Cannon Fire Arc

Chapter 971: Chapter 20 White Horse White Horse

December 12, inside Plowsonia city, Friedrich Street.

Filippov raised his right hand: “Stop! Stop right here!”

His jeep braked sharply, causing the entire regimental convoy behind him to stop as well.

Filippov got off the vehicle and carefully studied the street sign stuck on a stone pillar: “Friedrich Street, let me take a look…”

He removed the map board he always carried with him and examined the city street map marked on it.

Thanks to Davarish’s assistance from Stas, Ante Army captains and higher-ranking officers had been issued detailed city maps, with each street name labeled in both Antenese and Prosenese.

“Friedrich Street, right here. We’re almost at Plowsonia’s city center!” Filippov stashed the map away and glanced upward at the heavy flakes of snow continually falling.

His guard remarked: “It feels like freezing to death, yet I don’t feel the cold at all, Comrade Davarish.”

Filippov: “Same here, everyone feels the same. Come on, bring the paint over, and write ’10 kilometers to the city center’ on this sign, along with an arrow!”

Soon, the paint arrived, and bright red Antenese text, along with a huge number 10, was written on the sign.

Filippov was just preparing to get back in the jeep when he heard the sound of hoofbeats.

Turning around, he saw a unit of cavalry riding white horses along the main road, led by a knight wearing a Marshal’s uniform.

For a brief moment, he thought Marshal Rocossov had truly arrived, but then quickly realized it was Vasily pulling off yet another of his fake squad tricks.

The coats worn by this team could simply be reversed to look like fake Marshal uniforms; if one person died, another would step into their place instantly.

This tactic was honestly absurd, and Filippov seriously doubted its effectiveness.

But Vasily had a knack for this kind of nonsense—from crafting fake landmines out of pickled cucumber jar lids to fooling people with counterfeit corpses.

Filippov couldn’t help but recall the year the war erupted, remembering Loktov showing off and wolfing down jars of pickled cucumbers. A bitter smile tugged at his face.

At that moment, the white-horse cavalry trotted up alongside the convoy when suddenly the doors of the adjacent building swung open, and eight Prosen soldiers emerged one after another, holding their weapons high above their heads in surrender.

The rider pretending to be “Rocossov” wasted no time yelling to Filippov: “Capture them, Major!”

Filippov immediately issued the command, then belatedly remembered he should salute the “Marshal,” awkwardly correcting this oversight.

Thankfully, the surrendering Prosens were entirely fixated on the “Marshal,” not sparing even a glance at the “minor player” Filippov.

Filippov overheard the Prosen prisoners whispering:

“Marshal Rocossov truly charges on the front lines! Far better than our cowardly generals hiding at the rear.”

“Yeah, just look at Air Force Commander Duke Meyer—can he even fit into a plane anymore?”

“The key thing is, his uniform is still spotless at this point—now that’s an achievement!”

“You haven’t heard? Once Rocossov was sanctified, he became immortal. If he wanted to, he could personally chop every one of us down!”

“Pfft, sure, that makes sense. I heard Rocossov is actually one of sixty-six identical sextuplets. They rotate taking turns being Marshal!”

“Now that explanation feels a bit more plausible.”

At this point, Ante soldiers who didn’t understand Prosenese yelled: “Quiet! Stop the chatter!”

And just like that, the prisoners’ murmurs ceased.

Filippov felt a pang of disappointment; he genuinely wanted to hear more about how these men revered Marshal Rocossov.

Unexpectedly, Vasily’s harebrained stunt had once again resulted in absurdly effective Sukabule success! What a master of this crap—he should’ve ditched music altogether and become a magician, performing daily tricks at the Grand Theater.

The cavalry had already passed the convoy, heading onward. Filippov turned to the officer who had just commanded the prisoners to quiet down and said: “Keep an eye on them, wait for Stas to take over.”

The officer’s face contorted: “You can’t do this, Comrade! We want to head into Plowsonia too!”

Filippov: “You’re already standing on Plowsonia soil! In the future, you’ll proudly tell your kids and grandkids that you marched into Plowsonia!”

Officer: “But… it’s not the same, is it? I mean, shouldn’t there be something truly significant to do?”

Filippov pointed at the building where the Prosen soldiers had been hiding—a rare, somewhat intact structure nearby: “You can write on the walls if you want. Write where you’re from, or about any friends and family who’ve died in the war. We’ve still got half a bucket of red paint left, so go ahead!”

The officer glanced at the prisoners, then at the walls of the building, hesitating before giving in: “Alright, as you wish, Comrade Davarish.”

Filippov saluted the man before tapping the driver’s seat: “Drive!”

And so, the convoy continued onward toward the center of Plowsonia—toward Bodenburg Gate, situated directly in front of the Prosen Royal Palace.

Before they got far, they encountered a group of military academy students taking photos amid the shattered remnants of the street.

Filippov called out loudly: “What are you doing here at the front lines?”

Given the current conditions in Ante, it wasn’t necessary to drag military academy students to bolster the front lines anymore.

As Filippov spoke, the driver tactfully stopped the vehicle right in front of the students’ formation.

The leading captain responded: “We’re bringing outstanding students to experience the process of occupying Plowsonia.”

Just as the captain finished speaking, a student from behind passionately exclaimed: “We worked our asses off to rank in the top thirty just to earn this opportunity!”

Filippov: “Top thirty? That’s useless! What you should aim for is placing dead last while passing all subjects—that’s something impressive!”

The captain groaned: “Ah, don’t even start, Comrade Major! These days, everyone at the academy is trying all sorts of tricks to come in last. Their grades are plummeting on purpose—miserably low across the board—despite mastering their coursework better than ever. And during exams, they’re deliberately answering questions wrong. Their scores are all horrifyingly bad!”

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