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Wang Zhong stood by with his hands on his hips supervising, occasionally reminding, “Remember to take the bullets and grenades off their bodies; I don’t want to set them on fire later and have the bullets go off like firecrackers.

"It would be terrible if someone were hit by a stray bullet.”

"Don’t worry,” Yegorov said at his side, “All the ammunition has been collected. Even though their rifle bullets don’t fit our rifles, I still ordered them all to be taken away, just in case. These bullets and the captured rifles are stored in the winery’s warehouse.”

Wang Zhong nodded, without any additional comment.

Soon, the young people of the town brought over the last corpse, tossing it onto the top of the pile of bodies, then stood in place, looking at Wang Zhong in unison.

Wang Zhong: “That’s all?”

"Yes, all the bodies that could be found on the streets are here.”

Wang Zhong: “Less than I imagined… Didn’t I recall killing many enemies?”

Yegorov turned to look at the staff officer Pavlov, who immediately reported: “The number of enemies killed should be just this many. Your recollection is not wrong; it’s just that many of the people you shot down weren’t dead. We took in those wounded soldiers according to the principles of humanity.”

Wang Zhong: “Humanitarian principles only apply to humans; beasts do not enjoy humanitarianism. Moreover, we do not have so many medical supplies, do we? Bring out the wounded soldiers. And the surrendering enemies – Prosen soldiers are brave and skilled in battle, they would never surrender, it must be a ruse!”

Pavlov hesitated: “This…”

He kept looking at Yegorov.

Yegorov: “Count, if we kill the wounded and those who have surrendered here, when we launch our counterattack later, even if we have broken the enemy’s morale, they will be forced to fight to the death. We will suffer greater casualties.”

Wang Zhong pursed his lips, falling deep into thought as he faced the large mound of corpses.

At that moment, Lubokov’s white horse, somehow having loosened its reins, left the hitching post and came beside Wang Zhong, gently rubbing against his hair.

Wang Zhong sighed, speaking with a tone of great regret, “You are right; we can’t push the enemy too hard, we have to think about future counterattacks. Just burn this many then, get some gasoline from our cars and pour it over.”

"I already gave the order just now, it is ready,” Yegorov said and then gestured to the sergeant who had been waiting beside him.

So, the sergeant led two privates, each carrying a can of oil, pouring it wildly over the pile of corpses.

As they were pouring the oil, Wang Zhong looked towards the western hill.

Without binoculars, one could barely make out the silhouette of a Prosen Tank parked on the top of the hill, the people were indiscernible.

But when Wang Zhong switched to an overhead view, the enemies on the hill would be highlighted – because it was Wang Zhong’s own field of vision.

Wang Zhong clearly saw that one-eyed man watching this way through a telescope.

Unfortunately, from an overhead view with the enemy holding a telescope, it’s hard to clearly see the other side’s expression.

But Wang Zhong quite fancied imagining him grinding his teeth in hatred at this moment.

If that were true, then the effort to pile up the corpses was worth it.

Too bad Wang Zhong was feeling unwell now, truly unable to climb up on the mound of corpses. Otherwise, he would definitely climb up to show off, to fiercely infuriate the leaders of those beasts.

However, even though he couldn’t climb up himself, that didn’t mean he couldn’t express his contempt.

So, Wang Zhong pushed aside the sergeant who was still pouring oil, took an unsoiled Prosen helmet, threw it on the ground as a footrest, and stepped onto it with his military boot.

Stepping on it wasn’t enough; Wang Zhong felt for his pockets but didn’t find any cigarettes.

He looked towards Yegorov.

Yegorov took out tobacco: “I’m poor, I can only smoke the ones I roll myself, which you are not used to. Ask Pavlov—he’s nobility.”

Pavlov took out a silver cigarette case, opened it, and took out a very carefully rolled cigarette, handing it to Wang Zhong: “Your Excellency.”

Wang Zhong took a cigarette in his mouth.

Pavlov took out an ornately carved lighter and lit it for Wang Zhong.

In fact, in Wang Zhong’s imagination, he should have been smoking a large cigar, and after puffing halfway, he would flick it disdainfully like Sheffield in “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2,” so that the cigar butt would fly onto a pile of corpses and ignite a roaring blaze.

Oh well, this will do.

Stepping on the enemy’s steel helmet, Wang Zhong leisurely smoked half a cigarette, waiting for the soldiers to finish pouring out the last barrel of oil, before he glanced at the distant hill.

Even without an overhead view, Wang Zhong knew that the enemy’s leader was there.

Wang Zhong blew a smoke ring, flicked his cigarette butt with a gentle motion, and it traced a bright arc before landing on the pile of corpses.

The flames whooshed up at once, spreading over the entire mound of bodies in an instant.

Wang Zhong hadn’t expected there to be a survivor inside; the person screamed upon being scorched by the fierce flames and, driven by the desire to live, crawled out of the heap, tumbling to the ground and rolling over and over.

Unfortunately, it was too late as the fire had already taken hold, and rolling on the ground was certainly not going to extinguish it.

Maintaining his foot-on-helmet stance, Wang Zhong watched the enemy struggle on the ground, “Don’t shoot, let him burn.”

He just watched as the enemy gradually stopped writhing, turning into a burning human shape on the ground.

Then he raised his head to look up at the hill.

Major Shrifen had been watching through the binoculars until the soldier stopped struggling, only then did he put them down.

His lips were quivering as if suppressing the urge to curse aloud.

His chief of staff put down the binoculars as well and said, “This is the enemy’s psychological warfare tactic, hoping to prompt us into a rash attack before the follow-up troops catch up.”

Major Shrifen asked, “Who is this person? I mean, the bastard who lit the fire!”

The chief of staff replied, “We don’t know. The attack failed, and we didn’t capture any prisoners to interrogate, so we’re unaware of their unit designation and structure, as well as who their commander is.

"However, soldiers have reported that the tactical number for the tank maneuvering behind enemy lines at the end was 422. According to the enemy’s tactical numbering pattern, this likely belongs to a unit under the Fourth Tank Army. This army was reported to have been eliminated by the Air Force in the combat situation report this morning.”

Shrifen gnashed his teeth and muttered, “The Air Force’s reports can’t be trusted one bit!”

He took a deep breath, looked at the increasingly raging fire at the entrance of the village, and asked with indignation in his voice, “Where is Regiment 351? Where is Regiment 351?”

"The regimental commander said over the radio that they should arrive in an hour.”

"Tell them to make it faster!”

Though Regiment 351 was assigned under Major Shrifen’s command and was part of Shrifen’s combat group, the regiment’s commander, Major Franz, also held the rank of major, putting him on the same level as Shrifen, so Shrifen had to be careful not to come on too strong when giving orders.

This made him all the more furious.

The reason this combat group was known as Shrifen’s was primarily because the current Emperor, Reinhard von Hohenzollern, wanted to diminish the influence of the Junker Nobility in the military, promoting young officers more familiar with modern military technology vigorously.

Especially those young officers without noble backgrounds.

As such, the young Shrifen became the commander of the combat group, which was named after him rather than the typical Junker Nobility Major Franz, despite Franz’s three decades of military service and his belief that the outcome of wars still depended on infantry and artillery.

Now the outcome of the battle hinged on the speed at which the old noble would come to their aid!

Shrifen glared ferociously at the raging bonfire at the village entrance.

"No,” he said to himself, “we cannot lose our cool. Attacking now would only play into the enemy’s hands. This brutal demon will eventually pay the price.”