At the entrance to the Eden Basin, Corsica I adjusted his horse's reins three times.
Once to the front, once to the right, and then once more to the front.
Despite this, the path remained obstructed.
The further they ventured into the basin, the narrower the road became.
Upon that thinning path, machine guns established interlocking fields of fire, while artillerymen held their breath in the shadows behind them.
From a distance, he watched the muzzle flashes of the machine guns sparking in the gloom.
It was not merely light; it was a logic.
A light that ground human beings down with systematic regularity.
As if stamping out products in a factory, the firearms of the UTSSR were milling the sons and daughters of Gaul into grist.
The Commander of the Guard exhaled a ragged breath.
"Your Majesty, shall we attempt a frontal breakthrough?"
Instead of answering, Corsica I tapped a short finger on the map.
The narrowing chokepoint inside the basin.
The crosshairs of the machine guns.
The position where the artillery observers signaled with flags.
And, in contrast, his own army.
The number of survivors he had managed to lead this far.
The horses of the cavalry were spent.
The hands of the engineers were swollen from wielding shovels.
The infantry had the eyes of men who would collapse the moment they stopped moving.
Ammunition, including arrows, remained—but the moment they used that remaining stock to pierce the 'front,' nothing would be left but a hollow shell.
He finished his calculations.
A breakthrough was possible. He could pierce the line.
But the moment he did, his main force would cease to exist right here.
Corsica I spoke in a low voice.
"If we break through here, no army will remain to return to the motherland."
The Commander of the Guard grit his teeth.
"Then... our path of retreat is—"
Corsica I raised a hand, cutting him off with a sharp, rough gesture.
"The retreat is not found ahead of us."
He turned his horse's head to the side.
The edge of the basin—a low pass, a section where forests and ridges intertwined.
In front of them, it was the UTSSR blocking their way.
However, it was Leithanien that was tightening the noose on their rear.
The Leithanien army had been in hot pursuit of his forces.
They were as exhausted as the Gaulish troops.
Their formations were overextended, and their command structure was spread thin across the field.
And above all—they were an army that had rushed here with nothing but the singular command to 'block' the enemy.
Corsica I liked that.
An army that moves solely on the order to block is easily torn apart when one intends to shred them.
He immediately threw out his orders.
"Pin the front. Hold your fire and simply endure. Do not provoke the Federation. Graze them just enough so they cannot emerge from their holes."
The Chief of Staff asked with a startled expression.
"Your Majesty, if we are not to provoke the Federation...?"
"Do not turn the Federation into any more of an enemy than they already are. Our foe right now is not to our front, but to our flank."
He gestured with a flick of his finger.
Toward the Commander of the Guard.
"The Old Guard. And those among the cavalry who are still drawing breath. The engineers. Gather every remaining machine gun unit as well."
The Commander of the Guard inhaled sharply.
"Are you going to strike Leithanien?"
Corsica I spoke with grim finality.
"Cleave through the Leithanien army. We shall bypass them through the gap."
Hooves kicked up the mud.
The Emperor's breakthrough detachment veered away in silence.
Immediately to their side, the machine guns at the entrance of the basin spat fire once more.
The soldiers at the front endured with clenched teeth. They simply held their ground, even as they fell.
In the meantime, the Emperor pierced the flank.
The vanguard of the Leithanien forces had a thin line of defense.
A sentry cried out.
"Gaul! Gaulish cavalry!"
Before the shout could even finish, the lances of the Old Guard struck home.
The first line collapsed.
The second line fell back.
The third line was too late in searching for their commander.
Corsica I did not stop.
He hadn't entered the fray to 'defeat' the enemy.
He had entered to carve a path.
"Do not stop! Tear down their banners! Strike the officers first!"
The Guard charged.
The horse of an officer was the first to go down.
When the horse fell, the lines behind it became entangled.
Into that tangle, the cavalry plunged.
Leithanien soldiers desperately tried to raise their crossbows, but the Emperor's elite were already upon them.
The lance arrived before the trigger could be pulled.
When the lance strikes, ranged weapons like the crossbow become a burden.
Corsica I observed.
The speed at which the enemy crumbled.
The speed at which his own troops ground the enemy down.
And the 'gap' that opened in between.
As that gap widened, the event he had been waiting for occurred.
The Leithanien reinforcements tried to leap forward.
But the moment they pushed forward, their flank was left exposed.
Into that flank, the Gaulish elites slid through like a blade.
The encirclement wavered.
The Commander of the Guard shouted, his face splattered with blood.
"Your Majesty! The path is opening!"
Corsica I nodded.
"Good. Now is the time."
He did not look back.
What he required today was not victory, but escape.
Victory had crumbled back at Lingones.
Here, he simply had to live.
As he turned his horse, the breakthrough force poured through the opening.
The gap was narrow, but it was enough.
Enough blood had been spilled to widen it to sufficiency.
************************
Grand Duke Leopold nearly folded the map the moment he heard the messenger's report.
