"When is the Eastern Youth Volunteer Battalion arriving?"
"Wounded here! Medic!"
"Lower those shells! Move it!"
The rear of the Eastern Group of Forces was a scene of absolute carnage and congestion.
Local trade unions and youth organizations had been hastily mobilized. The edges of newly dug trenches at every position were sharp and raw; the lightly wounded, hands swathed in blood-stained bandages, hauled ammunition crates with gritted teeth.
Medical units, composed of ambulances requisitioned from field hospitals and nearby cities, were frantic as they attempted to reorganize the evacuation priorities.
Artillery crews labored over the wheels of new cannons and shells delivered via rail, raising their barrels toward coordinates where the enemy had been sighted. It was a dizzying sprawl of ambulances, transport trucks, commissars, nurses, civilians, and soldiers.
And yet, through that chaos, the relief of the lines was complete.
The units that had retreated reorganized their ranks. Reserves moving up from the rear filled the gaps left by the dead, their arrival actually bolstering the total troop numbers. There were no reserves left now, for only one path remained open to them.
Counter-offensive.
That single concept dominated every mind.
The thunder of artillery claimed the front lines first. The Union's artillery batteries unleashed every functional gun in a deafening, continuous roar. Shells rained down upon the very trenches where the Gallic forces were massing.
As the explosions shook the earth, the Union infantry surged forward once more. Though the knee-deep mud clutched at their boots, they did not falter.
"3rd Platoon, charge!"
"All hands, fix bayonets!!"
Exhausted by their assault that had lasted since the pre-dawn hours, the Gallic forces were cut down in isolated pockets.
"Gah—?!"
"S-spare me! I surrender!"
They fell to the enemy's bayonets, were pierced by lead, or were obliterated as Arts scorched holes through their ranks. Only the lucky few survived to surrender or fled into the tundra as deserters.
The counter-offensive, timed to the exact second, was crushing the Gallic momentum. And the architect of this counter-strike sat within a provisional headquarters.
"If we strike here, the enemy will have no choice but to commit to a full retreat."
"Comrade Kent, I believe... bypassing East Point would be more prudent."
"That will be too late."
It was Kent.
A question might arise here: how could a mere Lieutenant Colonel like Kent sit in such a council? Furthermore, how could they move without orders from the Stavka—the Supreme Command?
The answer lay in the so-called 'Democratic' structure of the Red Army command.
In principle, subordinate commands and echelons followed the dictates of the Central Supreme Command. However, in wartime, the authority to act without immediate orders was granted under specific duress. In such cases, field officers of Major rank and above could decide their course of action through a vote. It was, in essence, a Commanders' Soviet.
Though it was a limited system meant for instances of extreme urgency or communications failure, it was perfectly applicable in the current crisis.
"We must save Marshal Amfielice."
That was how Kent was able to set the Eastern Group of Forces in motion. He desired only one outcome: to extract Amfielice Windermere.
"Frankly, losing Marshal Amfielice would drastically weaken the Union's strategic Arts capabilities."
"The memory of what her father did during the Revolutionary War still makes me shudder. Back then, nearly an entire battalion was rendered combat-ineffective in just twenty minutes, wasn't it? Most of the crew on those landships were lucky to escape with minor injuries."
"Very well. Based on your reasoning, I cast my vote in favor."
Every member of the provisional command cast an affirmative vote. There was no dissent. The counter-offensive was hastily drafted and executed, while Kent focused solely on the coordinates of the previous headquarters where Amfielice had been left behind.
While telegrams piled up, reports exploded, and commanders sought ways to destroy the enemies directly in front of them, Kent held fast to a single line: The headquarters. The place where she remained.
Kent spoke to the signalman. His voice was low, his words terse.
"Mobilize the motorized detachment. Total radio silence for now. Move along the left forest line. Artillery, do not cease your covering fire. And do not break cover until you receive my signal."
The signalman finished his notes and began speaking rapidly into the field telephone. For Kent, the mere rustling of paper was a grating distraction in this moment of mounting tension. He bit his lip. Their final exchange refused to leave his mind.
"You must return safely."
"... I understand."
It would have been easier if they were just words. But the gnawing worry for her safety was an immutable fact. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. Victory on the front was a matter of numbers, positioning, and shells, but survival was a matter of timing. To miss the moment was to lose everything.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from outside. Kent looked up. A messenger ran in, gasping for air.
"Lt. Colonel, the Gallic movements are..."
Kent cut him off. "Has the Emperor moved?"
The messenger swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes. Corsica I has personally taken to the field."
Kent's eyes hardened instantly. If the Emperor was moving, it meant the enemy had reached their conclusion. If they did not finish Amfielice now, the Union would find its second wind and live to fight another day. Kent pressed his palm against the map.
"Motorized detachment... prepare."
Right now.
**
Amfielice did not believe in having no room to retreat. She fought while leaving herself space to withdraw; that was the only way to endure, the only way to lure them in. She wasn't defending a command tent. She was defending the spot where the tent had been, and the meaning vested in it.
