"Comrade Chairman, this way."
"Thank you."
As I opened the door to the operations room, the familiar cacophony of war-time administration struck my ears.
The scratch of pencils against paper, the low-voiced reports of signalmen, and the sharp, curt oaths of exhausted officers.
On the map, the Southern Fortification Line was still drawn with thick, defiant strokes, while the eastern border was cluttered with more markers than there had been the previous night.
International Brigades, Inner Ministry troops, the Eastern Army Group, local defense militias, armed trade unions, and railway security details.
A dizzying array of symbols representing numerous units, paramilitaries, and revolutionary militias were scattered across the parchment.
While I studied those marks, Ivanov turned his head toward me.
"Comrade Chairman, we have received an additional request from the Eastern Army Group. They are asking to move the deployment of the Caster battalions forward. Furthermore, the 101st Division has begun moving into the advance blocking positions as of early this morning."
I nodded, though my eyes remained glued to the map.
The eastern border weighed heavily on my mind.
The Southern Fortification Line looked solid enough to be described as impregnable; there was little need to scrutinize it further.
After all, a fortress is rarely breached from the front—it is bypassed and encircled. That was why we had to watch the east with absolute vigilance.
I pressed my finger against the railway junctions along the eastern border.
Using those points as anchors, I traced the cities: industrial belts, ammunition depots, field hospitals, and logistics bases.
Should these be breached once, the entire Eastern Army would be placed in a state of terminal peril.
"Comrade Ivanov."
"Yes, Comrade Chairman."
"I am curious if the 101st Division has Blocking Detachments attached to its organization."
Ivanov's expression stiffened slightly.
"They exist on paper. However, as per your previous directives, Comrade Chairman, they are only to be deployed as a measure of absolute last resort."
I let out a short, weary breath.
"I would prefer we never use them, but if the final hour comes, use them we must."
Frank spoke up from my side, flipping through a dossier.
"Comrade Chairman, this is a request from the Propaganda Bureau. They say they must receive your speech regarding the eastern defense by this evening."
I almost let out a cynical laugh.
A speech.
Normally, I would have written something in a polite yet firm tone, criticizing the enemy's expansionism.
But today, I felt compelled to write something else.
"I will write the speech. However... I wish to handle it differently this time."
Frank arched an eyebrow.
"Differently, how?"
Without looking away from the map, I spoke. "I will disparage Gaul so thoroughly that it borders on open insult. I want to provoke them."
Ivanov asked in a low voice, "Comrade Chairman, that might only make Gaul descend upon us sooner."
I nodded.
"Precisely. My intention is to let them charge. A rampaging bull acting on raw impulse is far easier to slaughter than a calculated enemy acting with reason."
Then, I snapped my fingers and called for Feliksa.
"When does the Eastern Army Group headquarters meeting commence?"
Feliksa responded instantly.
"Lieutenant General Amfielice should have arrived by now. I shall prepare the telephone connection."
"No, that won't be necessary. I will receive the report once the results are finalized."
I sat down in the chair.
Resting my weight there, my mind finally felt a semblance of peace.
************************************
As was always the case, the Union's military councils were filled with an odd sort of vitality.
Some would call it disorder; others would call it freedom.
Amfielice stood before the map.
She never used grand gestures when pointing at the board.
A few subtle movements were enough to command the room's undivided attention.
Whether this was a habit born of an officer's pursuit of efficiency or the lingering remnants of Victorian aristocratic etiquette, few could say for certain.
"Currently, the Gallic forces are maintaining their rate of advance through the western plains of Leithanien. They move by opening corridors and passing through, rather than occupying castles and towns. In other words, they are piercing through major strongpoints and bypassing everything else."
The Eastern Army Group's Chief of Staff questioned immediately.
"Comrade Lieutenant General, why do you believe they are minimizing occupation? Their rear will be dangerously insecure without administrative order in the seized territories."
Amfielice replied, "Because it does not matter if their rear is insecure. What they require is not territory, but time. To them, a strategic victory in the war takes precedence over tactical victories in every individual skirmish."
Another general interjected with a gruff voice.
"I truly cannot understand why they are being so parsimonious with time. They have devoured Victoria; they should be basking in the momentum of triumph."
Amfielice paused for a moment before answering.
"They are spending that momentum on the combat itself. They are forcing their soldiers to sprint down the most reckless paths while morale is at its zenith."
One general crossed his arms.
"Are you suggesting we should also take reckless risks?"
"I am not suggesting we be reckless," Amfielice countered smoothly.
