Inside Hofburg Palace, with the Imperial Guard acting as the vanguard and meat shields, and the instruction unit responsible for firepower output, the coup forces entrenched here were quickly cleared out.
Seeing that the situation was hopeless, pale-faced coup soldiers successively chose to throw down their weapons and surrender.
Only the last few diehards retreated into the Emperor's bedchambers, taking the old Austro-Hungarian Emperor hostage in an attempt at a final struggle.
The heavy doors of the bedchambers were tightly shut. In the corridor, the Saxon soldiers who had just fought a bloody battle, and the Austro-Hungarian Imperial Guard soldiers acting as "meat shields," were arrayed in combat readiness.
Everyone's muzzle was pointed uniformly at the door at the end of the corridor. Having reached this final step, the atmosphere became increasingly tense.
However, in Morin's view, the people inside the bedchambers were nothing but grasshoppers after autumn; they wouldn't be jumping for long.
Obviously, they were not the kind of revolutionaries with resolve and faith, willing to sacrifice their lives for an ideal.
If they truly had the determination to overthrow everything, they most likely would have killed this old Emperor the moment they stormed the palace—just like the coups that had erupted in many monarchies on this continent.
Instead of what they were doing now, treating Franz Joseph I as a lifeline, vainly attempting to negotiate for a way out.
This kind of person was usually terrified of death.
Meanwhile, Austro-Hungarian Chief of the Army General Staff Conrad, surrounded by a group of staff officers, had squeezed to the very front of the formation.
His expression at this moment was extremely excited, completely devoid of the embarrassed look he had when Morin first rescued him.
Nor did he have the aura of a hot-blooded, fierce general wanting to lead a charge, as he did earlier.
Instead, he had returned to the arrogant demeanor of a high-ranking Chief of the Army General Staff.
Conrad found a tin megaphone from somewhere. After clearing his throat, he struck a pose of strategizing and having the overall situation in hand.
"Listen up, people inside!"
This Austro-Hungarian Chief of the Army General Staff raised the tin megaphone to his mouth. The amplified voice echoed in the corridor, carrying a tone similar to an opera singer.
"You are completely surrounded! Lay down your weapons, release His Majesty the Emperor, and step out of the room. This is your only chance!"
"I... Field Marshal Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf, guarantee in the name of the Chief of the Imperial Army General Staff, that as long as you surrender, you will receive a fair trial!"
After shouting this, Conrad, having just lowered the megaphone, seemingly felt it wasn't enough. He aimed the megaphone at the bedchamber doors again, shouting in an even more impassioned tone: "Your Majesty! Please do not worry! Your loyal Imperial Army has arrived!"
"We will definitely rescue you from the hands of the rebel party! The glory of Habsburg shall last forever!"
This whole routine flowed smoothly, sonorous and forceful, full of "the advantage is mine."
Those who didn't know better would think Conrad had turned the tide single-handedly.
Standing to the side and watching Conrad's performance, Morin couldn't help but shake his head slightly.
Damn, this old man is such a drama queen. Worthy of a man who would try every means to claim military merit just to pursue an older woman...
Conrad's persuasion to surrender basically lacked any negotiation skills, treating this negotiation broadcast as a mere show.
He didn't seem to care much about whether the old Emperor inside lived or died, only wanting to use this highly anticipated opportunity to desperately build himself an image of a loyal and righteous hero who saved the day.
After all, the coup happened in Vienna. As the Chief of the Army General Staff, he bore inescapable responsibility no matter what.
"Commander..."
Manstein, standing beside Morin, lowered his voice, his tone somewhat strange: "This Excellency Field Marshal... he seems to be enjoying this process very much."
Clearly, Manstein had never seen this kind of high-ranking general in Saxony. After all, the senior officers of the Saxon Imperial Army had always been known for being steady and rigorous.
Even a pig-headed Saxon general would still appear calm and unhurried to outsiders, rather than being full of this desire to perform...
"Let him enjoy it~"
Morin replied grumpily: "He can shout all he wants, but we need to find a way to resolve this quickly... The pressure on the outer defense line of the palace is not small. We don't have time to play along with his acting here."
Morin's mind wasn't in this corridor at all.
Despite having breached the palace, making it seem the overall situation was settled, their true predicament was far less optimistic than imagined.
While they were dawdling here with the rebels, Ludwig was leading a portion of the instruction unit soldiers, cooperating with those hastily assembled Imperial Guards, to withstand immense pressure on the outer perimeter of Hofburg Palace.
On the outer defense line of the palace on the system map, friendly forces had already lit up many coup unit cards, surging towards Hofburg Palace from all directions.
Although Morin didn't believe that bunch of Austro-Hungarian soldiers with outdated tactics, backward equipment, and chaotic morale could break through a defense line supported by Armored Knights, heavy mortars, and field guns.
