The Battle of Birmingham has been won!
This unforeseen triumph sent shockwaves through the Columbian Revolutionary Party and the masses. Even Maylander's militias, who maintained a precarious, neutral coexistence with the Communist Party, could not contain their feverish excitement.
The victory set the hearts of all independence seekers ablaze. It reached such a fever pitch that a bomb was detonated within the heart of the Governor's Mansion in the Columbian territories of Duke Tibalt, claiming the lives of dozens of colonial officials in a searing blast.
Even the wavering, those passive advocates for independence who had remained shuttered in their homes out of fear, finally emerged into the light to join the struggle.
Then came the next clash: the Battle of Saratoga, where Maylander's militia met the forces of Duke Tibalt in open warfare.
With a combined strength of nearly ten thousand soldiers, it was a total collision between the entirety of Maylander's forces and the Northern Army of the Tibalt Duchy.
The result was a decisive rout by Maylander's militia.
"Long live the cause!"
"Hail General Mark Max! Hail General Maylander!"
Mark Max—a name previously unknown—etched itself into the annals of the revolution. With the total annihilation of the Northern Army and the complete liberation of Northern Columbia, the magnificent Battle of Saratoga drew to a close.
In the midst of such a turning tide, one might ask: what was happening back in Victoria?
"Extra! Extra! News you won't see every day! Our forces decimated at Bunker Hill in the Columbian colonies! The colonials have seized victory!"
"What? Defeat? Give me that paper! ...Wait, this is that Communist rag, isn't it?"
"It is, but tell me: is it not more reliable than the papers currently choked by the censor's hand?"
The moment news of the Red Guard's crushing victory at Bunker Hill arrived, we immediately published it in the pages of *The Truth.
It was a calculated decision. I believed this magnitude of news was sufficient to kindle the fires of anti-war sentiment among the populace.
When the reports of Saratoga followed shortly after, the string of defeats suffered by Victoria's large-scale deployments became an undeniable, cold reality.
Our newspaper, detailing the imperial humiliations, sold like wildfire. Because we kept the price meager, there was little material profit to speak of, but our party membership and the subscription list for The Truth* swelled exponentially.
Of course, not everyone was immediately moved by anti-war conscience or the dread of defeat.
"Pah... exaggerated rumors, surely. You expect me to believe our Empire's forces were nearly wiped out by colonial hicks? At the very least, they must have taken the enemy with them to the grave."
"Precisely! This is why you can't trust those Communist Reds!"
"Traitors! Cowards steeped in defeatism!"
The patriotic masses were the loudest, as were the Royalists and the Aristocratic factions.
However, the crucial shift was the growing number of people who feared that they, or those close to them, would be caught in the meat grinder.
"At this rate, won't they start conscripting us as well?"
"I heard our Count is close with Duke Tibalt personally... what happens to our sons if they are dragged into the army?"
"I know they weren't the elite Central Army, but to think thousands of imperial soldiers were liquidated in a single engagement..."
And those fears were rapidly coalescing into a grim reality.
"W-What is this nonsense?!"
"O-Our son? Consripted?!"
Count Archibald has officially declared large-scale intervention in the Columbian War of Independence.
************************************
Year 1016 of the Terra Calendar, County of Birmingham, Kingdom of Victoria
I, Count Archibald Ninimore, as a loyal vassal of His Majesty King Frederick III, solemnly declare that the illegal rebellion and armed insurrection currently unfolding in the Columbian colonies have developed into a grave crisis, profoundly threatening the authority and tranquility of the Empire.
All loyal subjects within this County are duty-bound to comply with the operational requests of the Tibalt Duchy, which acts under His Majesty's sovereign mandate. Accordingly, this County shall requisition the following manpower and resources for the restoration of order and the suppression of the rebellion:*
*1. All adult males and females between the ages of 18 and 50 shall prepare to fulfill their military obligations upon the call of the conscription office.
2. Every village and city shall finalize and report their designated conscription quotas within ten days.*
*3. Those who fail to present themselves by the designated date shall be deemed guilty of treason and punished with the utmost severity.
4. All landowners and peasants within the County shall contribute designated amounts of grain and provisions to support the military logistics. Non-compliance will result in the forfeiture of estates and criminal prosecution.*
*5. Any individual found colluding with rebels, or disseminating defeatist ideology through incitement, conspiracy, propaganda, or assembly, shall be immediately arrested, interrogated, and punished; their families and assets shall also be subject to punitive measures.
