"Fire! Pour every ounce of lead into them!"
"Comrades! Leave not a single soul alive!"
The People's Army maintained a relentless fusillade, dumping their remaining stores of ammunition into the enemies bottlenecked within the square.
Though the aristocrats present were ostensibly elite warriors, they found themselves utterly helpless. Even as the vanguard of the Allied Nobility Army—handpicked from the finest houses—they numbered a mere eight thousand. It was a fool's errand to believe such a force could withstand the concentrated firepower of thirty thousand desperate souls.
Men who, moments before, had boasted of their martial prowess by deflecting or parrying dozens of bullets, eventually found their bodies torn asunder by the following waves of grapeshot. No knight, no matter his pedigree, could remain standing against the overwhelming mechanical violence of such a localized encirclement.
"Argh—!"
"H-help me...!"
"Stop! Stop shooting, you bastards!"
Ultimately, after five minutes of sustained fire, not a single figure remained standing upon the blood-slicked stones of the square.
What remained were mangled heaps of meat, corpses that still retained a human silhouette, and those few fortunate souls who had survived by pressing themselves flat against the earth.
Even these 'lucky' few were reduced to sobbing wrecks, calling out for their mothers through the scent of their own terror, while the average soldier had simply surrendered to the void of a catatonic shock. These survivors were quickly rounded up by the non-commissioned officers of the People's Army as the smoke cleared.
"Victory! We won!"
"Unity is survival! Division is death!"
"Long live the People's Revolution! Long live the Revolutionary Committee!"
The roar of triumph shook the city air. The revolutionaries hoisted their rifles toward the gray sky, throwing their squad leaders and beloved comrades into the air in a fit of ecstatic relief. Some embraced, others danced, and many broke out into song.
Yet, they could only savor the nectar of victory for a fleeting moment. Their duty called them back to their steel and powder.
"Reload! Everyone reload!"
"The enemy is regrouping! They're coming again!"
"Damn it! Move to the forward positions! Adjust the formation! The square has been marked by their scouts!"
The second wave was looming.
****************************************
The main body of the Allied Nobility Army, numbering thirty thousand, could not see the carnage in the square from their current position, but the auditory evidence was undeniable.
"What in the hell is happening over there...?" a conscript muttered, his eyes wide with a burgeoning terror.
A mercenary standing nearby tilted his head, listening intently. "Thirty years of selling my blade, and I've never heard a roar like that... Was there some sort of trap in the square?"
A minor knight in the rear whispered frantically to his peer, "I thought we only used the heavy bombardment on the outskirts. Why is it so deafening within the city walls?"
The Kuranta steeds of the cavalry grew restless, their ears pinned back, while the burden beasts pulling the supply carts began to stamp their hooves, refusing to remain still. Paranoia, swift and cold, rippled through the ranks.
Suddenly, a booming voice commanded the column.
"Silence! Order in the ranks! The General is speaking!"
An adjutant clad in full plate stepped forward, raising a hand high. Following him was the commander of the Allied Nobility Army's main force: Count Albert Bishmer.
The old Kuranta noble sat atop a snow-white burden beast, a crimson mantle flowing from his shoulders. He still carried the heavy, stoic dignity of a lifelong soldier, but his eyes were bloodshot with a mixture of fatigue and simmering rage.
He raised his voice—slow, deliberate, and infused with the authority of his station.
"Do not let fear take you, my soldiers!"
The restless eyes of the army converged upon him.
"Yes, I heard it as well! That thunderous cacophony from the square! A roar so violent it sounded as if dozens of siege cannons were unleashed at once. I know that shockwave chilled your very marrow. I felt it too. I am a man before I am a soldier!"
He paused, scanning the faces of the conscripts. Many looked away; some had tears welling in their eyes.
"But I tell you this: you must master that fear. We are at war. And who are you? You are the sons and daughters of Victoria!" He drew his sword, pointing the steel toward the heavens. "Therefore, you should be proud! You are not swine cowering in the mud, but lions ready to charge! A Victorian must always be a lion!"
Pulling his beast's reins, he bellowed again, his voice cracking like a whip.
"The bullets they poured into our unfortunate vanguard? By my estimation, they spent thousands of rounds. Do you have any inkling of the cost? A few hundred Originium rounds could fund a feast for a thousand gluttons! And yet they fired without restraint. This proves one thing: the traitors have exhausted their ammunition! They have nothing left! There is nothing left to fear!"
He caught his breath, casting one final, piercing look at the ranks.
"Today's battle will be a moment you will never forget. This is a fight we cannot lose. Do not kneel!" He pointed his blade toward the Birmingham city center. "In the name of Victoria—advance!"
The psychological tide turned. The soldiers, bolstered by the Count's lies, let out a unified roar of bravado as they marched toward the urban meat grinder.
"Fire on command!"
"Hold your positions!"
"Check your barrels, keep them from fouling! And for the love of the Throne, don't point that muzzle at your own head!"