"I am suggesting we predict where their recklessness will manifest. Our eastern border is not a completed defensive network like the Southern Fortification Line. Especially this sector."
She pointed to a stretch of the eastern border where the railways met the open plains. The land was vast, the roads were many, and there was nowhere to hide. It was a land perfectly suited for the swiftest army to dominate.
The Commander of the Eastern Army Group asked a question. He spoke the least in the war room, but whenever he did, silence followed.
"Where do you plan to station the 101st Division?"
Amfielice answered, "At the advance interception line. One layer behind the border. I have ordered them to construct temporary fortifications where the forest meets the river. Among the Red Army of Workers and Peasants, the 101st has a high ratio of field artillery. They are well-suited for a war of attrition and delay."
Some nodded in support; others immediately voiced their opposition.
"A delaying action is well and good. But if you place the 101st so far forward, do you not risk them being completely encircled?"
"Even if they are encircled, our primary objective is to buy time."
"Is it not a cold-blooded thing to throw away an entire division just to buy hours?"
"There is no alternative. If the eastern industrial zones are breached, this war becomes a terminal entanglement."
"Then at least deploy more railway security forces to the front."
"The railway security details exist to protect the rails and demolish them in an emergency. If you use them here, they will melt away like cubes of sugar in boiling tea."
Arguments flew back and forth.
No one shouted for order or silence.
The Union's headquarters was a place where debates resembled brawls, and that was considered healthy.
When faces turned red with fervor, it was a source of collective reassurance. For when debate vanishes, democracy enters its death throes.
Silence signifies that someone has already monopolized the truth.
Amfielice remained steady within the tide of words.
Her resolve was not stubbornness; she absorbed every question, answered with hard data, acknowledged every grim possibility, and yet never let the final conclusion slip from her grasp.
"I am aware of the danger in placing the 101st in the vanguard," she said.
"Therefore, we must meticulously lay out their paths of retreat. Plans for blowing the railway bridges, coordinates for secondary positions, field hospital locations, ammunition distribution—all of it must be executed to perfection. A delaying action is not a simple fight; it is engineering. Without a prepared rear, it becomes a slaughterhouse for our own men."
The Commander nodded.
"The International Brigades and Inner Ministry troops are moving east, and mobilization decrees are being enacted across the Union. Until they arrive, the 101st must hold—even if only for a little while."
Amfielice lowered her eyes momentarily, then spoke.
"They will hold."
Those words cast a momentary stillness over the war room.
'Holding' became the heaviest word in the room.
It was not a statement of possibility, but a declaration of necessity.
A general asked quietly, "Lieutenant General... is there any other possibility? Is there no chance Gaul will halt their advance here?"
Amfielice shook her head.
"Gaul will not stop. They cannot stop. They have no intention of stopping."
Her voice was not harsh, but it was laden with conviction.
Leithanien was already in flames, and the Gallic legions were already surging across the plains. Reality was doing the work of proving her conviction true.
The Commander issued the final verdict.
"Very well. Let the 101st Division prepare for a delaying action at the advance interception line. They shall be granted priority for artillery shells. Station the Caster company behind the 101st, but leave the decision for direct front-line deployment to the Division Commander's discretion. The International Brigades will be integrated into the second defensive line upon arrival. The Inner Ministry will focus on protecting railway and communication facilities, while armed trade unions and local militias will focus on holding their local strongpoints. We must buy time."
****************************
A short distance west from the eastern border lay a nameless junction of forest and stream.
The 101st Division had spent the night digging into the earth, raising a labyrinth of trenches.
Division Commander Evgeny Romanov walked the length of the fortifications, a map gripped in his hand.
As he walked, he verified the essentials: the spacing between artillery pits, the covers for the ammunition dumps, the lines of sight from the observation posts, and the retreat paths.
An adjutant approached him.
"Comrade Division Commander, a report from the scouts. The Gallic vanguard is massing in the plains outside the woods. Mixed cavalry and infantry. Numerous Casters. Originium cannons are also sighted."
Romanov nodded. "The range?"
"Within reach of our field artillery. However, there is a possibility their cannons might strike us first."
Romanov stared beyond the trees for a long time.
The dawn light was faint through the leaves.
Dawn was a poor time for a battle. It was the hour when eyes were heavy, hearts were unready, and fear spread like a contagion.
He turned to the adjutant.
"Tell the men: we are not here today with the expectation of victory."
The adjutant faltered for a second. The phrase 'no expectation of victory' sounded like a declaration of defeat.
To prevent such a thought from taking root, Romanov continued.
