George Waters, a twenty-one-year-old youth born in Birmingham within the Victorian Empire's County of Ninimore—and now a Sergeant in the Birmingham 7th Infantry Soviet—leaned against the wall beside a factory window, waiting for the enemy.
He was a Cautus. Though he had not been at the very front of the January Massacre, he had shouted slogans from the fifth or sixth rank; he was a man who had witnessed the carnage in the square from the immediate periphery the moment he arrived.
It was for that reason he joined the Communist Party the very next month. By the April Revolution, he was standing in the second rank, clutching a red banner.
Once the initial stage of the revolution succeeded, he immediately answered the Party's mobilization call for soldiers. Through his high participation in drills and his disciplined performance, he earned the rank of Sergeant.
That was why he now stood with a rifle in hand, his weight braced against a factory window.
"There! The enemy is there! The enemy warships!"
A scout, squinting through binoculars at the horizon, let out a shout.
George guessed the man wasn't in his squad, likely a member of Sergeant Gordon's unit from the adjacent company.
Regardless, at the news of the enemy's arrival, every man in his squad stood up and seized their weapons.
Their hands were trembling.
Despite the standardized training provided by the military advisory group from Columbia, this was the first time they were actually aiming their rifles at a living foe.
Sensing the stifling atmosphere among his subordinates, George felt a pressing need to break the tension.
He spoke to the most terrified-looking soldier before him, Private Evelyn Brooks.
"Hey, you're not going to die. Don't worry. Just do exactly as we practiced. Understood?"
Evelyn gave a small, jerky nod. The sheer terror in her eyes receded, if only slightly.
"Are you sure... can we really win?"
"Of course. You think the Revolutionary Committee are fools? Comrade Vladimir will have planned every inch of this."
As he spoke, the other squad members began to mutter. "Right, we have the numbers. We'll win." "The Revolutionary Committee and Comrade Vladimir must have a master plan."
The soldiers nearby started exchanging dry jokes, and the contagion of tension seemed to drain away as quickly as it had arrived.
Only then did George feel he could breathe.
He pricked his long Cautus ears, staring out at the landscape beyond the factory.
The sound of warships on their massive tracks was reaching him even here.
Of course, this was only because of his Cautus heritage; his large ears could pick up what the others could not. To the human soldiers, the world was still silent.
Regardless, the reality remained: those infinite tracks were crushing countless trees, grass, and unlucky wildlife beneath their weight. The sound was growing louder.
Listening to that distant, grinding cacophony, George felt a shiver run down his spine.
It felt as though the heavy cannons mounted on the aristocrats' warships were staring directly at him, his squad, and all of Birmingham.
The noise drew closer. Cold sweat began to slide down George's back.
The sound of something gargantuan rolling forward. The illusion of a gun barrel fixed upon them.
But it was no illusion.
From the distance came the unmistakable, sharp crack of a discharge.
He roared.
"Into the trenches!"
George's scream was purely instinctual.
Seconds that felt like hours ticked by.
His subordinates scrambled into the hastily dug trenches to take cover.
One, two, three—eventually, the last soldier dove in just as the final second expired.
The very earth convulsed.
Roof tiles cascaded like rain, and a cloud of dust choked the sky.
A deafening explosion tore through the air.
*************************************************
"Direct hit!"
"Excellent!"
The captain of the Allied Nobility Army's flagship, the Great Victoria, shouted in triumph.
Once the pride of the Empire, this warship had been the ultimate weapon of the Victorian Empire at its commissioning, boasting the largest guns, the thickest armor, and the highest speeds of any vessel of its era.
However, thirty years had passed. While still a front-line vessel, it was an aging relic destined for secondary service. The royal family had sold it to generate funds for newer constructions; as a result, it now served as the flagship for the Allied Nobility Army.
Regardless of the ship's pedigree, the primary concern of the nobles and officers aboard was Birmingham.
Their interest, however, was not the accuracy of the opening salvo that the gunnery masters and staff were cheering for.
Their focus was entirely on how to divide the spoils they intended to strip from the city.
Consequently, they were already hoping to cease the bombardment.
"Hmm... their defenses seem largely neutralized. Don't you think we can stop the shelling now?"
"Indeed. Who will take responsibility if the wine cellars collapse?"
"Those Reds are probably cowering in their trenches, crying for their mothers by now."
"Quite right. Once our Imperial forces charge in a single wave, those cowards will crumble like rotten floorboards."
They wanted more intact loot.
Yet, amidst this greed, there was a lone dissenting voice: Henry Windermere—Duke Henry Windermere, not the suspended Amfielice Windermere.
"What are you talking about? We need at least five hours of bombardment from the entire fleet to truly pacify them. Right now, only our flagship is firing!"
He squeezed out the last of his reason and judgment to resist the nobles' command.
But as he spoke, the gazes the nobles cast upon him turned icy.
"Haha... it seems our Duke is quite fatigued."
"Indeed, that must be it."
They whispered amongst themselves before turning back to Duke Windermere.
"Your Grace, you seem tired. Why don't you step over here for a moment?"
"Yes. Rest a while and have a drink."
"No, the battle is imminent! How can I command while drinking—"
"Now, now, Your Grace. This is no mere liquor. It is a traditional ritual to bolster one's courage."
The surrounding nobles smiled, thrusting a glass toward the Duke.
The liquid within was a vivid, glowing blue, emitting a scent so potent it threatened to paralyze the sense of smell with a single whiff.
They were offering the Duke a caustic, high-proof spirit.
At first, the Duke tried to refuse.
But the stares of the surrounding nobility were uniformly cold. He knew well that in aristocratic circles, being branded a 'weak man' was tantamount to political death.
