Cent. Calendar 09/06/1639, Somewhere underneath Leiforia, 13:00

“Through here!”

After the creaking and clanking of an old, rusted gate being unlocked came the sound of it being pushed open as imperial guards flooded in to secure the path ahead for the imperial family and their servants. Walking on one of the solid, damp walkways flanking a shallow waterway, the imperial guards had their rifles at the ready while some held up lanterns that put out a warm orange light. While the occasional ray of light leaking from gaps in the ceiling above them provided some help in illuminating the pathway, the lanterns held by the guards did most of the work. Accompanying the light from above was an orchestra of sounds which, despite being a complete trainwreck of a soundtrack, painted a coherent picture: Leiforia was under attack. Each explosion, distant and close, shook the ground while the screams of people, wailing of sirens, and the occasional popping of gunfire played out in the foreground.

While it was initially unnerving, their hours-long trek across the underground system sprawling underneath the metropolis had made them accustomed to the sounds. Both the imperial family and their entourage are now exhausted, but they making good progress on their exodus out of the city was a sign that things were going well for them. Even if the enemy manages to take Leiforia, the survival of the imperial family and the Emperor would be a rallying point for the people to unite and push the invaders back out to the sea.

As the group pressed on with some of the imperial guardsmen at the vanguard, the dire situation above seemed to continue on endlessly. Similarly, the path that they now traveled through seemed to go on forever, with there not being any twists or turns for the past ten minutes. With darkness slightly unveiled by the glow of their lanterns awaiting them, the imperial guards continued.

Then, a clink. And then another. Each clink got weaker, but it also seemed to get closer.

Perturbed by this clearly distinct sound, one that clearly played in the foreground above the clatter of explosions above them, the lead guard raised his left, non-dominant hand up and back towards the rest of the group.

“Wait!”

With the auditory and visual cues handed to them by their vanguard, the other guards behind him promptly stopped and raised their rifles in the general direction of the sound. Those accompanying the imperial family and the Emperor similarly stopped as they extended their entire body to try to cover for them.

“Give me light!”

The lead guard said out loud with urgency rippling through his voice.

One of the guards carrying a lantern stepped forth and held it further in an attempt to illuminate the path ahead. Just as the cloak of pitch-black was pushed back by the somber warmth of the lantern’s light, the clinking then changed to a long sound of something light yet materially hard rolling on the floor. There, right in front of them, an object suddenly came rolling from the veil of darkness and into the light towards their feet.

“!!!”

The guards immediately recognized the object despite its eccentric shape. Unfortunately, fate did not give them the luxury of time to react.

BOOM!

With a flash, the grenade detonated, sending a deadly wave of metal and compressed air against the vanguard of imperial guards that were standing in its way. Most of the guards in front were immediately killed when they were caught inside the fatal blast radius of the hand-tossed fragmentation grenade, and the guards immediately behind them sustained major injuries despite being shielded somewhat by their own comrades.

The blast was felt immediately by everyone else, prompting the imperial family and their servants to cower and make themselves scarce and the guards to regroup against a perceived upcoming attack from the front. Distracted by the commotion at the front, while their attention diverted to their compatriots at the vanguard, the rear guard of imperial guardsmen was caught by surprise as another grenade that successfully sneaked up towards them detonated, maiming them in the process.

Two distinct flashes and booms rock the underground waterway. With both of their flanks exposed and almost half of the squad of imperial guardsmen dead or fatally injured, they now sat in a woeful predicament. With the attacks coming from both behind and ahead of them and only the damp, dark, bricked walls flanking their sides, they were boxed in from all vectors. Before the remaining guards could even decide what to do next and coordinate, their unseen enemies struck.

Out of the pitch-black that had now obscured their view came in a specter as dark as the background, its speed swifter than what the guards could hope to perceive. The specter bridged the gap between dark and light, the known and unknown, as it came under the somber glow of the lantern, momentarily showing to the still disorganized Leiforian guardsmen its true form: a man clad in all black, his face blanketed in a veil as dark as the night. What the guardsmen failed to realize was that the man brought with him a gift–the glittering grey steel of a combat knife. The frontmost guard swung his eyes downward as he realized his fatal mistake–the folly of ignoring the man’s will to kill–which he was only able to understand in the precious last seconds before the cold, relentless steel of the knife swung to meet his vision. With animalistic violence, the man swiveled his right arm rightwards without hesitation, plunging his combat knife deep into the eye socket of the guard he caught by surprise, the weapon’s hardened, serrated blade easily sifting through the mess of flesh and blood, its unhindered blunt force delivering a fatal blow to the man’s head, delivering him from this world to the next.

The speed and the violence of the man’s attack further disoriented the other guards, who looked on with various feelings of fear and revenge, eager to either fight back or to run from the man who had swiftly and gruesomely killed their fellow compatriot. Unfortunately for them, the man understood the pace of the fight and the fact that he alone dictated it. His mind, taking the initiative to attack, immediately shifted to his next target: a guardsman that had decided that he would fight back, wrongfully assuming that the fight revolved around him. As he intends to teach the guard a lesson of a lifetime, the man’s muscles kick in. His superior training in the martial arts allowed his mind to carry out a pre-organized algorithm of movements for his body to follow. As the guard clumsily reached out for the rifle he had dropped in the initial blast, he could do little as the man’s movements outpaced both his own and his ability to process information. Before he could even raise his rifle to aim, the man was in front of him, staring down at his eyes with those of a predator on the verge of victory over its prey. The guard felt the man’s forceful grip on his rifle, the specter’s superhuman strength reducing what little ounce of leverage he had over the situation as he felt the very rifle he was entrusted with to protect the Emperor–the hope of Leifor–fall right into the hands of the enemy as his hands let go after being twisted beyond their threshold of pain. There, he learned his lifetime lesson: he was never going to win. In a split second, the rifle that had the power to change the situation was instead made accessory to the man’s continued control over it as the man pointed its steely muzzle down his prey’s head; the guard had learned his lesson. Hammering the lesson home, the man pulled the trigger, sending a bullet down on the guard’s cranium, painlessly delivering him his death.

