The air within the command post was leaden.
Inside the flickering orange glow of the bunker, the commanders of the Allied Nobility Army stared in a hollow silence at the map before them.
It was no longer a simple tactical schematic; it was a geography of death, morbidly annotated in the crimson of their own failed sorties, depicting Birmingham and its industrial sprawl as a graveyard.
"The right flank is annihilated. The remnants of the lead assault unit... comprise less than twenty percent," reported a staff officer, his voice trembling as he laid down a sheaf of papers.
"It is the same for our Casters. Of those we deployed, fewer than ten remain. The rest are confirmed KIA or missing in the rubble."
The reports were crumpled, stained with a dark grime that might have been sweat or blood.
"Eighteen thousand souls extinguished in three hours..." a general of minor noble birth groaned. His armor was caked in the dust of the collapsing city, his brow beaded with the cold sweat of a man facing the abyss.
"Those maniacs... how much firepower were they hoarding?!"
"It isn't just the trenches and the barricades. There are archers, improvised explosives, and Molotov cocktails raining from every blind alley. This defies reason," another officer added, collapsing into his chair as if the weight of the casualties had physically crushed him.
"Not even the parvenus of Iberia use Originium as if it were water, yet these wretches toss it away in every street corner!"
The tension in the room reached a breaking point, a suffocating atmosphere of dread filling the silence.
"Must we... must we continue the advance?" someone whispered cautiously.
"The morale of the rank-and-file is shattered. Most of the officers and NCOs leading from the front died before they even understood what kind of firepower they were facing. We have companies being led by common privates because there isn't a single sergeant left standing."
"So the city is a meat-grinder? And we are merely swine being herded into the blades?" an elderly general asked, his head bowing low.
"...Precisely, Excellency."
"We deluded ourselves. We thought our superior weapons and training would suffice despite our lower numbers... but it seems the enemy has achieved tactical superiority through sheer, brutal attrition and firepower."
In that moment, the door to the command post swung open with a violent clang.
The rhythmic click of steel-shod boots on stone, the sight of white silk gloves, and the gleaming crest of the Windermere House announced the arrival of the newcomer.
It was Amfielice Windermere.
Her eyes were cold and piercing, and a frostbitten heat seemed to radiate from her disheveled silhouette. The staff and commanders stared in shock.
"Lady Amfielice? What brings your highness to—"
Amfielice ignored the pleasantries, cutting through the officer's words as she strode to the table. She picked up a red pen and pressed it firmly into a single point on the map: the southern outskirts of Birmingham.
"We are being encircled," she declared.
"...Pardon?"
"As you all are aware, the enemy reserves have been redeployed—specifically toward the south, where our fleet is moored. Furthermore, our primary supply lines to the east have already been severed."
She paused to catch her breath, her eyes scanning the incredulous faces before her.
"But the critical fact is this: the enemy possesses a mobile fleet. We have yet to locate its main force. Now, I ask you—where could it be?"
The gaze of every commander drifted to the red mark she had made on the map.
One officer began to visibly shake. "Impossible. Intelligence reports stated the revolutionary fleet was in the North—"
"That was the lure. The main force was waiting to strike our rear from the South. I do not know where they gathered such numbers, but..."
Amfielice traced a line around the city, illustrating a tightening noose. However, a single gap remained in the Northern sector.
"If their mobile fleet isn't in the North... then that is our only exit. We can break the encirclement if we move now. Our flagship—formerly the pride of Victoria—can still sweep them aside with long-range heavy artillery if we maintain distance."
Suddenly, a frantic messenger burst into the room.
"Report! The vanguard sent North has gone dark! Communication is lost! And—and—" He gasped for air, his face pale as death. "Something massive is approaching from the South! Enormous vessels are bearing down on us!"
The command post erupted into a panicked clamor.
"They are larger than our ships... even if their armament is light, if they attempt a ramming maneuver, it's over!"
"Vessels? The revolutionaries have heavy cruisers?!"
"This is madness! We've already pushed into the city! If we retreat now—"
"If we do not, we die!" Amfielice's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "This is the only window for a withdrawal. If we do not extract the troops now, the remaining ten thousand of our comrades will be nothing but ash in this industrial tomb!"
She rapidly sketched a withdrawal route on the map.
"We must clear this path within ten minutes. The northern corridor is still open. The encirclement hasn't fully closed. But in twenty minutes—thirty at most—the door will shut. This is our final chance."
The commanders looked at one another, the reality of their defeat sinking in. One of them spoke up, his voice hollow. "Lady Windermere... are these the orders of the Duke?"
Amfielice slowly shook her head. "No. I do not speak for my father. This is my own judgment. But let us save those who can still be saved. I beg of you—believe my words."
Silence fell, brief and suffocating.
Then, a consensus of nods. One of the senior generals lowered his baton with a trembling hand.
"Dispatch the messengers. Order a general retreat on all fronts. All units are to withdraw to the northern corridor and embark on the Windermere vessels. Lady Amfielice Windermere will command the evacuation operation."
No one protested. A single, brutal truth was evident to every soul in that room: they had lost.
*************************************************************
The gunfire ceased.
But this silence did not signal victory for us—at least, not yet. The silence meant we were out of bullets.
Within three minutes of responding to the enemy's third wave, our ammunition had been entirely spent. Our tactical advantage had evaporated.
"Resupply status?" I asked quietly, knowing the answer before the words left my lips.
Even though I had personally overseen the distribution of our final magazines, the question was a desperate reflex.