"Today, we are here to buy time for the Union. When the time is right, the International Brigades, the Inner Ministry, the reserves—everyone will arrive. Tell them that until that time comes, we must fight here until the very last moment."
The adjutant bowed his head. "As you command."
Romanov then summoned the commander of the Blocking Detachments.
At the mention of 'Blocking Detachments,' the faces of nearby soldiers went taut. During the previous war, detachments operated by some radical Infantry Soviets had carried rumors more terrifying than the enemy's guns.
However, Romanov intended to use them differently.
"You will not stand behind the soldiers today."
The commander of the detachment widened his eyes. "Comrade Division Commander? What do you mean...?"
"Stand at the front," Romanov said.
"What matters to us is how many of our people we can safely evacuate. When our comrades must withdraw, do not fire upon your own from behind. Instead, face the enemy at the front."
The commander was silent for a long time before offering a short reply.
"The order shall be obeyed."
As the detachment commander was a fervent Party member, he perhaps felt that dying on this front was a stroke of good fortune.
Then, it happened.
— Thud, thud, thud.
A low, resonant sound echoed from beyond the forest. It was hard to discern if it was the beating of drums, the blowing of horns, or some other rhythmic noise produced by men.
Only one thing was certain: it was the sound of an army.
The sound of thousands of feet and breaths synchronizing into a single, terrifying rhythm.
An observer screamed.
"Incoming!"
Romanov raised his hand.
"Artillery. Ready."
The field artillery moved like a living beast taking a breath.
The barrels were raised, shells were loaded, and sights were calibrated.
The first target was not the 'vanguard.'
Romanov knew. If you strike the head, the tail keeps pushing forward. But if you strike the rear, the head stops.
"Target the enemy artillery in the rear."
An artillery officer looked up momentarily. "Comrade Division Commander, I see the batteries. Originium cannons."
"I am aware," Romanov said calmly.
"Before those cannons can tear us apart, our guns will bind their feet. Fire!"
A thunderous roar erupted.
The forest shook.
Birds took flight in a frantic cloud.
The first shells bloomed like lethal flowers at the edge of the plains.
Dust and flame geysered after the explosions, momentarily severing the marching columns behind them.
Second and third volleys followed. These were even more precise. Wagons were overturned, horses screamed, and infantry ranks were thrown into chaos.
Romanov gestured to his riflemen.
"Do not fire yet! Conserve your ammunition until the enemy is close!"
The soldiers nodded. Some were pale with fear; others gritted their teeth. All of them understood the same truth.
Today's fight was not for glory, but for sacrifice.
Beyond the plains, the Gallic forces fully revealed themselves.
Blue coats. Golden trimmings. Disciplined ranks. And at their front, warriors clad in shields and armor marched slowly forward.
They held bows and crossbows in their hands.
And behind those bows, Casters harboring a sinister red light were visible.
The air rippled with the distortion of Arts.
An observer swallowed hard and spoke. "Comrade Division Commander... the number of their Casters... it far exceeds ours."
Romanov did not smile.
It was not the time for it, and the disparity was a fact he had already accepted.
Instead of smiling, he raised his hand.
"Fire."
The volley from the 101st Division erupted simultaneously from the forest's edge.
The advantage of the rifle was simple: it was fast, long-reaching, and accurate. The vanguard warriors of Gaul fell one by one.
Even with armor, the rifle bullets found the gaps.
It was a speed no shield could hope to parry.
The Gallic forces faltered for a heartbeat.
Their warriors wavered before this unfamiliar power known as the service rifle.
Romanov did not miss the moment.
"Artillery, continue firing! Tear them apart before they can reform their formation!"
Shells rained down once more.
The plains were gouged, and the Gallic ranks buckled within those fissures.
The opening skirmish was a success.
But a war never concludes with the opening skirmish alone.
The Gallic Casters stepped forward.
The moment they raised their hands, the atmosphere shifted.
The wind was pulled in one direction.
And then, flames erupted along the forest edge.
It felt as though the very air was catching fire.
"Take cover!" someone screamed.
The explosion followed.
The Gallic Originium artillery roared.
One of the division's artillery pits was lifted entirely from the earth, falling back as a horrific slurry of soil, men, and mangled iron.
The artillery officer vanished, torn to pieces.
Barrels were bent into scrap.
Ammunition dumps went up in flames.
Romanov gritted his teeth. "Reposition the guns! Batteries Two and Three, fire in place of Battery One!"
A signalman came running. "Comrade Division Commander, they are attempting a breakthrough on the left! Gallic cavalry is circling around the flank!"