The fight, however, was far from over. Despite the man utilizing the advantages he has been dealt with, the sheer number of opponents with rifles was more than he and his bodily abilities could take down. Looking over to the left, he sees four guards with their rifles pointed at him, their intent to take him down in full display for everyone to see. There was no more closing the distance; the bullets in the chambers of the rifles aiming at him will never be slow enough to give him ample room to get into melee. However, unbeknownst to his Leiforian foes, the man’s abilities were not limited to that of martial arts, for he was a commando, a bonafide soldier. He had more tricks up his sleeve than his brute strength. From the unseen side of his right sleeve, he pulled a polished, black rifle that was shorter than the bolt-action rifles the Leiforians were accustomed to. Even with the numerical advantage the Leiforians enjoyed, both sides now had guns, and it was now ultimately down to the sheer will of either side that would dictate who emerged victoriously. Unfortunately for the Leiforians, the man showed himself to be more committed to his mission than they were.

TATATATATATATATA

At the squeeze of the trigger, the man’s petite rifle spouted fire and smoke continuously, catching the guards by surprise. Unfortunately for them, their mental shock from the man’s automatically firing rifle was replaced by physical shock as bullet after bullet tore through their unarmored, white uniforms and sank into their squishy, vulnerable flesh. Taking advantage of his rate of fire, the man pivoted in place from left to right, showering the line of guardsmen in gunfire, his ironfisted grip kept the recoiling rifle stable. The guards could never have hoped to win over this fight, as the bullets, sent down by the man’s superior determination, eviscerated their flesh and hopes alike. With his magazine exhausted and his targets, riddled with gaping bullet holes to their person, collapsing to the floor, the man exchanged his empty magazine for a full one. As the depleted magazine fell onto the floor, and the clicking sounds his rifle made while being fed a new set of ammunition echoed across the damp, now quiet waterway, the man, finally free of the tension from the fight he had just narrowly claimed victory, cheered.

“Heh! Zugabe! Zugabe!”

As he walked through the bodies to examine his results, admiring his own craftsmanship in the scenery of blood and bullets he had set, the guards at the other side were swiftly dealt with by another group of men similarly clad in dark clothing. The man then reunited with the five others that had come from the other side in the middle of the commotion. As they stood triumphantly over the guards that they had slain, they then laid their eyes on the group of men and women in common wear that had huddled together, whimpering in extreme fear from what had just happened.

“Oi, Futze! Didn’t I tell you to keep this shit to a minimum?”

One of the men from the other side called out to the man that had single-handedly taken on numerous guards–the man whose violence knows no bounds.

“Ja, ja. Who cares anyway. What matters is that the mission is accomplished, right?”

“And yet you almost cost us that, you Ficker! Take a look!”

The other man pointed towards the cowering imperial family and their servants. Following the other man’s finger, the man called “Futze” looked over to them. There, he spotted two of the women lying on the floor, bleeding from multiple bullet holes, their faces getting paler and lifeless by the minute. Their companions cowered as they shook in place, too afflicted by fear of the men in black coming after them to even cry over their dying loved ones. Some of the other women, who wore black and white clothing reminiscent of those of a maid’s, embraced the civilian-wearing individuals to try and keep them out of harm’s way, despite their fellow maids also being the recipient of some of the hot lead that had rained all over them.

Overall, it was a mess that could have been better dealt with. Still, off to one corner of his eye, he spotted a boy dressed in a regalia uniform, standing out from the rest of his companions. Flanking his body were some maids that we're desperate to try to conceal his appearance and, by extension, his identity.

“Shit happens, Opa. At least that brat is still alive.”

“Futze” pointed towards the boy.

“Mhm. I’ll go talk to the kid. The rest of you, round up the servants and the guards that had surrendered!”

As the rest of his men proceeded with their orders, the man called “Opa” walked towards the boy. For every single footstep his boots made, the maids flanking the boy further cowered as their cries grew faster and louder, their desperation to stick to their duties as the protectors of the boy accelerating their anxieties. Now that he was standing in front of the boy, “Opa” coughed as he flicked a mental switch that allowed him to shift his language from his own to Asheran common.

“Get off the boy.”

His deep, sharp voice exacerbated the maids’ cries, still refusing to let go of the boy. Annoyed by this fragile yet bothersome resistance, the man raised his voice.

“NOW!”

Reflexively repulsing from the man’s loud, threatening yell, the maids distanced themselves from the boy as they cried out in Leiforian through their tear-smeared mouths and nostrils, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Opa” then looked down at the boy, who stood up to meet his gaze. He was still young, likely having just reached the ripe age of ten. His eyes, still red and flush with tears, presumably from grief over his companions murdered in a brutal, efficient fashion, were now filled with determined defiance. Deep inside, he felt impressed by the boy’s fiery disposition, even coming to the thought that he would make a great leader. Fortunately for him, he was already a leader. Smiling behind his black balaclava, the man squatted down to the boy’s height so that they could talk at eye level.

“Emperor Magno V, I presume? Head of state of the Federal Empire of Leifor. It truly is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

Appearing sincere in his gesture, “Opa” hoped to confuse the boy. To his unexpected delight, the boy hurled an insult back in Leiforian.

“Insolent barbarian! Do what you will and be done with it!”

