“This is progressing faster than I thought.”

Avalel sits on a boulder, the Anapadeia by his side. The reports, displayed on the screens in front, are rapid, taking the spotlight for barely even a moment, but they all share a same desperation, or in Avalel’s perspective, progression.

Fort 377 breached. Fort 312 breached. Fort 351 breached. Forts 301 and 302 breached… It’s quite obvious. The pawns are weaker than he expected. If not for his intentions, it might’ve been less than beneficial for the overall war effort.

“Why are they equipped with our finest equipment if they are going to die on the battlefield before they have even fired a shot?” an officer asks, his eyes narrowed in worry and frustration.

“You would want the best protection for yourself, wouldn’t you?” Avalel responds calmly, staring at the map displays in seeming indifference. The symbols representing their military units disappear steadily, the formations retreating in disarray. Above, the airforce maintains their general organization, but the result is already clear. The number disparities already speak for themselves.

“Are you worried, my leader?”

“Not particularly. Elethien formed her Empire from the ashes of her people. I will simply do the same.” Avalel does not even take a glance at his subordinate, still patiently waiting for the moment when all will come to fruition. The elderly officer will soon die at the hands of the enemy, if not from sickness and age. He has no need to pay much attention to a slightly decorated pawn.

“It’s rare for one as young as you to still admire the Empire.”

“Whatever happened during the last years of the Empire tarnished its reputation of centuries of successful governance,” Avalel says. “No matter how we wish to cut off our roots, they still are essential to feed and nurture our growth. The Empire’s presence cannot be erased in decades unless we collectively desire to eliminate our core identities.”

“You still believe that we are attached to the Empire?”

“Who are we culturally? Our language? Our writing? Our technology? Until we detach ourselves from the Empire in all of these areas, we are but the continued proof of the Empire’s lasting legacy. We are nothing without the history of the Achien Empire.”

Silence. The officer cannot believe his ears. Their savior, the one who is supposed to rescue them from the depths of their struggles and despair, is sympathetic to the Empire?

“I apologize for speaking too much,” Avalel says as he refocuses on the displays. “But one day, I believe, we will all understand and be freed from our chaotic conflicts.”

The line is collapsing. There is already a gaping hole, splitting the infantry apart. The fighters are falling like flies swatted out of the air, plummeting to the ground, incinerating the soldiers with it. At the center of it all, a large group of enemy infantry are advancing at a rapid pace as if they are predators chasing their prey.

Strange. Such a large isolated, intact presence on the battlefield, indicating at least several hundred enemy soldiers, and the troops around them are… not even approaching them?

“Connect my comms with the local company commanders near forts 301 and 302,” he commands. Soon, he hears it, the shallow, panicked breathing of the recipients, screams in the background attacking his ears. A small explosion disrupts the connection, the irritating static crackling for a moment before the comms promptly return to a more stable state.

“What is happening?” he questions. “Why is there an enemy group past our lines but we are refusing to chase them down?”

“W… We have them surrounded, our leader,” a company leader gasps, his voice barely audible above all the noise. “However, we cannot even touch them. In fact… they are forcing the encirclement back. I’ve been encouraging my company, but it… it’s only a matter of time before we collapse.”

“The usual reaction when an isolated army is encircled is to break out of said encirclement in all directions,” another officer near Avalel mutters, analyzing the display. “How can they maintain such composure and still advance so quickly as one cohesive unit?”

“The others are trying their best–Incoming!”

Boom! The company leader attempts to continue, but there is only an explosion, clearly audible even for the officers around Avalel. There is no sound but the continued mix of gunfire and the clanging of metal, the other company leaders completely stunned.

Company 3-8-1-9 has been wiped out. An automated report is generated on the screen, providing only a single statement.

“Please, we need reinforcements,” one of the surviving company leaders finally says urgently. “All of us are not doing well.”

“How many casualties has your company sustained?” Avalel asks.

A short distance away from the company leader, the sound of a soldier falling to the ground, a blade presumedly sliced through their body.

“I… don’t know. But please, save us.” A weak sniff, fighting back the torrent of emotion.

“Save us!” the other company leaders cry. “Their emblem is–”

Thok. The vomiting of liquids, the comms of the company leader gargling a while before it completely shuts off.

Company 3-8-3-3 has been wiped out.

