The muffled sound of a distant explosion was all that Jacques Deschanel needed to tell him something was happening. The walls of his prison cell were thick, Labyrinth-harvested stones from some high tier lairs, and there was only a single opening to the outside that didn’t let him see much. But there were unmissable flashes, clouds of smoke, and more that were sign enough of trouble.

An attack. On London itself.

The English thought of themselves as secure, of course. Nobody had managed to make a successful attack on British soil for centuries. Oh, plenty had tried, but outside of Ireland, none had managed to do anything to the United Kingdom, and certainly not in the heartland of England. But as his team had demonstrated nearly two years ago, the Labyrinth should have cast the smug certitude of the British down.

In any case, there were invaders attacking London, and he banged on his door, trying to attract the attention of his guardsmen. A muffled, barely audible with Focus through the Labyrinth-alloy door, “stay put” was all the response Jacques got.

Sorry, but that’s not going to happen, he thought.

The only powers that would dare defy the British Empire in its own capital would be the Labyrinth Powers. So, either Napoleon had made his return and counterattack, in which case his oath was now over, or another hostile power had decided to stomp on the British, and he was stuck in an awkward position.

Almost certainly not the Americans, who, for all their talk about independence, were now busy cosying their former owners whenever it suited them. The Chinese were hidebound, not caring much about the world beyond their continent, but that could change. The Zulus… who knew what their enigmatic King might decide. No matter which one was banging at the gates, it was time to leave the confines of this cell.

Deschanel counted stones on the inner wall of his cell before finding a shape that felt familiar. Without Lingering Death, it was much easier to pluck the stone he’d decided on two years ago.

Nobody had asked since they assumed he’d been carrying it while escaping, but the Brightsteel Puppet he’d “brought in” when captured hadn’t left the Tower of London. With a capacity of 22 items, the heroic-quality puppet still held plenty of gear. The important ones – his personal Artefacts – had helped him escape before he lost most of them in Versailles, but there remained a slew of carefully-picked heroic ones he’d left as a backup in here just in case.

The heroic limited set he was going to use sprang on him as the mundane clothing he had been provided fell to the ground. Without the burden of Lingering Death, it would suffice – in fact, it would probably put Jacques in a slightly better position than a 48% death penalty compensated by Artefacts would. And of course, he wasn’t trying to jump into the Thames.

The door lasted two spells and a Strength-empowered kick. Fake lair stuff didn’t measure to the real thing. The two guardsmen were already positioned to try to tackle him, not that two upper-tier five would do much against a reasonably-geared tier seven. He raised a greenish square of Aether Window to blunt their attacks before raising his hand.

“Let’s talk.”

“Get back in! Now!”

“Well, I’d rather not. Either it’s Napoleon, and you gentlemen are sooo doomed, or it’s somebody else, in which case, I’d rather have an England still there for him to conquer, rather than have to antagonize another major power. So, do you know which is it?” Deschanel asked.

The hesitating glances between the two guardsmen told Jacques they were also in the dark. And even Professionals would probably fall back to their default behaviour.

At least nobody had noticed he’d forgotten to put on the accent.

The Duke of Wellington was just coming out of the War Office building and found himself facing the smoke coming from the eastern side. A number of soldiers stationed as guards to the Office were pouring out of the building and heading there. Arthur Wellesley reflexively grabbed his sword and slid it out of the scabbard. He kept it at his side at all times, even in the office. An old relic of the Peninsula campaign, when Napoleon conquered – and held – Spain and Portugal homeland.

“Anything?” he yelled over the stampede.

The lack of reply told him that nobody had a clue about what was going on… although with the news yesterday of Bonapartists coming back for the Gate, that had to be linked.

They can’t have that many forces available? What’s really going on? he mused.

A cavalry team nearly overran him, and he swore. He started running toward the Thames. Even if nothing else happened, it might offer him a better view of what was causing the commotion.

He grabbed a running lieutenant and got an answer.

“Invaders, Sir. Coming by boat, looks like.”

“You sure?”

“There was a messenger from Liverpool half an hour ago, saying a large fleet had been spotted. Attempt to engage were fruitless.”

The Duke frowned. To bypass the indomitable British Fleet was not an easy feat.

Although if you got in by stealth and speed, you might be able to escape its mobilization, he thought.

“They’re fast if they’re already there after being spotted in the Channel yesterday,” he noted.

But the lieutenant wasn’t listening and was already running toward the banks of the Thames. Wellesley started running, despite his own age.

A few seconds later, he had to dodge, as a troop of cavalry galloped across the street, headed in the same direction. Obviously, the regiment of guards stationed at the War Office buildings had been mobilized as well, and they were joining the fray. Civilians were also running now, although in the opposite direction. It looked like the memories of the London Gate were still fresh and people of London took signs of attack very seriously.

“Anyone in command?” he yelled, to no avail.

Gotta do what you gotta do.

Upon arriving at the banks of the Thames, Wellesley immediately spotted at least two of the invader’s ships. They’d made it that far, bypassing the forces at the Tower of London. There was cannon up there… but smoke coming from that direction told him that the post had been attacked.

