A melancholic chill filled the air while DuPont and his platoon sat atop the Bradleys as they traveled north.
He and his platoon weren’t alone, however. Everywhere DuPont looked he saw soldiers and guardsmen riding on top of their vehicles, clutching onto their gear and weapons. Each vehicle, from Humvees to larger transport trucks, was packed to capacity with wounded soldiers and civilians, many of whom were in visible distress, their faces pallid from shock and fatigue. Children clung to their parents, trying to comprehend the chaos around them. Medics worked tirelessly, tending to the wounded even as they moved, stabilizing injuries and offering what little comfort they could.
The freeway itself was a sea of both military and civilian vehicles. As far as the eye could see, the lanes were congested, with a seemingly endless convoy all heading in the same direction. Pickup trucks, SUVs, and even the occasional school bus repurposed to ferry evacuees rode alongside tanks and artillery units. Every so often, the skyline would be pierced by the blades of helicopters flying overhead, surveying the ground below and providing aerial support.
As they fled, DuPont turned his vision south towards the dark horizon lit up by the many fires of the town they had been supposed to defend. Some would have called the retreat organized, but DuPont figured it only seemed that way because everyone was running in the same direction.
Cambridge was lost the moment that rift opened, and those monsters came out. No matter how he or anyone else deluded themselves, DuPont realized there was never any real chance of holding that town… But he couldn’t stop thinking about all of those who they had to leave behind.
Captain Duggen kept some semblance of order, but the Lieutenant couldn’t figure out whether they were all obeying his command or they just happened to coincide with what everyone thought best. They followed the freeway to the next town with the horde close on their heels.
Not too long ago, DuPont learned that those monsters had their own version of artillery, and some of it had already landed in the area. He looked around and saw a small country home, similar to his granny's house, just outside of Atlanta. A cute, dainty home now turned into blackened slag with its garden and white picket fence still intact.
That was when it hit him. They had been invaded.
The scream of low-flying aircraft letting loose a couple of missiles before steeply climbing back into the sky abruptly knocked DuPont out of his reverie. The missiles arced up, illuminating the horizon with blinding flashes as they struck unseen targets.
Cries of fear rippled throughout the convoy as civilians huddled closer together, trying to shield themselves and their loved ones from the impending danger. Children buried their faces into their parents’ chests, their tiny bodies shaking with terror.
“I’ve never thought I’d see the day where we're the ones retreating while the Air Force is charging headlong into the fray,” Hofmann's voice came gruffly over the commotion, a mix of awe and disbelief evident in his tone.
Thankful for the distraction, DuPont turned his gaze towards Hofmann, who was perched in the commander’s cupola of the Bradley, his eyes fixed on the distant aerial ballet of fighter jets darting through the sky. “They’re the tip of the spear right now,” DuPont said with genuine admiration. “The Air Force and the Air National Guard have been just… throwing themselves at those things just to keep the bigger ones off our ass.”
Hofmann frowned, adjusting his helmet slightly. "The bigger ones? How much bigger are we talking?" He leaned back, glancing up at the sky to see a few more missiles being loosed by another set of fighters. “Those fuckers in the forest were as big as F-16s.”
DuPont grimaced, his blue eyes reflecting the weight of what he'd heard from intel. "Big enough to take out an Abrams. Heard it over the net; Delta was screaming how some big piece of shit slagged an entire tank platoon with a single breath.”
A deep sigh left Hofmann’s mouth as he closed his eyes and hung his head momentarily, absorbing what DuPont had just shared. "Fuck me…” He whispered, "Slagged…? As in melted?”
The Lieutenant nodded slowly as his soldiers around him shifted nervously. "Melted, vaporized, whatever you want to call it. The tank armor didn't stand a chance. Reports suggest that the metal just... liquified."