Understanding only the “barbarian” part, he laughed in genuine amusement at the boy’s feisty reply.

“Barbarians, huh?”

He turned back to his men and spoke in his native tongue.

“Oi, Futze! Let ‘em have it!”

“My pleasure, Opa!”

Thoughts raced in the boy emperor’s mind as to what was going to happen. Did he perhaps insult “Opa” too much? Was it the wrong decision to insult the man? His anxieties showed in his pale expression, complemented by sweat that started to drip down from his brow. “Opa” then turned back to him.

“Allow us to have an exhibition of our “barbarian” culture to you civilized folk.”

“Opa” then stood up and walked out of the boy’s vision. As if unfurling the curtain on a grand act, the boy was helped to a sight which he could never have imagined to see with his ten-year-old eyes. He looked on in horror as 15 men and women, a mixture of his maids and guards, lay tied next to each other in a line along the shallow waterway with their backs facing up. Unable to move due to the restraints on their hands, feet, and arms, they could only cry in desperation and horror as they heard the metal-on-metal clicking of ammunition being chambered. Standing over them was the figure of “Futze” with the silhouette of his hand holding what seems to be a revolver raised in the air. With one bullet chambered in the cylinder, he then spun it around and cocked the firing pin. Before he could proceed, “Futze” turned around to face the boy emperor and bowed in mocking respect.

“Your Highness! May you have fun with this as much as I do!”

Having said his piece, “Futze” swiveled back to the exposed backs of the men and women he had tied up.

Commencing the game, he pointed the revolver at the back of the head of the leftmost maid. Magno V, seeing what was going to happen, wanted to scream out to stop what was about to happen, inwardly unable to stomach the gruesome act in the play that he was forced to watch. Nevertheless, he knew his words and actions had little control over the situation, with only deadly consequences awaiting him and his subjects should he lash out. With unsurprising decorum for his age, he stood silent, forcing himself to watch over the summary execution of his subjects, which he felt was the least he could do in that situation to honor them.

Meanwhile, the others, seeing what was going to happen, cried out, not bound by the same obligations and consequences that had kept their emperor shut. Their pleas for mercy, delivered by painfully concocted voices that cracked due to sheer sadness, regret, and their own physical limitations brought about by relentless screaming, echoed in the dark, cold, ignorant chambers of the Leiforian underground. The imperial family joined in on the cries, but any attempts at doing anything substantial were stopped at gunpoint by the other men in black, their muzzles of their black rifles, which they had witnessed to be capable of firing nonstop, looking down emotionlessly on their tear-ridden, red eyes.

“Futze” then pulled on the trigger.

To everyone’s surprise, they only heard the loud click of the firing pin. Neither bullet nor bang came out. Seeing that the men were bluffing, the Leiforians sighed. However, as if evilly concocted to deliver emotional pain to them, the game continued on.

“Lucky. Yet not so lucky. Maybe. Moving on!”

“Futze” moved on to the next person, who was a guard that had surrendered.

The Leiforians, finally understanding what was happening, resumed their cries, now louder and more desperate as they desperately denied the inevitability of the game’s outcome. The guard struggled to get back up, but he was kept down by the weight of “Futze” stepping on his back, his hard boot forcefully resigning the guard to his fate. Cocking the firing pin, he then pointed the revolver on the back of the guard’s head. For each passing second that the revolver’s cold, wet, steel barrel lay pointed against the guard’s head, suspense-filled the smelly, damp air as water, blissfully ignorant of the gravity of the situation, flowed on towards its destination.

BANG!

Fortune did not favor the guard.

A resounding bang, immediately followed by the cries of the others, still adamant on their denial as they continue to wish that their friend hadn’t just been executed. With a bullet to the head, the guard did not have long before his soul departed for the afterlife. Magno V looked on as these men toyed with their lives, summarily executing his people as if it were all a game of dice. Despite looking on, seemingly unfazed by what just happened, forlorn regret over inaction and his unwavering tenacity to uphold the standards of an emperor set on him clashed inside his heart, ultimately resulting in a tear falling from his right eye.

“Ah. There you go. So sad. Anyway.”

“Futze” remarked as he pulled out another bullet from his person to put into the revolver. Once again, he only put a single bullet into the cylinder before spinning it around and cocking the firing pin once it settled.

This was the game, a truly barbaric one. It was cruel to the detail, maximizing the amount of hurt that could be delivered to the spectators while minimizing the pain felt by those that participated in it as they are shot in the head. Magno V inwardly vowed to put these bastards and their dastardly inhuman games to justice, whatever ‘justice’ could mean afterward.

Seeing the boy emperor on the verge of cracking, “Opa” let him in on a secret. Whether it was by virtue of his heart being warmed or him being naturally cutthroat in his methods, this was something only the gods know.

“Enjoying the show, Your Highness? Fortunately for you, we will spare one of them. If you’re willing, we’ll give you the power to choose which one gets to live–a shortcut if you will.”

The man’s offer was appealing, but it reeked with sinister undertones. The offer, Magno V felt, was designed for someone his age. Children would often take the path of least resistance as their still undeveloped instincts push them to gratify themselves by pursuing the reward that could be achieved the soonest, rather than believing in the virtue of patience that may reap better rewards. By accepting the offer, he would relieve himself of the pain of slowly watching the game progress. This, however, was only mere self-gratification. Magno V knew better than to get involved in the game, cleverly deducing that if he did nothing, the execution of 14 of his subjects could be blamed wholly on these barbarians. With the survivors as his witness, he had better chances of getting out of this situation without blame if he chose not to accept the offer of “Opa”.

As his response, he remained silent, his wordless statement-making echoes with “Opa”.

