Emmanuel's gaze remained fixed through the lens of his telescope, locked onto the high tower.
A heavy silence had descended upon the spire.
Around the upper reaches of the structure, the air itself was warping.
It wasn't wind; it was the atmosphere itself distorting. It shivered with a microscopic vibration, resembling the surface of a deep ocean just before a transparent swell erupts outward.
Light did not scatter. Sound did not escape. Rather, it felt as if all sound was being vacuumed into a hollow void.
The Gaulish Army caster standing beside him spoke in a low, trembling voice.
"The measurements... they are impossible to calibrate."
Emmanuel did not pull his eye away from the telescope.
"Why?"
The caster hesitated, his lips parting and then freezing for a moment.
Finally, he forced the words out.
"It is not... a convergence of energy."
"What?"
"It is the sea... rushing in."
Emmanuel's brow twitched minutely.
It wasn't because he didn't understand, but rather a visceral instinct trying to reject the comprehension.
A sea? There was no sea here. What nonsense was this?
But the caster could no longer even look at the tower; he bowed his head toward the empty air. In the face of a power that could be felt even with eyes clamped shut, sight was a useless faculty.
"The Witch King's Arts... like a torrential tide..."
He added with a fractured voice.
"It cannot be stopped."
Stopped.
The word slithered down Emmanuel's neck. A cold sweat traced a path down his spine.
If it couldn't be stopped, they had to evade.
If they were to evade, they needed distance.
To gain distance, they needed time.
Emmanuel bit his lip. He tasted iron. He had clamped his jaw so hard the skin had broken.
He turned and bellowed.
"All units! Prepare to fall back!"
An army flushed with the heat of a fresh victory is slow to react to an order to retreat. A body that has been surging forward needs a justification to suddenly move backward. But there was no time for explanations.
Emmanuel chose speed over reason.
"Artillery, abandon the guns! Save the horses and wagons! Cavalry to the flanks! Infantry—"
His command was severed mid-air.
The atmosphere changed.
The air, which had been growing increasingly heavy, suddenly transmuted into absolute pressure.
The moment he inhaled, his lungs felt as though they were being crushed by an invisible hand. His chest felt like it was collapsing from the inside. There was the distinct sensation of a palm pressing violently against his heart, though there was nothing there.
The horses were the first to react. Beasts have an instinct for dread that precedes human intellect.
A horse screamed. It wasn't the whinny Emmanuel knew. It was a long, agonized sound that seemed to tear the animal's throat—the same sound a horse makes when it is run through by a spear in its final death throes.
The horses reared, hooves thrashing wildly. A soldier holding a rein was dragged and fell, his hand unable to let go as he clawed at the earth. Dirt packed under his fingernails.
And then—
The first wave arrived.
The Witch King's Arts did not descend like a conflagration. It did not strike like a bolt of lightning. There was no sensation of something being launched or detonated.
It simply surged.
Over the vanguard, where infantrymen had been constructing fortifications after driving off the Leithanien remnants, 'something' passed over them like a transparent wall falling forward.
No smoke or shrapnel remained in its wake. Not even a human scream was left behind.
They simply ceased to exist.
It wasn't just one person. Entire ranks, entire phalanxes, were 'effaced.' The spears, crossbows, and shields that had been held moments ago shimmered once in the air, and in the next heartbeat, they too vanished.
It was as if someone had taken an eraser to the battlefield and rubbed it clean. Nothing remained but the mud.
Someone screamed, "What the fuck—!"
But the sentence never finished. The speaker was flattened and vanished on the spot. Like sand washed away by a tide, he was swept out of existence.
Emmanuel instinctively tried to step forward, but stopped. The ground ahead was no longer a battlefield. It was an abyss.
His mind raced through a desperate calculus.
If it is a wave, there is a direction. If it is a wave, there are troughs and crests. If it is a wave, there must be a place to take cover. If it is a wave, there must be a breakwater.
"Defensive Arts!" he roared at the casters.
"Barriers! Overlap them! As wide as possible! Protect the entire line!"
The casters sprang into action. Several extended their hands simultaneously, touching the earth and tracing sigils in the air. A defensive field flared into being.
A translucent shroud hung in the air. For a fleeting moment, Emmanuel felt a spark of hope. Yes. We have barriers. A barrier can stop anything.
Then the second wave struck the barrier.
The barrier didn't shatter. It submerged.
The shroud wasn't torn or broken; it was simply 'drowned' as if a massive deluge had swept over a thin piece of paper. The moment it was submerged, the casters' faces went rigid.
They poured more power in. Their shoulders shook, and veins bulged on the backs of their hands.
"More—!" one caster gritted through his teeth.
"We can't...!"
