The heart of Birmingham, wreathed in flame.
Standing upon these cobblestones, I occasionally feel the specter of death perching upon my shoulder.
Since dawn, the acrid stench of gunpowder has not lifted for a single moment.
The staccato crack of rifles cleaving the air at every turn; jagged shards of iron riding the waves of human screams.
In this place, where I never know when a stray round might pierce my heart, I am startled every second by the mere fact that I am still breathing.
I am afraid.
A single bullet, a shard of stone leaping from a shattered masonry gap.
Or perhaps a lick of flame cast by a noble's Arts Caster, a lone arrow loosed by a conscripted peasant—I know any one of them could claim me at any time.
Yet, despite this, I do not retreat from the barricade.
The Communist Party members who have fallen by my side.
The citizens who collapsed while still crying out their slogans.
The Infected and the Sarkaz, along with countless minor races, who wailed, asking how much longer they must endure discrimination and oppression.
The faces of those who closed their eyes while singing songs of revolution are etched into my mind like permanent scars.
I stand upon this earth even now, bearing their collective weight.
I believe in the Revolution.
The Revolution is no mere slogan.
It is the name of progress, etched in blood.
It is the oath of us all to transcend pain and death to open a new era; it is the final testament of the martyrs.
I harbor the ideal that this can be realized.
The hope that one day, upon the soil of Terra, there will be no more hunger, no more whips of the powerful, no more noble chariots.
If my life can push that hope even a single step forward, I shall regret nothing.
Right now, leaden ammunition belts are draped over my shoulder.
Within them are the uneven rounds we cast ourselves in the factories—the true bullets of the People, forged by our own hands.
The nobility likely view the curtain of fire we pour out as a waste of expensive assets, obsessing over their Originium slugs and tactical costs.
From their perspective, a bullet is merely a component of war, a piece of capital, a tool of plunder.
But to us, every single round is the heart of the Revolution.
These lead slugs are not mere lumps of metal.
They are the fury and hope of the oppressed proletariat, the blood and sweat, and the very oath to change the world.
And so, once more, I grip my rifle.
Because we have not yet been defeated.
Just a little longer.
If we can just endure a little longer.
It will not be us who taste defeat, but them.
The battle continues.
*******************************************************
I track the sightline with my rifle.
Soldiers of the Allied Nobility Army are sprinting through the streets.
Their armor deflected the lead rounds I loosed, and far from being cowed by the gunfire, they charged even more savagely.
"Heavy armor! Aim for the joints! The joints!"
The soldier beside me bellowed.
At his words, I instinctively aimed for the gap between the shield and the arm.
— Ping! —
Damn, the first shot ricocheted.
I catch my breath and shove another round into the loading port.
I aim again and fire.
"Gah!"
The second one found its mark.
But he didn't stop.
"Why... why isn't he stopping!"
"Shit, that damned pedigree! You're telling me they can tank bullets through sheer bloodline?!"
My comrades are faltering.
With hands trembling from tension, I load the next round.
I aim again.
It was exactly then.
— Boom! —
A light cannon roared, spitting grapeshot that finally leveled him.
He fell to his knees with both arms outstretched before crawling through the dirt.
His eyes, mouth, ears, and that resplendent armor were all shattered—what remained was merely a lump of meat barely retaining human form.
His shield slipped from his grasp, and the noble soldiers following behind trampled over his corpse without hesitation.
"Three o'clock! They're flanking through the alley!"
Molotov cocktails were hurled in succession. Flames bursting alongside shattering glass obscured the chargers' vision, and in that gap, the militia threw improvised grenades from atop the walls.
— Bang! Pop! Crack-boom! —
The narrow stone-paved alley splintered, and debris leaping from the building walls showered the noble armor.
Several fell before they could raise their shields, and screams echoed from behind us.
A lone arrow skipped off the floor and pierced someone's thigh.
A volley of arrows from archers positioned across the urban landscape was descending upon us.
"Axes! Axemen entering from the side alley!"
"Just by the look of them, they're monsters!"
I turned my head.
Nobility axemen, wielding rotating iron hatchets, were wreaking havoc through the streets.
Their eyes were expressionless, and the veins bulging in their thick forearms—strained to a degree that suggested pharmacological doping—allowed their axes to cleave through steel plating as if it were parchment.
