It's now been two days since the return of Schneizel to the capital.
His arrival had been discreet, almost anticlimactic. No grand procession. No formal announcement. Only a silent docking of his flagship and a quiet transfer to the inner imperial quarters.
The first person he had sought was his mother.
He had expected to find her imprisoned—leveraged, perhaps, by Clovis as a political hostage. It would have been an obvious move, even if a futile one. Schneizel was not a man who could be coerced through sentiment. Clovis should have known that.
Yet she had not been captured.
She had escaped.
The Second Queen received him in a secured chamber, composed as ever, her voice steady as she recounted the fall of the palace and her narrow evasion. The story was plausible.
Schneizel listened without interruption, his expression serene.
But as he left her presence, a faint unease lingered.
She had survived too cleanly.
He did not voice the suspicion. He merely filed it away.
More pressing matters demanded attention.
The moment word of his return spread, messages began flooding in. Nobles. Provincial governors. Minor princes. Even military officers. Many of them had sworn allegiance—quite loudly—to Clovis, Carine, or Guinevere only days before.
Now they sought an audience.
Now they wished to reconsider.
Schneizel granted none of them immediate reassurance.
Instead, he delivered the same measured response each time:
"You may change your allegiance," he told each of them in turn. "But loyalty declared in fear has no value. Prove your usefulness first."
The effect was immediate. Desperation sharpened ambition. Information began to flow.
Whispers. Supply movements. Private grievances. Hidden communications.
One report, however, stood above the rest.
A noble still formally aligned with Clovis claimed to possess critical information regarding the prince's intentions.
There would be a secret exchange that very night between Prince Clovis and Princess Carine.
Schneizel did not react outwardly.
An exchange could mean many things: territory, military assets, resources, hostages… or perhaps a temporary alliance meant to counterbalance him.
He immediately began verification.
Within hours, he cross-referenced the claim through separate channels—contacts within Carine's circle, merchants overseeing restricted logistics, minor officials tasked with unusual night movements. Each thread confirmed the same conclusion.
There would be a secret meeting.
Clovis and Carine, despite their recent fractures, were attempting something behind closed doors.
How predictable.
They had fractured too quickly after their victory. Distrust had already begun to erode their fragile balance. And now, quietly, they sought advantage over one another.
Schneizel stepped onto the balcony overlooking the capital. Fires still burned in distant districts where skirmishes between factions had not fully ceased. The city trembled, but it had not yet chosen its master.
"They cannot help themselves," he murmured.
United, the three might have forced him into caution.
Divided, they were manageable.
This exchange—intercepted properly, exposed strategically—could shatter what little trust remained between them.
A single push.
A carefully timed revelation.
Clovis and Carine were about to receive an unforgettable surprise.
Schneizel allowed himself a faint smile.
It was time to play his first move.
---------------------------------------------------------
While the Britannian capital tore itself apart in political infighting, far to the east another storm was unfolding.
Under heavy cloud cover and absolute radio silence, the forces of the Chinese Federation launched a surprise landing on the shores of Kyushu. Transport carriers breached coastal waters before dawn, escorted by warships whose guns thundered against the sleeping defenses of Area 11. Within hours, armored divisions and Knightmare frames poured onto the beaches.
At the center of the operation stood Xingke Li. From the admiral vessel, he observed the battlefield through overlapping tactical feeds. The most critical phase—the landing—had succeeded. That alone was a victory. Surprise had been total. Britannian coastal artillery had responded too slowly, their command structure clearly destabilized by the chaos gripping the Empire.
"Advance," Xingke ordered calmly. "Secure the southern supply routes. Establish perimeter lines before they regroup."
Chinese forces pushed inland with disciplined precision. Towns fell one after another. Communication towers were seized. Britannian resistance was fragmented, poorly coordinated, almost desperate. Entire garrisons retreated without forming proper defensive lines.
It was exactly the opportunity the Federation had been waiting for.
With the Empire distracted by succession struggles and internal instability, Kyushu represented both a symbolic and strategic prize. If they secured the island, it would fracture Britannia's hold over Area 11 and give the Federation a forward base for further operations.
More than ten thousand Knightmares had been deployed. Though inferior in specifications to Britannian models, sheer numbers guaranteed dominance. The Federation had even committed its most powerful unit—the Shenhu. The High Eunuchs were unwilling to risk failure.
Reports streamed in: objectives captured ahead of schedule. Casualties within acceptable projections.
Yet Xingke did not celebrate.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Enemy movements detected to the north," an operator warned.
At first, it seemed minor—isolated Knightmare units regrouping for a counterattack. But within minutes, the situation shifted. Britannian forces that had appeared disorganized suddenly moved with terrifying cohesion.
A counteroffensive erupted.
Knightmares burst through urban corridors with surgical precision. Chinese forward units were struck at weak points with uncanny timing. Flanking maneuvers anticipated Federation deployments before they fully materialized.
Xingke's eyes narrowed.
"They're reacting faster than expected."
On-screen projections adjusted rapidly. The Federation army could not withdraw. Every transport vessel had already offloaded troops and equipment. The Chinese army had landed but they had yet to fully fortify themselves. A retreat now would mean chaos on the beaches—exposed, vulnerable, catastrophic.
But paradoxically, that same fact gave them strength. All their forces were already on the island. Their numerical superiority was overwhelming.
"We outnumber them," Shin-Ke murmured. "If we stabilize the line, we can crush the counterattack."
And yet, something was wrong.
The Britannian army could not have mobilized that many units so quickly. They must have been stationed here before the invasion began.
And their pilots—
Enemy Knightmare operators performed far beyond standard parameters. Reaction times bordered on precognition. Ambushes failed as Britannian units repositioned seconds before impact. Missile salvos were evaded with impossible precision.
It was as though the enemy could see the future.
Xingke's tactical instincts screamed warning.
"These are not standard pilots," he concluded. "Adjust engagement protocols. Increase suppression fire. Force them into attrition."
Even as he gave the orders, Chinese formations were being split apart. Not overwhelmed—but outmaneuvered. The efficiency was unnatural.
Shin-Ke made his decision.
"Prepare the Shenhu for forward deployment."
"General?" an aide protested. "The command position—"
"If the line collapses, command becomes irrelevant."
The Shenhu launched, flying across the battlefield toward the most unstable sector. From the cockpit, Xingke saw it clearly: Britannian Knightmares pressing on every front, dense formations of newly landed Chinese troops being cut down mercilessly, every enemy pilot fighting like an elite ace.
He did not know the truth—that each of them bore a Geass amplifying perception and reaction beyond human limits.
He only knew that the battle was slipping into uncertainty.
Energy flared from the Shenhu as Xingke entered the fray, carving through enemy units with decisive strikes. His presence stabilized nearby troops instantly. Federation soldiers rallied, their morale surging at the sight of their commander fighting alongside them.
"This changes nothing," Xingke muttered. "Superior numbers. Secured landing. Tactical advantage."
Yet even as he engaged, a single thought lingered at the edge of his mind:
Why does this feel like we walked into a prepared trap?
Above the burning cities of Kyushu, the battle for Area 11 had truly begun.