Soon, the defenses of the People's Army came into view. Atop the crumbling husks of industrial tenements, behind the jagged glass of broken windows, and perched upon soot-stained chimneys—they were everywhere. Behind walls crudely assembled from shields, iron plates, and salvaged furniture, thousands of revolutionary soldiers waited in a grim, silent vigil.
As the Birmingham soldiers steadied their breathing and touched their triggers, the second act of the Battle for Birmingham commenced.
**************************************************************
"Hold the line! Not a step back!"
George Waters roared, leaning out from a makeshift trench. His voice, however, was immediately swallowed by the thunder of light cannons and the mechanical rhythmic hammering of organ guns.
The barricades—woven from masonry, iron sheeting, and the charred remains of wagons—stood as the jagged teeth of the People's Army's defense.
"Enemy ranks incoming! Sights up!"
"Load the light cannons with canister! They're almost on us! Await the officers' command!"
Beside George, Evelyn Brooks gasped for air, clutching a fresh belt of ammunition. Her hands were a mess of blood, soot, and sweat. Countless muzzles protruded from the barricade, while the organ guns groaned behind their steel plates, preparing to unleash their metallic songs.
Then, the world shattered.
A series of massive explosions rocked the street as the aristocratic assault force rounded the corner. Knights in heavy plate led the charge, swinging massive shields to batter aside the hail of revolutionary lead. Following them were files of infantry and Arts Casters.
"Fire! Cut them down!"
"Fire the cannons! Fire!!"
Flames, jagged iron shards, and lead shot tore through the air. The initial volley from the barricades shredded the front ranks, and the canister shot from the light cannons found every gap and joint in the knights' armor. The organ guns thumped in succession, playing a macabre tune that bored holes through anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path.
The first wave of the Allied Nobility Army began to melt away.
"Keep firing! Don't give them a moment's rest!"
However, George's exhilaration was short-lived.
"We're running dry on ammo!"
"The action's jammed! I can't clear it!"
"The cannon is overheating! Ceasefire before the barrel warps!"
The reality of their situation set in. The quality of the factory-pressed ammunition was wildly inconsistent; bullets were seizing in chambers, and poorly mixed powder failed to ignite. The soldiers' hands were blistered from the heat of their barrels, and in some horrific instances, poorly maintained weapons exploded, maiming their users.
In that moment of hesitation, the aristocratic Casters reached the front lines.
"Die, rabble!"
An elderly man, wearing an armband signifying his rank as a Caster, thrust his hand forward. A jagged sphere of lightning coalesced at his fingertips before lashing out across the void.
The sound of crackling electricity was followed by a deafening boom. An apartment facade disintegrated, taking a large section of the barricade with it. Immediately, other Casters followed suit, unleashing gouts of flame, localized windstorms, and petrification Arts.
"Arghhh!"
"Get down! Arts incoming!"
"Where are our Casters? Where's our support?!"
A factory worker serving a light cannon was incinerated instantly, reduced to a pillar of black ash. A young boy-soldier cowering behind a stone wall found his flesh hardening until he was nothing more than a statue of gray silt.
Through the breach, the knights poured in. Steel blades and spears wreathed in Arts-energy tore through the militia's improvised shields. The battle descended into a desperate melee.
"Augh!"
"Stand firm! Stand firm, damn you!"
But the militia was not a professional army. Most were facing their first real engagement; the sight of a knight—a living engine of destruction—descending upon them with cold steel was enough to shatter their resolve. Those who tried to meet the knights with fixed bayonets were butchered in seconds.
The dread turned into a rout.
"They're fleeing! The flank is collapsing!"
On the edges of the barricade, several units of the militia abandoned their posts. Terror proved contagious, spreading like a falling row of dominoes. The chain of command disintegrated into chaos.
"Charge!! The vermin have broken! Crush them!" the aristocratic vanguard commander yelled.
The knights didn't miss their chance. Cavalry surged through the gaps to outflank the retreating workers, and Casters blasted open the remaining paths.
George Waters was thrown to the ground, barely managing to keep hold of his rifle. His ears rang with the screams and the screech of Arts-fire.
"Retreat... Fall back to the second line! Fight as you go!"
He screamed desperately, trying to save what remained of his unit. Total annihilation was the only alternative. But the enemy was upon them. Ultimately, his squad was forced to leave their more severely wounded comrades behind, fleeing for their lives. The first line of defense in Birmingham had fallen.
The aristocratic knights stood atop the captured barricades, trampling the red flags into the soot. They let out a roar of triumph as they stood at the threshold of the city center.
But their success had been anticipated.
"I will take the lead now. Prepare the reserve units."
"Understood. Are we proceeding as planned?"
"Exactly as planned. I will take the reserves, round up the retreating forces, and buy us the time we need. You ensure the second line is ready for them."
"Yes! Comrade Chairman!"
Vladimir Park adjusted his grip on his weapon. It was time for him to step onto the field.