So, he took the glass.
And he drank.
— Gulp, gulp —
"Aha! Look at our Duke go!"
"Drink up. All of it."
The nobles' gambit succeeded.
The numbness began at the tip of his tongue and spread to his reason. His vision blurred, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
As the alcohol saturated his brain, Duke Windermere lost his final shred of sanity.
With reason gone, his mind was colonized by a mindless, raw bravery.
In common parlance, this mindless courage is known as recklessness.
Thus, through an 'equitable dialogue' with the nobles, the bombardment of Birmingham was halted.
A mere twenty rounds of 16-inch shells had fallen on the city.
Satisfied, the Allied Nobility Army decided to moor their ships and commence the landing of troops.
Thus, they swallowed their own poisoned chalice.
***********************************************************
"Bring her in! All hands, prepare to disembark!"
The warships of the Allied Nobility Army finally moored before the gaping breaches in Birmingham's battered walls.
Officers' bellows echoed between the bridges and the decks.
The monstrous iron hulls of several ships were laid bare; soldiers scrambled down steel ladders or leaped directly onto the ground from the lower decks.
At the vanguard of the infantry stood the Kuranta cavalry, followed by conscripts with spears, mercenaries, and ceremonial guards proudly hoisting the banners of noble houses.
"Oh, a city at last!"
"Hahaha! Look at those crude brick buildings. This is the city of those so-called revolutionaries?"
"Ugh... I can smell the stench of the commoners from here."
From the mouths of the disembarking men came not tension, but mockery and bravado. This was true for the noble-born officers, at least; the peasant conscripts and mercenaries were simply struggling to contain their awe.
The outer ramparts were already tattered from the shelling, and there was no sign of an ambush along the approach. The streets were eerily silent, devoid of any human presence. Yet, the air felt strange. It was too quiet. Too clean.
The nobles and officers interpreted this as the traitors fleeing in abject terror.
"1st Scout Company, secure the entry point!"
"2nd Battalion, commence advance into the city!"
Upon the command, the great wheels of the Allied Nobility Army's logistics wagons and supply trucks began to turn, and columns of booted infantry marched shoulder-to-shoulder into the streets.
The desolation of Birmingham's outermost industrial district buoyed the soldiers' spirits.
"Did they really all run away?"
"I was worried for nothing. Is this what an easy war feels like?"
"All that's left is to collect our medals!"
They marched with spears slung over shoulders and cigarettes dangling from their lips, moving as if attending a festival.
Their crudely decorated armor glittered under the sun, and the wind snapped their banners with arrogant pride.
But their display was being watched.
From factory chimneys, house roofs, darkened window frames, sewer grates, and the depths of vanished shadows. Binoculars followed their every move, while silent voices and signal flags coordinated in the dark.
Oblivious, they headed toward the central square—the strategic objective designated by the nobility.
"Is there really no one?"
"This place gives me the creeps...."
A few soldiers voiced their unease, but these were minority voices, quickly dismissed and forgotten.
They marched into the square.
It was a wide, open expanse.
"Flag-bearer! Where is the flag-bearer?!"
"Where are the reporters? They need to capture this!"
They were intoxicated by a victory that felt as effortless as eating a slice of cake.
They felt invincible.
Soldiers straightened their ranks, raising flags high, while some pulled out portable cameras to photograph themselves and their comrades.
None of them questioned it. None of them wondered why this city was so quiet, why nothing—and no one—responded to their intrusion.
"Victory!"
"A bit anti-climactic, really...."
Suddenly, an officer noticed a tiny flag visible in a building window.
"...A flag?"
He craned his neck to get a better look, rummaging through his pockets.
He pulled out his binoculars and focused on the flag out of pure curiosity. It was a right-angled triangle. Not a standard red flag. That flag signified 'something'.
"What did that mean again—"
At that moment, the flag was slowly lowered.
That was the signal.
The bombardment began.
"Fire!"
"Discharge!"
— KABOOM! —
— RATATATATATATATA! —
From every building surrounding the square, gun barrels suddenly protruded. Bullets tore through the sky, and cannons spewed volleys of grapeshot. From windows, roofs, sewer covers, behind signs, gaps in walls—even from within ornamental sculptures—organ guns, rifles, crossbows, and grenades erupted like a storm.
The square became a slaughterhouse.
"Aaaaagh!"
"Dammit! What is this!"
Within the first ten seconds, dozens of soldiers were cut down before they could even comprehend what was happening.
The scions of the bourgeoisie and nobility were struck by bullets and tumbled to the ground in the blink of an eye. The Kuranta cavalry, attempting to charge and break the encirclement, were shredded by grapeshot.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
"Where is the artillery?! Fire support! We need support now——Aagh!!"
But there was no artillery support.
The square was a literal hellscape where commands could not be heard and radios were useless.
Soldiers on the periphery of the square fled screaming, only to be struck down in the back.
But their screams did not reach the noble flagship.
"Hahaha! Cheers!"
"A toast to victory!"
Their death rattles were drowned out by the sounds of the aristocrats' banquet.
In this situation, there was only one noble aboard the flagship who truly perceived what was happening.
"This... this is a trap...!"
That lone individual was Amfielice Windermere.
(Attached Image: Amfielice Windermere)
This is Amfielice Windermere.
This is her appearance in the year 1098. Considering Duke Windermere (Amfielice) participated in the War of the Four Nations in 1031, one can see the severe late-childbearing and low birth rate issues among Terrans, coupled with their incredibly long lifespans.
For the current story, please imagine Amfielice as a perfect young girl, with both eyes intact, no scars, and no wrinkles compared to this illustration.
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