But the biggest taboo in a battle is delay.
The longer the delay, the more variables there are.
Although after regaining control of the General Telegraph Office, Morin had the communications company send distress signals to the outside world of Vienna.
But until those "Loyalist" troops received the signal and arrived, they were fighting an isolated battle.
Field Marshal Conrad's broadcasting continued, the content repeating those same few phrases over and over.
Threatening one moment, urging surrender the next, then expressing loyalty to the doors. Morin's ears were almost getting calluses from listening.
And inside the bedchambers, there was absolutely no movement.
"Commander, continuing this standoff isn't a solution. I'm worried the outside won't hold..."
Paulus, holding a submachine gun, also came over. His train of thought obviously aligned with Morin's.
Morin nodded. Counting on Conrad, this drama queen, was a lost cause.
No, they couldn't wait any longer.
He withdrew his gaze, a decision forming in his mind.
"Your Excellency Field Marshal."
Morin finally couldn't help stepping forward, interrupting another round of Conrad's broadcasting: "I think we might need a more efficient way of communicating."
Conrad, who was shouting excitedly, lowered the tin megaphone, looking at Morin with some displeasure.
"Colonel, negotiation requires patience..."
"We don't have time," Morin said bluntly. "The soldiers on the outer defense line of the palace are using their lives to buy us time. We can't just waste it away here."
Hearing Morin's words, Conrad's face looked a bit strained.
But looking at Morin's unquestionable expression, and then at the silent but imposing instruction unit soldiers behind him, he ultimately swallowed the words that reached his lips.
He knew very well who was truly leading this counter-coup operation.
"Then... what do you mean, Colonel?" Conrad sighed and asked.
Morin didn't answer, merely casting his gaze towards the row of tightly shut windows on the side of the bedchambers.
A rugged but not unclimbable route instantly formed in his mind.
"Since they refuse to open the door, we'll help them open a window."
"Manstein..."
Morin turned his head and handed over the double-barreled shotgun in his hand.
"Hold onto this for now. Keep it safe for me."
"Commander?" Manstein took the shotgun, looking puzzled. "What are you going to..."
Morin grinned at him, revealing a row of white teeth. His eyes flickered with a light that made Manstein feel both familiar and palpitating.
He patted Manstein's shoulder, then glanced at Paulus: "I have a way. You guys keep an eye on things here. Act on my signal."
After speaking, he borrowed two new-type sidearms from two regimental headquarters officers.
The M1915 Mauser Military Pistol, commonly known as the "Broomhandle Mauser."
In fact, in the world before Morin transmigrated, the model adjusted to use 9mm Parabellum pistol ammunition should officially be named the M1916.
And to prevent mistakenly loading 7.63mm bullets, a large number "9" was carved and painted red on the grip, earning it the name "Red Nine."
However, in this world, due to various reasons, the Mauser arsenal completed its finalization a year early.
They also sent "lobbyists" to the instruction unit, hoping this new type of pistol could be equipped by the instruction unit first, acting as new sidearms for officers or firepower supplements for ordinary soldiers.
Although the people sent by the Mauser arsenal didn't spell it out, Morin knew very well that the other party hoped to use the instruction unit's usage to "drive sales"...
At this moment, these two Broomhandle Mausers fully loaded with 9mm bullets lay quietly in their holsters, hanging under his armpits on the left and right, grips facing outward, convenient for him to draw the guns at top speed.
After finishing his preparations, Morin turned and strode towards another window at the end of the corridor.
It was relatively secluded, directly facing the side wall of the bedchambers.
Morin walked to the window, took a few glances outside to confirm there were no anomalies, then nimbly vaulted out amidst everyone's exclamations. His figure instantly disappeared from everyone's sight.
Outside Hofburg Palace, the battle had entered its most brutal phase.
The flashes of explosions and thick black smoke soared into the sky. The dense gunfire was continuous, like popping beans.
The three "Siegfried Mark 1s" led by Ludwig stood like three steel giants at the very front of the palace's outer defense line.
While constantly roaming, they frantically poured firepower using their shoulder-mounted MG08 heavy machine guns and the assault cannons in their hands, beating back wave after wave of charging coup troops.
The adjutant of the 35th Bohemian Infantry Regiment, the officer who had been so high-spirited at the beginning of the coup, now had bloodshot eyes. His uniform was covered in dirt and bloodstains, looking like a madman.
Beside him, the Vienna Chief of Police wasn't much better off. His cylinder hat had flown off to who knows where, and his despair-filled face was covered in black soot.
They both knew very well that they had no way back.
If the coup failed, the only end waiting for them was the gallows.
