Silver candlesticks flickered with light, and crimson wine was poured into antique crystal goblets.
The bridge of the Great Victoria, the flagship of the Allied Nobility Army, resembled a social ballroom more than a theatre of war.
The long dining table was laden with cheeses, cured meats, delicacies adorned with exorbitant spices, and the finest vintages imported from Siracusa. Atop the decorative banners, the royal crest shimmered with gilded arrogance.
Even the bridge's combat communication arrays were draped in fine cloth; in their place hung a brilliantly glowing amber chandelier.
"Our noble houses have finally secured Birmingham. And all without the support of our greeeeat, incompetent, and jealous royal family," drawled a nobleman, his bloated frame shifting with a drunken rhythm.
Flush with drink, he barked for endless toasts, attended by a servant of fallen noble stock who stood by his side.
"To put it simply, the 'peak harvest season' has begun," another aristocrat remarked with a sneer.
"When we feed the corpses of those traitors into the steel mills, we won't get iron—we'll get the 'ashen dregs of revolution!'"
"Hahahaha! Looking at the state of those pathetic rats, they'll burn less effectively than dry kindling!"
Wine glasses clinked, and songs and laughter flooded the bridge. They ignored the distant thunder of Arts, the screams, and the staccato of ammunition cook-offs as if their ears were plugged with silk.
At that moment, the door burst open and someone stormed in.
"Stop this! All of you!"
It was Amfielice Windermere.
Her armor and sword were meticulously maintained, ready for immediate combat, while her white silk gloves hung from her waist, rattling as she moved. Gasping for breath, she marched straight toward her father, Duke Henry Windermere.
"Father, the situation in Birmingham is critical. The rear encirclement is about to close. We have no true grasp of what is happening out there. We must withdraw the ships and the command center and reorganize our lines from the rear. At this rate—!"
Her cry was drowned out by the raucous laughter surrounding the table.
The Duke kept his head lowered, his lips pressed to a crystal glass filled with premium spirits. Nearby Knights Commander and mercenary captains averted their eyes, their expressions sour at her intrusion.
"Amfielice, we are in the middle of a toast," the Duke said, finally raising his head.
"And… listen."
At that moment, the cloth covering the comms equipment was pulled back, and an intercept operator shouted from within.
"The traitors' first defensive line has been breached! The Knight-Orders are trampling the red banners and entering the city outskirts!"
"Ooooh—!"
The bridge erupted in a tide of cheers.
Glasses were raised high as nobles surged from their seats. Some shouted that this victory would be the turning point for the nobility's hegemony.
"Do you see now, Amfielice?"
The Duke approached slowly and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You still do not understand the glory of war. To be a noble… is to choose conviction over doubt."
Amfielice's eyes flared with desperation.
"This is recklessness! Father, you are herding the soldiers—all of us—into a slaughterhouse! Have you not considered that we might have fallen into a massive trap?"
"Hold your tongue."
A neighboring Duke stood up, scowling.
"War is a man's business. I had high hopes for Henry's scion, but you are a half-measure of a soldier. A profound disappointment."
"Have any of you ever actually stepped onto a battlefield?" Amfielice spat, her teeth gritted as she screamed at him.
"While you hide behind the name of 'Noble Blood' and raise your glasses, it is the soldiers and my people who bleed in the dirt! We should be—"
"Guards, escort her out," Henry Windermere commanded quietly.
"Father…?"
Amfielice's eyes widened in shock.
But two guards waiting by the door already had her by the arms, dragging her firmly but cautiously away from the bridge.
"It's not… it's not too late! We are going to be surrounded! Father! Please, look at the map! Look at the logistics! This is a trap! Father!!"
The heavy doors slammed shut.
Amfielice's screams were buried under the pop of champagne corks and the crystalline chime of wine glasses.
Inside that den of decadence, the toast "To victory!" continued to echo.
*********************************************
"Service Creed!"
"I swear! As a soldier of the Soviet, I belong to the proletarian class! I shall be truthful and sincere, and I swear to fight to the death against any enemy who would destroy our freedom and equality! If I betray this solemn oath, I acknowledge that I shall face all due penalties!"
