[Code Geass]
Imperial Village, Bagration Park, St. George Avenue.
Early February in European Britannia was bitterly cold.
Dong! The distant toll of evening prayer bells echoed faintly. A harsh northern wind howled through the branches of cork oak, Norwegian maple, linden, and plane trees, sweeping across the asphalt and stirring drifting flakes of snow.
Rumble.
An official vehicle belonging to the St. Petersburg Military Academy pulled into a parking shed and came to a stop. A brown-haired young officer stepped out, travel-worn, clad in a woolen overcoat bearing the rank of captain.
"The roads are slippery after the snow. Please watch your step," the driver said, lowering the window and saluting. "Best of luck, Captain Kururugi."
"Thank you." Suzaku Kururugi nodded in response, the cold wind cutting along the tense line of his jaw.
Click. The car door shut. He lifted his briefcase and glanced at his watch.
UTC+3 18:25.
According to instructions from the Catherine Palace General Office, he was to arrive before 19:00 tonight. He was not late.
A transfer order?
With faint doubt and unease, Suzaku raised his head and looked toward the triumphal arch ahead.
Under the night sky, the frost-laden, snow-covered arched gate stood majestically beneath floodlights. Even in the Imperial Village, where monumental structures abounded, its massive scale was striking. A triple-arched design, three vaulted entrances—large in the center, smaller on either side—no colonnade, square and solid in overall form. At its summit stood an exquisite bronze sculpture of the Goddess of Victory and a six-horse chariot.
The Gate of Constantinople—that was its name.
In the year 2015 of the Imperial Calendar, Emperor Charles had commissioned it to commemorate victory in the Crimean War. As a token of merit, it was granted to the Third Princess, conqueror of Istanbul.
Suzaku withdrew his gaze, adjusted the brim of his peaked cap, and strode forward.
Tap. Tap.
Though cleared of snow and ice, the stone pavement remained slick. Neatly arranged yellow warning lines, wrought-iron railings, barrier gates, and raised anti-vehicle roadblocks divided the area into inner and outer zones.
Outside the yellow line, special patrol police under the Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs tightened their winter coats, standing or pacing in small groups.
Inside the line, the Imperial Guard stood fully armed.
Patrolling vanguard soldiers wore combat suits and individual exoskeletons, weapons live, the faint clatter of equipment and hum of motors audible as they moved. Ceremonial sentries stood at attention in double-breasted dress uniforms, coats crisp, boots polished. Even with snow gathering on their shoulders, they remained motionless as stone.
Because Suzaku was an officer, the police did not obstruct him.
Until he reached the security gate at the entrance.
"Captain, please present your identification," a ceremonial guard adorned with gold and silver cords said from the sentry post.
Suzaku handed over his officer ID card.
The guard accepted it and pressed the sensor. A holographic interface projected into view.
After a professional glance, the guard turned and swiped the card at the control panel.
Beep. Beep.
A green light lit up.
[ID Authentication Passed]
The guard returned the card and stepped aside.
As Suzaku passed, the security gate glowed red. A scanning beam swept over him gently.
If it detected signs of disguise, abnormal cybernetic implants, hazardous chemicals, or other suspicious items, the integrated automated turrets, tasers, and sonic deterrents within the passage would activate instantly.
"Please safeguard your sidearm and personal belongings," the embedded AI reminded dutifully.
Artificial intelligence…
Glancing at the holster at his waist, Suzaku silently marveled at the rapid advancement of Britannian technology and stepped into the inner path.
On both sides, vanguard guards armed with newly developed energy-charged weapons watched his approach. Beneath their half-helmet multifunctional tactical visors, twin sets of triple-lens external optical prosthetics glowed with ominous red light.
Suzaku knew their name.
If the Imperial Guard was an honorary title bestowed upon elite units by the Third Princess, then the Vanguard Corps represented the elite among elites.
Having fought in over a dozen engagements was merely the baseline. Losing limbs was routine. Many had danced along the edge of death repeatedly. Without rapid iteration and cost reduction of medical prosthetics and cybernetic components, most would have ended in retirement—or burial.
And this was only the tip of the iceberg of European Britannia's military reforms.
More chilling still—
Buzz—
Autonomous drones hummed overhead.
Combat robots stood guard by the roadside, rifles slung, indistinguishable from human sentries at a glance.
Multiple bipedal combat mechs were stationed in orderly formation, roughly three meters tall, heavily armored and bristling with weaponry—both mobile cover and squad-level fire support platforms.
Beneath the archway stood six Knightmare Frames like iron towers. They held lances, wore capes, sported crested helms and gilded arrow-shaped pauldrons. All were European sixth-generation models—[Gloucester · Plus].
Though they displayed full royal majesty, that alone was not what stunned professionals.
Four of the six lacked cockpits.
Autonomous cooperative armored knights.
One manned command unit assigned two unmanned wing units.
Her Highness Vela's mechanized legion was already taking shape…
At that thought, Suzaku's mood—slightly eased by the prospect of returning home—tightened again with anxiety.
Because the strategic value of the people of Area 11 had declined once more.
After the East Prussia campaign, as a representative of the Area 11 Expeditionary Corps, he had not changed fate—but fortune had turned in his favor.
Rewarded for merit, promoted by Vela—one of the Empire's true power figures—granted knighthood and admitted to the military academy, his path had seemed destined for success.
