Amfielice stepped out of the olive-drab Wallace Jeep.
The mud splattered across the chassis from the relentless drive was still wet, clinging to the metal like gangrenous flesh.
Water pooled thinly in every rut carved by the tires, and the wind bit at the surface, sending ripples dancing across the murky puddles.
The wind blowing up the hill was low and freezing, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant sulfur.
Amfielice tucked her silver hair, loosened by the gale, behind her ear and raised her binoculars.
In the far distance, a column of blue uniforms was on the move.
Their intervals were precise; their banners were unfurled, snapping defiantly in the wind.
A mounted officer led the vanguard, his horse maintaining a leisurely, arrogant gait.
It was a pace that suggested they already considered this land their sovereign territory.
As she clicked her tongue at the sight, Lieutenant Colonel Kent reported from beside her.
"Seven kilometers out. Vanguard-scale strength."
Amfielice did not lower the binoculars. "Reconnaissance?"
"None. They are maintaining standard march velocity."
The focus of the binoculars adjusted minutely.
Amfielice's fingertips were steady, as cold as the steel of the guns behind her.
"The line is beautiful," she said softly.
The words were not an expression of admiration, but a cold, tactical appraisal.
An ordered line is a blessing to an artilleryman.
A structured target is far easier to shatter than a disorganized rabble.
Through the glass, Amfielice zeroed in on the perimeter of the temporarily abandoned Rose Farm.
Old wooden fences. It was a pathetic boundary, far too frail to be called a defensive line.
However, a soldier's stride changes before a boundary.
Intervals close, speed slows, and they instinctively check one another's position. And in that moment, for a fraction of a second, the momentum halts.
She spoke clearly. "Lieutenant Colonel Kent. Range of our 122mm howitzers?"
Kent answered immediately. "Maximum nine kilometers. Effective range is shorter, and depending on observation conditions—"
"Fine. Lay the guns."
Amfielice cut him off. No further explanation was required.
"We fire the moment the enemy reaches the fence. If we fire now, the impact is ambiguous. They will stall at the fence—that is when we strike."
Kent glanced at her for a moment.
A habitual question flickered in his eyes, but he suppressed it.
He was certain the question was unnecessary. His superior, Amfielice, had always been this way—calculating and ruthless.
"Relaying orders now."
Kent turned away.
In the artillery pits, the machine of war was already grinding into motion.
The barrels, equipped with hydro-pneumatic recoil systems, rose slowly like the necks of metal beasts. Artillerymen drove spades into the earth to brace the mounts.
Ammunition crates were pried open, revealing the dull glint of high-explosive shells.
Amfielice stood by the Jeep, looking back and forth between her map and the terrain.
The Gallic vanguard approached the fence.
Their blue uniforms appeared orderly from a distance.
But order collapses in an instant when confronted by a sufficiently powerful external stimulus.
And by the time individuals—or nations—realize this, it is usually far too late.
Amfielice folded her binoculars.
"Now."
Kent signaled the battery. "Fire!"
The thunder of the guns erupted.
The first salvo hammered the ears and shook the very foundation of the earth.
The barrels recoiled violently, the counter-recoil systems devouring the shock of the blast.
The shells themselves were invisible.
Invisible messengers of death flew through the air to dismantle everything that could be seen.
The first shell slammed down just before the fence.
Wood splintered. Earth geysered into the air.
The center of the column buckled as if the earth had simply folded. A second later, the screams arrived—short, jagged, and directionless.
The second shell followed immediately.
It struck the point where the following ranks were stalling as they processed the carnage.
The moment the Gallic soldiers stopped their feet, their bodies were broken. Limbs and torsos were scattered like chaff in a gale.
Blood drenched the soil, and the churning dirt rose to hide the blood.
Then came the third shell.
The bombardment was not a series of random blasts, but a rhythm.
Like a drummer striking a beat, the shells danced a macabre waltz that ground men into pulp.
The artillerymen maintained the tempo, and that tempo tore flesh from bone.
The sound of tearing skin was swallowed by the roar of the cannons.
And yet, one could still hear it.
The snap of snapping bone, the ping of brass buttons flying off uniforms, the rattling wheeze of final breaths.
In an instant, countless lives were extinguished.
The forward observer shouted, "Impact! Enemy formation is shattering!"
Amfielice did not nod. She was already looking at the next sequence.
"Maintain intervals. Shift fire further back."
The barrels adjusted by a few degrees.
The point of impact walked further down the column.
The Gallic vanguard could no longer be called a unit.
They were a scattered mass of screaming meat.
The artillery fire paused briefly.
In that sudden silence, ears rang and then opened again to the reality of the field.
Only then did the screams and groans become distinct.
Some sounds faded into silence; others persisted to the very end.
The sounds that lasted the longest were usually pleas for mercy or the desperate calling of mothers' names.
Amfielice spoke calmly. "Observer."
The observer took a shaky breath and raised his binoculars again.
"Vanguard effectively neutralized. Following echelons are in total disarray. Advance confirmed halted."
Then, the observer faltered.