In this Empire under a state of war, a coup was undoubtedly tantamount to treason... and treason was an unforgivable felony.
So the only way to survive now was to storm the palace at all costs, regain control, and grab that last lifeline.
"Charge! Everyone charge forward!"
The regimental adjutant waved his pistol, roaring at the terrified Czech soldiers and armed police around him.
"We have no way back! Surrendering now is a dead end! Charge in, grab that old Emperor, and we still have a glimmer of hope!"
Seeing this, the Vienna Chief of Police beside him also shouted at the top of his lungs: "What are you standing around for? Think of your families!"
"If we fail, all of you will be branded as traitors! Your families will be implicated!"
"Only victory can wash away the 'stigma' on us! For the Empire, for Vienna, for Bohemia! And for yourselves! Attack!"
Threats, incitement, mixed with illusory national righteousness, became the final fuel driving these soldiers and armed police to continue risking their lives.
Many of them had minds like paste at this moment.
Just an hour ago, they were "heroes" responding to the call to restore order.
How had they become "rebels" attacking the palace just a short while later?
Who was loyal, and who was treacherous?
They couldn't figure it out, nor did they have time to think.
The instinct for survival and the fear of the future made them like driven beasts, launching wave after wave of fierce suicidal charges toward the Hofburg Palace defense line.
"Fire! F*cking fire!"
A few surviving M75 bronze cannons were forcibly pushed by the gunners to direct-fire range.
These hastily assembled gun crews had faces full of terror and despair.
While letting out meaningless howls to embolden themselves, they frantically operated the artillery, firing wildly in the direction of the palace defense line.
More heavy machine guns were also set up behind ruins and barricades less than two hundred meters from the palace, engaging in frantic shootouts with the strongpoints on the defense line.
For a time, the entire area was enveloped in a dense hail of bullets and the flashes of explosions.
However, what they faced was a defense line they might never be able to breach.
The three Armored Knights standing at the very front of the defense line, their massive bodies became the sturdiest bulwark for the infantry behind them.
"Da-da-da-da-da!"
The two MG08 heavy machine guns mounted on the Armored Knights' shoulders spewed deadly streams of bullets, mowing down the charging crowds in swaths.
The heavy machine guns on the Austro-Hungarian side were operated by flesh-and-blood infantry; the slightest carelessness would result in being silenced by precise counterfire.
But those exchanging fire with them were Armored Knights protected by heavy armor.
This was fundamentally not an equal contest.
The short-barreled assault cannons in the Armored Knights' hands were not idle either. Every time they fired, they would blast open a bloody gap in the charging crowd.
"Target, eleven o'clock direction, that machine gun position being set up! One of you give it a shot!"
Ludwig's voice rang out through the portable magitech communication equipment in the cockpits of the other two Armored Knights.
Through the spacious field of view of "Sympathetic Operation," his gaze was firmly locked onto those few sneaky figures at the street corner in the distance.
Following his command, the "Siegfried Mark 1" on the right quickly adjusted the direction of the short-barreled assault cannon in its hand. After a rough aim, the assault cannon let out a violent roar.
Boom!
A shell shrieked out, landing somewhat inaccurately in front of that newly formed machine gun fortification.
However, although this kind of 75mm caliber assault cannon had poor accuracy, its power was absolutely something infantry units could not underestimate.
In the flash of the explosion, sandbags, machine gun parts, and severed human limbs were all thrown into the air.
"Beautifully done! Keep suppressing!"
Ludwig let out a low roar, then skillfully controlled the two MG08 heavy machine guns on his shoulders, firing long bursts toward another group of assembling rebel infantry.
The scorching rain of bullets was like the Grim Reaper's scythe, drawing two straight lines of fire on the street. The rebel soldiers charging at the front were instantly mowed down in a large swath.
From the perspective of the cockpit, the entire battlefield was a painting composed of steel, fire, and death.
And this feeling of dominating the battlefield made the blood in Ludwig's veins boil.
"Unit Two is low on ammo! Preparing to fall back and resupply! Requesting covering fire!"
The pilot of a "Siegfried Mark 1" with the temporary tactical number "02" painted on its pauldron communicated over the channel while controlling the machine to slowly step backward with heavy strides.
"Copy that! Pay attention to formation adjustment!"
"Unit Three is covering!"
Just as "Unit Two" vacated its position and arrived at a slightly rearward location, a few armed magitech technicians rushed out from behind cover.
Just like the operation at the gates of the Schöneberg barracks, they skillfully climbed onto the machine, replacing ammo boxes and replenishing cooling water for the two MG08 heavy machine guns.
On the other side, someone was rapidly performing a temporary inspection of this Armored Knight.
The entire process was carried out amidst a hail of bullets, yet appeared methodical. The Armored Knights were no longer fighting isolated battles like before, but had truly become a key node in the entire combat system.