Yet before he had enjoyed it for long, Area 11 had fallen into unrest again.
And the situation was worsening by the day.
Even Governor Cornelia had been reprimanded for failing to suppress the region effectively.
The news left Suzaku deeply unsettled.
Could he say that his compatriots were wrong to resist?
Suzaku believed he could not.
But was it useful?
Perhaps.
Resistance itself had meaning. At the very least, it asserted the dignity and strategic value of the Japanese people and offered some solace to those burdened with blood-soaked hatred.
But what of the future?
Rely on the Black Knights and that masked Zero?
To challenge the Holy Britannian Empire—which had conquered one-third of the world's landmass—with nothing but the small territory of Japan?
Suzaku admitted that Zero had once saved his life. For that, he was sincerely grateful.
But he did not agree with Zero's ideals—especially the extreme methods that increasingly resembled terrorism.
If the direction was wrong, no amount of effort would help. It might even make things worse.
Suppose Zero's Black Knights truly brought Governor Cornelia down.
Would the Empire abandon Area 11?
Absolutely not.
The successor would only be more forceful and more ruthless.
Who would it be?
The magnanimous Odysseus? The refined Schneizel? Or the fierce and formidable Vela?
In his heart, Suzaku already knew the answer.
Zero could not win.
Based on everything he had studied and witnessed, that was his conclusion.
"Haa…"
Each breath left his lips in clouds of white vapor. The shadow of the triumphal arch quietly enveloped him. Suzaku tilted his head upward.
Flags bearing griffins and winged serpents flew high. The winged Goddess of Victory, her face blurred beneath frost and snow, stood silent. The bronze horses reared, their raised hooves encased in ice, as if proclaiming: Look—this is the fate of those whose blood stains the Empire's iron tread, unnoticed and forgotten.
Would this be Japan's future?
A mere smear of blood beneath imperial boots.
The more Suzaku thought, the more restless he became. His fingers tightened unconsciously around his briefcase.
What should he do?
What could he do?
The more he understood, the more it hurt.
The more he knew, the more he felt torn apart.
In half a year of struggle and study in European Britannia, he had learned much and reflected deeply. Vela's vision of human unification had profoundly influenced him. Her ambition to push outward toward the stars and the sea of space fascinated him.
The Third Princess seemed like someone chosen by destiny in the annals of history. To her, nothing appeared impossible. She was the lamp-bearing goddess, savior of citizens—yet also conqueror of Europe and perhaps the world, an angel of death bringing blood and fire.
Her character was so resolute and unyielding.
But what if one had to face her as an enemy?
Suzaku's body trembled.
He was afraid.
Afraid of that future.
Not for himself—but for his compatriots.
Vela, ruthless as winter toward enemies, would not concern herself with the lives of enemy civilians who were not Britannian.
Even from small details, it was evident.
In classes at the St. Petersburg Military Academy, during island-nation case studies, cadets had conducted war-game simulations. When discussing blockades and counterinsurgency on islands, proposals had included maritime lockdowns, prohibiting even a single sail from setting out to sea, forced population relocations, targeted bombing of agricultural zones, irregular sweeps, containment policies—long-term and short-term strategies alike, all designed to reduce population and break bloodlines.
The sakuradite deposits of Area 11 might be important—but that did not mean the people of Area 11 were.
A small island nation lacked the strategic depth of a great power.
Area 11 stood at a fork in its fate.
If those ruthless yet efficient strategies were ever truly applied there, the dead would not number in tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, or even millions.
By comparison, although the current governor of Area 11, Cornelia, had implemented many harsh policies, the influence of her younger sister Euphemia meant that in practice, many measures had been carried out with a degree of restraint.
"Lelouch…" Suzaku murmured soundlessly.
For a moment, he understood the pressure his childhood friend must feel—having such an ambitious imperial sister…
But now was not the time to falter.
He had to return home.
Lelouch, Nunnally, and everyone in the student council were waiting for him.
Even if that dreadful future was only a possibility, he had to prevent it.
Even if it meant betraying a debt of gratitude.
Zero… I'm sorry. Perhaps you will regret having saved me that day.
I will stop you. Because what you are doing is dragging everyone headlong into hell.
Continuing along the inner road, drifting snow gradually dusted his overcoat with silver flecks.
Just then, from behind the triumphal arch came the faint sound of synchronized footsteps. A dark line advanced through the winter night. Bayonets glinted under the lights.
It was the changing of the guard.
Six thirty.
To the heavy, measured stomp of boots, Suzaku passed beneath the arch and paused to look ahead.
St. George Avenue stretched forward, swallowed by snow and night. At its distant end, the silhouette of Catherine Palace loomed like a crouching beast beneath a halo of faint light.
"Captain Kururugi," a ceremonial guard called.
Suzaku turned.
"This way." The guard stepped aside, gesturing politely.
Behind him, beneath the inner court's parking shed, a palace vehicle rolled out slowly.
Click.
As Suzaku pulled open the door and prepared to step inside—
Whummm—
A tiltrotor aircraft with landing lights flashing descended slowly from the night sky.
Judging by its insignia, it belonged to the Knights of St. Michael.
"Deputy Marshal Shaing… so he's within the scope of reassignment as well?" Suzaku narrowed his eyes briefly before getting into the car.