The ships were odd. And definitively not the French classic ships he’d expected from Dominionists. As he watched, one of the cannon batteries at the London Bridge thundered and he saw a flash of light coming up from afar, and smoke billowing from the side of the Bridge. The structure itself seemed to resist, but the crackling sound of the counterfire blast made him doubt the solidity of the Bridge.

What’s that weapon? It almost looks like a Professional, but none of the skills has any significant range…

The lead invader ship neared the bank, and he spotted figures on the ship’s side, ready for battle. But rather than drop planks and run out, they did the unexpected.

They jumped.

The figures vaulted over the ship's railing and pushed against the wood, arcing before dropping to the street that followed the bank, landing with a series of thuds audible even from a hundred yards. Such was the unexpected spectacle that even the troop of soldiers that was readying itself stopped and gawped.

The lead element of the enemies raised his arms, and if the impossible feat wasn’t proof enough, the twin swords he held were confirmation. One burst in fire, a swirling bright red flame that rose a foot over the tip. The other one emitted a bright green light that was entirely out of this world.

Artefacts from the Labyrinth. The British were facing high-tiers Professionals. Wellesley hadn’t fought battles against those kinds of enemies – the China wars started long after he left India, and Bonaparte had never deployed such troops in any significant manner.

“Concentrate fire! All on one target! That’s the only way!” the Duke yelled, and his authority carried as the soldiers fired.

The Duke doubted they’d be enough for really high-tiers. And as the muskets peppered the front figure, another raised a gigantic hammer and the enemies ran toward the defenders.

Teaching Spellbender Zhuangjing lowered her arm burdened with the aetheric extender. The Zulu had not been kidding when he’d said that the drain was horrendous. At the same time, she’d been able to hit the enemy battery from almost a li away, which was impossible in normal circumstances. Yet her descriptor hadn’t changed.

Light Blast

Aether/Offence

Rank 8: Deals 90% of INT (921+377) in light damage, lowering FOC/FOR/PRE by 13% of INT (133). Cost 0.42 aether per base damage (386-29).

And two shots of the spell had drained more than 13,000 of her aether. But at least the massive damage she did was enough to deal with the mundane instrument of war. Flame Bolt might be good enough against warships, but the lightning-based attack was much better on fixed positions. She just had to wait until her aether regeneration was back at 100% until she could move the two rank-boosting pieces of gear back to Puppet and get back to her more “personally offensive” gear.

She looked at the vanguard ships. From what she could see, they’d noticed some form of resistance, and had decided to land an assault group. From the swords, it looked like Geng Bo and presumably Tabudai leading the charge. She smiled at the flashiness of the pair. The Weaponmaster Legend at Kongshoi had been generous this last year. The rest of their team would be just behind.

The normal tier-three Heroes would follow and do the mop-up, unlike normal campaigns where the roles were shifted, and low Heroes led, and soldiers consolidated. But this time, the opponents had Heroes of their own.

A flash from afar confirmed the fact. It looked like the first local Heroes had arrived.

Ira noticed a few Professionals turning their heads, as one high-ranking politician – not the Labyrinth Minister – droned some great speech from the dais next to the Royal stands. Like most, he was interested mainly in the parade, and obviously the actual people who’d lived through that momentous opening. He’d been a few months old, and it was one of his biggest regrets to be born too late to witness the world changing.

Although, if that had been the case, he would definitively never have ended up in the Labyrinth himself. His circumstances, and that of the team, were quite unique, after all.

Mutters were rising, and any idea that it was just people being even more bored than he was got dispelled as he noticed people looking up and something peculiar.

Four of the great skyships of the Empire had been stars of the parade. Three were holding position over the Queen’s Gardens in a triangle, while the fourth was slowly making circles in a display of the mastery the immense Crystal-powered propellers could muster. But now, that skyship had turned and was heading eastward, and as he watched, one of the three was breaking ranks, turning and starting to move.

That means… this smoke I see from the docks area is serious, he realized.

“Guss? Laura?”

The two had been far more focused on the proceedings than any self-respecting Professional had a right to be, but before any could answer, a few people started to rise, causing grumbles from their neighbours who thought them extremely impolite.

But the interruption seemed justified because Ira could now see a second column of smoke rising, which made the idea of an incident at the docks like the one when he’d been twelve – and a small load of powder had exploded, prompting fears that a great fire could happen despite the rain – extremely unlikely.

A few seconds later, rumbles, like some distant thunder, reached the stands.

“Looks like it’s serious?” Guss wondered. “Blow-up at the shipyards?”

A flash ran across the sky. And as they watched, smoke rose from the side of the front skyship whose trajectory suddenly changed.

“Bloody balls!” Ira swore.

“Artillery fire? What the blazes…” someone next to him said.

“That wasn’t artillery. I don’t know what’s…”

Half a dozen peoples’ clothes dropped on the ground as Professional gear sprang from their Puppets. Guss and Laura looked at each other and part of their own clothing shifted. The limited size of the low-level wood-variant Puppets put a limit on what they could swap, but Guss was back in healer’s woollen monk robes and Laura was now holding her pair of hammers, the civilian-looking robe replaced by the silver-embroidered tunic, and the weird ornamental hat turning into a studded leather band.