Furthermore, I warn all citizens: those who heed the inflammatory lies of the traitors, or those who refuse service and requisition in defiance of His Majesty's command, shall have their property confiscated and be imprisoned according to my authority.*
*This is an unavoidable measure taken to safeguard the security of the Empire and the County, the glory of His Majesty, and the long-standing honor of our House. I command all loyal subjects to respond with the fullness of their hearts.
— Count Archibald Ninimore*
Now, let us analyze this directive in plain terms.
Articles one through three are the decree of conscription. To be precise, it is a very long way of saying 'obey the draft or be executed,' backed by threats against village elders and mayors.
Article four is the demand for food for the war effort.
It seems our esteemed Count has plenty of coin for his personal luxuries, but lacks the funds to purchase supplies for his own soldiers.
And the final article, article five, is clearly a dagger aimed directly at our throats.
Banning the spread of 'defeatism' through incitement, conspiracy, propaganda, or assembly? That is an unambiguous assault on our Communist Party.
And that bastard actually followed through on his words.
How, you ask? Like this.
"We just received a telegram. Branch Office No. 7 in the Victorian region has been raided. Fortunately, we had a comrade among the local officials who warned us to flee, but it seems they couldn't salvage all the records. Most had to be destroyed in haste."
"Emergency report. Branch Office No. 5 has been overrun. The documents and membership cards were successfully incinerated... but the Branch Chief failed to escape. It appears he... took his own life."
Impressive.
To strike the moment the decree was made public?
I expected an offensive, but the taste it leaves in my mouth is foul. It's beyond foul—it is truly sickening.
That cur... how should I break him?
No... I must push such thoughts aside and focus on the immediate priority.
"The investigative net will tighten further. This place is no longer safe."
"Could the concrete walls not buy us some time?"
"It might buy exactly enough time for me alone to escape. Or perhaps it's a trap, and my head will be the only thing that rolls."
The time has come to abandon this sanctuary.
It has served us well, but it must be changed.
I moved my base of operations, and a week passed without further incident.
*************************************
"It's almost 1017, Comrade General Secretary."
"It isn't 'almost.' It's been 1017 for several minutes."
"What? That can't be. My watch says 11:58."
"Your watch is slow."
Engaging in this pointless banter with Edward, I ushered in the New Year.
Indeed, a New Year.
Much like on Earth, it should have been a time where nations, races, and tribes regardless of creed flooded the streets in celebration. But this decree had been announced only a week prior.
How do the hearts of the citizens feel right now?
Vile, I would wager.
Imagine a leader on Earth declaring martial law a week before a major holiday, calling up reserves, canceling all leave for active soldiers, and seizing private vehicles—all to suppress an uprising on some distant island. That is the weight of this madness.
Furthermore, within a single week, this imbecile has managed to strangle the livelihood of the people.
He ignored the fact that winter reserves are meager and plundered the city as if it were harvest season. The inevitable result was a collapse in the food supply entering the urban centers.
Three days after the requisition decree, bread vanished from the bakeries.
The city hall, finally realizing the severity, began issuing pathetic rations of their own stockpiled grain.
Some of the unluckier citizens, or those who failed to hoard food on day one, are already starving.
The situation has reached the point of no return.
When the citizens gather in the streets for the New Year, the moment a single voice of grievance is raised or a spark of friction occurs, they will spontaneously organize into a protest movement.
And inevitably, the Count's forces will suppress them with violence.
When that happens?
The paradigm will shift violently.
Yet, in this unfolding process, we—the Party—must not raise a hand.
"Why must we refrain from interfering here?"
When I voiced my thoughts during a meeting of our core leadership, Comrade Weber asked the question.
And the answer...
...I couldn't grasp it immediately.
I could only offer excuses.
"A revolution is a noble victory, but for that nobility to remain untarnished, we cannot be the ones to drive the masses to their deaths. This revolution must begin by the hand of the people, not the Party. Just as it did in Columbia."
Weber looked me squarely in the eyes and spoke quietly.
"But... whether we drive them to death, or simply look away as they walk toward it... is the result not the same?"
A heavy silence settled over the briefing room at his words.
I leaned back deeply into my chair and cast my gaze toward the ceiling.
"...You are right. It is the same. At least, in terms of the outcome where the people meet their end."
My voice resonated with a low, hollow thud.
