November 28, 1640
Veirakal Forest, Malmund Grasslands, Mu
The crackle of fire and the laughter of bantering soldiers permeated the otherwise empty forest, bringing life to the bleak environment of bombed-out dens of local fauna and scorched, leafless trees. Although the horrors of war had already beset them, their camaraderie and patriotism urged them onward. With their faith placed in the hands of their American benefactors and the advanced technologies they provided, there was little that could shake their resolve.
Jonas Challinor was no different; he too believed that Mu would reign victorious, whether it be the next month or the next year. Perhaps it was his youth talking, or the overwhelming confidence exuded by his friends’ hardened, yet optimistic expressions. His mind wrapped up with thoughts of conflict and whispers of doubts, he barely realized that someone was calling out his name.
“Jonas! Jonas!”
He looked up to see the faces of his friends, sitting around the campfire. They had all gathered around him, looks of concern plastered on their faces. “Yeah?” Jonas managed.
“You alright there, mate? You’ve been cleaning your rifle for a good minute,” the group’s lone ginger explained.
Jonas brushed off his friends’ concerns, replying with a voice laced with exhaustion. “Yeah, yeah. Just a bit knackered, Mylan. Can’t seem to shake off this…” he paused, almost revealing his fears about fighting the Valkies, then decided to play it safe, “this bleedin’ fatigue.”
Mylan gave an understanding nod, placing his hand on Jonas’ shoulder. “Ah, I know the feeling mate. It’s this cursed war, I tell you. Takes its toll on a man.”
“Aye, it does,” said a man with a distinct Otaheit accent. He raised his canteen as if to accentuate his intention, “But we gotta keep our chins up, eh? The enemy won’t wait for us to catch our breaths, and we’ve got a bloody home to defend!”
Jonas looked at the Otaheit native. It was no wonder that he was especially determined; he must have been keen to pay the Valkies back for the threats they had bared upon the nation’s capital and his very home. Although Jonas was from the peaceful countryside across from the Malmund Mountains, he understood where his friend was coming from. “Yeah, we do, Theo,” he gave a weak smile, life returning to his eyes.
“The Valkies have got nothing on us,” Mylan said confidently. “They’ve got nothing on these American weapons,” he said, patting his M16, “And they’ve got nothing on our resolve! We’ll show these sods just what we’re made of.”
Affirmations spread throughout their ranks. Jonas shared his own affirmation as well. He spoke, but only played along. They didn’t know what he had seen, what he had gone through, what had happened to his old friends. They didn’t know what it was like fighting the Gra Valkans without the support of American mercenaries and equipment. And he was glad they never would.
He continued smiling along, listening to their tales and plans for after the war, hoping that they would be able to achieve the dreams that his dead comrades never could. As the night winded down and the men in the camp wrapped up their dinners, he silently retreated to his tent and laid down. Soon, the crackle of fire and the bantering of men were replaced with complete silence.
There were no crickets chirping in the grasses, nor the occasional hoot of an owl, as was the case back home. There was only the ringing in his ears, and the final words of the friends he cherished. Somehow, he couldn’t even form the tears to grieve. Dark thoughts ran wild until finally, his tired body and mind capitulated, sending him into a deep slumber.
—-
November 29, 1640
Jonas woke up the next morning to the sound of a horn signaling the start of the day’s activities. He groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes and slowly rose from his cot. Stretching, he took a moment to gather his thoughts.
Today was the day they expected the Gra Valkans to finally reach Veirakal Forest. Jonas had mixed feelings; he was eager to finally pay the Gra Valkans back for what they had done, but he was also fearful – traumatized, even. His experience with the horrors of their war machines was one that was not easily forgotten. The only thing that kept him going now was the faith that his comrades and the officers above him had in American equipment and the mages from the Mirishient continent.
The camp itself bustled with unparalleled activity as men hurried around to eat their breakfasts and pack their gear. As Jonas walked toward the mess tent, he noticed support mages – mostly Centrallites and Agarthans – casting spells to prepare for the battle ahead. Some focused on enchanting heavy ammunition: shells and rounds made for American field guns and artillery. Others focused on the logistics of moving large crates of magic gems – fuel for their spellcasting.
Large thuds echoed throughout the camp as blocks of dirt were moved around by mages quickly digging trenches connecting the camp to the front lines. To his surprise, there were even a few summoners in the mix. He watched in amazement as a couple of bearded wizards created golems from the dirt around them and summoned treants from the damaged forest around them.
A surge of confidence rippled through Jonas as he witnessed the mages’ activities. Rather than focusing on offensive spellcasting, which was less potent than conventional weaponry, the mages worked tirelessly to enhance their overall capabilities and disorient the Valkies wherever possible. This was no doubt the implementation of creative plans drawn up by the Americans, who had apparently fought against a foe like the Valkies decades ago.
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He grabbed some food – packaged MREs from the United States – and sat down to eat. As he eagerly tore open the packaging, the aroma of its contents sprouted out, causing his mouth to water. It was none other than the highly-acclaimed chili mac, which became a quick favorite among the EDI forces. Although it held nothing to the home-cooked meals he enjoyed back home, it was much more tasteful than the bland rations that he was accustomed to. It was a stark contrast, but a welcome one nonetheless.
As he began filling his stomach, a series of horns erupted around the base. These sounds only meant one thing: the time for battle was nigh. He quickly finished his breakfast, then hurried to prepare his equipment. He joined the rest of his comrades, who were in the midst of receiving orders.
“... reinforcing Captain Alistair’s unit at grid 3475. They’re expecting to make contact with Valkies in less than an hour, so let’s get moving!”
