Chapter Seven: The General

Page 1/3

Someone like Korman, who could stand shoulder to shoulder with Napoleon, was a blessing to France simply by being born there. It was only his youth that held him back; otherwise, the mere Third Empire would be no challenge at all.

In the next moment, the Damascus steel blade was firmly in Korman’s grasp. At that instant, his heart was free of all burdens, as if this had always rightfully belonged to him.

Korman had no fondness for the Kurdish drug dealers before—he hadn’t even asked their names after their first encounter. But since this was their second meeting, and they had brought him a gift, his attitude softened and he took the initiative to ask, “This is our second meeting, yet I still don’t know your name.”

This was the classic approach: use people when facing forward, discard them when facing backward. If anyone else had done what he was doing, Korman would have found it disgusting. Yet when he did it himself, it felt utterly natural, as if it were meant to be.

“Lieutenant Korman, my name is Bashir,” Bashir replied with respect. He had heard that Korman’s unit was preparing to depart, and that despite the timing, Korman had personally come out to guide and at least help open the route to Beirut’s port—a gesture worthy of esteem.

“Bashir, that’s a good name,” Korman said solemnly, offering a formal but perfunctory response. His hypocritical expression was unmistakably clear. “Now that we’ve established this connection, there will surely be opportunities for cooperation in the long run.”

Korman’s words carried a double meaning. Regarding the drug trafficking version of the Blasphemous Alliance, it would last at least thirty more years. Korman would never involve himself in such affairs. By his own standards, this sort of business made little profit and only brought trouble. As a French soldier who held himself to strict discipline, how could he stoop to consorting with such people?

It was in the poorest regions that attention turned to such industries. If this business truly made money, why rely on the marginalized Kurds in the mountainous borderlands? Who did the Kurds think they were?

Yet existence itself implied some reason, and Korman would not actively suppress it. At most, he would remain uninvolved and detached.

But frankly, this kind of trade suited the usurious capitalism model quite well. After all, addiction and debt binding seemed to turn ordinary people into walking blood machines.

“No wonder Western countries have been trying for decades to legalize and tax this business,” Korman thought, chuckling quietly at the sheer shock of capitalism.

Though Korman held the Damascus steel blade as he returned to camp, he soon forgot about Bashir. At seventeen or eighteen, one’s mind was on forging a career, not on trivial matters like these.

Page 2/3

“Damascus steel blade,” Alain showed genuine interest in the gift Korman had received. Having lived in Syria, he was no stranger to this iconic weapon. Handling it briefly, he remarked, “The craftsmanship and pattern are indeed flawless—definitely not a street stall piece. This one’s longer than the usual Damascus blades.”

Typically, a Damascus steel blade was small, about the size of a dagger, serving as an auxiliary tool in everyday Arab life—much like the bone knives worn by nomadic steppe peoples.

Bashir’s gift to Korman was nearly thirty centimeters in length, surpassing the role of a mere tool and qualifying as a weapon.

Alain studied the blade for a moment before handing it back, admiring, “Truly a masterpiece. The three inlaid gems must be worth a fortune. No wonder it’s from the place of origin.”

“The place of origin is India,” Korman corrected calmly as he tucked the blade into his belt.

If one didn’t know the Damascus steel technique originated in India, that the sieve was invented in Egypt, and the zodiac a tradition from Iraq, how could they navigate the world of cultural knowledge without embarrassment? If one shouted about “the key” without knowing this, it was better to go fix pyramids in Egypt—after all, Napoleon fought the British while doing just that.

At present, Korman was simply waiting for the fleet to arrive, then return home. Of course, before that, he still needed to meet with his father, who had gone ahead.

Confined by the technological limits of this era and stationed in Syria, Korman could not fully grasp the detailed situation of the European war. His only source was the radio broadcasts, which naturally portrayed the Allies moving from one victory to the next. Most broadcasts reported on the Anglo-American strategic bombing of Germany, a testament to the Allies’ control over public opinion.

Before 1944, the Anglo-American strategic bombings had only a mild effect on Germany—hardly decisive, though not entirely useless.

But starting mid-1944, coinciding with the Normandy landings, the strategic bombing escalated.

The Normandy invasion forced the German Luftwaffe to withdraw radar stations, reducing Allied air losses while increasing bombing effectiveness. They focused on Germany’s oil industry, transportation networks, and armament factories, while continuing to devastate large cities.

“The Anglo-American air forces are truly awe-inspiring,” Alain said, wide-eyed after listening to the broadcast. Even a thousand troops on the ground was no small number—let alone an air fleet of a thousand planes.

Page 3/3

“Air power alone can never secure a decisive victory,” Korman glanced at his comrade. Strategic bombing only worked against countries lacking industrial self-sufficiency. Even then, if a nation dared to sacrifice and had strong allies, bombing would fail to achieve its aims.

Otherwise, how to explain the U.S. bombing of Vietnam, which was even more intense and destructive than during World War II, turning the country into a pocked wasteland, yet failing to achieve its objectives? The bottom line: it was impossible.

Germany’s collapse stemmed primarily from the Soviet army’s relentless advance on the Eastern Front, inching ever closer to the German industrial heartland. Bombs dropped from planes could never match the efficiency of barrages from artillery.

The broadcasts emphasized Anglo-American strategic bombing but made no mention of the ten Stalin offensives on the Eastern Front. Korman had no idea how far the Eastern campaign had progressed.

When Martin arrived at Korman’s single-occupancy dormitory, he happened to see them wearing masks issued by the Youth Division. The black masks bore the Cross of Lorraine emblem. Curious, he asked, “What’s this?”

“What do you mean?” Korman’s voice came through the mask with the Cross of Lorraine. The Youth Division was returning to France not for combat, but for other duties, so it was best not to reveal their true identities.

Using masks with insignia to identify units was a necessary compromise—they couldn’t exactly use armbands like the Germans; that would be politically incorrect.

As for the nature of their mission, Korman could not disclose it yet. Once back on French soil, the officers and soldiers of the Youth Division would naturally learn of it. For now, there was no need.

“General Fonten is scheduled to inspect and address the Youth Division before departure. Should we stick to the usual welcoming ceremony?” Martin suddenly remembered and hurriedly asked.

“Yes. Just jump in place, clap your hands, and shout ‘Long live France,’” Korman replied calmly. General de Gaulle had already experienced the awe inspired by the sun in Damascus.