His voice dropped an octave. "...Large enemy force to the rear. Casters are deploying to the main body's front."
Amfielice's gaze shifted briefly to Kent.
There was no tremor in her eyes—only a cold verification. Can we still do this? Is the calculus still holding?
Kent nodded. "Artillery, cool the barrels and maintain observation. Cease fire."
The atmosphere shifted.
The very moment they inhaled, the air grew heavy, thick with unseen pressure.
Throats tightened. The landscape ahead warped minutely as if seen through a heat haze.
Soldiers feel this sensation on their skin first.
Only afterward does the brain comprehend the danger.
The first Arts strikes collapsed the infantry trenches positioned far ahead of the artillery pits.
It wasn't an explosion.
The ground simply ceased to be.
Soil was sucked downward into a void.
The trench folded in on itself, and the two soldiers inside vanished without even a chance to scream.
A few moments later, a light puff of dust rose from where they had stood.
As if nothing had ever happened at all.
Oaths and curses erupted from the International Brigades' lines.
Even the Red Army infantry flinched. A rifle is a weapon used to shoot what you can see. But what was flying at them now was invisible. They didn't know where it was coming from or where they should run to hide.
Kent bellowed, "Maintain the line! Do not abandon the trenches! Spread out!"
The orders were given, but there are moments when orders cannot keep pace with reality. That moment is what men call war.
Amfielice walked to the side of the Jeep and placed her hand on the map. Her fingertips pressed into the paper. She leaned slightly toward Kent, her voice dropping even lower.
"From this point on, do not try to hit them."
Kent understood just by the movement of her lips. In the roar of the front, speech is often lost, but he heard her. Amfielice always spoke only of the core necessity.
"You mean we should lure them?"
"Yes."
Amfielice looked up. "Casters believe they dominate the battlefield. Let them maintain that delusion. Make them advance."
Kent took a deep, steadying breath.
"Artillery, camouflage!" he commanded. "Leave the observation equipment in place, keep the barrels as they are. Move the limbers and prime movers only. Make it look like a retreat."
A portion of the artillery crews deliberately created a commotion.
They pretended to haul ammo crates and fold up battery positions. The infantry line intentionally created gaps. A gap is a temptation. Those who believe in their own victory always believe in the gaps of the enemy.
The Gallic main body and their Casters took the bait and surged forward.
The density of Arts increased.
The air grew heavier, oppressive.
The earth cracked; trees spontaneously burst into flame. Barb-wire melted into slag under its own heat.
A scorching stench filled the air—the smell of burning hair.
Behind them, the Gallic Originium cannons revealed themselves.
Massive contraptions. Exposed crystals. The crystals pulsed with a sickly light, vibrating the very atmosphere.
Kent, sensing the flow of Arts, spoke lowly. "If those fire, we are in grave danger."
Amfielice was resolute. "That is why we will make them explode right where they stand."
Kent's eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Amfielice was already marking the coordinates. Her fingertip rested on a slight depression in the terrain surrounding the Originium cannons.
"The Casters will gather to protect them. That is their weakness."
Hearing this, Kent unconsciously held his breath.
The positioning was exquisite.
He gestured to the artillerymen. "All units, adjust coordinates. Staggered fire. High-explosive shells. Adjust charges!"
The battery commander echoed, "Timed fuses! High-explosive! Ready!"
And they waited for the moment.
The moment to shove the enemy's arrogance back down their throats.
********************************
Camden, a Red Army infantryman, lay flat on the ground, gasping for air.
His ears were ringing, and his mouth tasted of iron.
Though the shelling had begun some time ago, his face still wore a look of dazed incomprehension.
He raised his head slightly and then ducked it back down.
Through the smoke, he saw something.
It had been a person.
No, looking closer, it was simply what remained of one.
Arms were twisted in impossible directions, motionless.
He tried not to stare. The thought that it could be him was too heavy to bear.
"Get up!" someone shouted from the side.
It was a soldier from the International Brigades. His accent was different, and his curses were foreign.
Camden gripped his rifle and pulled himself up. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Then the air changed.
As he inhaled, the atmosphere felt weighted with lead.
His throat tightened.
He ducked his head by instinct.
Directly in front of him, the trench simply collapsed inward.
It wasn't a blast.
The ground vanished.
Men disappeared along with the earth. There was hardly any sound at all.
They were just gone.
"Arts!" someone screamed.
Camden leveled his rifle at the empty air. He didn't know where it came from. He didn't know where to run.
He lowered his gun and pressed himself against the dirt, making his body as small as possible.
A smaller target gets hit less. Getting hit less meant the chance of survival increased by a fraction of a percent.
So he sat there, huddling and trembling violently.
The air tore apart behind him.
A wave of heat brushed his back.
He tried to scream, but no sound came. His throat was locked. He couldn't draw a full breath.
Seized by terror, Camden crawled sideways. He saw a soldier next to him who wasn't moving anymore.
The man had no face. Where features should have been, there was only a slurry of mud and blood.
In the distance, the enemy was approaching.
Camden swallowed hard, raised his rifle once more, and pulled the trigger.
