The basement was deathly silent.
That still-smoldering cigarette butt was a silent warning, making everyone hold their breath.
The Sergeant said nothing. He smoothly swung the long Enfield rifle behind his back — that old-school single-shot weapon was nothing but a musket in a stairwell. Then he grabbed the Thompson M1928 submachine gun from his chest. In the narrow, blood-soaked confines ahead, this was the best broom for the job.
It was American. In an era when most British infantry companies couldn't even fully equip their light machine guns, this automatic weapon, nicknamed the "Chicago Typewriter," was practically a jewel in the crown. Clearly, the Stirling family had used their money-power to equip their young lord's escort with this "privileged toy."
Sergeant MacTavish's fingers clamped around the grip, his knuckles white from the strain.
The question — How did you know? — circled his throat, only to be swallowed down with dust-laden saliva.
In this godforsaken place, curiosity was a luxury. Only dead men still cared about "why"; the living only cared about "how."
Arthur ignored the stares. He tilted his head slightly, those grey-blue eyes fixed on the cobwebbed, dusty ceiling, piercing through the thick oak floorboards, enjoying a silent film that only he could see.
On his retina, grey-white lines sketched out the panorama of the floor above.
The red silhouette of the StuG III remained still in the courtyard, its commander lighting a second cigarette. But the threat wasn't only from outside.
In the hall on the first floor, four red outlines were moving.
Four German infantrymen. Their movements were lazy and casual, clearly believing the area had been cleared — or at least posed no threat.
Suddenly, he looked at Sergeant MacTavish.
Without a word, he slowly raised his gloved right hand and made a standard tactical gesture:
Four fingers raised.
Then pointed at the ceiling.
"Four." His lips formed the word silently, no sound, just the shape.
The soldiers exchanged glances.
"F-Four...?" Jenkins's face went pale at the gesture, his eyes wide, silently mouthing the question.
Arthur ignored the newbie's fear. He continued his precise "battlefield broadcast" with hand signals, his movements crisp and decisive — the hallmark of a commander's certainty.
He held up two fingers, pointed towards the left-side dining room, made a "searching" gesture, and the corner of his mouth curled up.
Two of them were busy at the dining room sideboard. Stuffing the family's silver candlesticks and cutlery into their packs.
Utterly ill-mannered. Prussian discipline, it seems, has its limits.
Next, he raised one finger, pointed towards the main entrance, and mimed "setting up a machine gun" with both hands.
This succession of pantomime gestures — too specific, too precise — made Sergeant MacTavish's frown deepen.
The Sergeant stared hard at Arthur, fury and suspicion boiling in his eyes. He couldn't shout, so he thrust his grimy face close to Arthur's, silently raging with a vicious glare.
The meaning: Have you lost your mind? You haven't even looked up! How could you possibly know what they're doing? Another one of your drunken hallucinations?
The earlier, eerily accurate warning had indeed been chilling. But this pantomime "battlefield broadcast" strained everyone's credulity to the breaking point.
No one dared move, no one dared voice their doubts aloud. But that didn't stop them from holding a silent trial by gaze: This is a hysterical madman. He's guessing wildly, and we're all going to die for his delusions.
Arthur read the Sergeant's look — and everyone else's. He didn't explain. He didn't get angry.
He simply withdrew his gaze slowly.
The casual mockery vanished, replaced by a chill that crawled down the spine.
Arthur's finger moved slowly, finally stopping at a spot slightly left of the center of the room, pointing directly at a patch of moldy ceiling.
This was the point.
In his god's-eye view, the fourth German soldier was kneeling up there, a bayonet in hand, trying to pry up the floorboards. And tucked into his belt was the distinctive shape of a stick grenade.
Arthur made a "press down" gesture, then an "explosion" gesture.
The meaning was clear: if they didn't take him out, they'd all be blown sky-high.
This German might have heard noise from below, or was just being cautious, wanting to drop a "potato masher" down to test the waters.
"What?" MacTavish was shocked, instinctively raising his submachine gun towards the ceiling.
"Don't move, Sergeant. You don't know his exact position."
Arthur stopped him.
He fully drew the Webley Mk VI revolver from his holster. This .455-caliber beast was heavy and solid, its blued steel gleaming coldly. In the British Army, it was usually an officer's decorative "gentleman's cane," but at close range, its stopping power could blow a bull's skull apart.