“Very well, Your Highness.”

The game progressed on despite their exchange, signified by a second, resounding bang that had echoed in the cold, dark waterway.

Underneath the Imperial Palace, 18:00

“FUCK!!!”

Screaming ferociously from desperation, a man struggles to wriggle out of a difficult situation as it echoes in the hardened walls of the Imperial Palace’s underground bunker. Before the echo is fading away beneath a background of sporadic gunfire and explosions ringing out from above the surface, the man, Deric Kalmar, regent to the young Emperor Magno V of Leifor, was way past his breaking point. He looked at his right hand, which was curled up into a fist, bloodied from being slammed on the table due to frustration at the development of events. He turned back his gaze to his left, where a young man whose white imperial guardsman uniform was drenched in blood, sweat, and sewage water, standing in dejection as he finished his report. It was obvious to Deric and those in the room that this guardsman had come from a hard-fought battle, which despite the honorable struggle of the man and his now-dead compatriots, they had lost. Still reeling from the devastating loss he had felt from hearing the report, Deric reiterated what the guard had reported, wishing to deny and hoping that it was false or merely a product of his hearing problems.

“The imperial family, together with His Majesty, has been captured...?”

Deric’s soft voice, no matter how silent it may have been, was heard by everyone in the room primarily due to the words that it conveyed. At a loss for words and afraid of the repercussions of the failure to uphold his duty, the guard simply nodded yes.

Faced with the unsettling truth that the imperial family, the symbol of Leifor’s pride and unity, was now under the hands of their enemy, Deric could only cover his exasperated face with trembling hands, unable to come up with any concrete responses. He leaned on the table that he had just slammed in infuriation, resting his elbows on the mess of papers and reports that vexingly painted only a partial picture of their bleak situation.

The white papers, stained with the prints of countless men and women that had passed it from its origin to where it was now, tell of a Leifor seemingly incapacitated by the shock and awe of what they could only conclude to be the Gra Valkan war machine. The attacks began at 1100 hours when an initial wave of aircraft shot down their helpless air patrols and grounded aviation forces, removing any hope of wrestling back air superiority from their attackers. This was followed by a seemingly endless wave of bombers, which targeted almost every important facet of an organized response–their military command facilities, the Forbundsting, garrisons, supply depots, communications apparatuses, and so on. The Navy, exhaustedly built up to match Muish supremacy of the waves following the Great Wave, was conveniently amassed at the harbor, a fact that the Gra Valkans exploited. Both old and new multi-gun battleships were relentlessly bombed by enemy aircraft, their anti-aircraft complement hopeless against the vastly superior foes they had not been designed to face. Even their upcoming ships, designed to go toe to toe with Muish and Imperial battleships, which had eaten the bulk of the navy’s budget for years, were bombed to oblivion in their drydocks, erasing hundreds of lives and millions upon millions of taxpayer money. Their Army, hardened as it were to face an all-out assault by the Muish, fared better. Still, with their leadership literally wiped off the planet, hopes for an immediate, organized response were close to nil.

With their communications infrastructure suffering the same fate, there was no telling what was happening outside of Leiforia and the immediate region. They only knew that the Gra Valkan air campaign was thorough in picking out their forces in and around Leiforia. Now with recent developments that tell of the Gra Valkan Army landing and the imperial family in their clutches, there is absolutely nothing they can do to salvage the situation in the capital.

Deric finally looked up, releasing his frustrated face from his hands. Meeting his gaze were the equally demoralized parliament members and military officers, incomplete in number as their comrades were either dead or missing. Despite their various shortcomings in being leaders of the federal empire in peacetime, they were smart enough to know that there was only one outcome moving forward. The silence between the surviving leadership of Leifor persisted, only interrupted by the occasional shaking of the room brought about by something exploding topside. In spite of the desperate circumstances that they faced, the silence offered a comforting respite, afforded by the limbo in decision making that had come out of everyone’s hesitation to face the inevitable. Tranquil as it may be, they cannot linger in this nothingness forever.

“...I believe it is best that we surrender as early as possible... To preserve as much as we can...”

Breaking free from the respite, one of the parliament officials spoke up. No one challenged him, as this was what everyone was thinking. Vexing as it may be for a globally recognized power to surrender mere hours after war was declared, in these trying times, the leaders of Leifor now prioritized the preservation of what they had left in an effort to retain as much of the old status quo as possible. The Gra Valkans, long thought to be simply newcomers onto the Asheran stage, had now overturned the global axis of power, just as their bombs had disturbed the foundations of their capital.

While surrendering was easy, the road to the new world order after the violence had stopped will be paved with miseries and uncertainties. With President Sauren Axar, their head of government, still nowhere to be found, Deric knew that it was up to him to lead the Leiforians. Caressing his brow in resignation to their defeat, he inwardly cursed his luck as he replied to the parliament official’s statement.

“...I agree.”

Downtown Leiforia, 18:20

Ta! Ta! Ta! Ta! Ta!

Inside the cramped, steel hull of the M.Fz. 452 Schildkröte infantry fighting vehicle, Soldat Otto Eichel clutched his Strauss MKb 4 assault rifle as he heard the echoes of the vehicle’s 20mm autocannon firing outside. Despite knowing full well that they are currently in hostile territory, the sound of their very vehicle engaging enemies exhilarated his jitters. This is it, he thought. As the sweat, brought upon by the sweltering heat inside the Schildkröte and his own anxiety, poured down his face, he panned his head across, seeing the equally nervous faces of his squadmates. His senior, Obergefreiter (OGefr) Luther Meyer, who sat next to him to his right, was also nervous, made obvious by the incessant stomping of his left foot, a subconscious habit for the man. Swinging his head to the left, Otto came across his team leader, Unterfeldwebel (UFw) Engel Peters, who was looking down, waiting for the right time to act, which came sooner than they realized.