"Aaagh!!"
"Save me! Sav—!"
A pawnshop that had been fortified with steel plates to pour out fire was instantly painted crimson with blood.
"Brooks! Don't retreat! Hold your firing line!"
"But George! Those guys are insane! Like some kind of beasts—!"
"They're still human! Bullets will kill them eventually! If we collapse here, we're just meat! Get your gun up!"
I helped her lift her rifle and threw my own weight into the barricade. Pressed against a desk, I endured the vibration racking my right arm and kept pulling the trigger.
— Rat-tat! Tat-tat-tat! —
The telegraph suddenly began to wail.
"Assault route open on Front Road 2. If it's not suppressed in five minutes, the defensive line collapses! Concentrate all fire!"
I reflexively gritted my teeth.
My fingers were numb, and the rifle's bolt was beginning to overheat.
Hands slick with a cocktail of blood and sweat slipped, but I couldn't take my finger off the trigger.
The organ gunner beside me barked a short command.
"Swapping barrels! Cover me for ten seconds!"
"Go! I've got you!"
I rose again, pressing my body into the steel plating.
I aimed my rifle at a noble Caster sprinting across the assault line.
I aimed at the one who had likely already slaughtered dozens of our comrades.
"Die, you bastard!!"
— Bang! —
A lone discharge.
The enemy Caster crumpled under my fire.
But I had only killed one. Many more entered my field of vision.
Archers, Casters, swordsmen—all charging while I worked the bolt.
Their numbers were overwhelming.
Even if Brooks and I fired in perfect unison and hit with every single round until they reached us, we couldn't stop them all.
"Damn it, is this the end...!"
I grit my teeth for one final struggle.
Load a bullet, load a bullet... load a...?
To hell with it.
I was out of ammunition.
I had set out about five rounds, but I had used them all without even realizing it.
I hurriedly tore open my sleeve pocket and scrambled inside.
My fingers brushed against three remaining rounds.
I snatched them out frantically.
But the bullets slipped through my trembling fingers and clattered onto the floor.
I felt despair wash over me.
To die like this, without even a final act of defiance.
I hadn't even attached a bayonet because it felt too cumbersome.
Finally, I squeezed my eyes shut.
Or rather, I was about to.
Men in our uniform appeared on the roof of the building beside us.
"Ready!?"
"Now!"
Three Molotovs soared from their hands simultaneously.
The flames erupting over the shields threw the enemy into momentary chaos.
And in that window, a cluster of barrels rotated.
It was our organ gunner.
— Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! —
One by one, the organ gun's barrels spat their lead.
The rounds punched through the unlucky few at the front; the second wave hit the next unfortunate souls beside them.
The vanguard charging toward us evaporated.
But hundreds more were swarming behind them.
Right then.
"Deploy all batteries!"
"Open fire!"
A massive concussive roar hammered my eardrums.
I squeezed my eyes shut and jammed my fingers into my ears.
Hundreds of enemies were instantly transformed into hundreds of casualties and dozens of piles of gore.
Fire and smoke scorched the sky as the noble center was cleaved apart by a massive artillery barrage.
Everyone let out a sigh of relief.
But at that very moment.
Someone at the edge of the barricade screamed.
"I'm dry! Does anyone have more ammo?"
"Two guns down! The feed ports are jammed, we can't load anything!"
I gritted my teeth bitterly. Countless enemies remained beyond the mouth of that alley.
And yet, both in my rifle and the rifles of my comrades, only a handful of rounds remained.
Still, we did not put our guns down.
Not yet. No—never.
Because if we retreat from here, they will plant their banners atop the blood of our fallen comrades.
******************************************************
I stopped in my tracks.
Outside the command post, a quiet breeze was blowing. Yet, in the city not far off, pillars of fire surged upward, and the sounds of gunfire and screams erupted without pause.
The wind carried the scent of smoke, and it was a familiar one. The scent of iron and blood, gunpowder and lamentation.
It was the scent I first encountered years ago, when I first went to the front.
And it was the scent I smelled when I stood by my father's side.
"Amfielice, honor begins with refusing to bend yourself and protecting that which you hold dear."
I remember the day I first saw my father on the battlefield during my childhood.