The group continues to advance, their symbols almost merging as one large blob of red amidst a thinning sea of green.

“Order them to disperse!” an officer advises. “Our veteran forces are nearly ready, the teraveza and maraveza brigades waiting for your order.”

Avalel smiles. “Continue containing them and avoid combat unless the numbers are greatly in your favor,” he commands. “Help will come soon.”

“Are we just allowing our soldiers to die to the apparently invincible enemy?” the officer questions.

“Do you not remember our leader’s plan?” another officer roars. “How can we attack now when the enemy still hasn't completely fallen into the trap?”

“I do not care if they enter the city or not,” Avalel mutters, his hands clasped together. “I would rather lose a few of us than risk the ruin of all of us.”

“Y-You promised to protect everyone when you took power!” the officer protests.

Company 3-8-1-2 has been wiped out.

“Do you think it is possible to avoid death in a war?” the second officer argues.

“Are you accusing our leader for bringing us into this despair?” a third adds in. “Without him, we would be dead, buried in the Pass!”

Company 3-8-7-0 has been wiped out.

“Our leader, please do not hesitate now!” the first cried out. “Hundreds are already dead fighting that battalion!”

“Restrain him!” an officer shouts. “We have no need for such a poisonous mouth!”

“A battalion, you say,” Avalel says, deep in thought, ignoring his subordinates forcefully removing the officer from his sight.

The enemy group is becoming further from the rest of the Confederation troops, heading straight for the nearest entrance to Thille. There is only a small window of bombardment left, if he even desires to do so. After all, there is only a small space between the enemy and his own veteran troops.

It is starting to become a problem, he admits. For a large pocket of enemy activity, at the very least it is a disruption to his plan. Every step they take forward, the chances of the element of surprise being blown increases. His own fresh recruits are inadequate, only serving as fodder, barely even slowing the enemy down.

And for such a group as them, he certainly has the incentive to launch a preemptive strike earlier than he had planned. Plans are discarded the moment it comes into contact with the battlefield. A common military saying, holding true once more.

A shrill beep from the display, alerting Avalel and the officers. Following yet more reports of annihilated companies, the map shows a second group of enemy soldiers, far smaller but advancing in rapid pace, breaking through the defensive lines like a plague or earthquake spreading from the epicenter.

He sighs. The Battalion Elethien is quite the nuisance to handle on its own. And now there is another force?

“Order the troops holding out in the forts to retreat,” he commands. “The rest of the military shall move out now.” He rises from the seat, making his way out already fully armored. “The time has come. Early, but it has come.”

For practicality and the preservation of the plan, he must do so. It is definitely not ideal, but what other choice does he have?

“As for the annoying group of enemy soldiers…” He looks at the face of the restrained officer. “Bombard them with our artillery and bombers.”

A look of horror and disbelief from the officer, the others attempting to mask their surprise.

“No, no… Surely you aren’t going to sacrifice them all?” the officer whimpers.

“I believe the enemy needs to be quickly dealt with,” another officer says. “But we certainly do not have air superiority… Isn’t this too risky?”

“When we grab our victory, you will not be saying such words,” Avalel swiftly answers, denying his subordinates even a further chance to speak. “The New Rule’s savior is going to rescue his people.”

“What are we soldiers to you?” the first officer screams. “Are we just robots, tools at your disposal?”

Avalel does not answer. When faced with dilemmas, Elethien’s choice is always simple: the result most benefitting to the overall goal. Even if that meant the direct deaths of his soldiers by their own weapons. Avalel will accept such a cost.

“Order the batteries to fire at the hostile enemy group that have broken through forts 301 and 302,” he says as the door opens. His subordinates can only stand, stunned by the decisiveness, the brutal pragmatism of their leader.

Tevlaia slashes at an unfortunate enemy soldier, kicking their lifeless body to the ground. Despite the seemingly never ending waves of enemy soldiers, they are but weak little pawns, not enough to even touch her clothes.

“Have we all gathered back together?” she asks in her comms.

“Most of us are here, although I’d assume a few of us are still trying to break their lines and rejoin the group,” Kerohar answers. “Or they’re lost.”

“We have no time for your dry jokes, Kerohar,” a Battalion member comments.

“The morale has to be kept up in a way, right?” Kerohar answers, his blades impaling a soldier before they disappear and reform.