As the shout died down, a freezing wind whipped across the ground.
In an empty lot in the industrial district of northeastern Birmingham, hundreds of youths stood upon the concrete.
Some lacked proper uniforms, wearing work boots instead of regulation footwear, but their shoulders were draped in the same ideology, marked by the crimson armbands they wore.
"You've memorized it well! Now, take up your rifles! You all know how to load them! Prepare your arms as you were taught!"
"Yes, Comrade!"
Hundreds shouted in unison.
Some fumbled with their rifles, others accidentally swallowed a bullet while biting the paper cartridges, and some trembled as they held the canisters for the military light cannons.
Yet, no one fled.
Then, from behind them, a man walked forward slowly.
He wore a neatly buttoned winter military coat with a red armband. The moustachioed man appeared with black leather gloves, his hands clasped behind his back.
Though it was summer and the air was sweltering with the heat of gunpowder, a winter coat might have seemed out of place—but in a time of chronic equipment shortages, thick garments that could deflect arrows and repurposed winter uniforms were all considered viable military gear. It was a common sight in these desperate times.
Despite his visible fatigue from the heat, the man's eyes gleamed with a predatory sharpness.
"It's the General Secretary…!"
"In wartime, he is the Chairman…"
"It is Comrade Vladimir!"
The people whispered.
Vladimir stood silently in the center of the parade ground.
Without a single command being given, the soldiers of the reserve instinctively formed a semi-circle around him.
Then, he spoke.
"Comrades. My proud revolutionary sisters and brothers."
His voice was not loud, but it resonated with a peculiar clarity that reached every ear.
"The first defensive line of our glorious soldiers has collapsed. The enemy has breached the city center, and our panicked comrades are retreating toward us."
The faces of the youths hardened instantly.
"However!" Vladimir's voice grew steel-plated.
"War is decided by the will to persist. Even if we fall back once, if we do not give up and rise again, that is our victory!"
Behind them, across the road, groups of staggering soldiers began to appear.
Faces caked in blood and ash, men clutching shattered arms, those who had lost their rifles in the chaos. They were a vision of total ruin.
Someone from the ranks shouted, "What fight is left in those who threw away their guns and ran?"
"Shouldn't the deserters be executed?"
Vladimir shook his head.
"They may have dropped their rifles, but they have not lost their courage entirely. They are our proud comrades! Our brothers-in-arms who share our fate! If we condemn them, cast them out, or even kill them now, how are we any different from the nobles we fight?!"
Vladimir spoke with a calm but unwavering resolve.
His gaze was piercing, and his posture—a rigid, soldierly stance perfected by the iron discipline of his past—demanded the attention of every man there.
An aura of inexplicable trust surrounded him.
The lot went silent. Fumbling hands stilled; the whispers vanished. Leaving the ranks behind, Vladimir walked slowly toward a soldier slumped at the edge of the road. He reached out a hand.
"Comrade."
The soldier couldn't meet his eyes, hesitating. He was trembling visibly, holding a jammed, broken rifle.
"Stand up."
It wasn't a shout or an order. Yet, there was an irresistible gravity to his words.
The soldier tentatively took Vladimir's hand. As he stood, the other shattered men began to lift their heads one by one.
Some lifted arms wrapped in bloody bandages; others nodded in shame and pushed themselves up from their knees.
"We are the People's Army, fighting for the Revolution and for the people. Fear is a natural human instinct. But a true People's Army consists of those who learn the courage to face that fear—to feel it, yet never give up! To fight until the very end!"
Vladimir placed a hand on the shoulder of the man with the broken gun and turned back to the parade ground.
"Respect these men! They are proud warriors who have returned after overcoming their terror! They did not surrender to the enemy out of cowardice; they escaped the enemy's pursuit and found their way back to the rear!"
Applause erupted from the reserve ranks. First one, then two, then hundreds clapped their hands. Among the retreating soldiers, many had tears welling in their eyes.
