Inside the Supreme Command of the Union.
The telegraph wailed once more, and this time, the speed at which the secretary rushed in with the transcript was palpably different. Everyone in the room noticed it. The velocity of a subordinate's approach often telegraphs the conclusion of the message before a single word is uttered.
I unfolded the paper the moment it touched my hand.
— Lingones. Revolution successful. People's Front government established. Imperial Palace has surrendered.
Hah...
Excellent.
The moment I read the telegram, a weight lifted from my lungs, allowing me to draw a true breath for the first time in years.
The Gaulish Revolution, which we had meticulously prepared for years, had finally reached its fruition.
Now, it was our turn.
Before I could even set the telegram down, the Director of Operations stepped forward.
In his hands, he already held the markers to be placed upon the strategic map.
His face betrayed a struggle to contain his excitement as the words tumbled out in a rapid-fire cadence.
"Comrade Chairman. From the moment the Gaulish mainland flipped, victory became an inevitability. Now, the vector of our Republic's offensive must shift. The rear supply lines of the Gaulish army are hemorrhaging. The forces currently pinning down our Eastern Front are as good as dead once their fuel and ammunition are severed."
The Director of Intelligence followed up immediately.
In a Union that boasted three separate intelligence agencies—the Joint State Political Directorate (OGPU) of the NKVD, the Foreign Security Directorate of the NKFA, and Military Intelligence—the Director of Military Intelligence was a man of cold, surgical precision.
His voice was always icy, but today that coldness resonated with the sharp clarity of absolute conviction.
"Analysis of intercepted signals via captured Gaulish encryption devices reveals a total blackout in reports from the Imperial Police and counter-intelligence units. Their internal communication structure is shattered. We have also intercepted reports of nobility and bureaucrats fleeing en masse. The Imperial House requires time to 'recover' its grip. We must not grant them a single second."
The People's Commissar of Military Supply interjected, tapping his knuckles against the table with a rhythmic clack.
"We have sufficient shells and fuel to fuel an offensive. However, if we commit every Army Group—excluding the Northern Group guarding the Ursus border—to a simultaneous general offensive, the rail network will scream under the strain. We must set priorities. Where do we occupy first, and what do we destroy first?"
As those words trailed off, the Foreign Affairs representative raised his head.
"The People's Front government established in Lingones must survive. Even if we win militarily, if the post-war negotiations result in Gaulish territory bleeding into Victoria and Leithanien, this entire endeavor is only half-complete. We must link the battlefield directly to the 'End-of-War Negotiations' now."
On the map before me, three flows of movement overlapped.
The West: the Gaulish mainland.
The South: where the remains of the Victorian Empire lay.
And the East: the position and retreat path of Corsica I and the main Gaulish host—a force we could either seize ourselves or leave to the mercy of others.
I scanned the faces of my staff officers.
Each was viewing the war through the lens of their own station.
My role was to focus those disparate gazes into a single point.
Before I could speak, a liaison officer from the Southern Front rushed in, breathless, to deliver an urgent report.
"The Victorian Liberation Army, led by the Duke of Wellington and the Great Dukes, is scraping together forces from the south for an operation to retake Londonium! They have requested our support. Specifically, they are begging for heavy artillery support!"
The Director of Operations spoke up instantly.
"If Londonium falls into the hands of the Victorians, the Gaulish line loses its justification for existence. Until now, the pride of the Empire—the fact that they 'hold Victoria under their heel'—has maintained the front's morale. The moment the capital of the Gaulish Victorian Military Government is liberated, that morale will bottom out."
The Director of Intelligence added, "And if Corsica I's main army is to retreat back to the mainland to survive, they need either the south or the west to remain viable. Liberating Londonium effectively severs their corridor. However, if our intent to block them becomes too blatant, they may resort to suicidal charges out of sheer desperation."
The Foreign Affairs representative took a breath and steered the discourse further.
"Comrade, one more thing. What we must demonstrate now is not merely that 'we will slaughter the Gaulish main army.' We must solidify the Gaulish People's Front as the 'sole legitimate government.' That is the agenda for the negotiating table. Therefore, our objective is not simple annihilation, but the expansion of revolutionary gains. We must seize cities, railways, ports, and administrative hubs to ensure the 'New Government' can actually function."
Those words struck a chord.
It was precise.
This was the landscape I wanted to paint.
I gripped the telegram once more.
Strength surged into my fingertips.
In the time I have held this heavy mantle, there have been moments where calculation ruled my mind, and others where my heart pounded first.
Now, my heart led the way. The sensation that we could finally bring this to an end drew the very air upward within me.