“But that’s not even the worst of it.” DuPont looked back towards the south, where faint plumes of smoke marked their previous encounters. "Reports are coming in that they’re getting smarter, adjusting their tactics. Every move we make, they're responding faster, adapting. Their ground forces? They're no longer standing out in the open like they're reenacting some ancient battlefield. They’re using cover, flanking, and coordinating.”
Hofmann's brows furrowed in frustration. "You're saying they're learning from us?"
DuPont shook his head, "I’d say it’s more like they’re starting to pay attention to what works and what doesn't.” He sighed and adjusted his rifle. “Command thinks they underestimated us and waltz in here thinking they could just burn a few towns, awe us with their size and might, and then watch us kneel. They probably expected a swift and relatively bloodless victory on their part."
“And now they realized we’re dangerous after bloodying their nose.” Hofmann mused, casting a contemplative glance at the horizon.
A silence ensued, broken only by the distant roar of jet engines. Suddenly, Hofmann squinted at the sky, noticing a formation of lower-flying fighters launching missiles toward the horizon. "By the way, why are they flying so low?" Hofmann questioned, pointing at the sky.
DuPont followed Hofmann's gaze, recognizing the pattern. "Those fucks are hiding in the trees.” He explained with a grimace on his face. “They’re blasting any of those smaller dragons whenever they pop out of the forest."
Hofmann's eyes widened in realization. "Great, so you're telling me these dragons are VTOLs that can just hide in the goddamn trees and ambush us whenever they like?"
“Yeeeeeep…” DuPont nodded grimly. “It’s harder for the flyboys to detect them when they’re so low and nestled in the foliage. Even our recon drones have been having a hell of a time spotting them until they're practically airborne and on top of our units."
DuPont leaned back, feeling the vibrations from the Bradley beneath him. "And that's not the only problem. Once they take off, they're nimble, fast as fuck, and can change direction in a heartbeat.” A few of his men on the Bradley just started laughing because of the absurdity. “And they can FEEL fucking radar, apparently. Our SAMs have an… okay hit rate, but not enough that makes anyone feel comfortable."
No one felt like asking anyone questions or continuing the conversation after that nugget of news. A depressing silence swept across the convey, with only the droning sounds of rumbling tracks and the deafening hisses of missiles fired from jets overhead providing any backdrop. Soldiers exchanged worried glances, gripped their weapons tighter, and hunkered down, each lost in their thoughts.
For once, they’re going into battle lacking overmatch capabilities, a situation the U.S. military hadn't faced in quite a long while.
As the convoy continued its steady advance, the battered defenders finally found themselves driving into New Philadelphia. A sign of a somewhat organized military presence was palpable here. Still, it was a hodgepodge of rapidly deployed units and the chaotic reorganization that had been taking place to bring them under one unified command.
The streets were lined with military and civilian vehicles, and schools and municipal buildings were hastily converted into field hospitals and command centers. Everywhere DuPont looked, he could see service members from the Army, Air Force, Marines, and strangely enough, even the Navy were working side by side with local law enforcement and first responders. The usual distinction between units had been replaced by a singular goal: survival and defense.
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Tanks and armored vehicles had been positioned at key intersections, vigilantly watching the distant treelines and skies while a group of Seabees worked on constructing barricades. Impromptu fortifications that sprang up everywhere, slowly turning the once-peaceful town into a veritable fortress.
Yet despite all the preparations for the upcoming battle, another kind of operation was also in full swing. Emergency services were in a mad dash to evacuate the remaining civilians from the potential war zone. Buses, vans, and even regular sedans were being readied to ferry families, the elderly, and anyone not directly involved in the defense efforts out of harm's way.
As the Bradley maneuvered through the town's main thoroughfare, DuPont’s gaze was drawn to a familiar looking group. There, in a cleared-out parking lot, stood the special forces team he had spotted earlier rapidly refitting and re-arming from the crates of weapons and supplies being offloaded by the endless stream of helicopters flying in.
Adjacent to the team, a few Blackhawk helicopters and V-22 Ospreys sat with blades still spinning, engines emanating a low growl, indicative of their recent return from some mission. Ground crew darted around the choppers, refueling and performing quick checks, ensuring they'd be ready for the next sortie at a moment's notice.