Under the skilled work of the armed magitech technicians, the internal combustion engine of the resupplied Unit Two let out another roar a few minutes later, returning to battle.
Immediately after, Unit Three began to fall back for resupply.
The three Armored Knights rotated tacitly like this, maintaining an unceasing barrage towards the front of the defense line.
And further behind them, those two "RAK 15" high-muzzle-velocity anti-armor guns that had rendered great service had now found a new job.
Their targets were no longer Armored Knights, but became those M75 bronze cannons constantly pushing forward.
The gun crews had completely built up their confidence in today's "debut battle."
After personally destroying an Armored Knight, the fear of these steel behemoths that had long been built up in their hearts had vanished like smoke.
Now, these antique bronze cannons of the rebels were no different from targets in their eyes.
"Target, ten o'clock direction, enemy gun crew! High-explosive shell loaded!"
"Loaded!"
"Fire!"
Following the gun captain's calm command, a crisp cannon roar tore through the noisy battlefield.
A bronze cannon that had just completed a volley and hadn't had time to reload was instantly swallowed by the flash of an explosion.
Although the RAK 15's caliber was only 50mm, the high-explosive shells it was equipped with were more than enough to deal with this kind of old-style artillery with almost no protection.
The terrifying muzzle velocity of the shell gave the opposing gun crew absolutely no time to react.
As one bronze cannon after another was beaten into scrap iron, the rebels' already weak heavy fire support became even more insignificant.
On the coup forces' positions, amidst another round of mournful charge whistles, nearly a company's worth of infantry and armed police leaped out from behind the already battered makeshift cover amidst a chaotic din of curses and urging.
Karel from Central Bohemia was among them.
As a young soldier of Czech descent, he had been drafted for less than a year.
At this moment, he gripped the Mannlicher rifle in his hands tightly, the stock becoming slippery from the cold sweat on his palms.
The comrades beside him kept screaming and falling like harvested wheat, making him feel an instinctive terror from the depths of his heart.
But he didn't dare to stop, didn't even dare to look back.
The moment he rushed out of cover, there was no turning back.
During the previous wave of charges, those companions who tried to retreat back to cover had already been mercilessly shot on the spot by the officers behind them.
That bloody scene let Karel know that those ferocious-looking officers behind him were even more terrifying than the dense firepower of the enemy ahead.
Boom! Boom!
Behind him, the few remaining M75 bronze cannons were still firing intermittently.
But the frequency of the cannon fire had become much sparser compared to the beginning.
Most gun crews had already been turned into piles of scrap iron along with their guns by the enemy's inexplicably precise counter-battery fire.
Screech—
A sharp whistle descended from the sky. Karel didn't even have time to look up before he felt a scorching blast wave push violently from behind.
BOOM!
The violent explosion almost tore his eardrums.
The cover he had just rushed out from was directly hit by a heavy mortar shell falling from the sky, vanishing into nothingness instantly.
Karel was pushed to stumble by the shockwave, almost falling.
He felt his back and neck as if bitten fiercely by countless small bugs, waves of burning, stabbing pain transmitting over.
He didn't dare look back, only able to run forward numbly.
A large swath of comrades beside him fell again. The originally somewhat dense skirmish line became sparse in the blink of an eye.
Like a headless fly, he weaved between the destroyed sandbags and flower bed debris on the plaza, trying to close the distance to the enemy.
Crack! Crack!
The sharp whine of bullets piercing the air was right by his ears. That was what veterans called the "footsteps of the Grim Reaper," signifying the enemy's bullets were getting closer and closer to him.
Karel didn't dare to stop, pumping his legs desperately.
But he gradually felt something was wrong.
He was obviously running desperately, but his body felt colder and colder.
His head also began to spin, his whole person feeling dizzy.
His back was even stickier. His uniform seemed soaked by something, heavy enough to leave him breathless.
He wanted to keep running forward, but his legs were like lead, becoming increasingly disobedient. Strength was rapidly draining from his body.
Finally, his legs gave out, he stumbled, and fell heavily onto the cold flagstone road.
Karel wanted to get up, but found he didn't even have the strength to lift a finger.
And on the back of his uniform, it was already completely soaked in blood, turning a shocking dark red. Tiny shrapnel wounds were greedily devouring his life.
It turned out the "bug bite" feeling just now was shell fragments.
Around him, the soldiers who had launched the charge with him also fell one after another like him.
The plaza outside Hofburg Palace was paved with corpses as young as Karel.
In the distance, the palace gates representing the supreme power of Habsburg also grew further and further away in Karel's gradually blurring vision.
"Mother..."
Finally, Karel's vision plunged completely into darkness.