I approached the map and swept my palm across the Southern Front.
The line where the Gaulish army held. The pillars that sustained their morale despite the abysmal conditions.
The Emperor's authority, the control from the capital, the stability of the rear.
All of it had crumbled.
And so, I synthesized the words of my staff into a single directive.
"Listen closely."
Silence descended upon the room.
Someone stifled a cough; the tips of pencils froze over paper.
"We commence Operation Uranus immediately."
The Director of Operations opened his mouth reflexively but stopped himself. I continued.
"We shall expand our revolutionary gains. We will drive the Gaulish Empire on all fronts to relieve the socialists in Lingones. And at the negotiation table, we will ensure the vast majority of Gaulish territory is ceded to the Gaulish People's Front—not to Victoria, and not to Leithanien."
It was a declaration.
Everyone in the room looked up. When the King sets the goal, the pieces begin to move.
I moved straight into the logistics. When the iron of speech is hot, the command must be tempered quickly.
"Southern Army Group. Western Army Group. General offensive with full force."
The People's Commissar of Military Supply looked ready to protest, but I already knew the conditions. I preempted him.
"Commissariat. Fuel and shells are to be allocated as the absolute priority. Mobilize the rail network, including civilian transport lines. If anything breaks, deploy the local unions to fix it on the spot. We do not stop this time."
"It is possible. However, the other fronts—"
"The Eastern Front shall only posture."
I pointed to the East.
The border with Leithanien. The gray markers there felt particularly heavy.
"The threat to the Gaulish main army will be provided by the Eastern Army Group, while the 'fix' will be performed by the Leithanien Imperial Army. We will trust in their greed. We do not obsess over the arrogant Emperor. Our task is to push further and pull the end of this war toward us."
The Director of Intelligence chimed in immediately. "Then the Gaulish options will narrow. Whether the path to their homeland is blocked or their command structure is too mangled to use it—either way, 'maintaining a defensive line' becomes an impossibility."
The Director of Operations slammed a marker onto the map. "If we hammer them in the south, they must retreat. But if they do, there is no place left to regroup. Their homeland is already ablaze. And when Londonium falls to the Victorians... that entire line will suffer a total collapse."
I nodded. That was the vision I required.
"Support the Victorian Liberation Army."
The liaison officer sharp inhaled.
"Telegram to the Duke of Wellington. We will provide priority support of communication equipment and artillery ammunition. The liberation of Londonium is not merely a tactical victory; it is the key that unlocks the end of the war."
The Foreign Affairs representative smiled quietly. It wasn't an expression of joy, but the face of a man who finally saw a locked door beginning to swing wide.
"Finally, the war will end."
I did not sit. Today was not a day for sitting.
I tapped the desk once.
It was a gesture to nail the resolve into my own soul.
I paused for a beat, then let the corners of my mouth lift.
My staff followed suit.
The air in the room grew heavy with intent once more.
"At last, we can finish this."
I took one final look at the Gaulish mainland on the map.
Lingones.
To ensure that city does not fall, and that we do not falter.
To end this war, right here.
"Dispatch the orders. Immediately."
And then, I signed.
Before the ink could even dry, the people in the room scattered, rushing to execute their respective parts in the war.
*************************
The shells arrived first.
Fortunately, these shells were not fired by the Gaulish swine.
It wasn't the sound of fire passing over their heads; it was the roar of artillery being poured into the city from the outskirts.
The shells launched by the Union artillery were systematically tearing apart Londonium's outer fortifications, its intersections, and the corners of its brick edifices.
With every explosion, dust billowed upward, and within that haze, the enemy's lines of fire flickered and died for brief moments.
The Company Commander took a deep breath.
His mouth felt full of grit.
Even so, his voice grew louder.
"For His Majesty the King! For Victoria!"
The slogan was less a conviction and more a vector.
The direction in which they must run.
The reason they had to stand even when they fell.
The Company Commander gestured forward.
To the right, into that alleyway.
Where the Union's shells had punched holes, a 'path' had been forged.
The Liberation Army advanced as if stroking the walls for cover.
Beneath windows, beside doorframes, behind piles of shattered rubble.
They clung to any shadow where the bullets did not reach.
In the distance, more shells detonated.
And every time they did, the ancient streets of Londonium seemed to pull themselves open.
The Liberation Army plunged into those openings.
Seizing one room, climbing a flight of stairs, then clearing another corridor.
A soldier collapsed right in front of him.
The Company Commander grabbed his arm and pulled him up.
The fallen soldier's face was deathly pale.
That ashen visage signaled that he had already departed on the road from which there is no return.