**************************************
Amfielice said, "Now."
The cannons roared again.
************************
Henri, a Gallic infantryman, hadn't thought the first booms of artillery had anything to do with him.
As always, he assumed it was the thunder of their own guns and kept marching forward.
But suddenly, he felt the sky itself was screaming. Under that bizarre sensation, he reflexively crouched.
The earth buckled. Someone fell.
The man who fell was right in front of him. Half his face was simply gone.
Only then did Henri start to run.
He didn't know where he was running. He just ran away from the blasts, toward anywhere that wasn't exploding.
But the explosions were indiscriminate. They came from behind, from the sides, and from beneath the earth.
He threw away his crossbow. It was heavy. Heavy things were useless for a man trying to outrun death.
He saw an officer clutching a banner. The officer did not let go. While the flag remained in the air, the officer fell into the mud.
Henri wailed. He couldn't remember what words he spoke. He just opened his mouth and made noise.
If he didn't scream, he felt his head would burst.
Then the Arts attack began.
The air warped. The ground gave way.
Seeing this, Henri felt a momentary surge of relief. This was their power. He thought the counter-offensive had finally begun.
But the counter-offensive was not as close as it usually was.
Every time an Arts strike detonated, fire rained from the heavens again.
Something invisible was precisely hammering the areas near the Casters.
The Originium devices shuddered.
Henri saw the Casters moving forward to protect the cannons. But a realization suddenly struck him like a bolt of lightning.
If the Casters were here, didn't that mean the enemy artillery would be focused here as well?
Henri's face went pale with fresh terror. He began to run again. This time, he ran backward.
************************
This barrage was even more meticulous.
The first shells fell to the left of the Originium artillery units. The shockwave rattled the mechanisms.
The Casters tried to manifest defensive barriers, but their shields were designed to deflect piercing Arts, not to absorb pure concussive kinetic energy.
The second salvo followed immediately, landing even closer.
The third set of shells arrived slightly late.
That delay was fatal.
The Casters, miscalculating the timing, failed to intercept the shrapnel. A fragment sliced into an Originium crystal, causing an immediate overload.
A light flared, excessively bright. It wasn't just illumination; it was a soul-tearing white. The air made a sound like it was wailing in agony.
And that was the end.
The Originium dust ignited in a massive secondary explosion.
The blast did not spread outward at first; it folded inward. Light collapsed and then shattered everything within its reach. Forms were lost.
Men, machinery, and Arts were annihilated. A shockwave rippled through the earth.
Red Army and International Brigade soldiers ducked and bit their lips. Some who failed to cover their ears had their eardrums ruptured by the pressure.
A chain reaction immediately followed.
With their artillery and Casters suffering catastrophic losses, the Gallic line ground to a halt. In that moment of paralysis, the Union's bolt-action rifles began to bark again.
A shot. A reload. Another shot.
It was a slow but rhythmic and accurate sound.
The Union infantry advanced. Their march wasn't as flamboyant or picturesque as the Gallic soldiers'.
They kept their bodies low; their boots sank into the mud; some stumbled and fell. But even as they fell and rose, they never let go of their rifles.
The Gallic Army began to retreat.
It was not an orderly withdrawal. Banners were trampled; orders were severed; the Casters scattered in panic.
Some poured out desperate final Arts as they fell back, but these were cast without thought, failing to inflict major damage and only shortening the Casters' own lives through strain.
Amfielice ordered, "Halt the pursuit."
Kent asked, "If we push now—"
Amfielice cut him off firmly. "If we push now, the reorganized Gallic reserves will counter-attack, and it is certain we would suffer heavy casualties. Today's mission is complete. We have prevailed."
Kent nodded. Though he knew her judgment was sound, a bitterness lingered in his mouth.
It goes against every soldier's instinct to stop when victory is within reach. But he also knew that those who followed their instincts in this war rarely lived long.
**********************************
Marshal Pierre Augereau, commander of the Gallic 2nd Corps, looked down at the battlefield from a high ridge to the rear.
He stood on both feet, steadying his telescope with both hands. His field of vision was stable.
And through that stable vision, he witnessed the collapse of order.
His artillery and Casters were swallowed by smoke and shell-fire. In an instant, the world went white.
The shells had landed. The white glare filled the telescope. Pierre reflexively pulled the instrument away from his eye.
The shockwave hammered the ridge. Horses screamed; couriers were knocked to the ground. Dirt fell onto his gloves.
Pierre raised the telescope again. Where his forces had been, there was nothing. Only the smoking traces of what once existed.
He remained silent, his arms trembling violently.
There was only one thing left to do.
Pierre Augereau gave the order personally. "Order a full retreat. Re-deploy the Casters to the rear. Scuttle all remaining Originium cannons on-site. Remaining units are to reorganize to prevent any potential pursuit."
He lowered the telescope and muttered under his breath, "Sigh... They are more formidable than I imagined."
Wiping the dust from his mouth with his glove, he added even more quietly, "How am I supposed to face His Imperial Majesty now...?"
*************************************************
[Image: Wallace Jeep]
[Image: 122mm Howitzer]