Vladimir took off his own coat and draped it over the shoulders of a youth who was shaking most violently.
"You survived, Comrade. Do not fear. If it is too much, you may stay here."
Then, with a deliberate, certain motion, he raised his rifle high into the air.
"From this moment, we head to the front! The reserves shall advance with me to the second defensive line in the city center! I will lead the way!"
"We go with the Chairman! Everyone, prepare for battle!"
"Advance!"
The soldiers roared.
Those who had been exhausted a moment ago, even the shattered survivors who were intent on fleeing, gripped their rifles and spears once more.
Some smoothed their disheveled hair as they stepped into line; others gripped their ammo belts with blood-stained hands they hadn't even washed.
The trembling youth who had been slumped on the ground stood up. His rifle was useless for firing, but he knew another way to use it.
He fixed a spike bayonet to the muzzle. Then, he joined the formation.
Red banners fluttered over the road toward the front.
At the vanguard was Vladimir. At the vanguard were the people.
...And at the vanguard, there was an Ideal.
**************************************************
39km southwest of Birmingham, at the foot of a hill.
Dozens of tables and tents had been erected upon that high ground. This field headquarters, hastily assembled with sandbags, iron plating, and canvas, served as the brain of the massive operation.
A real-time situation board was displayed over the operational maps, and beside it, the People's Army telegraphs chattered incessantly.
Maps, operational orders, logistics reports, and ammunition and food statistics were scattered everywhere as staff officers hurried about, clutching documents.
Two people stood before the large iron table in the center of the headquarters: Alexandra and Wrangel.
Normally, Laman would have been the third member of this trio, but Wrangel had sent him back to his quarters. He had appeared hollowed out and utterly exhausted—looking as though he'd spent the previous night engaged in something very vigorous with his girlfriend.
"The skirmish at the square was a complete victory. Following the breach of the first line, engagement with the advancing enemy began sooner than anticipated," reported a staff officer clicking away at the telegraph, ignoring the petty personal matters.
"Militia loss rate?"
"The first line has collapsed, and we are currently concentrating forces on the second line. However… it's not collapsing faster than expected. On the contrary, they are holding out better than our projections."
"Good. Very good," Wrangel murmured, slowly exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke.
"Until now, we've only shown them fire-support, barricades, and canister-firing light cannons. We haven't played a single one of our true trump cards yet. Isn't that right, Alya?"
Alexandra gave a slight nod. She spread a report received via wireless onto the table.
It detailed the Allied Nobility Army's main troop deployments, supply routes, and the path into the trap.
"The nobility's flagship is still anchored south of Birmingham, and their supply lines have been almost completely severed over the past two days. Furthermore, according to our intelligence… Duke Windermere seems to have completely washed his hands of command. The aristocrats are simply charging forward blindly, obsessed only with personal glory and expanding their gains."
Wrangel snorted.
"Precisely. We waited for them to enter the city, and we waited for those fools to advance blindly with their rears exposed. Everything is going exactly as our Vladi planned."
He pressed a finger firmly onto the map. The marker pointed toward the southwestern plains, where the engine cores of battleships were beginning to glow with life.
"They've finally taken the bait. The time has come. Order all battleships to fire up their engines. Send a telegram to Birmingham: start the operation."
Alexandra signaled the communications officer. An earth-shaking vibration rumbled from the distance.
Over the hill as the sun began to set, dozens of massive battleships were slowly shifting their hulls like breaching whales.
Steam, the scream of metal, and blistering heat.
The steel behemoths began to move.
Wrangel checked his watch once, crushed his cigarette into the dirt, and whispered softly.
"...Let us hope Vladi can hold for just one more hour. If he does, this war is ours."
A faint smile played across Alexandra's lips.
"If it's one hour, we've already won. I'm certain Uncle Vladimir can hold."
Alexandra climbed the ladder onto a battleship as the vessels roared with steam and the thunder of their engines.
The deafening noise of the fleet echoed toward the heavens. Their destination was Birmingham.
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