The shaking of the Schildkröte stopped as the lumbering vehicle came to a halt. Sensing this through the vibrations emanating from the seat and the walls, UFw Peters promptly tightened his grip on his assault rifle and turned to his squad.

“Aussteigen!” (Disembark!)

Peters’ command echoed throughout the tight interior of the vehicle.

Hearing this, the muscle memory of the Imperial Gra Valkan Army soldiers kicked in, inducing the men to disembark from their vehicle, a repeatable process that has been drilled into them countless times before. Otto and OGefr Luther swiftly turned their heads upwards and unlocked the infantry hatches built onto the roof of the Schildkröte, pushing the metal lid outwards as the locks disengaged. What greeted them beyond the hatch was the dark, early evening sky, patched by the occasional cloud of black smoke lit by the raging red fires of a burning Leiforia. They wasted no time admiring the heavens as the muscles on their legs, which were now firmly grounded on their seats, pushed them to emerge from the hatch.

Now outside, the IGVA soldiers were now subject to the view of the depressing cityscape of a city block devoid of human activity, save for their presence and their enemy’s. Rifle and gear in hand, Otto and his squadmates jumped from the roof of the modestly-tall Schildkröte, landing in the hard, unyielding cobblestone road below them. Barely dazed from the landing, which he had done numerous times in drills back in infantry school, Otto immediately tuned his bearings, looking around him for signs on what to do next. Just then, he heard the distinct scream of UFw Peters, whose voice he was trained to listen to with utmost attention.

“Roter Igel, 250m, 12 o’clock! Alpha-Gruppe, fertigmache zum Sprung... Sprung auf, Marsch, Marsch!” (Enemy machine gun emplacement, 250 meters straight ahead! Advance and find cover!)

Now given explicit commands, Otto and the rest of his squad spotted the nearest cover–an overrun Leiforian barricade in front of the Schildkröte–and dashed for it. Keeping his head low and holding his helmet down, Otto ran for the cover afforded by the steel barricade that the Leiforians had put up. As he made for his objective, he sneaked some glances towards another barricade that was propped up just further down the dark, lampless street in front. From time to time, the barricade would flash in rapid succession, followed by the popping sounds of a circuit gun firing and the dreadful sounds of bullets zooming past. Fortunately for Otto and his squadmates, their Schildkröte stood out as the primary target, its thick, steel armor capable of withstanding 30mm autocannon rounds laughing at the endless rain of circuit gun bullets painlessly bouncing off of it.

With the infantry taking cover in the ruined barricade that stood at the mouth of the street, the Schildkröte was finally given the order to advance. Otto snuggled right below the shadow of the barricade with OGefr Luther as they watched their infantry fighting vehicle at the center of the cobblestone road effortlessly repelling machine gun fire as it moved forward. Standing in its way was the same barricade that Otto and his squadmates were taking cover under, but the part that it was going to cross over was devoid of friendlies. With a roar from its engine, the Schildkröte climbed over the barricade, which was crushed by the sheer weight of the Gra Valkan combat vehicle. Otto and his squadmates crouched as the particles flew out from the steel barricade as it was compressed into a pulp, emitting ear-piercing, teeth-gnashing sounds of metals being scratched and pulverized.

Then, the vehicle came to a halt. As if dissatisfied by the show of intimidation, its presence emanated towards the Leiforian soldiers who still dared oppose it. The Schildkröte decided to give them another encore of its main act. The long barrel of the 20mm autocannon mounted on its turret turned to bare its fangs at the Leiforian circuit gun nest. With its muzzle now facing the other barricade, from where the Leiforians still doggedly fired their rifles and machine guns, the autocannon barked its song of destruction.

Ta! Ta! Ta! Ta! Ta!

The medium-caliber gun fired shot after shot, its tempo undisturbed in its beat and its devastation unrestrained. Spent casings flew out of the turret in perfect synchrony with the lines of red tracing from the muzzle towards the Leiforian barricade 250m down the street, erupting in flashes of orange flame and bright steel as the high explosive rounds perforated the flimsy barrier. Draining its magazine by a mere 15 rounds, the Schildkröte ceased fire as the sounds of its autocannon firing and the dust from its target continued to settle. In the seconds that followed, tranquility reigned over the street as the Gra Valkans seemingly stood victorious over the silenced machine gun nest. However, UFw Peters knew that not all was finished. From his own side of the barricade, he issued new orders out to his men on standby.

“Alpha-Gruppe, Geh hinter der Schildkröte in Deckung! Fuchs 1, Ausführung!” (All units form up behind the Schildkröte as it advances!)

Grasping their new orders with professional haste, Otto and his squadmates dashed towards the rear of the advancing Schildkröte. They formed into two tight columns that extend from both sides of the rear of the vehicle, utilizing the hard cover provided by the Schildkröte to shield them from possible incoming fire from the potentially still alive Leiforians over at the barricade. Otto took his position at the frontmost of the column, just behind the steel caterpillar tracks of the infantry fighting vehicle that continued to move forward. He had the hard, cold stock of his MKb 4 rested on his right shoulder with his left hand grasping the handguard to support the length of the gun. His right eye was fixated on maintaining the superposition of the two iron sights on top of the sight of the barricade just a couple of hundred meters down the street. He controlled his breathing, distributing the oxygen he inhaled to his arm muscles in keeping the gun steady, to the leg muscles that he uses to keep pace with the Schildkröte, and the eye muscles that strained to keep his aim constantly on where their enemies might be. Otto set aside his feelings of anxiety and fear from being on an actual battlefield and replaced it with the professional instincts his training had instilled in him.

