The experienced Confederation soldiers begin reforming their ranks, the reserves quickly grabbing their gear. They have seen many scenes before. This one is no different. They are trained to not even flinch at the deaths of their comrades. They should continue fighting no matter the situation, to follow the command of their leaders. It is only through this, that they can have a possibility to survive.
At least, they are told this is the only possible way to survive the hellish war.
The New Rule, meanwhile, have already begun their charge. The roar of soldiers, raging to avenge their comrades. The armored vehicles advance like cavalry charges of the olden times, fearlessly heading straight for the enemy camp. The aircraft mercilessly chase the enemy, gunning them down without even a moment of sympathy or pity. The artillery batteries shuffle into place, the angle slowly adjusted, the crew thinking only of a lifeless target to reach.
Avalel, guarded by two whole companies, marches behind, the Anapadeia already reeking of bloodlust. It reminds him of a certain memory, one not necessarily of his. The crimson battlefield, so brightly splashed onto his face. The lack of any life on the field but him (or was it him?). He feared that memory. He loved that memory. And he is going to relive it today.
As if the previous bloodshed wasn’t already enough.
No, there is only now. To protect the strangers in Thille, a victory is needed. All that he has done is worth it if he wins.
“Batteries are in position to strike, our leader,” the artillery general reports.
“Fire at will,” Avalel simply orders. The general is merely waiting for his order before the hellish, passionate bombardments begin again.
Boom! The thunderous sounds of artillery shells propelled into the air echo across the landscape before they smash onto the camps. Shrapnel explodes in all directions, dirt is flung up into the air as several screams reach Avalel’s ears. Even as the methods change, the screams remain familiar.
It won’t be long before the Confederation forces get wiped out by the increasingly uncontrollable rage of his troops. And he shall allow them to run rampant for a while. Once they have calmed down, they will know who to pledge their allegiance to. He has no care whether any enemy soldiers are taken prisoner. If anything, they are better off dead. They, as the tools to aid his rise to power, have already reached the end of their usefulness. The military is his, the people are his, the government is his. Everything is already under his control.
Then he shall march west again, to cross the mountains, to reach Achien, to conquer the Confederation. Then the next faction, and the next… and then peace shall be—
Is that really his dream, or is it his (his?) dream?
“Our divisions are about to enter the enemy camp vicinities,” the general of the armor says, interrupting Avalel’s thoughts.
“That was quite fast,” he responds, not knowing what else to say.
“We shall change our formations to—”
A flurry of explosions. Vehicles are blown apart, their metal hulls like rusted scraps as they burn in a fiery blaze. Simultaneously, a volley of energy blasts seemingly from nowhere strike the ground, dust immediately being flown up into the air as a hazy smoke.
“Twenty seven of our vehicles have already been immobilized or destroyed,” the general mutters, still keeping a calm front in his voice. “Continue forming a spearhead formation and rip the enemy into shreds.”
“Do not falter,” Avalel adds. “Victory is in sight!”
An aircraft falls from the sky, a proud falcon suddenly shot from its glory. As a trail of smoke billows behind it, it crashes onto the camp, bursting into flames. Avalel feels the continued warmth of the air, undisturbed by the little attempted disruption.
A rain of blasts from antiaircraft guns on the ground. A second plummets down towards the earth, its wings shattered by the ferocity of the attacks. A third explodes, bringing down another two with it. All the while, the ground armies relentlessly push forward, the number of armored vehicles dwindling by the moment, the thick shield thinning with every blast.
“Another fifty two down,” the general of the armor reports. “Our left flank is exposed.”
The ground erupts in rifle fire. Avalel can almost hear the soldiers, his own soldiers, gasping in terror before they are gunned down. The Confederation soldiers are nowhere to be seen in the dust, with only their rifles propped up above the ground.
“Impossible… Trenches?” the general of the infantry says. “How did they have the time?”
“Keep going,” Avalel commands. “The sacrifices will not be in vain! Tell the soldiers as well, for they need our motivation.” It seems that he himself will have to pick up his pace. The morale is still high, but at this rate of losses, the optimism will not last long.
Running over the fallen bodies of their comrades, the New Rule marches on. They have neither the numbers or the quality, only a ragged desire to protect Thille. They are the veterans, the ones who have survived the battle of the Pass. Why should they fail now, defending their capital? And even if they die, their sacrifices will be remembered for generations as they earn the victory they so desperately need.
That is the mindset Avalel desires, the mentality they hold.
Avalel connects his comms to each soldier, immediately being bombarded with a cacophony of sounds.
“Agh!”
“Rieis!”
“Push forward! Forward!”
Those sounds are all so familiar. Even after a thousand years, those brave cries still feel the same. Yet unlike back then, his voice can now be easily heard, his commands a beacon for them to follow.
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“Onward!” he shouts. “I will personally fight alongside you, so do not be afraid! Advance as you would on a hike! It is a difficult road, but do not falter! The people, our people of Thille, of the New Rule, are in your hands!”
The united cries of his soldiers reach his ears. Unlike the fresh recruits fallen in the first wave, their hearts do not waver with such ease. Even amidst the deaths of their comrades, they charge onwards, fueled by their hatred of the Confederation. He may not be able to control their rage any longer, but as long as he can still direct it, it will be to his favor.
“Fire!” the general of the armor shouts.
A wave of concentrated blasts shatters the enemy lines before the survivors of the armored formations pierce through, and behind them, the infantry long waiting for their moment of glory. A stampede of furious soldiers, like beasts trampling over the enemy. The rifles, the pikes do not hesitate as they issue a decree of death onto the enemy. Hatred, or at the very least, indifference takes over each soldier.
One kill is a shock. Two kills punch the guilt into their chests. But three, four, five… there is no remorse left to feel.