"...None, Comrade. The front and the rear reserves... we are completely dry."
I felt my jaw tighten. The rifle barrels were overheated, near the point of warping, and the empty magazines clicked hollowly, swallowing only cold air.
I looked down at the rifle in my hands. My palms were slick with sweat, the air around me thick with the acrid scent of burnt cordite. My hands were marked by minor burns from the red-hot metal. This weapon was no longer a firearm; it was merely a club of steel and wood.
"Pass the word to all rear reserves. Fix bayonets."
"...Pardon?" The communications officer stared at me, wide-eyed.
"Fix bayonets and prepare to assault the frontline. From this moment on, we fight with cold steel."
His hands shook as he transmitted the order. No verbal acknowledgement was needed—just the mechanical click of the transmission.
The reply came shortly after: 'Bayonets fixed. Ready for vanguard deployment.'
I looked out at the street ahead of us—a landscape of choking smoke, mangled corpses, shattered glass, and the smell of industrial decay.
"Comrades!" I stood before the men. The sky remained a bruised grey, light flickering through the smog.
My voice was not a roar, but it carried through the sudden silence of the battlefield with an eerie clarity.
"We will fight now without bullets. The enemy bears down on us with shields, plate armor, and numbers—they are monsters driven by drugs and the arrogance of their birth. Compared to their war machines, we are fragile."
I raised my rifle high, the steel of the bayonet gleaming sickly in the dim light.
"But we are revolutionaries! We carry the memory of the oppressors' whips, the sting of their arrogance, and a rage that will not be quenched. We fight because we refuse to ever be ruled again!"
As the final word left my mouth, the signal for our last artillery salvo echoed.
"Load shells! Concentration fire on the central plaza, target the stone structures!"
Our few remaining light field pieces roared, vomiting fire and shrapnel. In the center of the street where the noble levies were organizing their formation, fire and masonry erupted. The boom of the canisters provided the percussion to my next command.
"Now! This is the moment! The final stand to ensure our liberty!"
I shouted and locked my bayonet into place. The Party cadres and officers around me echoed the cry.
"ALL UNITS, CHARGE!"
The whistles shrieked. I was the first over the broken barricades, running past the bodies of fallen comrades, followed by a tidal wave of workers-turned-soldiers.
"FOR THE REVOLUTION!!"
Revolution is no fairy tale. It is no romantic epic of heroes. It is the visceral sound of men being torn apart, falling, and rising again in a desperate cacophony.
The noble soldiers braced behind their shields. A spear-tip grazed my left side, and the man beside me collapsed, clutching a punctured throat.
"Watch it!!" Someone pulled me back.
I rolled across the grimy cobblestones, narrowingly avoiding a lance, and thrust my bayonet upward as I regained my feet. The blade sparked against thick armor and slid off, but the impact staggered the knight. A worker next to me used his rifle as a mace, crushing the knight's helmet with the buttstock.
"Die! DIE, YOU BASTARD!"
The helmet buckled. Blood oozed from the visor. But even as we fought, the cost was staggering. Five of our men would swarm a single knight; two would lose limbs, one would be decapitated, and only then would the remaining two manage to drive a blade into the gap in the armor.
Seven more were incinerated by a Caster's Arts. Two light artillery crews were skewered by a volley of javelins from nowhere.
My lungs burned. My arms grew heavy. The rifle was slick with blood, making it difficult to grip. Three of ours were dying for every one of theirs. We were holding because I was at the front, but if morale crumbled now, the massacre would be absolute.
This mobile city would return to their parasitic grasp.
"Damn it all..." I hissed. Was I too early? Should I have waited longer for the uprising?
As that doubt flickered in my mind, a cry went up from the front lines.
"The enemy is retreating! THEY'RE PULLING BACK!"
I couldn't believe my ears. The noble levies, who had been pressing us so hard, were turning away. Suddenly, heralds with flags appeared behind their lines, waving furiously.
"RETREAT ORDERS! FULL WITHDRAWAL! REGROUP AT THE SHIPS! ALL UNITS TO THE FLAGSHIP!"
The front crumbled. Those who had been hacking at us moments ago dropped their heavy shields to run faster. The knights who had been so arrogant withdrew in an organized haste.
"Did we... win?" someone muttered.
I looked on, bewildered. This wasn't a tactical repositioning. They were abandoning Birmingham entirely. I checked my wrist, searching for the time.
I stared at my watch. The minute hand indicated fifteen minutes remained until the agreed-upon time for the naval maneuver.
Hell. Our transport ships were far slower than their warships. A pursuit would be a failure.
"Damn it!" I nearly wept from the frustration. I looked at the watch again, desperate for it to be wrong.
"Wait..."
The second hand wasn't moving. The glass was shattered, the face cracked. When had it happened? During the artillery barrage? Or when I rolled to avoid the spear?
I looked at the alleyway where the most recent melee had occurred. In the heap of the dead lay a noble officer, still clutching his sword, his gold watch chain glinting against his gore-stained breastplate.
I approached the corpse and knelt. I checked the gold watch.
...Exactly thirty-eight seconds until the scheduled impact.
The tension within me snapped. That small, ticking number told me the only truth that mattered.
We had succeeded.
I sat down on the ground, holding the dead man's watch. Behind me, the Comrades were rounding up the prisoners who hadn't escaped in time. The distant thunder of war still echoed, but I knew.
"One minute until the impact maneuver!" came the shout from the communications runner.
"We're about thirty seconds late on the schedule!"
"Brace for impact!"
Their end was approaching. We had won.
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