Their advance was vexingly, frustratingly slow.

For the last minute, the only action he had was the disciplined march they carried out towards the Leiforian position. While he wanted nothing unannounced to happen, he eagerly yearned for something to break the status quo. Fortunately for him, the silence was broken by Unteroffizier (UFfw) Reinhard Wolff, their assistant team leader, calling the attention of UFw Peters.

“Oberfeldwebel! From the Leutnant! Blaue Himmel! Blaue Himmel!”

As the one handling the radio, UFfw Wolff was able to receive messages from their Leutnant, their platoon commander. The message, Blaue Himmel, was a preset statement that was notified to every element for Unternehmen Donnerschlag which meant one thing: the enemy has surrendered. When they heard the two distinct words ringing out twice in succession, Otto and his squadmates were almost tempted to let their guards down as the anxiety from the situation all but disappeared, but the possibility that the order to surrender may not have propagated down to the enemy soldier kept their guns and attention at the ready.

Suddenly, the wailing siren that had been ringing out since they stepped foot in the city was abruptly stopped by a loud “kachak”, which then gave way to the audible crackle of a man’s voice.

“Citizens of the Great Federal Empire of Leifor. I, Deric Kalmar, regent to His Majesty, Magno V, am speaking to you from the Imperial Palace. Today, I impart to you the devastating news that–”

Unfortunately for the Gra Valkan soldiers, the man spoke entirely in Leiforian, a language that could not be any more alien to them. However, they could at least infer from the man’s low and deep tone that he must be informing the entire city of their government’s surrender, which was backed by the Blaue Himmel they had only just received. Just as luck would have it, they saw flutters of white banners being waved above the now destroyed barricade down the street, their naturally bright cloth contrasting against the dark, early evening cityscape. Below them were the figures of men facing them with their empty hands raised into the air; their expressions all depicted emotions ranging from exhaustion, fear, and sadness.

At long last, the Leiforian soldiers were surrendering.

Maintaining their steady advance, Peters’ squad moved with the intention of securing the surrendering Leiforians as prisoners of war as the unintelligible broadcast continued to repeat in the background.

Central Intelligence Directorate, Otaheit, Mu, 22:15

The ringing of phones and other communications devices, complemented by the sound of pens being stricken across the processed fibers of papers and the tick-tack of typewriters dominated the communications sector of the Central Intelligence Directorate, the intel-gathering and processing organ of the United Realms and Dominions of Mu. The scenery of office workers wearing bland, white garb with uniform, tasteless haircuts criss-crossing one another evokes a feeling of business, professionalism, and a general impression that these men knew what they were doing. While work hours tended to only last up until 1900, recent major developments have forced them to extend their hours, with the majority of intelligence officers still present on-site as late as 2200. Some of them had been here since noon, while some that had already retired for the day had been summoned back to assist in gathering more information on a particular event that had seemingly erupted out of nowhere: the Gra Valkan invasion of Leifor.

In one of the rooms in the sector divided from the rest by a mere glass panel were several of these capable minds browsing through a plethora of papers and documents scattered about rather messily on the top of a varnished, mahogany table. Inscribed on the glass door that swiveled inwards were the words, “smoking room.” However, for the time being, the recreational space provided by the smoking room has been set aside for discussion of matters relating to national security.

“Argh!!! Those demons! How in the devil’s wager did they manage to pull this invasion off without us knowing!”

Wearing glasses to aid his blurry vision, one of the officers still could not comprehend the details that he was reading in a report that was given to him. He was shell-shocked by the scale of the attack and how they were not able to catch a single whiff of these plans until it had already happened. Another officer perusing through the white paper reports offered his feelings on the matter.

“It’s that damned intelligence agreement with their Geheimdienst! They have an open window into how we do things!”

“It’s definitely frustrating. While there’s obviously some sentiment for Leifor among us, I don’t like being the one to point out that this is also an opportunity for us.”

Another officer spoke out as he exhaled smoke from the cigar he was biting onto. With attention firmly on him, he continued.

“The Gra Valkans have finally bared their fangs for us to see. If we do this right, we may get a full picture of their war machine–information that is vital for the development of our military as the balance of power shifts west. No need to say it bluntly, but those Mirish cocksuckers are no longer the big boogeyman we used to fear.”

Barging in on their conversation was the sound of the glass door turning inwards, its door hinges creaking at the force of the person pushing on it. The sound caught their attention, but the contour of the woman that walked in captured their gazes for good. Disrupting the uniformity of their white collared shirts and posh haircuts were the woman’s polka dot dress, blots of black scattered about the alluring profile of yellow-dyed cotton. Her crimson lipstick, made more attractive by the woman biting her lip, cornered the men’s gawking eyes. However, she wasn’t there to impress–she was there for work, for she was also under the Central Intelligence Directorate. With the careful, attractive swing of her left arm, she brought up to eye level a piece of paper, its yellow color complimenting her dress, and it got everyone to divert their gazes to it.

“Urgent message from our unit in Leiforia.”

Handing over the piece of paper to the closest man to her, the entrancing presence of the woman then left as abruptly as she had barged into their masculine abode. Once freed from the reverie, the men were able to return their sights and their brain power back to work. Without additional cues from the others, the man that had been handed the yellow piece of paper read out loud the simple two sentences inscribed in this “urgent message.”

Regent Deric Kalmar, in absence of His Excellency, President Sauren Axar, has formally announced their intention to the invading Imperial Gra Valkan Army the surrender of the federal government. More details to follow.

