On the other side, the Britannian Expeditionary Force opposite No Man’s Land actually had new movements on the afternoon of Christmas Day.

Although Sir John French was a stubborn old-school soldier, he was not stupid.

The overly "friendly" atmosphere on the front line made him smell danger—the "anti-war" sentiment from the frontline soldiers was obviously not a good thing.

And upon learning that such "ceasefire activities" mostly occurred among the North American Legion and some Scottish Highland Infantry, the senior commanders of the expeditionary force, including him, somewhat distrusted these units.

Especially when the expeditionary force was about to launch a large-scale offensive, they couldn’t afford any problems with the army in this regard...

In the Britannian trench, that homemade "football" used for the match was kicked fiercely into a mud puddle by a shiny black tall military boot.

The splashed mud fell on a nearby soldier, but this North American Legion soldier didn’t make a sound. He just gripped his rifle sling tightly, lowered his head, and hurried past like a primary school student who had made a mistake.

"Look at you bunch of spineless soft eggs..."

A Britannian Major wearing a crisp uniform and medals on his chest stood at the fork of the communication trench, waving a silver-inlaid baton in his hand, looking with disgust at the retreating Scottish and North American soldiers.

"Playing football with the Saxons? Exchanging gifts? Good Lord, if not for General French’s mercy, you lot should all be tied to the muzzles of cannons and fired out!"

In the front-line trenches, the units that participated in the "Christmas Truce" were being transferred away intact.

Replacing them were indifferent, pale, and tense faces. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

These newly arrived units were elites from the main island of the Holy Britannia Empire—the Northumberland Fusiliers, the Coldstream Guards...

Their officers mostly hailed from the Empire’s aristocratic class, with colonial fiefdoms or mainland estates. They spoke with arrogant mainland accents and looked at others as if they were looking at servants on their own territories.

On the other side of the trench, several Protestant military chaplains in black robes were standing on ammunition boxes, waving Bibles and spitting as they spoke.

"Do not be deceived by the hypocrisy of the devil! The Saxons are God’s outcasts, barbarians from the East!"

The chaplain’s voice was shrill and piercing, completely devoid of the compassion of Ave Maria from Christmas Eve, leaving only naked incitement.

"They gave you candy on this holy day only to thrust bayonets into your stomachs tomorrow!"

"Mercy to heathens is betrayal to the Lord! Kill them all! Wash this land with their blood!"

The newly arrived soldiers felt their blood boil upon hearing this, the confusion in their eyes gradually replaced by a fanatical hatred.

And in the middle of No Man’s Land, the tree stump that once held the Christmas tree had been blown to pieces by artillery fire from who knows which side.

December 28th, 4:00 AM.

Morin was lying in that not-too-bad confinement tent, seemingly staring blankly at the ceiling, but actually checking the [Spells] tab.

After the Battle of Amiens, although no new mage manuals were captured—the Gauls’ "Sentinel" units didn’t carry these things, and the only item captured was a damaged mask.

However, seizing every available moment to study spells during this period still allowed Morin’s spellcaster level to slowly rise.

Compared to levels three and four previously, the natural improvement speed obtained through learning was much slower, but anyway, he was gaining experience.

So Morin’s spellcaster level had actually reached Level 7 before arriving at the Buchy front line.

[Friedrich Morin - Level 7, Tier-4 Spellcaster]

[Arcane Tradition: Abjuration, Projectile Protection]

[Metamagic Feat: Empower Spell]

[Spell Slots (including equipment effects): Cantrips x 4, Tier-1 Spell Slots x 4, Tier-2 Spell Slots x 3, Tier-3 Spell Slots x 6, Tier-4 Spell Slots x 3]

[Magical Equipment: Amulet of the Guardian]

[Spell Scrolls: Bigby’s Hand]

[Learned Cantrips: Mending, Message, Blade Ward, Mage Hand]

[Learned Tier-1 Spells: Mage Armor, Shield, Sleep, Feather Fall, Expeditious Retreat, Absorb Elements, Detect Life]

[Learned Tier-2 Spells: Misty Step, Invisibility, Magic Weapon, Enhance Ability]

[Learned Tier-3 Spells: Blink, Counterspell, Dispel Magic, Protection from Energy, Haste]

[Learned Tier-4 Spells: Greater Invisibility]

To be honest, Morin’s sustained combat capability on the battlefield had now been greatly improved.

However, the problem brought by the increase in spell slots was that if he wanted to prepare all his spell slots, he needed to spend 8 hours of rest time.

This also meant that the previous situation of "starting to prepare after 12 o’clock and launching a night raid at 3 or 4 AM" no longer existed.

If he wanted to launch a night raid, Morin had to complete the preparation of all spells the day before.

Moreover, the learning difficulty of Tier-3 and Tier-4 spells had become extremely high.

