low.

“Your Highness, have you ever thought that since we can use this method to snatch the Hungarian Prime Minister out of Budapest… then, if our enemies also learn this trick, could they snatch our important figures away from Dresden?”

Georg’s pupils shrank violently, most of the color instantly draining from his face.

“You mean…”

“The concept of special operations actually doesn’t have a very high technical threshold; it’s more of a breakthrough in thinking.”

Morin continued, this being his greatest concern after the operation’s success.

“Once we pierce this window paper, other great powers—especially the Holy Britannia Empire—will react very quickly.”

At this point, Morin paused, emphasizing his tone.

“Your Highness, do not forget what the core of this operation was.”

“In my view, a large part of it was the convenience brought by… spells. 【Darkvision】, 【Water Breathing】, 【Sleep】… these were the keys to our success.”

“And in the field of magic, the Saxon Empire is merely playing catch-up… That nation across the sea is the true behemoth.”

Morin’s words clearly struck straight to the Crown Prince’s heart.

Yes, the Saxon Empire achieved this level relying on a few scrolls and a 5th-tier mage.

What about the Britannians, who possessed the Highland Mage Order and profound magical heritage?

And there was another layer to Morin’s worry he couldn’t speak aloud. In the world before his transmigration, both the UK and the US were “old hands” in the development of special forces.

So in this world, if the Holy Britannia Empire—this “UK-US hybrid”—were to cobble together a “Magical SAS” or “Avengers Initiative” one day, Morin truly wouldn’t be surprised at all.

“Your Highness, we have opened Pandora’s Box.”

Morin looked at the Crown Prince, his eyes complex:

“While we took the lead in using this unconventional method to achieve victory, it also means we must be prepared to face the backlash of the same method.”

Crown Prince Georg fell silent.

His brain, originally heated by victory, felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over it, cooling down completely at this moment.

He thought of the Emperor far away in Dresden, thought of those generals on the front lines who believed they were perfectly safe staying in rear command posts.

An unprecedented sense of crisis welled up.

“So…”

Georg took a deep breath, his voice somewhat dry:

“Lord Friedrich, you mean that while we develop offensive special forces, we must simultaneously carry out a drastic upgrade of the entire Empire’s security, vigilance, and counter-infiltration systems?”

“Exactly.”

Morin nodded, then voiced his preliminary thoughts:

“Detection methods targeting high-tier spellcasters, anti-magic barriers for important locations, and rapid reaction forces targeting special infiltration… these must all be put on the agenda.”

“Otherwise, the next one stuffed into a sandbag might be one of our own.”

Georg stared fixedly at Morin, not speaking for a long time.

After quite a while, he let out a long sigh, a gratified smile appearing on his face.

“Lord Friedrich, sometimes I truly suspect… if you aren’t a prophet sent down by God.”

“Other military geniuses might be a step ahead of ordinary men, seeing how the next battle will be fought… but you… the problems you consider are always far too many steps ahead of us.”

“While we are cheering for victory, you are already contemplating the backlash victory will bring.”

Morin didn’t take up this topic, merely remaining silent.

Of course he wasn’t a prophet. He was merely standing on the shoulders of giants, having witnessed the cruel game of special operations and the war on terror in that other world.

“I understand.”

Georg straightened his back again, recovering the decisiveness a Crown Prince should possess:

“I will report this matter directly to my father as a top-priority agenda… Since Pandora’s Box has been opened, then we must be the ones holding the lid.”

The two men, far from their homeland, exchanged a glance, both seeing a certain tacit understanding in each other’s eyes.

Inside the warehouse at the closed training ground, there was a “special room” constructed by combat engineers.

To prevent the detainee from deducing his location through sound, smell, or light, this room utilized a fully enclosed structure. The walls were even painted with gray paint imitating the texture of concrete, making it look like an underground dungeon.

Count István Tisza, the iron-fisted Prime Minister who once commanded the wind and rain in Hungarian politics and even dared to challenge the old Emperor, was currently wearing an unmarked, coarse prison uniform, securely chained to a steel chair in the center of the room.

The hood had been removed, revealing his pale, angry, yet somewhat terrified face.