The utter shock of the combination of words found in these sentences betrayed the sense of simplicity and brevity that might have gone into its writing, but perhaps there was no other way to dutifully transmit such a distressing fact back to the headquarters at Otaheit. In spite of the lack of details inscribed in the message, the fact alone was more than enough; yet the Muish are known not to be content with just “enough.”

“What?! In less than 12 hours, the Leiforian government has announced its surrender?! Balderdash!”

“You’ve got to be joking! Although even if the federal government surrendered, the states themselves might not follow... But still!”

“Dear gods...”

Taking the yellow paper away to read for himself its contents, the other man could never adjust his glasses enough to dispel every inch of disbelief in his person. For every second he spent rereading the two simple sentences inscribed in the message, he and his companions would feel the gravity of the situation sink in. Leifor, a powerful regional power wielding significant economic and political leverage over the entirety of the continent and second only to Mu and the Holy Mirishial Empire, was forced to its knees in less than half a day by a nation that had only just appeared last year. The Muish, who’s been the closest in relations to the Gra Valkans, knew that they were undeniably progressive in technology and thinking. The opening of trade with the Gra Valkans has benefitted them so much, and their way of life has improved due to the introduction of various civilian technologies, infrastructure projects, and investments. However, if the Gra Valkans were indeed as powerful as they have shown and were not as hesitant to upset the balance of power, the rivalry between them and Mu was only going to deepen. Everyone in the room understood this, but now they have to make sure that the rest of the world does.

Groaning in exasperation at the coming paperwork, the man was nevertheless prompt in his duty.

“I’ll make sure this gets up to the Director. You lot! Get every bit of detail–be it the affair of the governor’s wife with the local constable or an entire division unloading from a Leiforian port–as long as it’s coming out of Leifor, compiled for analysis!... And maybe get logistics to divert our way a truckload of coffee beans...”

Embassy of the Holy Mirishial Empire, Otaheit, Mu, that same time

The dark, cloudy summer night yielded no space for either of the two moons as a low-pressure area swooped in to lay siege to the Muish capital. In spite of the endless cascade of rain, the city remained alight, its electrical street lighting denoting the maze of boulevards and avenues against the background of the dead, lightless cityscape. Four to five-story high buildings of brick red and plaster white flanked one of the countless cobblestone avenues of the sleepy city, a common layout for an unassuming visitor to the heart of the Realm. However, one of these buildings stood out with its grand, metallic edifices in place of traditional, Muish marble columns. The gigantic, elven heads cast from polished steel topped the edifices, their colorless eyes staring eternally down on bypassers nonchalantly walking past, blissfully unaware of their presence. Where there weren’t polished steel edifices and sculptures lie, a featureless wall painted striking royal blue–the color of the Holy Mirishial Empire. Flying proudly atop a flagpole hanging above the facade of the out-of-place building was the banner of Mirish; an unusual sight, for but a mere 20 years ago, the Realm and the Imperium were at war, and even today, sentiments of discomfort linger between the peoples of the two great powers. Above the building’s rather plain yet economic entrance, a departure from the proud display of power that the rest of the facade had to offer, was a metallic plaque. Engraved on it were words written in both the Muish and Imperial script: “Embassy of the Holy Mirishial Empire.”

Inside, an elven man wearing a long coat of navy blue was preparing to leave his office, a cocoon of white walls with imposing, metallic pillars standing proud at the corners. Exiting through a set of two doors decorated with relief impressions of Asheran gods, the elven man waved his hand over to a polished, grey plaque embedded into the wall next to the door. Upon sensing the elven man’s mana-imbued presence in the form of his hand, the plaque’s circuitry automatically chanted its recorded spell, which disengaged the artificial lighting keeping the office bright, returning it to its default state of darkness.

As he finally stepped foot in the long, spacious, white corridor, his attention was caught by the sight of another elf in an azure green coat running down the corridor towards him. The elven man’s face, already worn out from a long day of meetings in what he still considered to be an enemy city with those he considered to be the enemy, drooped further at the prospect of additional work coming at him. Once the other elf had reached him, still panting from his late evening jog across the embassy, he cut straight to the point.

“What is it?”

Still panting, the elf in azure green looked up at him and said with eyes fading in and out from exhaustion.

“Ambassador! The embassy... in Leiforia... called...”

“Yes. And?”

“Leifor... Regent Deric Kalmar... surrendered...”

Hearing the word “surrender,” the ambassador’s brow shifted upwards in confusion. As far as they were concerned, there had not been any major or minor wars involving the state of Leifor as of late. Furthermore, Mu, the only conceivable power capable of making Leifor submit, isn’t in a state of war either. His confusion was compounded by his and the empire’s general lack of awareness in the matter, his frustration riled up by the man’s lack of significant details.

“Surrender? Don’t play coy with me! If you wish to make your statement make sense, augment it with details!”

At long last, the elf was able to recover his breath, and so he was able to find his words.

“A crisis involving Gra Valkas and Paganda has erupted into full war, and Leifor honored its suzerainty obligations! However, the Gra Valkans have invaded, and now the federal government in Leiforia has surrendered!”

Despite his intellect as a diplomat, no amount of brainpower and sanity could have prepared him for the sheer amount of new information that was to come from this elf’s statement. His confusion, brought about by the inability to keep track of the extremely quick developments that were happening as he pondered, turned to frustration from the fact that they had not seen this coming at all. In the first place, he distrusted the Gra Valkans, who have been open with their incursions into the already established framework that was left behind as a result of the Great War. A newcomer that had appeared to the west seemingly out of nowhere possessed a lot of civilian technologies and chic products that the markets of the Central World, including the empire, have started to covet. With this brazen display of inexcusable hostility towards the fragile balance of power, he cursed the Gra Valkans. He then cursed the Imperial Intelligence Bureau for failing to keep them up to date on happenings involving Leifor and Gra Valkas.