That too was the end. He, standing behind the barrier, and the two beside him vanished in the same instant. The remaining caster clutched at the empty air, hands outstretched. Nothing caught his fingertips. The space where the barrier had been was now a void.
Emmanuel inhaled sharply. The taste of copper filled his mouth.
He shouted, "Disperse! Open the gaps! Every man for himself, retreat! Drop your weapons! Survive if you can—!"
Just then, a messenger ran toward him. The messenger's face was deathly pale. His lips were blue. In his hand, he still clutched a bundle of telegrams, the paper soaked through. It was impossible to tell if it was sweat or tears.
"Marshal! From the rear—!"
From the rear.
The words reached him with an eerie delay. Emmanuel looked behind him. The rear... was also being erased.
"The rear—!" the messenger screamed. "There is no rear—!"
The messenger vanished. Not even the bundle of papers hit the ground. The reports, the orders, the telegrams—all gone with him.
Emmanuel finally understood. This was not an enemy. This was a Catastrophe.
There was only one thing left for him to do: 'comprehension.' If one understands, one can adapt. If one understands, one can change direction. If one understands, lives can be saved.
He desperately looked back at the high tower. He raised his telescope. His hands shook. He forced the tremor down.
But beyond the lens, the top of the tower remained silent. Too silent. Quietly, an overwhelming power gathered and سپس spilled forth.
It was a tide. A rhythmic pressure like oceanic waves. A transparent wall where no crest or trough was visible. That wall pushed through the battlefield layer by layer, effacing it.
Some soldiers fled. They wept as they ran. Some even had faces that looked like they were laughing while they cried. Some fell to their knees. They slammed their heads into the dirt.
"Oh Gods—!"
Others clung to whatever was near. They grabbed the arms of the person next to them and refused to let go. Their fingers turned white. Their nails dug into the flesh of their comrades. Blood seeped out.
"Don't let go! Don't let go!"
"Mother...!"
"Father...!"
Cries for parents erupted across the battlefield. Amidst the carnage, Emmanuel struggled. He summoned every scrap of tactical knowledge he had ever learned.
But it was futile. No word or concept held any meaning in the face of this phenomenon.
Then the third wave came.
This wave devoured half the battlefield in a single gulp. Not even the cavalry had time to flee. As the horses galloped, both mount and rider were expunged. The sound of hooves striking the earth echoed in the air for a moment before it too was cut off.
Emmanuel felt a genuine, soul-deep terror for the first time. The fear rose from his gut—a type of dread he had never encountered on any field of war. It wasn't the fear of being encircled, nor the fear of having his retreat cut off.
It was a fear of existence itself.
Why am I here? Why am I fighting? Why should I live?
Those questions flooded his mind all at once. Like a wave.
He tried to take a deep breath. No air came. The atmosphere was already submerged in the tide. Finally, in a voice like boiling tar, he gave one last cry.
"Survive!"
It was both a command and a prayer. A word he hoped would reach someone. But the words crumbled in the air. The atmosphere could no longer carry sound.
Emmanuel looked at the tower. He no longer had his telescope. He didn't know if he had dropped it or if it had vanished along with his hands.
The tower was still there. The city was untouched. The walls remained.
Emmanuel tried to take a step back but faltered. He didn't know where 'back' was. Direction had lost its meaning.
Finally, he collapsed. Not with the face of a general, but with the face of a man. His lips trembled. His eyes grew hot. He didn't want to cry, but even the thought that he shouldn't cry no longer held weight.
He whispered, "Mother."
That word was strangely clear.
And then the final wave swept over him.
Marshal Emmanuel and the Gaulish 3rd Legion were annihilated. Nothing remained on the battlefield but the wind.
***************************
The Red Square in Birmingham was even wider than I remembered.
Eleven years ago, I stood upon this podium and shouted until my voice went hoarse. Back then, I believed my words would change the world, and to be honest, I endured on that belief alone. And that resolve remains the same today.
Though, granted, I am much more tired and drained now than I was then.
The square was overflowing with people. Countless union banners surged and fluttered like a colorful sea in the wind. Citizens waved their arms, journalists hoisted their cameras, and generals stood in rigid, disciplined lines watching me. The members of the Supreme Soviet and the People's Commissars watched in that same direction. The collective weight of those gazes felt enough to crush a man where he stood.
I whispered to myself.
Alright, here we go again.
As I stepped toward the podium, the murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar before settling into a hush. Silence took the square. The wind swept across the stones, tugging at the hem of my greatcoat.
I stood at the podium.
"Testing."
The microphone let out a soft ring.
"Comrades."
As my first word echoed across the square, a cheer erupted. It felt like a physical force pushing against my back. It didn't feel half bad.
"Today, we have secured a victory on the Eastern Front."