When the heavy wooden doors were pushed open and Field Marshal Conrad walked in with a few officers, Count Tisza’s pupils trembled violently.

He was surprised for an instant, then the arrogance and anger belonging to a superior quickly took the upper hand.

He had clearly recognized this old rival before him, and instantly understood his situation.

“Conrad! I knew it was you!”

Count Tisza struggled to stand up, but the clatter of handcuffs and shackles mercilessly reminded him of his current status.

He stared fixedly at Field Marshal Conrad, his voice trembling with rage.

“Are you all mad? Is Vienna mad? You actually dare to kidnap a Prime Minister of the Kingdom! This is a declaration of war against the Kingdom of Hungary! This is a trampling of the Sacred Constitution!”

“Aren’t you afraid of triggering a civil war? Aren’t you afraid of the entire Empire disintegrating? I demand to be released immediately! And I demand an apology! Otherwise…”

Field Marshal Conrad didn’t speak.

He merely waved his hand, having his subordinates bring a chair over, and then sat down directly opposite Count Tisza, legs splayed wide. They were close enough that he could see the beads of sweat oozing from the sides of Count Tisza’s nose due to agitation.

He just quietly watched Count Tisza ranting there.

Watching this political rival—who had mocked him with acerbic language in countless imperial councils, obstructed his military expansion plans, and even schemed behind his back—now raging impotently like a shrew.

Count Tisza cursed for a full five minutes, going from law to morality, from imperial unity to international influence, spittle flying everywhere.

It wasn’t until he was tired from cursing and stopped to catch his breath that Field Marshal Conrad suddenly smiled.

“Pfft…”

At first, it was just a slight snicker.

But it was like a crack appearing in a dam. Immediately after, this mirth was like a bursting flood, surging uncontrollably.

“Haha… hahaha… hahahahahaha!”

Field Marshal Conrad clutched his stomach with both hands, his whole person rocking back and forth with laughter, tears almost bursting out.

His usually stern and rigid face was scrunched up like a chrysanthemum from laughing at this moment, completely lacking a Field Marshal’s majesty.

This was the release of pressure accumulated for far, far too long.

From the anxiety since the start of the war, the resentment toward internal constraints, the fear of this massive gamble, and the ecstasy after ultimate victory, everything was vented out in this uninhibited laughter.

Count Tisza was stunned.

His face instantly flushed the color of pig liver, an unprecedented sense of humiliation rushing straight to his head.

“What… what are you laughing at! What’s so funny! You madman! You are insulting me! You are insulting all of Hungary!”

Count Tisza went completely red with rage amidst the laughter.

He writhed madly in his chair. If looks could kill, Field Marshal Conrad would probably have suffered the death of a thousand cuts by now.

But this didn’t affect Field Marshal Conrad’s mood in the slightest. He even laughed louder, slapping his thigh as he laughed, pointing at Count Tisza as if he had seen the most comical clown in his life.

After laughing for over a minute, Field Marshal Conrad slowly stopped.

“Phew… phew… hahaha~”

He took out a handkerchief, wiped away the tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes, then took a deep breath, the expression on his face cooling down at a visible speed.

That cold, oppressive aura belonging to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff returned to him.

He looked at Count Tisza, his eyes no longer holding any emotion, only the indifference of looking at a dead man.

“Finished cursing? Mr. Prime Minister~ If you haven’t vented enough, you can keep cursing, after all…”

He paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a cruel arc.

“Enjoy this final period of your time as Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Hungary. Because starting today, the world outside… no longer has a place for you.”

Several hours later, the Grand Palace in Dresden.

The afternoon sun lazily spilled onto the banks of the Elbe River. This Baroque palace looked exceptionally peaceful and serene in the golden radiance.

However, the atmosphere deep within the palace, inside the Emperor’s study, was vastly different from this tranquility.

Saxon Emperor Albert II sat behind the broad oak desk, clutching a top-secret telegram that had just been decoded.

The telegram was very short, one could even say it lacked context.

“The package from Budapest has been safely delivered to Vienna, without any damage.”

