For safety reasons, before vaulting out of the trench, Morin actually cast a [Mage Armor] on himself.

Although the atmosphere had reached this point, entrusting his life to the enemy’s mercy was clearly not his style.

The touch underfoot was soft and slippery; it was soil repeatedly soaked with blood and rainwater.

Morin steadied his posture and walked step by step toward the broken tree stump.

The wind and snow of Christmas Eve hit his face with a slight stinging sensation, cooling his somewhat overheated mind considerably.

As the distance closed, the North American Legion Second Lieutenant named Wilson was visibly startled.

By the faint candlelight of the Christmas tree, Wilson clearly saw the collar patches of the approaching person—officers of the Britannian Expeditionary Force had studied the rank insignia of European countries.

"My God—"

Wilson subconsciously straightened his back, brought his legs together, and snapped a somewhat non-standard salute.

He originally thought the Saxons would send a company commander, or at most a battalion commander. Who could have expected the other side to directly send out a Lieutenant Colonel?

"Good evening, Second Lieutenant. I personally think your proposal is very good."

Morin stopped two meters away. A standard Britannian accent, even carrying a hint of "Old London" upper-class tone, rolled off his tongue: "A night like this is indeed not suitable for the soldiers of both our sides to bleed in the mud pits, is it?"

Wilson’s mouth opened slightly. The accent of this Saxon officer before him was even more authentic than the noble lords he, a "country bumpkin" from the colonies, had seen.

"Y-yes, Your Excellency Lieutenant Colonel!"

Wilson stammered in response, his imposing manner instantly halved.

"We—I mean, we hope to suspend shooting, at least for tonight."

"A very reasonable proposal."

Morin nodded, and the latter, as if suddenly remembering something, hastily turned around and shouted toward the flank of his own position: "Hey! Scots! Where is your officer? The Saxon officer is here!"

This shout caused an obvious commotion in the opposite trench.

Not long after, a figure climbed out, cursing.

It was a Captain wearing a Scottish tartan kilt, with a burly figure.

Before climbing out of the bunker, he even deliberately smoothed his messy red beard and eyebrows with saliva, trying to make himself look slightly more decent.

When this Scottish Captain trudged unevenly to the tree stump and saw Morin’s officer overcoat and collar patches, his reaction was exactly the same as Wilson’s.

"Bloody hell—"

The Captain mumbled. The unruly arrogance typical of a Highlander he originally wanted to display instantly restrained a lot, and he gave a somewhat awkward salute.

Morin returned the salute, his movements impeccable.

"It seems we have hope of reaching a consensus in this mud pit?"

"Of course, Your Excellency Lieutenant Colonel."

The Scottish Captain cleared his throat, trying to regain some presence: "My boys just want to drink some wine tonight, not kill people. If your men can control their fingers, we can guarantee silence on our side too."

"Very good."

Morin looked around this dead silent wasteland, his tone flat but revealing a sense of control: "This war will not end because of our ceasefire tonight, nor will we win by killing a few more people tonight. In that case, let everyone take a breather."

These words clearly struck a chord in the hearts of the two grassroots officers.

The Scottish Captain’s tense shoulders completely relaxed. Then he felt this seemed a bit hasty, and immediately asked the two to wait a moment.

"Wait! Since it’s a ceasefire—there must be a sense of ceremony! Don’t move, stand right here and don’t move!"

After speaking, without caring about the reactions of Morin, Sprink, and Wilson, the Captain turned and ran back. That tartan kilt flew in the wind, revealing two red-haired thighs.

The Scottish Highland infantry watched him nervously and curiously until he said: "Bring my whiskey, and get four glasses!" Then everyone instantly let out a small cheer.

A few minutes later, the Captain ran back panting, holding an unlabelled dark glass bottle and a few glasses of different materials scavenged from who knows where.

Right in the center of this No Man’s Land that could be covered by artillery fire at any time, by the flickering candlelight of the Christmas tree, the four glasses were poured with amber liquid.

"To Christmas Eve." Morin raised his glass.

"To staying alive." The Scottish Captain grinned.

"To—to peace." Second Lieutenant Wilson added somewhat nervously.

The spicy liquor went down the throat, exploding like a ball of fire in the stomach, driving away the chill of the winter night.