So much so that when Morin had free time at night and entered the "cabin where you can’t come out without learning," he felt like he had become an idiot.

And the learning progress was also ridiculously slow. Since becoming a Tier-4 mage until now, he had only learned one [Greater Invisibility].

This also made Morin realize why those magitech devices that cast high-tier spells were all so bulky.

Because the complexity of the models for Tier-4 and above spells made it simply impossible to miniaturize them; they had to be made large to engrave the complex spell models.

Just as Morin was thinking whether to pick another Tier-4 spell from the spellbook to learn or learn more Tier-2 and Tier-3 spells...

"Boom—!!!"

Continuous, deafening roars like thunder came, as if someone swung countless ten-thousand-ton iron hammers and smashed fiercely on the chest of this land.

Morin abruptly bounced up from the camp bed.

As an officer who had experienced many battles, his battlefield intuition had reached an unimaginable level.

So he knew very well that this wasn’t some sporadic harassing fire, nor was it a probing bombardment...

At the same time, the world of the front-line trenches had now turned into purgatory.

The anger the Britannian Expeditionary Force had accumulated for months poured out at this moment.

The faint blue muzzle flashes from 120 "Griffin" Type IV Magic Crystal Siege Cannons, mixed with the orange flashes from 320 new QF 18-pounder field guns, tore the pre-dawn darkness to shreds.

This time, the Britannians no longer spared ammunition.

Boxes of shells shipped across the Channel were stuffed into the breeches like worthless stones.

The artillerymen, sweating profusely, loaded and pulled the firing lanyards, mechanically and frantically repeating the actions.

The firing tables corrected through multiple test firings previously played their role.

Now, even without mages guiding from the air, the inscription-engraved shrapnel shells and high-impact shells fired by those magic crystal cannons could also land in a relatively precise hit zone, smashing into the Saxons’ first line of defense.

Dirt was hurled tens of meters into the air. Under the bombardment of high-impact magic crystal shells, the originally solid concrete trenches also collapsed.

In the first firing trench, those Saxon soldiers who hadn’t even woken from their sleep didn’t even let out a scream before their internal organs were directly shattered by the terrifying blast waves.

This steel rainstorm lasted for three full hours.

7:00 AM.

The departure trenches on the Britannian side were densely packed with heads.

Two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers were packed like sardines in the narrow trenches stretching tens of kilometers.

The air here was permeated with a strong smell of rum and sweat.

A Major officer wearing a woolen overcoat walked back and forth in front of the formation, waving a saber.

A baseless confidence hung on his face as he roared loudly: "Listen up, boys! Under this level of bombardment, not even a rat can survive on the other side! All you have to do is walk over, occupy the position, and then piss on the corpses of those Saxons! It’s that simple!"

The recruits swallowed their saliva, their eyes flashing with excitement.

But further back, an unshaven veteran leaned against the mud wall, clutching half a bottle of rum.

He glanced at the still-chattering Major, a mocking sneer curving at the corner of his mouth.

"Not even a rat can survive?" The veteran muttered in a low voice, "If those Saxons were that easy to deal with, we would have gone back to London for afternoon tea long ago."

He tilted his neck back and gulped down the remaining strong liquor in one breath. The spicy liquid burned his stomach with a fiery heat.

Then, he casually tossed the bottle on the ground, his eyes devoid of any emotion.

"Prepare—fix bayonets!"

The command transmitted along the trench like an electric current. Bayonets flashing with cold light were drawn by the soldiers and attached to the muzzles.

And behind these ordinary infantrymen, several Armored Knights painted holy white with the Plantagenet coat of arms on their breastplates also appeared.

For this large-scale counterattack by the expeditionary force, the Order of the Garter deployed a total of 80 Armored Knights equipped with "New Shaped-Charge Armor-Piercing Weapons" on the battle line, attempting to break through the Saxons’ defense line in one fell swoop.

The time reached exactly 8:00 AM.

The artillery that had roared for four full hours was suddenly silenced all at once, as if God had pressed the mute button.

The world fell into an ear-ringing dead silence.

This silence was more terrifying than the sound of artillery because it meant the Grim Reaper was sharpening his scythe.

"Toot-toot!!!"

Shrill whistles sounded simultaneously across the tens of kilometers of battle line.

Immediately after was the familiar bagpipe sound that had played Stille Nacht a few days ago.

But this time, the melody of the bagpipes was no longer melodious and gentle, but became high-pitched and full of murderous intent.

That was Scotland the Brave.

"Charge!!!"

Countless figures vaulted out of the trenches, surging into the devastated No Man’s Land like a khaki tide.

Sunlight pierced through the gunpowder smoke, shining on those gleaming bayonets, reflecting a chilling, terrifying cold light.