The Alliance Headquarters was a grand and imposing building, its marble floors echoing with the sound of footsteps. As a man dressed in a sleek black suit walked confidently down the hallway, he took in the sights all around him. On the walls hung various pictures depicting victorious battles, heroic last stands, and moments of glorious victory. The energy was palpable as everyone rushed to their respective locations while the man strolled at a leisurely pace.
Looking out of a nearby window, he saw a bustling city below with stone-paved streets and buildings that had stood for centuries. People roamed about happily, seemingly unaware of the turmoil happening inside these walls. As his gaze extended further, he could see ancient architecture gradually giving way to towering skyscrapers - a true representation of humanity's achievements.
Suddenly, a woman appeared beside him, also dressed in a sharp black business suit. Her skirt was cut above her knees, showing off her toned figure. "Beautiful city," she said, looking out at the view with him.
"Yes, it is a pity we won't be able to keep it for long," replied the man, turning to face her. She had striking features - golden hair and crimson eyes, perfectly styled and enhanced by makeup. "Your Highness, are you ready to get this show on the road?" he asked with a slight smirk.
"Of course, Your Majesty," she said with a small bow. "Perhaps when this place falls, we can claim it for ourselves."
"I highly doubt it. This is Briatainia's capital, after all. Even if the mainland falls, this island nation will stand strong," said the man confidently.
"So you think we might lose against the Briatains?" asked the woman skeptically.
"No, I believe they will surrender before we have to level their city," declared the man as they continued walking through the halls. His black hair and piercing brown eyes seemed to take in every detail as he passed by the bustling crowds. Despite his weathered appearance, there was a commanding aura about him that only grew stronger with age.
At last, they reached a door labeled "Secretary General, Alliance Forces." The man stopped and opened the door, followed closely by the woman. The aide inside jumped to attention as soon as he saw them and exclaimed with surprise, "Lord Harken and Lady Mistra! I will inform the Secretary-General right away!" before quickly rushing off to do so.
After a few moments, the aide returned and ushered them into a spacious room adorned with military memorabilia. From flying suits to ancient armor, the space resembled more of a museum than a leader's office. The center of the room was dominated by a large table covered in papers and various computer screens displaying vital information. In one corner, a man dressed in a light green dress uniform decorated with numerous medals and ribbons sat at his desk. His face was lined with age, his hair white as snow. It was clear that he carried the weight of leading the entire alliance military on his shoulders. He took off his reading glasses and motioned for the aides to leave the room. As they filed out, Harken and Mistra took their seats in front of the man. On his desk sat a plaque reading: Secretary General, Joint Alliance Forces High Command. Marshal Oliver Harrington, Kingdom of Dracoria.
Oliver's voice shook with disbelief as he spoke, "Has it truly come to this?"
Harken's expression hardened, and he replied with steely determination, "I believe so, old friend."
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Without a word, Harken gestured to Mistra, who pulled out a set of papers and handed them over. Harken scanned the document before declaring in a decisive tone, "By the power invested in me by the triarchy and the three Imperial houses, I, Marquess Harken of Nimbora, ambassador and military coordinator to the Alliance, formally declare war against all members of the United Defense Alliance. The blood of our Empire has been spilled by their hands, and we will not stand for it any longer."
In a dramatic gesture, Harken placed the paper on the desk, and Mistra poured molten wax onto the bottom while he removed his gold ring. Pressing his house sigil into the warm wax, Harken declared, "I, Baroness Mistra of Aurelia, ambassador, and military coordinator to the Alliance, bear witness to this declaration and second it with my own stamp." With a resounding thud, she pressed her ring into the wax next to Harken's, sealing their declaration of war with fierce determination.
Harken's words hung heavy in the air as he and Mistra stood, their task completed. "May we meet once again once this is all over," he said, his voice filled with determination.
They left the room and stepped out into the bustling halls of the alliance headquarters. People rushed around, frantically preparing for the imminent war. Harken and Mistra made their way through the chaotic crowd and eventually reached the exit.
Outside, a private car was waiting for them in the parking lot. As they drove through the city one last time, they took in every sight, knowing that it may be their last. They watched as people went about their daily lives, unaware of the danger that would soon befall them.
When they arrived at the airport, a sleek private jet was already waiting for them. Without a word spoken between them, Harken and Mistra boarded the plane and settled in for the journey ahead.
As they flew towards their destination, Harken picked up the phone and made a brief call. With just three simple words - "All is done" - he confirmed their success before hanging up. The weight of what was to come hung heavily in the air as they continued on their journey, unsure of what fate awaited the entire world.
A hour, 1st of May 2146 Imperial Calendar
Firebase 125, Firebase 142, Firebase 181, Firebase 173, and countless others are poised for the fated A hour. Their guns gleam in the moonlight as they take aim at the distant Alliance outpost, knowing that this moment has been building for years. In the past year alone, the Imperial Naval Ground Forces have constructed 20 of these formidable firebases. Each one is armed with three massive 230 MM rocket-assisted naval artillery guns, capable of reaching a range of 100 kilometers with shells packing 500 pounds of explosive power.
The base itself is designed in a triangular shape, with each gun positioned at a corner. At its center lies a concrete bunker housing the ammunition and a sophisticated computer system. As midnight approaches and the countdown begins, the gun officers stand ready with their watches in hand. When the clock strikes twelve, a voice crackles to life over the company radio, reciting a series of numbers that are meticulously inputted into the computer.
A few tense moments pass before a final message blares through the speakers. "May the Creator have mercy on our souls. The hour is upon us. Let the plains burn." And with those chilling words, all of the guns across all of the firebases unleash their deadly payloads into the night sky. The deafening roar of their firing can be heard for miles around as thousands upon thousands of shells propelled by rockets streak through the air like falling stars.
In an instant, explosions erupt across the horizon as shell after shell finds its mark. Flames light up the darkness as destruction rains down upon the unsuspecting Alliance outpost. It is a scene of chaos and devastation unlike anything ever seen before. This is war in its most brutal and merciless form - where entire landscapes are reduced to ash and nothingness in a matter of minutes.
A + 45 Hour, 1st of May 2146 Imperial Calendar
The robotic voice in his helmet communication array blares out the news, "Target neutralized, base 87% ineffective." Legionary Noah of the 15th Assault Engineering Group stops his flamethrower from wasting any more fuel than necessary. Their task is to clear Outpost 156A, but they are falling behind. According to the tactical AI embedded into his fully encased armor, the base should have been decimated by the third round of artillery strikes. But with an 8% error in the targeting computers on the shells, it's causing more work for him and his fellow legionaries. He doesn't mind the extra labor, but their group commander, Decadeian Thane, has been noting that they are behind schedule.
"Attention all legionaries, the main element of our Assault Legion and the Black Cross units are moving towards our location for phase 2A. We are now 1+47 minutes behind schedule. Increase incineration rates and sealing operations immediately. Copy?" Decadeian's emotionless voice echoes through their helmets.
"All copies," the group responds in unison. Noah switches to a quick run as he moves from bunker to bunker, clearing out any remaining enemies. He needs to be fast but also thorough. In his eyes, the Alliance soldiers should just kill themselves and save him the trouble. He thinks this as he ignites his flamethrower in another bunker entrance, hearing screams and cries from within as the black flames consume everything in sight. He feels no emotions, as it has been drilled out of him and his fellow legionaries long ago.