His head aching from seething rage and furious impatience, he closed his eyes as he forced his voice not to be hostile.

“Get. Me. This. Embassy’s. Intelligence. Head.”

“But ambassador! He’s already retired for the night!”

His anger gushed forth as his self-control collapsed altogether.

“NOW!!!”

Freaked out by the ambassador’s enraged yell, the elven embassy staff ran off in the other direction without extra statements to do as he was told to.

Cent. Calendar 10/06/1639, Ragna, Gra Valkas Empire

“I’m here to extend my formal letter of resignation.”

Cielia said in a flat, monotonous voice as she plainly reached out her right arm to place a white, sealed envelope on the desk of the man that she was talking to. Her eyes and face echoed her utter fatigue from dealing with the crisis with Paganda, her irises, darker and more dead than usual, cried out in unison, “I am tired of this Blödsinn.”

“B-B-But why?!”

Leaning back in his comfortable, reclining office chair, the man, her superior Gesta, could not be any more detached from the pain that Cielia had to go through, yet his bewildered face and shocked response threatened to deceive Cielia that he was concerned for her. Unfazed by her superior’s lackluster facade, Cielia responded, her expression disgusted as ever.

“I don’t tolerate your administration of this ministry, especially when it comes to treating the empire’s esteemed diplomats as mere... pawns.”

Straightforward was part of her character, and so she played it to the letter. The sharpness of her words and tone sliced right through Gesta’s facade, hitting straight home to his core. Gesta’s concerned expression disappeared entirely from his aged face as he fixed his posture to lean forward, feeling attacked.

“And?”

Disgusted as she may be by Gesta’s now frank remark, her facial mannerisms nor bodily disposition reflected none of it. Instead, she chose to show a different emotion.

“Bypassing my authority to directly assign my subordinates on a questionable errand to the Kingdom of Paganda? Despite knowing full well the risks of doing so given the character of the people you chose for the mission?!”

Following her rising tone, Cielia’s gaze and facial muscles now reflected her rage. In spite of the values of diplomatic restraint instilled into her as a bonafide diplomat, she did not hold back in her words as she was emboldened by the liberation from her obligations following her resignation.

“As coarse as he may be, Dallas does not deserve to be subject to torture! Himmels, despite his shortcomings as a communicator, did not deserve being food-poisoned! And Ingrid...”

She paused, almost revolting in the utter repugnance of remembering what had happened to her subordinate, who was now in a hospital dealing with mental and physical trauma brought about by sexual abuse, which she did not feel was necessary to be mentioned. While she detested the Pagandans that had done this to her, her most obvious target of animosity was the individual that had sent her in the first place.

“How could you remain so nonchalant about the danger that you have put your employees in!? How dare you be dismissive of their suffering!”

Cielia no longer wished to be affiliated with a man she considered to be the pinnacle of evil. Fully content with leaving the discussion where it was, Cielia broke free of her shackles as she turned and walked away. This was to be the last time she’d work in an environment that encourages toxicity and misogyny. She detested it all–the harassment, the cutthroat competition, the questionable ethics, the dead seriousness of the diplomatic arena. She longed to return to the arts, an escape into a medium that allowed her to openly deal with the subtleties and dynamics of human emotion, far removed from the game state actors played that toyed with livelihoods and people.

The door was there. She was going to be free.

However, a strong, unrelenting force pulled her away from the door. Rather, it was more fitting to say that the door was pulled away from her. The disappointing sensation of so close yet so far was replaced by abhorrence when Cielia realized that she could feel that strong, unrelenting force physically tugging at her left arm. Without turning back to ascertain what was this force preventing her from her exit, Cielia exhaustedly mustered the energy to say two words: “Let go.”

Her cry, reflecting her emotions which echoed her desire to be free, was ignored by Gesta, who was holding her hostage in his office by her left arm. Like a predator clamping onto its prey that was struggling for a second chance at life, Gesta pulled her in close with his masculine strength. Landing on the rough, muscular build of her superior, Cielia froze in complete fear of the man that she was just lashing out against, worried of what the now unhinged Gesta could do to her. Despite her determination to be free, she was too exhausted and weak to break away from Gesta’s iron grip, and so she simply quivered in terror. Like a cheetah breathing down its meal, Gesta whispered to Cielia’s trembling right ear.

“You are one feisty brat, Frau Oudwin.”

Gesta exhaled down the now sensitive ear of Cielia, who was now on the verge of tears after feeling the man’s warm, humid breath trickling down her most sensitive parts.

“Employees like you are only as good as the contracts you’ve signed–legally binding documents that explicitly command you to do as I say for as long as I’m here.”

A short pause. The last moment before the cheetah bites down on its meal, ending any hopes of it being ever free.

“Your employment here serves as insurance, my darling. Lest you want something to happen to your dear Papa...”

Cielia’s entire person twitched at the mention of her Papa, her dearest father, whose support she strives to meet ends day and night for. While she might lose the actual insurance benefits from being in the ministry by resigning, she was going to find work that had the same amount of benefits anyway. However, with the emergence of this new threat to her father, which felt all too real given Gesta’s power to move people, Cielia had her hands tied. There was no way she could hope to protect her father from Gesta if she pursued the option to bail out. Faced with no other alternative, Cielia hung her head low in resignation to Gesta’s will. Her expression, what was just a while ago so defiant and so cocksure of victory, had changed to that of a meek woman who’s renounced her worldly commitments, an angel whose wings were forcibly clipped.

“Wunderbar. Good girl.”