Arthur held the gun one-handed, arm level, muzzle slightly raised, pointing at a spot on the ceiling that to everyone else was unmarked, but in his RTS vision glowed with deadly red light.
The red silhouette was kneeling there, leaning forward, utterly focused on prying the floor.
This was the terror of the RTS perspective. One-way transparency. Absolute initiative.
"Sir..." MacTavish watched Arthur's almost perfectly steady arm, his throat dry, his eyes questioning: Are you sure?
Arthur didn't answer. He just tilted his head slightly, as if listening to a melody only he could hear.
In his mind, the red dot had stopped its work. It seemed to have pried open a crack, and was now reaching for the grenade at its belt.
Now.
"This sort of behavior, in London, would get you sued for trespassing."
Arthur finally murmured, then pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The Webley roared like thunder. The muzzle flash blazed harshly in the dim basement, the heavy recoil jerking Arthur's arm upward.
The heavy lead slug punched through the rotten wood in an instant, sending splinters flying.
Then, from above, came a muffled, bone-chilling scream.
"AAAHHH—!!"
Followed by the heavy thud of a body slamming hard against the floor — the dull impact of a sack full of flesh and bone.
The soldiers in the basement flinched.
Before they could react, a massive explosion shook the ceiling above.
BOOM!
That was the sound of an M24 grenade detonating.
Clearly, the unlucky German had been hit the instant he pulled the fuse. The grenade had fallen beside him — or worse, been pinned beneath his corpse.
The shockwave shook dust from the ceiling in a grey snowfall. Through the gaps in the floorboards, a few drops of warm, dark red liquid seeped down, landing near Arthur's dust-covered boots.
Shouts and running footsteps came from upstairs — the remaining Germans scrambling for cover in panic.
"Scheiße! Hans ist tot! Von unten!" (Shit! Hans is dead! From below!)
The German cries came clearly through the floor.
The basement fell into dead silence.
Everyone stared, slack-jawed, at Arthur standing in the center.
Sergeant MacTavish's mouth hung slightly open, his gaze as if witnessing a war god descending to earth — or a demon crawling up from hell.
Young Lance Corporal Jenkins forgot to breathe.
A blind shot. Through the ceiling. One shot, one kill. It had even set off the grenade.
This wasn't something a human could do. It required X-ray vision, or... some kind of forgotten warrior instinct flowing through centuries of blue blood?
Arthur slowly lowered his arm.
He gently blew the wisp of smoke curling from the muzzle, as graceful as if he were blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
Though his wrist was numb from the recoil, though his eardrums rang from the blast, his expression remained infuriatingly calm.
"As I was saying," Arthur turned, holstering his smoking revolver, "that was very rude."
The moment of silence was over.
Arthur stopped using hand signals. At this distance, that muffled explosion had told the Germans more clearly than any words: Someone is downstairs. And they're in a bad mood.
He looked at the still-dazed Sergeant MacTavish and raised an eyebrow.
"Sergeant, stop gawking. The explosion will confuse them for about ten seconds. That's our only window."
Arthur picked up the walking cane he'd discarded earlier — a gift from his father, its handle set with a silver lion's head. He wiped the dust off with a handkerchief, then gripped it tightly.
"Now. Fix bayonets."
Arthur's voice was no longer lazy. It had a cold, metallic edge, like a drawn saber.
"Since our guests don't know how to knock, it's time we went upstairs and taught them the Coldstream Guards' way of hospitality."
Sergeant MacTavish jolted.
He looked at this officer — pale-faced, uniform filthy, but with eyes blazing with a terrifying light — and felt a long-dormant, soldier's fire ignite in his chest.
This was not that brandy-sipping vase. That single shot had shattered every doubt.
"Sir! Yes, SIR!" the Sergeant bellowed, his voice carrying respect for the first time.
"Everyone! Fix bayonets! We're throwing a party for the Jerries!"
Click, clack. Four bayonets locked onto the muzzles of Enfield rifles, their steel glinting in the dim cellar.
Arthur watched these men, who had just found their souls again, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
In his god's-eye view, the three red dots upstairs were in utter chaos and panic. The assault gun's commander was frantically climbing back into his turret.
In that moment, hunter and prey had reversed roles.
"Follow me."
Lord Arthur Stirling kicked open the side door to the neighboring wine cellar and strode briskly into the darkness.