The documents on the table seemed to shimmer before my eyes.
"Therefore, what we can do... is ensure we understand that distinction clearly."
I lowered my gaze to face them.
Weber, Wrangel, Edward, and several other cadres were waiting for me to continue.
"If we drag the people out ourselves and force them onto the bayonets, then it is a massacre birthed by our agitation. We become those who directly manufactured a slaughter for the sake of revolution."
I paused to catch my breath.
"But if the people choose to walk toward that death themselves... then at the very least, we were not the ones who drove them there. If the citizens spontaneously resist injustice, the sprouts of revolution will surely flourish—nourished by the fertilizer of their blood."
My voice trembled slightly.
Even to my own ears, the answer was heartless, far removed from ideals and far too steeped in realism.
And so, I added.
"I know. It is a pathetic excuse."
I bowed my head.
"But I believe if we abandon even that shred of pathetic nuance here, then nothing will remain for the slaughtered Columbians, our fallen party members, or the citizens who died on the battlefield and starved in the streets."
Silence reigned.
No one spoke.
I forced my voice through the stillness once more.
"...This is not the ideologically pure, revolutionary decision I have always advocated for. I do not wish to make this choice. I truly do not. But someone must. Someone must bear the weight of this wretched decision."
I straightened my back.
"So, let the people move first this time. We will not strike the match. Instead, when that flame ignites the fuse of revolution, let us do our utmost to ensure their sacrifice is never forgotten. That is the best we can offer."
Weber watched me for a long moment, then gave a shallow nod.
Wrangel took a heavy drag from his cigarette.
Edward rubbed his hands together awkwardly.
"...Understood, Comrade General Secretary."
I said nothing, merely exhaling slowly.
Then, I added one final sentence in a whisper.
"Tell the families of the fallen... to blame me."
**********************************************
It began at a textile mill in the industrial district.
Amidst the roar of looms and the clatter of machinery, the workers threw open the gates and began their march.
"Cancel the conscription! We refuse to die! Cancel the conscription!"
"The people united shall never be defeated! The people united shall never be defeated!"
"Our children are starving! Rescind the requisition order now!"
When those hundred or so workers began their street march carrying banners that read 'Abolish the Conscription Declaration!' and 'End the Requisition!', voices of support echoed from the crowds and neighboring factories.
The proletariat, clad in their threadbare rags, flooded the streets.
"Aye! To the square!"
"Abolish the draft! Abolish the requisition!"
Their numbers swelled to ten thousand, and the column of protesters continued to grow by the minute.
"End this meaningless war!"
"Justice for the people! Down with the Aristocracy!"
The march grew more radical and immense as it reached the high schools and universities.
Students, steeped in communist ideals, joined the ranks.
Particularly those from the Liberty League, young and hot-blooded, took the lead with banners where the word 'Freedom' was hastily scrawled.
"Those students have a way with words!"
"Indeed! Is it not madness that the bakeries have no bread? This is something out of a century and a half ago!"
"Boo! The Count must rescind the requisition! Rescind it!"
Finally, as the march arrived at the marketplace, the citizens gathered for New Year celebrations—and even those who had simply been watching from their windows, moved by the sheer emotion of the moment—joined the procession.
It was a massive sea of people, numbering at least thirty thousand.
Together, they chanted as they surged toward the square.
""Down with the war! Rescind the declaration!""
""Abolish the draft! Abolish the requisition!""
Then, the protesters came face-to-face with several hundred military police.
"Brothers in uniform! Lower your weapons!"
"Lay them down! We do not want this war!"
"You there, girl! Come over here! If you're sent to war, you're as good as dead!"
The citizens shouted at the soldiers, urging them to drop their arms.
When hesitation clouded the faces of the troops, the citizens, certain of victory, began to sing a song whose origin no one could name.
Everyone wore joyful expressions, linking shoulders and singing as if celebrating the New Year.
Then, it happened.
"...All units! Aim!"
A mounted officer drew his saber, pointing it at the crowd as he bellowed the command.
A few at the front recognized the signal and fled in terror, but many more did not hear the order, their voices drowned out by the thunderous singing.
The officer brought his blade down in a swift arc.
"Fire!"
The rhythmic twang of hundreds of bows and crossbows filled the air. The singing was cut short, replaced instantly by the screams and groans of the wounded filling the square.
Blood began to stain the stones of the square a deep, crimson hue.
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