Just this simple sentence made the fingers of the Empire’s supreme ruler, gripping the paper, turn slightly white.

He stared at that line of text for a full three times, as if trying to see flowers bloom from the lead type, until he was certain he hadn’t misread a single word.

“Phew…”

Albert II let out a long breath of stale air. As if relieved of a thousand-pound burden, he leaned back heavily in his chair.

It succeeded.

That crazy, and in his view even somewhat absurd plan, actually succeeded.

Although as Emperor, he approved this plan submitted by the Crown Prince, deep down, he didn’t harbor much hope.

In his view, it was more like giving Vienna face, or giving that Colonel Morin—who could always create miracles—a chance to show off.

Even if it failed, the Saxon Empire could quickly disavow it, at most losing a small detachment.

But he never imagined this Colonel Morin truly did it…

Not only did he do it, but he did it so cleanly and efficiently, not even the “package” suffered any damage.

“Your Majesty, General Moltke and General Falkenhayn have arrived.”

The attendant’s soft announcement interrupted the Emperor’s thoughts.

“Let them in.”

Soon, Chief of the Imperial General Staff Moltke and Minister of War Falkenhayn strode briskly into the study.

These two titans of the Imperial Military had clearly received the news as well, their faces bearing a hint of urgency.

“Your Majesty, regarding Vienna…” Falkenhayn couldn’t help speaking the moment he entered.

Albert II didn’t speak, merely pushing the telegram in his hand gently to the edge of the desk.

Falkenhayn stepped forward quickly, picked up the telegram, and glanced at it. His expression instantly broke.

He subconsciously turned his head to look at Moltke beside him and handed the telegram over.

Moltke took the telegram. After reading it, an expression of disbelief also appeared on his usually somewhat melancholy and indecisive face.

The study plunged into a brief silence.

“Colonel Morin… he really did it.”

Falkenhayn muttered to himself, his voice carrying a complex mix of emotion.

“This is simply unbelievable. That’s a nation’s Prime Minister’s residence, in a heavily guarded capital… He just took men in and kidnapped him?”

“It is indeed a tactical miracle… No, it has even influenced the strategic level.”

Moltke nodded. As Chief of the Army General Staff, he analyzed it more from a military perspective.

“This kind of ‘decapitation strike’ executed by a small elite force coordinating with magic—its high efficiency and low cost might completely subvert past conventional wisdom regarding warfare.”

At this point, Moltke paused, his eyes turning grave:

“However, Your Majesty… this also means a new threat has been born.”

Albert II looked at his two key ministers, a flash of approval in his eyes.

Worthy of being pillars of the Empire, reacting as quickly as he did.

“You’ve thought of it too?” The Emperor’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk. “If this method can be used against the Hungarian Prime Minister, then…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning was self-evident.

What if someone used the same method against the Emperor of the Saxon Empire, or the Chief of the Army General Staff?

An inexplicable chill began to spread through the study.

Minister of War Falkenhayn even subconsciously glanced out the window, as if countless invisible ghosts lurked even on the calm surface of the Elbe River.

“So, how do you think we should view this Colonel Morin, who single-handedly forged this ‘miracle’?” Albert II posed the core question.

The study plunged into a brief silence.

A moment later, Moltke took a step forward and spoke with a serious expression:

“Your Majesty, Colonel Morin is a true ‘Sword of the Empire’. But like all sharp weapons, it can harm the enemy, and it can potentially harm oneself.”

“Once this ‘special operations’ model proliferates, it will be a devastating blow to the existing defense systems of all nations. We must prepare for a rainy day.”

“As for Colonel Morin himself…”

Moltke paused, offering his recommendation:

“Our first priority must be to ensure, at all costs, that he stands consistently, eternally, and absolutely on the side of the Royal Family and the Military.”

“As far as I know, some individuals within the Empire have already begun scheming regarding this rising military star, attempting to draw this young colonel into their ‘camp’…”

“This is clearly overstepping boundaries. We must preemptively put a stop to it!”

“As long as we can ensure Colonel Morin is in our hands, he is Saxony’s sharp sword… Therefore, we must give him honors, give him resources, give him maximum support.”

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