A mark for the enemy to covet. A point for the enemy's eyes to burn upon. She held that ground alone.
The tent was already being consumed by flames. The fire spread as the wind tore through the fabric, and maps, pins, and strings curled into black ash. Yet, the flagstaff remained. Though the cloth was damp, the light of the fires behind it made the colors burn with renewed life.
Amfielice stood with her back to that flag. Smoke lay low across the ground. Arrows and crossbow bolts hissed through the air continuously. She cut them down, parried them, and let them slide off her blade.
She did not cleave everything. To strike at things that didn't need striking would only drain her wrists and her stamina. She differentiated between the strength required to save and the strength required to discard.
The Gallic Grande Armée surged forward. Regular armies are terrifying because they are regular. Not because their gear is polished or because individuals are inherently strong, but because they are trained even in the way they die. If a rank broke, they filled it; if a hole appeared, they plugged it with more men.
Before these enemies, Amfielice was alone. But that fact did not make her weak. When one is alone, there is no one else to protect. The direction of her sword was always free.
"3rd Battalion! Clear the way!"
Then, the smoke parted. A chorus of trumpets and drums followed, and the movement of the masses shifted. The speed and angle of the push changed. The one stepping forward now was not a mere infantryman, but one who pushed the infantry aside as he passed.
He was not flamboyant. Where he walked, there was no need for ostentation. The surrounding officers stepped back, carving a path. The sound of him drawing his sword echoed—not a long, metallic ring, but a short, cold, and definitive snap.
"My, my. I was expecting a valkyrie when I heard the name Windermere, but I find only a spirited young lady."
The Emperor of Gaul had arrived. Corsica I stood before her.
**
Corsica I looked at Amfielice. He spoke her name: "Amfielice Windermere."
His voice held neither hatred nor awe. It was the voice of a man who read the battlefield in numbers. He was here to remove an obstacle—the singular, great obstacle that was shifting the momentum of the front.
Amfielice did not answer. She merely stared at Corsica I with unwavering eyes. The Emperor began to walk. Though his pace seemed slow, the distance closed with unnatural speed.
Before he attacked, he scanned his surroundings. Where she might dodge, where she was open, where she was blocked. He saw more than just Amfielice; the earth, the wind, the flow of the smoke—everything was within his perception.
His first strike was a horizontal slash.
—Shing!
"Kh—?!"
It wasn't a blow intended to crush with weight; it was a blade intended to sever a path. The tip of his sword crossed the very line where Amfielice would have retreated. Amfielice did not try to block it directly. To block was to be pushed back. She twisted her body, letting the tip of the blade slide past. The edge caught her garment, slicing the hem of her uniform with surgical precision.
Corsica I followed up with a thrust. This time, he aimed not for her chest, but below the waist—a thrust designed to steal her balance, timed for the exact moment she shifted her weight.
Amfielice lowered her sword and pushed his thrust aside. Metal shrieked against metal. Her wrist buckled for a fraction of a second. Her fingers felt heavy. She had already parried countless arrows and bolts, and she had exhausted herself fighting Marshals earlier. Corsica I knew this.
He did not stop. Slash, thrust, and slash again. It was an assault that methodically erased her options. The places to dodge vanished. The angles to evade narrowed. With every step she took back, her boots sank deeper, and deeper into the mire.
"Hmph!"
Amfielice took a sharp breath. The image of her father surfaced in her mind—the man who would stand her in the training yard and press down the tip of her sword with his bare hands.
'What matters most when wielding a blade is the mind. The spirit with which you hold the sword determines your victory. The greatest failure in combat is when the heart falters before the hand does.'
That lesson anchored her now. Though her body wavered, her spirit remained steel. Amfielice read Corsica's next move. He stepped in and snapped his wrist—not a thrust, but a trajectory-shifting slash aimed at the angle used to cut through someone blocking like a shield.
Amfielice raised her sword to catch the blow.
—Clang!
It felt as if her wrist would shatter. The vibration echoed into her very bones. But she held. Corsica I's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Good. You endure. Is this the strength of a Windermere?"
His expression said as much, and that realization only made his next attack more sophisticated. He took half a step back. Stepping back was not the end; that half-step was to clear a path for his artillery. The sound of incoming shells grew sharper. Corsica I looked at Amfielice and spoke a single, short sentence.
"Here it is."
Amfielice did not smile. "No, here."
She answered only with her eyes. She took one more step forward—to be seen more clearly, to be targeted more easily, to hold his gaze for just a moment longer.
The shells fell. They tore through the air with a predatory scream. A shell streaked diagonally past her hip. The impact point was right beside her. The earth erupted, and shrapnel hissed like rain. Scorching soil lashed her face. Shrapnel sprayed at close range, tearing through the exposed gaps in her armor and the soft flesh of her face. Yet, she did not lower her head.