Leithanian Arts and arrows rained down like a storm, and our soldiers were scattering, but Father never once bowed his head.
Back then, I thought: 'Father must not be afraid of death.'
But the words Father spoke later were different.
"It is not that I am not afraid. It is simply that I know a noble like myself is a man who cannot retreat, even when he is terrified. When you become an adult, you will come to understand this."
I hadn't understood those words then.
But now, standing in this place.
I felt I understood them a little.
I am afraid.
Truly afraid.
I am listening to the sounds of soldiers dying.
Among them are soldiers I trained, and soldiers I shared breakfast with just yesterday morning.
Yet the nobles inside the command post refused to hear any of it.
They spoke of Birmingham as 'spoils,' and dismissed sacrifices as 'numbers.'
My father, who had begun to change not long ago, was no different.
"Amfielice, we nobility must always act with orchestrated precision. Emotion is the enemy of the order."
"Compassion without calculation is a luxury, and luxury breeds defeat."
"I made you a soldier because I believed you would exercise the same judgment as I do."
I had tried to follow those words exactly.
I trained that way, and I tried to act that way.
But...
I am certain.
Contrary to my father's thoughts, this entire battle is a massive trap.
Our soldiers will soon be surrounded, and I am certain that if we do not retreat them immediately, we will all die.
"You must choose that which is certain."
Those were my father's words.
But I want to ask.
I drew my sword from its scabbard.
The blade glittered as it caught the light.
My reflection was cast upon the steel.
And I asked that reflection.
"Whose certainty is it, Father?"
I truly respected my father.
I still respect him.
His dignity, his majesty, his decisiveness.
But at the same time... Father passed over too many things, calling them 'inevitable.'
And I hated that.
I want to be the first person on a new path—one that my father could not create.
I want to decide with my own certainty.
My going to save the soldiers is not out of compassion.
My defying the nobles' orders is not out of anger.
It is... a choice as a living human being, to prove what I believe in.
Windermere.
The tradition and honor of the Kingdom of Victoria.
An elite house among elites that has fought for centuries in the name of nobility upon the battlefield.
I inherited that blood, and I must prove myself before the people.
This step I take is the choice to prove that I am a proud Windermere.
I took a deep breath.
There is no going back now.
I fear the contemptuous gazes of the nobility.
I fear the disappointed expression of my father.
I fear the murderous glares of the enemy.
Yet, despite that, I stand up.
From this moment on, everything I say is done not as my father's daughter, but in my own name—the name of Amfielice Windermere.
I sheathed my sword.
I turned and headed toward the logistics tents.
A short while later, the soldiers I had trained gathered before me.
Their eyes were weary from the long wait, yet they still seemed to trust me.
To them, I said:
"...Everyone. This is not an order."
The soldiers fell silent.
"Inside those walls... are our comrades whom we trained alongside. Right now, they—and we ourselves—are being drawn into an encirclement. If we were to abandon them and evacuate to the warship over which I hold command, no one would blame us."
I breathed in.
It felt as if my heart might explode.
But I suppressed that feeling and continued.
"But... I cannot make such a choice while carrying the name of Windermere. I cannot do it as a human being."
With trembling hands, I drew my sword and raised it toward the heavens.
The blade shimmered faintly, catching the light of the setting sun in the distance.
"Who will go with me? To save our comrades. Who will join me to order the retreat, open the lines, and rescue our brothers in arms?"
When I finished, there was a momentary silence.
Then one, two, three—and eventually dozens of hands began to rise.
"I will go with the Lady!"
"Long live Windermere! Long live Lady Amfielice!"
The soldiers cheered.
And I began to walk.
One by one, the soldiers followed, and finally, we became a single unit heading toward the battlefield.
The fires of Birmingham still blazed.
And into those flames, I walked toward the path I had forged for myself.
***************************************************************
"How many minutes left!"
"Co—Comrade Chairman! Twenty minutes until the reinforcements arrive! Twenty minutes!"
"And the ammunition? What's the status?"
"We scavenged what we could from our fallen comrades, but it looks like we're down to roughly two rounds per man! We have plenty of arrows, but not enough bows to go around!"
"Tell them to pick up the enemy's weapons and use those!"
"The—the enemy! The third wave is coming! They're swarming!"
"Shit."
I might actually die this time.