Morin put down the glass. Just as he was about to say something, he suddenly noticed countless pairs of eyes had appeared in the darkness around them.

At some point, the soldiers in the trenches on both sides, as if drawn by some attraction, popped their heads out one by one, vaulted out of the trenches, and were tentatively converging toward the center.

At first, it was just two or three people, then a dozen, and finally turned into hundreds.

No officer gave an order, nor did anyone blow an assembly whistle.

This gathering was entirely spontaneous, like two packs of beasts locked up for a long time suddenly finding the cage door open. Although wary, they couldn’t help but want to get closer and sniff each other’s scent.

And on the inevitable path of the converging crowd, the North American veteran named Jack was lying in a crater, wishing he could bury himself in the dirt.

He originally thought tonight was a near-suicidal reconnaissance mission, but never expected it to turn out like this.

"Hey, bloody hell! There’s a guy lying here!"

A large foot wearing a Saxon military boot almost stepped on his hand.

Jack looked up, right into the downward-looking gazes of a group of Saxon soldiers.

Those young faces showed surprise at first, then turned into malicious laughter.

"Looks like we caught a lost little mouse!"

"Get up quickly, the ground is cold!"

Jack’s weather-beaten old face instantly turned the color of pig liver.

He climbed awkwardly out of the mud pit, patted the dirt off his body, and amidst a chorus of good-natured whistling, kept a straight face and lowered his head. Like a primary school student caught skipping class, he scurried back to his own crowd.

This scene completely broke the final barrier between the two sides.

Two torrents of different colors collided in the center of No Man’s Land.

Morin stood aside, watching this absurd yet heartwarming scene.

This scene reminded him of the mixer dances in high school—boys and girls standing on opposite sides, sizing each other up, wanting to get close but not daring to...

Right now, the language barrier between the two sides had become the biggest obstacle.

But this couldn’t stump this group of energetic grunts.

A Saxon private emboldened himself and stepped forward, pulling a piece of foil-wrapped chocolate from his pocket—it was the high-end good Morin had just distributed in the afternoon.

He waved it at a Scottish soldier in front of him, then pointed to the flat hip flask at the other’s waist.

The Scottish soldier looked warily at that dark block and didn’t dare to take it.

The Saxon private seemed to understand the other party’s concerns. He smiled, peeled back the foil, bit off a corner himself, chewed it with relish, and then handed over the remaining large piece.

"Mmh—" The Scottish soldier hesitated for a moment, took the chocolate, and carefully took a small bite.

The sweet, rich, and silky taste instantly conquered his taste buds, and those originally suspicious eyes suddenly lit up.

The next second, he extremely generously untied his hip flask, even wiping the spout with his sleeve.

Then he shoved it into the Saxon private’s arms, mumbling a dialect phrase that roughly meant "Take it and drink, you lucky bastard."

Deal reached.

With the first person to eat crabs, the originally restrained crowd instantly exploded.

Then, Morin watched helplessly as several instruction unit soldiers produced several packs of Dresden special-supply cigarettes printed with golden patterns like offering treasures—those were goods in short supply that Cecilia spent a fortune to gather.

And the North American soldiers opposite exchanged them with a few dark green tin cans with excited faces.

Morin narrowed his eyes and read the words on the cans by candlelight—"Corned Beef."

If he remembered correctly, this stuff known as "Bully Beef," the meat inside was like shoe soles, and the production date was highly likely during the Boer War, which was more than ten years ago...

"These prodigals—" The corner of Morin’s mouth twitched, lamenting in his heart, "Exchanging top-grade cigarettes for expired zombie meat, this is definitely the most loss-making business today."

But Morin didn’t stop them.

Because he saw that after exchanging gifts, those soldiers didn’t disperse immediately.

Some Saxon soldiers pulled out photos warmed by body heat from their inner pockets, pointing to the blurry figures on them, gesturing with their hands:

"Mama—Kind (Child)—"

The enemy opposite would also pull out their own photos. Two men who should originally be thrusting bayonets into each other’s chests were now huddled together, grinning foolishly at a few pieces of yellowing photographic paper, tears shimmering in the corners of their eyes.