Folding it wouldn't make the situation vanish, but he was sufficiently enraged.
So, he pressed his palm onto the map. Hard enough to crumple it.
"Our pursuit force has been shredded!"
"The Emperor himself led the breakthrough!"
"Your Highness, the vanguard... the vanguard is collapsing!"
Staff officers poured out words all at once.
Leopold raised a hand to stop them, as if swatting away the noise.
"Summarize it."
The Chief of Staff swallowed hard and gave the conclusion.
"The Gaulish elites have split our flank and are currently bypassing us."
Only then did Leopold nod.
"Yes. Typical of that man."
He reclaimed his fraying composure.
There was still hope.
Now was the time to shove anything available into the breach.
He threw out orders as he moved outside.
The speed of the horses quickened.
"Scrape together every remaining man."
The adjutant grimaced.
"Your Highness, if we pull even the rear guards—"
Leopold cut him off.
"The rear only matters if today ends in our favor. If we collapse here, there is no rear."
He pointed at the dots on the map—villages, bridges, passes, intersections.
He could not block them with a line. The line had already been torn.
Thus, they had to hold as points.
"Signals, abandon your equipment and pick up spears. Supply escorts, abandon the wagons and block the road. Drag out the remaining troops from the garrisons. Throw everyone into the line; we must stall for time until the main support arrives."
The Chief of Staff asked cautiously.
"Your Highness... these are not mere elites. Those are Corsica I's personal Guard."
Leopold replied.
"Elite or Guard, it's all the same. Isn't there only one solution anyway?"
He laughed briefly. There was no joy in the sound.
"Sheer mass is the only answer."
The battlefield immediately began to prove the meaning of those words.
When the Gaulish elites surged in, the Leithanien vanguard shattered.
Into the broken spot, Leopold hurled the next unit.
When that unit broke, he threw another.
The soldiers ran even as they cursed.
The officers shouted for the 'rank and file' even as they retreated.
The NCOs grabbed fleeing soldiers and shoved them back into the fray.
Leopold did not permit retreat.
No, to be precise, he ensured his own forces had no space left to retreat into.
"Casters? Grind them up! Does our Empire lack for casters?"
"A whole battalion can vanish for all I care! They aren't nobles anyway, just peasants!"
"Buy time! Just one more hour!"
His command was pressure itself.
But the enemy was not one to be stopped by pressure alone.
Corsica I's breakthrough force was an army that became intoxicated by blood.
They knew that to stop was to die, and so they did not stop.
For every time the Gaulish Guard pushed, ten Leithanien soldiers were shoved back.
When ten were shoved, Leopold threw in twenty.
When twenty were ground to meat, he threw in another twenty.
In this manner, the battlefield was filled with the blood and flesh of the Leithanien army.
Leopold wanted it that way.
However, a moment arrived where even numbers could not stem the tide.
The Gaulish elites swung wide and drove in once more.
The Leithanien defensive line buckled.
In the moment of buckling, the rear caved in.
Then, someone shouted.
"Your Highness! The right! The right is being breached!"
Leopold's eyes narrowed.
It would take time for the follow-up forces to arrive.
Therefore, if the right collapsed, a hole would be torn wide open.
If the hole was torn, Corsica I would slip through the gap.
Leopold made his decision in a heartbeat.
He threw his final reserve.
"The Guard. Deploy now."
An officer cried out in alarm.
"Your Highness, that is your personal—"
Leopold cut him off coldly.
"Today is not the day my life matters. This is an opportunity to end the war right here, right now."
Thus, the Grand Duke's personal guard charged into the battlefield.
With their entry, the line held for a moment.
But it was a holding that only delayed the inevitable collapse.
Leopold knew.
At this rate, Leithanien would break first.
But in that instant—
From over the hill, a completely different sound overlapped the chaos.
Trumpets.
And the sound of rhythmic, synchronized marching.
Leopold raised his head instinctively.
An army stood atop the ridge.
**********************
Through the dust, the first thing visible was a flag.
The banner of Victoria.
Behind it emerged an army.
Perfectly aligned columns.
An army that had not lost its 'form' even amidst the chaos.
Duke Wellington sat atop his horse.
The moment he arrived at the battlefield, he swept the entire situation in a single glance.
To the left, the direction the Gaulish elites were pushing.
In the center, Leithanien's desperate, forced endurance.
To the right, the fissure about to break open.
And amidst that fissure, the moment the Emperor's flag was about to slip past.
Duke Wellington opened his lips.
He did not shout.
And yet, the surroundings were bound by that voice.
"Maintain formation!"
An adjutant asked urgently.
"Your Grace, the situation is critical! Where shall we strike!"
Duke Wellington, his gaze fixed on the center of the battlefield, spoke with calm precision.
"Seal the breach."
Pulling his reins, he tossed a single question toward Leopold—no, toward the entire battlefield.
"Were you waiting?"
Then, the vanguard of the Victorian army began to descend upon the collapsing battlefield.