“It’s rare for so many of us to be in the same place,” another member says. “The Common Leader must be insane.”

“One strong, focused artillery barrage, and we will find ourselves disintegrating like ash,” Tevlaia mutters, driving a New Rule soldier to a rock with her elbow, feeling their ribs crack from the impact.

Hundreds of them gathered in one place, heading for Thille. The infamous Battalion Elethien advances as one, their individual personalities brought together by a strange command. To them, this is but another battle, no different from a stroll in a park. They have all seen much worse. This is only routine.

Yet Tevlaia, the head of them all, cannot let her guard down. These immensely capable comrades of hers should not be fighting in such close proximity to each other. Unlike the regular army, they each have their own styles, their own preferred weapons. They are not a cohesive unit, but a mob of dueling geniuses.

She can sense it. The imminent coming of troubles, set up none other than by Nasition himself.

All she can do is kill, to make their way to the deep caverns of Thille, and swiftly capture the city before anyone else to cement their prestige. And Kavlina, somewhere… Tevlaia will bring her back. Somehow.

The battlefield is her solace, away from the inconsiderate commands of Nasition, away from the noise of the lazy civilians, away from the graves of her comrades. Until she breathes her last, she shall still swing her blade.

Thok! Another one down, the soldier’s arms falling limp, dropping their rifle. She should be nearing the entrance to Thille. The intensity has already died down a little, the enemy even backing off. It’s as if they are afraid, afraid of this inconceivable group before them. Cowards. Children.

Tevlaia sighs. Is that soldier, Rasu, the only one in the New Rule with true courage and bravery?

“Follow my advance,” she orders as she dashes out, jumping high into the air, an acrobatic spin of her body lopping off the heads of three enemy soldiers. Simple commands are all she can do to push her comrades forward. They are no pawns, not easily controlled by any individual or force. They are Battalion Elethien, feared by their enemies… and by their Common Leader.

“Another crowd broke out of the enemy defenses,” one of her comrades reports. “Heading our way.”

“Mmm.” Tevlaia only focuses on the enemies before her, the slashes, cuts, and stabs still swift and clean despite being covered and dulled in blood and flesh. Her hair is damp from her sweat, but she does not feel even the slightest hint of exhaustion. She can already see commotion just up ahead, the enemies there preoccupied with someone else.

It must be her. She quickens her pace further, leaving her comrades behind. Even as shots graze her body, she doesn’t feel the pain. There is only one target in front of her, the distance closing in.

The shrill cry of an artillery barrage. It should’ve been routine to her ears by now, but it feels… loud, deafening even. The enemies all freeze, as if time has stopped for the whole world but herself.

A response, coming from their own artillery, the shells soaring over the skies, the arc so high like rockets or voidal ships launched into the vacuum. She stops, letting an enemy corpse drop to the ground.

As the battle just abruptly stops for a moment, Tevlaia admires the beauty of the weapons, their tails like comets, their heads like jewels. Everything seems to slow as they hover midair… before diving at the Battalion’s position.

Time returns as is. Little time to react. Tevlaia flings herself on the ground. Heat, energy, she feels it. Her back. Pain. Agony. She does not scream.

Silence.

She crawls back up, shaking, hard to even breathe in the air. Her clothes are partially burnt. Fires, burning off the fresh flesh and oil, flicker before her eyes. No screams, no wails. Nothing.

The barrages, the sacrifices… Was it all intended? Nasition and Avalel… What have they become?

She stands, steadying herself, feeling the energy coursing through her disrupted arteries and veins. Her comms are broken. Essentially, she is alone.

She holds a firm stance, her blade clean, purified by heat. Looking into the smoke, the silhouettes of Confederation soldiers appear one by one, their leader marching in front of them. In every single one of their palms, a ball of pure energy.

Behind her, boots trample over dead bodies. Enemy soldiers, their aura different from the weaklings earlier, point their rifles at her. And somewhere further beyond, Tevlaia hears the whirring of vehicles, announcing their entrance to the hell of a battlefield.

“Tevlaia.” His voice. That wretched voice, projected from a speaker somewhere within the Confederation ranks. That mighty voice, toying with their lives. Her life.

“It’s over.”

Destruction. How quickly it comes to even the finest of soldiers.