DuPont narrowed his eyes as he watched their efficiency. The team didn’t waste any time as they shoved grenades in their pockets, magazines in their pouches and water in their packs. It only took them a handful of seconds to secure their gear before the elite soldier darted to an Osprey full of fresh marines as its rotors churned up dust from the asphalt.
Hofmann leaned closer to DuPont, shouting over the cacophony of helicopters and armored vehicles, "Damn, they’re not wasting any time!"
DuPont nodded, his eyes fixed on the rapidly departing rotary aircrafts. "Ya, they’ve come to fuck!" The Lieutenant shouted back.
Before the conversation about the special operation team could continue further, the ground vibrated under their feet, as a procession of M1A2 Abrams tanks roared into view. These mechanical beasts moved in perfect synchrony, their powerful engines whining in unison and their heavy treads churning the battered streets as they sped towards the front line.
Hofmann felt a rush of pride seeing these behemoths roll by. “Looks like we’ve come to fuck too," he muttered with a half-smile.
"Let's not keep them waiting, then!" DuPont, catching the sentiment, nodded in agreement. "C’mon, let's drop off the wounded and get resupplied, we’ve got lizards to kill!."
The Bradleys once again roared to life and stormed towards the aid station and the assembly area. It wouldn’t be long before the platoon joined the heavy machines, all moving to a pre-designated staging area. Soldiers checked their gear, commanders reviewed the battle plans, and everyone prepared for the coming offensive.
-
“Mages and healers to the front!” bellowed Rhyzukar, a service bound Dragonkin commander.
The formidable voice echoed throughout the expansive plain filled with Drakoni legions and the Empires vassal forces. Marks of servitude marked his scaled form, silver shackles covered in ethereal flames were tattooed around his muscular forelimbs, a spectral symbol of the ancient oath he had been born into, binding him and his kin to the Empire's service.
"Make haste, lest the enemy winged monstrosities and iron chariots overrun our brothers!!" Rhyzukar's fiery eyes darted about, surveying the mayhem below as his forces faced the might of magicks they could hardly fathom.
Looking up at the elevated commander, Yzael's face contorted in concern and disbelief. Her striking platinum hair cascaded down in elegant waves, contrasted by her ethereal, almost translucent skin. Her elongated ears, characteristic of the High Elves, stretched out nearly as long as a forearm. They had a slight, elegant droop to them due to their weight, making her appearance even more unique and striking. The gentle curve of those ears gave her an appearance of regal grace, but at this moment, they quivered with anxiety.
Yzael looked to her direct superior, Lord Jrazem. The man had trained, studied, and mediated with the Seraph Empire on behalf of the vassal states on this invasion for months. All intelligence had pointed to an easy conquest, a realm devoid of any potent magic that could challenge the might of the empire and its tributaries. But now, she was unsure that such a victory would be so easy after what she saw earlier.
The celestial seraphic dragon, one of the empire's sovereigns, soared through the sky and into the rift. Initially she thought this to be an eccentric inspection of their immediate victory, but the triumphant return they had expected never occurred. Instead, urgent cries and desperate calls to strengthen the barrier protecting the small foothold they established on the other had been deafening.
“I thought this was supposed to be easy…” A voice next to Yzael resounded from behind her.
The High Elf turned around and saw one of the largest humans she had ever had the displeasure of knowing, a towering and brawny figure named Gideon. He was a warrior from her side of the rift, one of the many unaffiliated Freelancers the independent principalities, city states and small kingdoms contracted to help with the invasion.
Donned in heavy iron armor that had seen better days, the plating was scuffed and marred from countless battles, adding a layer of history to the already fearsome appearance. But despite the armor's worn appearance, Gideon stood firm and unyielding, as his massive axe dropped on top of his shoulder.