These unnamed soldiers of the Confederation are only part of the collective known as the “enemy”, the ones destined to be killed for all the atrocities they have done. The New Rule, in this sense, is only liberating what was once theirs, to take revenge upon all the comrades they have lost. Even in the bloodbath of their own, the soldiers march on, throwing themselves for the sake of victory.
Avalel admires this, the passion they display, the resolution of their actions, the faith they all have in the certainty of their victory.
Where one falls, another takes their place. Where there is an enemy pocket doggedly fighting for their lives, a single artillery shell eliminates them from the scene along with several of their own, relieving them of their pain. Where there is even a semblance of enemy organization, they issue a barbaric, spontaneous charge, forcefully tearing the lines apart.
The organization and rationality from the initial counterattack has already collapsed. All that remains is a primal desire to protect, to survive, and to kill.
Avalel finally reaches the front lines. The battle, the glory, the victory… It’s all his to claim now.
He raises the Anapadeia, the energy from the gem and his body coalesce to form a single orb. From the display, he should be facing in the direction of the reported Confederation headquarters. There are hundreds of his own troops in his way, but that does not matter. To claim the victory, sacrifices are necessary.
For his victory.
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“The enemy is within firing range!” a local front line commander reports.
“Hold your fire until ordered! Do not let the enemy break through until the lines of defense behind have been properly established!” a general quickly replies.
“The trenches haven’t even been properly dug yet,” another general says. “Are you sure this defense is logical, Common Leader?”
“We’ve committed far too deeply,” Nasition says, his hands clasped together. “If we retreat now, it’ll be a massacre anyway. Discipline is what we have. The barbaric soldiers of the New Rule cannot break our lines easily if they simply charge like the stupid tribesmen of old.”
The Confederation, the soldiers of his own, will not fall so easily. They are his soldiers, and although just pawns, he trusts them. They will not lose so easily. They will not simply give up when they are so close to their eventual goal. The sheer discipline they have will guide them through this setback and return to the path of victory.
They will not retreat.
“All armored units, fire at my order,” he directly says into the comms. “All artillery units, focus your fire at the central spearhead of the enemy’s offensive.”
Calmly, he looks into the display as the symbols of the New Rule’s troops approach closer and closer. Their mad charge is admirable, but alas, they will soon be wiped out. “And… fire.”
The blasts find their target. Dirt, mud, pieces of metal are shot up into the air, blanketing the soldiers in a natural camouflage.
“Fire.”
Scraps of flaming metal fall to the ground, exposing the skeletal frames of the vehicles. Nasition can hear screams now. Screams of the enemy as they continue to push on, fodder in the face of the hastily built defenses.
“Fire.”
Still the same sense of emotionless discipline as before, the troops unwavering even as the enemy approaches closer with every step. But what is this, lingering in their minds, that slowly creeps up inside? The inevitability of the enemy horde bearing upon them, overrunning them like a stampede despite the Confederation’s numerical advantage.
The barbarism of the charge, inspired by just a glimmer of hope… It’s frightening.
And then the two armies come into contact.
Organization collapses in an instant, screams again reaching Nasition and his generals’ comms. Screams of their own soldiers, overwhelmed by the onslaught of the New Rule. Somehow, the lack of any control, any strictness has only made the enemy more fearsome. The random attacks fueled by emotions; the erratic, unpredictable bombardments and blasts; the suicidal nature of the soldiers, tossing themselves over and over again, as if their lives are but a spark, having a moment of the spotlight before it is extinguished.
This insanity… Is it all just from a desire to protect the city itself?
“Hold your lines!” Nasition commands. “Do not even think that defeat is inevitable!”
Yet the defensive perimeters begin to crumble. The professional Confederation soldiers, supposedly so hardened even in the face of fierce adversary, begin to collapse. The shallow trenches become corridors of death, soldiers being slaughtered by the dozens.
A general looks at him. “Common Leader, we should retreat and regroup with General Lexial—”
“Do not retreat! Did I not make myself clear?” Nasition shouts. Thille, Avalel, the New Rule, they’re all so close. Why, then, does he feel they are slipping away from his grasp? The superiority of his troops should be more than enough to defeat the remnants of the enemy military. They have numbers, training, equipment… They should have everything needed for a victory.
“Common Leader—”
“Do not desert your posts! I repeat, do not desert your posts!” Nasition commands.
By obligation and order, the soldiers doggedly fight in their own camp. Yet as they fall one by one, their will to fight too slowly slips away, the possibility of victory following the receding currents. All they can do is to survive just for a moment after their fallen comrades. A moment more before they, too, are shot dead or blown to bits.
“Fight to your deaths if need be!” he screams.
This cannot be happening. The armies are falling into disarray. Even in areas where Confederation and New Rule soldiers alike are mixed in bloody melee battles, the enemy artillery still mercilessly bombards with their shells until neither Confederation nor New Rule lives remain. And even with extremely heavy losses, the enemy pushes on.
Are deaths merely a number to them? Do they simply not fear death itself?
The lack of fear. The courage to fight. The readiness to die.
That is when Nasition perceives… They have lost the moment they backed the New Rule into a corner, prompting the beginning of the crazed counterattack.
Avalel, he finally realizes, is a genius.
A sudden spark of light, rapidly tearing through the center of the New Rule’s troops from behind. There is no flying piece of metal or flesh. They are simply disintegrated into dust.
Just what…?
The light pierces through the Confederation defenses, annihilating all in its path. And in its path… is the headquarters itself, the structure unable to move in the wake of this beam of destruction.
At the origin of the light, Nasition can discern the silhouette of a single figure, their outstretched arms holding a sword.
Somewhere inside his mind, he imagines the figure smiling just a little before the light hits the structure.
Then all the displays go dark. The battlefield disappears before his sight.