To lower her head was to break her vision. To break her vision was to let Corsica's blade in. A piece of shrapnel carved a red line across her shoulder. Blood welled. It was warm. She exhaled once, as if detaching the pain from her consciousness.
Corsica I did not miss the opening. "There."
His sword lunged in—this time beneath her armpit, toward the joint of her arm.
"Kh..."
Amfielice tried to parry, but her arm was a fraction too slow. The blade grazed her flesh. Blood sprayed. Her fingers went momentarily numb, and her grip on her sword almost failed. She gnashed her teeth. If the sword fell, it was over.
"Hah!"
With what remained of her strength, she swung at Corsica's wrist. There was no angle for a deep cut, so she struck with the spine of the blade. It was meant only to jar his wrist and throw off his sword's trajectory. Corsica's blade wavered by a hair's breadth. That tiny gap gave Amfielice space for exactly one breath.
But Corsica I closed in again. "Excellent. But you are weak."
His blade tip dug into her side this time—entering shallowly, then tearing deep. Her side burned white-hot. Her breathing became ragged. Her footing finally failed, and she felt her knees start to buckle.
She could not fall. She plunged the tip of her sword into the ground to brace herself. The mud clutched the steel. She was grateful for the mud; it kept her upright. Corsica I approached.
"I suppose I can end this now. Do you have any last words?"
Even without him saying it, the surrounding Gallic troops sensed the shift. The front ranks of the Grande Armée tightened their circle. Arrows were nocked. Caster Arts began to compress the very air.
Amfielice felt it all, but she did not take her eyes off Corsica I. She did not bow her head. She glared at the Emperor and spoke.
"If you're going to do it, do it quickly."
It was then.
—BOOM!
—RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
"E-Enemy attack!"
"Gwargh!!"
The roar of countless cannons and rifles erupted. It was the shout of the Union. And that shout did not come alone. The sound of metal wheels tearing through mud, the thunder of hooves, and the roar of armored truck engines collided in a cacophony of war. Figures emerging from the forest line shredded the smoke.
The motorized detachment had arrived.
"Forget the tires! Just drive!"
"Floor it! Act like you're on a highway!"
"It's the one time you can cause a traffic accident without a criminal record! Enjoy it!"
Like a hidden blade thrusting into a flank, the Union's motorized units struck the Gallic side. Trucks with reinforced steel plates bolted to their fronts slammed into the Gallic lines, shattering spines. Machine guns mounted on the side-rails screamed. The line of fire shifted horizontally. The Gallic shield-bearers scrambled to face the new threat. Chaos erupted instantly.
Corsica I's gaze flickered to the side just once. That single moment was enough to save Amfielice's life. She saw it. She gripped her sword again. her hands were trembling—not from fear, but from the rhythm of blood loss and pain. She forced the trembling down.
Corsica I made his decision. Greed would only cost him more men. Furthermore, with wounds of that magnitude, even a Windermere wouldn't be active for quite some time. His primary goal had always been to pin down the Union, not necessarily to cripple it forever.
He raised his sword, but did not strike. Instead, he spoke low to his officers. "Retreat."
The command was brief, and the execution followed with professional speed. The Grande Armée raised their shields even as they pulled back. Their artillery pulled their fire inward, cutting off the Union motorized units' approach. A few unlucky trucks were engulfed in flames. Casters thickened the smoke screen. Within that veil, the Gallic army vanished.
Corsica I looked at Amfielice one last time. There was a trace of lingering regret in his eyes—regret for what he hadn't finished, but calculated against what he had gained. Amfielice met that gaze head-on. Corsica I turned away.
As he disappeared, the air in that space suddenly felt hollow. In that void, Amfielice realized she no longer had a reason to endure. Her knees slowly gave way. The vanguard of the motorized detachment rushed toward her. Someone caught her shoulder. Blood stained their palm. Someone screamed.
"Marshal! Marshal!"
Amfielice tried to lift her head, but it felt heavy. Her eyelids grew leaden. One last time, she looked at the flagstaff. It was charred by fire, the cloth torn to ribbons. But it had not fallen. That was enough.
**
"With this, I believe we have largely achieved our objectives."
Corsica I surveyed the Grande Armée; though they had lost many, they were still a formidable host. Even with the death of several Marshals, he believed the Empire could endure if they squeezed more from the mainland and Victoria. With this strength, he could deal with the Witch King of Leithanien. If all his Marshals united, the task was possible.
It was then.
"Y-Your Majesty!!"
"Huff... Gasp... Your Majesty!"
"What is it?"
Messengers came sprinting in. Corsica I frowned. But the words that followed were enough to make his world go dark.
"In the homeland! The communists have revolted! Those 'Popular Front' bastards have declared the establishment of the Gallic Soviet Socialist Republic! The capital, Lingones, has been seized!"
"That's not all! The Victorian nobility we thought we had suppressed in the south are marching north toward Londinium, led by Duke Wellesley! Marshal Mullan says her forces are too thin to check the Union and respond to the revolt simultaneously!"
"What?!"
Corsica I felt the shadows close in around him.