Ira grimaced, as he did not have his own Puppet for such an easy change of attire. Which meant his claymore, notably, was back in safe storage at the headquarters behind the Gate. His gaze turned toward the metal circle looming at the side of the ceremonial area, but besides a lot of soldiers moving toward their position, nothing seemed to be happening there.

“At least it’s not a sneak attack,” he said.

“I don’t think anyone can do what we did last year,” Laura replied.

In the Royal stands, a group of guards were surrounding the figure of the King, who was being escorted toward the exit. Ira spotted the figure of her Highness who seemed to scream at her grandfather. He caught a few words from a distance. “don’t…” “safety…” “leave it…”.

He turned back to his two teammates and said, “Need the rest of my gear.”

“No time.”

“I don’t have all of it either,” Laura said, briefly looking at the nearly-normal looking shoes she sported instead of the ankle boots that were part of her normal set.

“Constitution build?” came a question from the side.

Ira turned toward the voice, noticing the fully plate-armoured man.

“Uh, yes.”

A long sword materialized in the hand of the man and he threw it toward the Defender, who caught it.

“Old memento. Not worth much, but t’was my first Ancient,” he said before starting to sprint.

Gilded Steel Longsword

Two-Handed

Heroic equipment

Requires: Level 58

Provides: 91 base physical damage (+17% STR), +21 CON, +17 DEX, +16 PRE, +16 FOC, +202 end

Ira contemplated briefly the descriptor. Then the three of them started running after the pack of Professionals, while the nobles and other dignitaries started fleeing in all directions.

“My lord!” the shield-wielding Professional said, and Arthur Wellesley turned his head away from the incoming enemies.

He recognized the man. One of the teams he’d recruited as the core of what he hoped to turn into a Professional special force one day, once his proposals got accepted by the War Office.

“We need to neutralize those!”

“Let it be said that the Woolahan team doesn’t flinch, and Cornelius Reekey will not yield,” the man sighed as he ran toward the leading figures. Another man wielding a massive hammer followed, along with a robed woman with a weird plumed hat and a black leather man wielding both a flanged mace and a bronze dagger.

The Duke turned toward the soldiers piling out of the side street and yelled, “Form up! Get ready to volley!”

He pointed his sword toward the quay, as the ship along it started dropping planks, letting troops pour out of the deck where they were massed. Those looked more normal, or at least what passed as normal for the Chinese.

For the Duke of Wellington had no doubt now. The uncovered faces of the two Professionals that the team was now engaging had confused him for a second before he realized they were both northern Asians, not the expected face of Frenchmen.

In a way, that was way worse. The supporters of Bonaparte would be few, with limited military might. But if China was bringing war to the shores of England, then anything was possible. He doubted they’d commit all their forces – or even that they could ferry them across the seas – but he didn’t think they’d underestimated the United Kingdom either.

The first volley struck the incoming troops, and he almost breathed relief as a few of the enemies fell. But his hopes were almost immediately dashed as he realized how few had, despite the large fire from four dozens of troops now massed at his side. And even now, a few of their comrades were kneeling as the troops bearing pikes formed lines, and dragging them back toward the ship.

Resurrecting. They’re out for now, but in a few days, they’ll be fresh troops.

That was the nightmare for a general like him. An enemy that didn’t fear death, because as long as they won in the end, they’d be fine. Such an enemy was almost impossible to break.

Streaks of white passed him, smashing into the Chinese sword maniac, and he briefly looked, noticing a pair of robed Englishmen. Both pointed staves that looked completely different at the high-tier enemies. But even if they looked like high-tier themselves, the two were ignored by the swordsman, who kept slicing at the shield of… Cornelius? Yes, Cornelius.

The man yelled something incomprehensible in Chinese, and his companion moved aside and turned toward the robed woman of the team, waving his large hammer as if the thing weighted little. She pulled slightly back, and the next pair of white flashes smashed in his face, but the moustachioed Chinese didn’t flinch as sprays of ice splashed out.

The Duke’s distraction was broken as he noticed that the Chinese basic troops were moving toward the British formation, pikes lowered to their front. A shout from behind halted the move, and the Duke briefly wondered why, as the second rank unloaded their rifles, while the initial rank was almost done reloading.

Then a column of fire fell, and the soldiers screamed, the left third of the formation suddenly erupting in flames. Soldiers almost instantly turned into a crisp, and the heat flashed across Wellington’s face from the distance. He spotted the robed man in the background, his head haloed by a slowly rotating disc of azure light.

“Retreat,” he yelled.

Against a very high-tier spellcaster, one wearing Artefacts, there was little the troops could do but die. Thankfully, on this day, there were far more Professionals around than you’d have otherwise. He hoped the High Labyrinth Office team and their unknown allies would fare better, although with so many low-tier troops in addition…

Then fire erupted under him, and he stopped hoping.