After laying the soldier back down and making the sign of the cross, the Commander screamed with a frantic intensity.
"In the name of the King and the Royal House! We retake Londonium!"
The Liberation Army raised the tips of their blades.
Behind them, the roar of the Union artillery thundered once more.
Londonium, today, was being reclaimed to the rhythm of cannon fire.
And finally, when the Victorian Imperial Flag rose over the hotel that had served as the Military Governor's headquarters...
It was liberation.
********************************
The first thing to collapse wasn't the trench. It was his ears.
The cannon fire was too close. It didn't feel like it was approaching; it was simply everywhere.
Bursting overhead, bursting to the left, behind, and deep beneath the earth.
Every time the ground shuddered, the Private felt as though his very sit-bones were cracking.
An officer screamed.
"Hold the line!"
The words sounded the same as always, but today they held no weight.
To have a line, there must be a 'front' and a 'rear.'
But in the Private's mind, neither existed anymore.
Their fate was already sealed.
The face of Vladimir, the chieftain of the sinister Communists from the propaganda leaflets, seemed to shout at him from the smoke.
'Surrender or death!'
The Union troops were pushing in.
They fired their rifles and they never stopped. It was the lack of hesitation that was most terrifying.
There seemed to be no end to the infantry; they just kept coming.
Even if one row was mowed down, the next stepped up over their bodies.
Whenever one bombardment ceased, another immediately fell upon the Gaulish positions.
When they breathed fire, the earth sank first, and then the men collapsed.
The Private struggled to aim his crossbow.
He fired, but he couldn't even tell if he had hit anything.
Smoke, dirt, and shrapnel blinded him.
He simply pulled the trigger, over and over and over.
And then, his quiver was empty. His hands slipped as he tried to reload.
His palms were slick with blood. He couldn't tell if it was his own or that of the man beside him.
Someone nearby screamed.
"Fall back! We can't stop this!"
The moment those words hit him, the Private's body reacted first.
The word 'retreat' felt like a permission. Permission to live. Turning his back on the officer's screams, he scraped his knees against the trench wall and crawled backward.
That was when a Union shell landed again.
The corner of the trench vanished. Earth poured down like rain.
The Private scrambled away on his stomach.
He had to survive, even if it meant crawling like a beast.
But where he tumbled to a stop, he saw the Union troops again.
They were already there. They had already seized the flanks. They were already cutting off the retreat.
In that moment, the Private realized.
This wasn't the war they thought they were fighting.
The defeat had been preordained before the first shot was even fired.
************************
The convoy of armed trucks carved a path upon the road.
Cities moved aside, villages held their breath, and the fields offered nothing but the wind.
The space where the Gaulish army had collapsed was not a land where the fighting had finished, but a land where the masters had vanished.
As the sounds of gunfire receded, an odd anxiety took its place.
The silence was born from the fear that a counterattack could spring from anywhere at any time.
The Sergeant sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck and pulled out his binoculars.
It was less observation than it was verification.
The maps were already full of blank spaces.
Areas that had been 'Gaulish Rear' yesterday were 'Neutral Zones' today.
It was too fast. They had crumbled too easily.
And such negligence often breeds arrogance, leading one straight into a trap.
The driver spoke up. "Sergeant, over there... is that dust?"
The Sergeant raised the binoculars.
At first, it looked like mist.
A yellow blur hanging low over the fields.
It was different from soil kicked up by the wind.
It had direction. It had speed.
There was a distinct 'line' pushing forward with regularity.
The Sergeant adjusted the focus.
Then, he saw it.
Beneath the columns of dust, he saw the earth trembling.
It wasn't the tremor caused by mere wagons or standard tracked vehicles.
The entire road was vibrating minutely.
It felt as though a single, massive monolith was in motion.
This pointed to only one possibility.
Caterpillar tracks of a mobile city.
A long, black band pressed deep into the dust.
That band was scraping the earth as it advanced.
The Sergeant let out a breathless laugh, despite himself.
It was relief so profound it caught in his throat.
"It's Lingones."
The words tumbled out of his mouth. He grabbed the radio immediately.
"International Brigade, Iberian 1st Volunteer Battalion. Confirming Nomadic City ahead. It's Lingones. Dust clouds, massive tracks. Transmitting coordinates. Maintain escort formation. Prepare for approach."
The convoy accelerated instantly.
The trucks tightened their formation. Machine gunners on either side scanned the edges of the road.
The Sergeant did not lower his binoculars.
In the distance, atop the mobile city, countless red flags fluttered.
The people of Gaul were welcoming them.