His heart began to pound as he and his squad raced toward the front lines, hoping to make it there before the Valkies could. As he ran, he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was it, he thought. Bouts of fear crept alongside the outer edges of his psyche, but were dispelled by the growing optimism that he had.
It didn’t take long for them to reach Captain Alistair’s position. While their lieutenant convened with the other officers, Jonas and his enlisted comrades were left to set up their position.
“Can’t wait to blast these sods,” Mylan said, concealing himself in what little brush remained.
“Aye, the Valkies’ll find out soon enough what it feels like to be on the receiving end of advanced tech,” Jonas said, almost excited to put his M16 to work.
The lieutenant returned, interrupting their chatter with new information, “The Valkies are 4 klicks out! Mages, begin casting!”
The mages in Jonas’ unit began to create sculptures from the earth around them – not quite golems, but rather decoys meant to fool the enemy. In mere minutes, dozens of dirt statues surrounded their trenches and camouflaged fortifications, indistinguishable from real Muan soldiers at range. As soon as they finished creating their decoys, the mages created more golems and treants. Some were kept in the back to help move equipment and ammunition, while the rest were sent to the front lines to soak up as much damage as possible.
After a few minutes, all activity ceased as the Muans and their allies patiently waited for the Gra Valkans to finally walk into their jaws. It was a grueling, unavoidable wait that granted the ambushers time to think. Just from one look at his comrade’s faces, it was evident that they had a lot on their mind.
Jonas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his heart pounding in his chest. He tapped his fingers on his rifle and readjusted his aim, leaning against the trench in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. The other soldiers acted similarly, fidgeting as he was or doing so in their own ways.
He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself, but his nerves were shot. The anticipation was unbearable, emphasized further by the deafening silence around him and the noise-reducing properties of the American earplugs.. The silence was so palpable that it almost seemed like it had taken on a physical form, wrapping around them like a suffocating blanket. Tinnitus began to assault his ears, staved off only by the occasional rustling of fallen leaves in the wind and the sound of his and his friends’ ragged breaths.
The sky above was gray and foreboding: a calm before the storm. A cool breeze swept over the trenches and Jonas felt a chill run down his spine. Was this a reaction to the wind, or a premonition of the battle to come? Although he and the men around him were clearly anxious, they did well to suppress it – a testament to their training and discipline. Everyone stood at the ready, fingers near the triggers and eyes fixed on the treeline ahead.
After what seemed like an eternity, the shapes of men and tanks began to appear in the distance, slightly obscured by the bombed-out landscape. Immediately upon seeing this, everyone shifted into a state of alertness. Dazed out eyes focused in while swaying rifles became rigid. There were only a few moments left until their time to strike. For a few more agonizing seconds, everyone awaited the signal.
Jonas centered his aim on a squad of Gra Valkan soldiers huddled up beside a tank, giving no second thought to their identities. They were the enemy – the villains who had murdered his previous comrades. He thought nothing of what he had to do next, and only focused on the sound that would allow him to finally exact vengeance.
Finally, the signal was given. Raising his pistol in the air, Captain Alistair drew in a heavy breath before screaming out, “FIRE!” and shooting his pistol.
At the cue, Jonas pulled his trigger. The single shot was immediately followed up by a stampede of blasts from the hundreds of guns in the Muans’ disposal, accompanied by the sharp, explosive whooshes of rockets exiting the tubes of their Mk 153 SMAWs and the low thumps of grenade launchers in action. These fear-inducing sounds were further accompanied by whistles of death. With perfect timing, their attacks coincided with an artillery strike from the camp behind them.
The Gra Valkan lines were encompassed by intense light as an overwhelming amount of firepower ravaged their positions, immediately eviscerating what men and tanks they had in their vanguard. The dreaded Wilder Heavy Tanks were no match for the magically-enhanced American shells that fell from the skies, nor the powerful SMAW rockets that tore apart their armor like it was nothing.
The EDI’s first volley was devastating, leaving the Gra Valkan formations in chaos. Men scrambled around, panicking to get behind their tanks or diving to the ground in order to minimize their profiles. Fires raged along their positions, engulfing tanks and the men around these tanks.
The once-peaceful forest devolved into chaos, with shapes flying around and bright explosions rocking the enemy lines. Tracer rounds flew at the trenches as the Gra Valkans fought back, kicking up dirt in front of Jonas. He even heard some sharp cracks around him as bullets struck their helmets, but he paid these sounds no mind.
Focusing on his training, Jonas kept his gun steady, shifting to a new target every time his current target went down. His peripheral vision was filled with large blots jumping at the enemy – golems and illusions distracting the enemy – and a mixture of bright blue and orange from the shells and rockets detonated on enemy positions.
Amidst the chaos, Jonas couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph and satisfaction welling up within him. The Gra Valkans had traumatized him in the past, presenting themselves as an unbeatable foe that gruesomely annihilated any resistance. It seemed impossible but they were finally pushing them back. The feeling was indescribable, as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He felt his heart pumping with adrenaline as he continued to pull the trigger on his rifle, watching as the enemy fell one by one.
But as the sounds of battle continued to echo in his ears, Jonas couldn’t help but wonder if his sense of relief stemmed from something darker. Was it really just the satisfaction of finally being able to fight back against the Gra Valkans? Or was it his thirst for revenge, his desire to make the Gra Valkans suffer as he had?
Regardless of the reasoning, it was hard not to feel good with each enemy that fell to the ground, lifeless. It was a bitter taste, but one that he couldn’t help but savor.