Thunderous applause followed. The rhythmic clicks of the press cameras mingled with the clapping. The generals couldn't hide their smiles. Among the union representatives, someone raised both fists and hollered. Even the corners of my mouth twitched upward. Honestly, if you don't smile at a moment like this, you're a machine, not a man.
But I quickly pressed down the next sentence with gravitas.
"However, Comrades, a single victory does not end a war."
The faces in the crowd hardened once more. It was the moment expectation turned into tension. I needed that gap.
"The imperialists of Gaul, the militarists of Gaul, do not know how to admit defeat. They have learned how to tread on foreign soil as if it were their own. They have learned to seize the fruits of others' labor as if it were their birthright. What they have cultivated is not tradition, but plunder."
My voice grew sharper, more serrated. I felt something rising within me.
"Even now, they are testing us. They seek to pillage our factories, our railways, our bread, and our children."
I raised my hand, pointing toward the edge of the square.
"They expect us to be cowering in fear, bowing our heads, and returning to the lives of serfs. They want us to live by borrowing liberty from our oppressors, borrowing our labor, and borrowing our very future!"
I shook my head.
"But we do not borrow. We create, we build, and we defend!"
At the provisional headquarters in the East, another set of documents was being unfurled.
The tent was double-layered to keep out the biting wind, but the chill still found its way through the seams. Every time the lantern flickered, the faces of those present seemed to fracture for a fleeting second.
Amfielice stood perfectly straight. Her uniform was pristine despite the dust of the campaign, her buttons polished, her gloves looking as if they were fresh from the tailor. An officer in front of her read the scroll. His voice was dry. That dryness only added weight to the ceremony.
"For distinguished service in the battle near Rose Farm on the Eastern Front, in dealing a decisive blow to the enemy's vanguard and Originium artillery, for minimizing friendly casualties, and for stabilizing the line through coordination with the International Brigades—this achievement is formally recognized."
Amfielice drew an even breath. A page was turned.
"In accordance with this, Amfielice Windermere is hereby promoted by two ranks."
Her eyes narrowed minutely. Whether it was surprise or the process of acceptance, a casual observer would have found it difficult to tell.
"Furthermore, she is appointed Commander of the Eastern Army Group."
And the final line.
"She is hereby named Marshal of the Soviet Union (Маршал Советского Союза)."
At that moment, the air in the tent seemed to freeze. Lieutenant Colonel Kent stood at the back. He didn't repeat the words, nor did he offer a courtesy cough. He merely watched Amfielice's shoulders. From his position, closer than any other, it felt as though he was pouring his support into her.
Amfielice, meeting that expectation, took a single step forward. Before her lay the medal. A red ribbon, cold metal. Light in weight, yet heavy with significance.
The presiding officer handed it to her. Amfielice accepted it with both hands. Her fingertips reacted briefly to the coldness of the metal. To hide that reaction, she tightened her grip. The weight didn't get any lighter. If anything, it became heavier.
I raised my voice even higher.
"Comrades, we know the truth. The imperialists of Gaul calculate our lives as expenses on a ledger. Their militarists view our cities as mere dots on a map to be targeted, seeking to destroy our very civilization."
"But we are not numbers on a ledger! We are human beings! We are free men and women!"
I paused to catch my breath, then projected even louder.
"We are workers! We are peasants! We are citizens! We are the backbone of this nation! We are its blood! We are its breath!"
The square boiled with fervor. Hands shot into the air. Someone threw their cap; someone else wiped away tears.
"They brought us their arrogant verdicts! Therefore, we shall return to them the righteous judgment of the people!"
I slammed my fist onto the podium. It was an uncalculated movement. My palm stung, but the pain only sharpened my mind.
"To the imperialists and militarists of Gaul, we declare: We shall bury you!"
A roar of cheers exploded. Everyone screamed for the People's Tribunal.
I continued.
"They try to force fear upon us. But we did not build this nation on fear! We built this nation under the banner of justice! We built it with solidarity and labor! Will you let them take it from you?"
""No! No!"" the crowd thundered.
I scanned the square once more. Citizens, journalists, generals, committee members, People's Commissars. There were faces I had seen eleven years ago and faces I saw now. Though the faces changed, the eyes were of the same breed. They were eyes that had decided to fight.
"I declare! In this Great Patriotic War that will determine the fate of our socialist motherland, in this war of liberation for all mankind, we shall overcome that band of marauders! Victory shall be ours!"
The commission papers passed into Amfielice's hands. She looked down at them once, not to read the ink, but to gauge their weight. Then she looked up.
She did not say words like 'thank you.' On this front, such words do not last long. Instead, she spoke with brevity and precision.
"I shall carry out the order faithfully."
*********************
And thus, the offensive of the Southern Group of Armies began.