Romanov judged instantly. "Left-wing riflemen, change firing angle! Target the horses! Bring down the horses first!"
A torrent of lead poured out.
Horses tumbled.
Cavalrymen rolled across the dirt.
A few tried to stand again, only for shells to fall upon them.
The front was drenched in blood.
And yet, the Gauls did not stop.
They marched forward, stepping over their fallen comrades.
Several days passed in this manner.
The delaying action was a success.
But the battle was being lost.
Day by day, battalion-sized elements vanished from Romanov's grasp. Most of the once-numerous field artillery pieces had been erased by Gallic counter-battery fire.
The adjutant approached Romanov and spoke in a low tone.
"Comrade Division Commander, the retreat path is now in danger. The speed at which Gaul is bypassing us is faster than anticipated. If we do not withdraw now, we will be encircled."
Romanov looked beyond the woods.
The hour he had been waiting for—the arrival of reinforcements—had not yet come.
But the chips he had to play were already nearly exhausted.
In the end, he had to make the decision.
"We retreat."
The adjutant exhaled in relief. "I shall disseminate the order."
Romanov added, "However, the entire division will not pull out at once. Start with the 1st Regiment, which has taken the heaviest casualties. The remaining artillery will hold until the end. The Blocking Detachments will remain with me."
The adjutant's eyes shook. "Comrade Division Commander, then..."
Romanov smiled, just briefly.
With a look in his eyes as if he were staring at some distant horizon, he smiled at his adjutant.
"Someone must guard the rear and take responsibility. If no one takes that weight, can our comrades retreat in one piece?"
Thus, the order to retreat spread.
The soldiers moved. The wounded were placed on stretchers. Ammunition crates were dragged. Artillery barrels were dismantled.
The men headed for the rear.
Romanov remained.
He remained with the Blocking Detachments and the remaining volunteer riflemen.
He became the shield that guarded the retreat.
He already knew the end that awaited him.
The soldiers knew it too.
Yet they hardened their resolve.
Everything was for everyone.
The Gallic forces advanced once more.
This time, the enemy was closer.
A rain of arrows and crossbow bolts fell upon them.
Riflemen collapsed.
But the remnants of the 101st Division did not stop; they fired their rifles at the approaching mass. When the ammunition ran out, they drew their bayonets.
When bayonets snapped, they drew their sabers.
When sabers broke, they threw stones.
"Kill them all!"
"Long live Liberty! Long live Columbia!"
"How do the Infected's bayonets taste, you bastards?!"
"Aargh! Mother!! My leg!!"
The roar of cannons, the screams, the flames, the smell of scorched earth.
And in the midst of it all, Romanov felt an uncanny stillness.
He asked the signalman, "The retreat columns?"
The signalman, with a bloody face, grinned. "They made it out, Comrade Division Commander. They are moving to the secondary positions."
Romanov nodded. "Good."
At that moment, a Gallic Caster raised their hand once more.
A sound like the sky tearing apart filled the air.
Flames licked across what was once a forest, now leveled into a wasteland. Several men of the Blocking Detachment screamed within the fire.
Romanov did not close his eyes even at those screams.
He looked around him for the last time.
There were few living faces left.
Those remaining were so caked in blood and dust they looked like strangers. Yet, their eyes were the same.
Everyone carried a resolution within their fear, and fear within their resolution.
Yet no one turned back.
Romanov spoke softly. "You all did well."
Someone spoke with a sob in their voice, "Comrade Division Commander, you must leave with us..."
Romanov shook his head.
"I am the one responsible. You, get out of here."
He drew a sword from his hip.
It was the blade he had used to cut down corrupt nobles and their guards before fleeing to the Union a decade ago.
Though the memories were ten years old and his skills had surely dulled, it would at least buy a few more minutes for the handful of his surviving men to escape.
Romanov looked across the river one last time, in the direction where the retreating regiments had vanished.
Somewhere out there, the secondary positions would have been constructed while they held the line. Somewhere there, many more of their comrades would arrive.
Because of that, victory would be guaranteed.
...By their sacrifice.
He laughed. He truly laughed.
And that laughter looked not like the madness of a failure, but like the joy of a man who had succeeded.
Dozens of Gallic soldiers surrounded him with spears leveled and bows drawn.
But he did not falter.
He pointed his sword and bellowed.
"THEY SHALL NOT PASS!"
Thus did the free man, Evgeny Romanov, charge into the Gallic host.
It had been one week since two hundred thousand Gallic soldiers first crossed the border.