These soldiers also discovered for the first time that the enemy constantly propagandized by the higher-ups were not demons, but living people just like them.

Everyone had their own lives before the war, their own hobbies, and more importantly, their own families.

"Stille Nacht—"

The familiar melody sounded again.

This time, it wasn’t just Sprink singing alone.

Those Scottish bagpipers puffed out their cheeks again, the melodious bagpipe sound gently wrapping this messy battlefield like the morning mist of the Scottish Highlands.

Sprink stood in the center of the crowd, waving his arms like a real tenor singer, and began to sing classic Christmas Eve tunes like "Ave Maria."

Gradually, someone started humming along.

First the Saxons, then the Britannians. All voices merged into the same warm current, washing away the long-accumulated fear and hostility in everyone’s hearts.

"Bang!"

A sharp whistling sound pierced the night sky.

Everyone instinctively shrank their necks, thinking the artillery bombardment had begun.

But the imagined explosion did not occur. A ball of dazzling white light exploded in mid-air and drifted down slowly.

It was a flare.

Immediately after, as if by some silent agreement, flares rose one after another from behind the positions of both sides.

These flares, originally used to illuminate this land of death for night combat, now acted like festive fireworks, lighting up this pitch-black No Man’s Land as bright as day.

The soldiers tilted their heads up, watching those balls of light burning and falling in the wind and snow. There were no cheers, only silent gazes...

Such rare joyful moments on the battlefield were always like sand slipping through fingers; the tighter you grabbed, the faster it flowed.

Unknowingly, the pocket watches of the officers on both sides pointed to the number 12.

And a dark red flash suddenly lit up the distant horizon, followed by a dull, thunderous roar.

"Boom—Boom—"

The earth trembled slightly; it was the artillery in other defense zones starting their bombardment.

This burst of gunfire was like a basin of ice water, instantly extinguishing the enthusiastic atmosphere in the center of No Man’s Land.

Smiles froze on faces. Soldiers exchanged glances with each other, the originally harmonious air suddenly becoming somewhat heavy.

Because that gunfire was reminding them: This is not a fairy tale, this is war... The person who just exchanged chocolate with you might thrust a bayonet into your chest tomorrow.

Morin, standing with other officers, sighed and returned the empty wine glass in his hand to the bearded Scot.

"It seems this ’miracle’ is about to disappear."

The Scottish Captain and Second Lieutenant Wilson opposite him also fell silent.

That bearded Scot took a reluctant glance at the surrounding crowd, then solemnly adjusted his military cap and saluted.

The North American officer named Wilson also followed suit and saluted.

Morin took a step back, stood at attention, and returned a standard Saxon hand salute.

Without superfluous parting words, the officers of both sides began to shout to assemble their subordinates.

The soldiers reluctantly let go of each other’s hands, patted the other’s shoulder for the last time, and then walked toward their respective pitch-black, cold trenches, turning their heads back every three steps.

The crowd dispersed like a receding tide, leaving only footprints in the mud of No Man’s Land, recording those beautiful things that had just happened.

This night, at least in this section of the trench, was surprisingly quiet.

Those sniper shots that usually terrified new recruits so much they couldn’t sleep completely disappeared.

Early the next morning, a dull and rhythmic "rustling" sound woke up the Saxon soldiers in the trench.

The sound was like some giant rat making trouble in the bunker, or the muffled sound of a shovel digging into the frozen earth.

"Over there!"

An observation sentry who drank too much gin last night and still had a buzzing head pressed his bloodshot eyes to the observation slit piled up by sandbags.

Dozens of meters away, several dusty figures were hunched over, swinging entrenching shovels vigorously on the crater-pitted frozen ground.

Beside them was planted a blackened wooden stick with a piece of white cloth tied to it, drooping listlessly.

"What are these North Americans trying to do?"

The comrades below immediately became nervous, some even pulling the bolt.

"Could it be they want to dig a tunnel to plant explosives and blow us to the sky?"

"Plant explosives my ass."

A veteran with better eyesight stared carefully for a while, then shrank back and slapped the new recruit.

"They are burying the bodies they didn’t have time to collect yesterday—"

As soon as these words came out, the tense atmosphere in the trench instantly loosened, replaced by a burst of somewhat awkward, hearty laughter.