Stretching his rough and scarred face into a smile, Gideon’s scrutinizing gaze shifted to the rift in the distance. “They said it’d be like hunting Fawn in an open field. Right? ”he teased, slapping Yzael’s shoulder with a heavy gauntlet, causing her to stagger slightly. “I guess it serves ‘em right in bein’ so damned arrogant.”
The sheer force of Gideon’s jovial pat sent a shudder through Yzael's delicate frame. She cast him a sharp glance, her eyes like amethysts glinting under the uncertain light that filtered from the chaotic sky. “This is no jesting matter, Gideon,” she hissed, her voice laced with apprehension. She smoothed her opalescent robes, the fabric shimmering with ethereal lights as she righted herself. “The empire had a veritable horde of dragons, let alone wyrms or wyverns, and now they’re trying to scrounge up any and every mage they can!”
“By the hells, they’ve even sent their Sovereign in and that was HOURS ago!” Yzael snarled as she gripped her grimoire tightly.
Gideon's laugh echoed loudly across the field, clanging metal and desperate commands providing a chaotic symphony in the background. His laughter, devoid of mirth, bore the bitterness of a warrior who had seen the follies of many a campaign.
But the mirthful demeanor soon dwindled, the warrior's face then hardened by the unspoken worries mirrored in Yzael’s wide eyes. He watched the desperate scramble further ahead, the once-mighty legions in disarray, dragons and their kind limping back into the encampment with wounds that seemed impossible to inflict.
“Aye,” he grumbled, his gaze hardened by the chaotic panorama unfolding. “They thought to tame another world, bind it in chains, but look now… they’re caught in their own snare.”
His attention shifted back to Yzael with a face devoid of emotion. “They were fools to think they could just march into another realm and claim it as their own. Fools to underestimate the might that dwells in unknown worlds.”
Yzael's eyes were shadowed with foreboding as she stared at the confusion and turmoil unraveling amongst their ranks. “But we are bound in this folly now, Gideon. Our fate is intertwined with theirs -” Her words were soon interrupted by innumerable and brief flashes of light in the direction of the rift.
Then came the sound of deafening explosions as the barrier protecting the growing outpost on the other side of the rift glowed a bright blue. Yzael felt it; the barrier screamed in agony as it absorbed the concussive forces, its ethereal membrane shimmering in and out of existence as it battled the overwhelming onslaught.
A torrent of hushed whispers flooded throughout the mass of mages as Yzael’s eyes widened, fixated on the mesmerizing, terrifying display. Her heart thundered in her chest, the cacophony of explosion magic assaulting her senses. “By the Ancients...” she whispered in horror.
That was not the familiar, heated embrace of fire magic. The violent concussions and blinding light were the hallmarks of the ancient and forbidden art of explosion magic, a power so uncontrollable and deadly, only wielded by archwizards or the dragons themselves.
Yet here it was, being unleashed with a terrible and precise wrath by a realm that was supposed to harbor no magical essence.
Gideon, though unversed in the intricate lores of magic, sensed the extraordinary nature of the assault. The blows that reverberated through the earth spoke of an immense and fearsome power. “What in the realms is happening, Yzael?” he inquired, his voice tinged with the unfamiliar sting of dread. His steel armor, staunch and unyielding before, now felt like a fragile shell in the face of this boundless onslaught.
The high elf’s visage, painted in hues of despair and awe, met Gideon's questioning gaze. “Explosion magic,” Yzael gasped, her voice almost lost amidst the cacophony around her. “How do they command such power?”
“Well…” Gideon responded by hefting his axe into his hands. “Suppose we’re ‘bout to find out, ain’t we?”
With trepidation, the Armies of the vassal states marched forward with the Drakonic and Seraphic commanders leading their units as the vanguard. The elite legions moved with unwavering discipline in stark contrast to their disorderly vassals.
And thus, the armies traversed the threshold, their forms bathed in the astral luminescence of the barrier’s embrace. They emerged amidst the unknown, the realm beyond whispering a cold and deadly welcome.