Forty minutes post-occupation, the city square—still choked with the acrid haze of combat—was patrolled by Red Army soldiers, their rifles held at the ready as they secured the perimeter.
In front of the City Hall, the local populace had gathered, drawn out by the resonant commands of Propaganda Department soldiers barking through megaphones: "Come out! Step forward!"
Standing upon the stone steps of the administrative building was a woman wearing a blue peaked service cap pulled low over her brow.
She was a political officer attached to the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs. Her posture was unnaturally stiff, and her meticulously groomed hair lent her an air that combined severe beauty with a cold, bureaucratic tension.
A Kuranta by race, she stood amidst the lingering debris of battle. At her feet lay shattered glass, spent shell casings, and a blood-stained red banner.
While a few soldiers ascended the roof to hoist a new flag, she reached for a megaphone, her movements measured and deliberate.
"The city is liberated!"
Her voice was high and thin, yet amplified by the megaphone, its resonance saturated the square.
She spoke Victoria's tongue with the harsh, distinct dialect of Casimir, a linguistic oddity that cut through the air. No slogans followed her opening statement; instead, only the heavy breathing of the crowd filled the ensuing silence.
"For years, you have witnessed and endured what the nobility and the bourgeoisie have done to this land. Taxes climbed while bread dwindled; your sons were dragged away to the meat grinders of their wars. Yet, nothing changed. The estates of the lords expanded and their banquets grew more decadent, while the lives of the people stagnated in squalor. They were nothing but plunderers! But today, a different flag flies over your city. And it is not the banner of a thief."
She paused, extending a gloved finger toward the crimson banner snapping atop the City Hall.
As the sunlight pierced through the dissipating smoke and struck the fabric, the cloth flickered and swayed like a living conflagration.
"This is the banner of the People! A flag raised through the collective strength of workers, peasants, soldiers, and the intelligentsia! Comrades and citizens of this city, your labor shall no longer flow into the coffers of the aristocracy! From this day forward, every grain of wheat shall be turned into bread, and every loaf shall be baked for the people of this land!"
From the rear, the Red Army soldiers let out a thunderous shout: "Hurrah!" Some residents followed suit with tentative, trembling voices, but most remained still, their eyes a mixture of terror and confusion as they stared at the commissar.
To them, the Soviet state was the bogeyman of Victorian propaganda—a puppet nation of Sarkaz devils and Ursus spies that kidnapped children, plundered all property, and violated the innocent. This was the narrative they had been fed.
The officer did not miss their expressions. Her gaze hardened, and she raised her voice an octave higher.
"Do not be afraid. Our rifles will never be aimed at those who are not enemies of the people or counter-revolutionaries. Your children will attend schools free of charge, and the markets will be replenished with bread. You are now under the protection of the People's Soviet!"
Finally, she thrust a clenched fist into the air.
"The old order of Victoria has crumbled this day! You are free!"
Someone in the crowd burst into tears.
Whether the weeping stemmed from relief or sheer dread was impossible to tell. However, the commissar accepted it as a cry of victory, descending the stairs with a faint, chilling smile.
At that moment, the red flag atop the building snapped violently in a gust of wind—a sharp, percussive crack.
The officer treated the sound like a triumphal trumpet blast as she merged back into the ranks of her soldiers.
"Comrades, how was it?"
Her name was Feliksa Dzerzhinskaya, the scion of a fallen knightly house of Casimir.
****************************************
One hour and twenty minutes post-occupation.
The 2nd Company of the 15th Division, assigned to the southern front, had advanced to a predetermined strategic railway junction.
The enemy's resistance appeared to have been uprooted by artillery and urban skirmishes. The company commander, eager to maintain the momentum and prove his worth to the People's Committee, increased the pace of the march.
The column moved in standard formation: the reconnaissance squad at the head, followed by the main rifle company, with the support section towing light infantry guns bringing up the rear.
Suddenly, the column ground to a halt.
"Halt!"
The command was abrupt. The reconnaissance squad leader at the front signaled with a raised hand.
His expression was one of profound unease, the face of a man who had sensed something unnatural and predatory.
"Report. What is it?" a captain asked, moving forward.
"... The sound, sir."
At first, it sounded like the distant friction of metal carried on the wind. But as the soldiers strained their ears, the sound localized into a rhythmic, mechanical percussion of heavy steps.
Something made of tempered steel was moving toward them.
—Chink—Chink—Chink—Chink—
—Pshhh... Pshhh...—
It was a sound of mechanical wheezing and industrial grinding, as if massive steam locomotives had taken human form and were marching. The air began to vibrate with the sheer pressure of their approach.
"Defensive formation! Deploy the infantry guns!"
Soldiers dived behind the rubble lining the roadway. The support section worked with feverish haste, unlimbering two infantry guns at the officer's gesture.
The company numbered two hundred and twenty men.
Though not at full strength, they possessed a confidence born of their firepower. They believed that unless they faced a mobile landship, they could grind any assault into the dust.
Then, three massive silhouettes emerged through the haze of dust and fog.
They were armored giants of steel, towering far above the height of any man. Thick brass joints and steam-venting pistons were integrated into their limbs. Embossed upon the center of their massive breastplates was the royal crest of Victoria.
At their shoulders and elbows, they bore grotesque hybrid weapons—blades fused with heavy maces. From the shields that covered their entire left profiles, white plumes of steam hissed relentlessly.
Someone whispered in a breath of pure terror.
"... Steam Knights."
Cold sweat soaked through the soldiers' uniforms.
******************************************
"Open fire!"
The company commander's shout was as loud as a cannon blast. The artillerymen yanked the lanyards, and the infantry guns roared, spitting canisters of shrapnel.
The attack did nothing.
The shells detonated against the massive shields, but the knights did not falter for a single step. Instead, they strode through the blooming smoke of the explosions, unfazed.
The first Steam Knight charged.
Positioning its shield forward, its velocity accelerated with terrifying mechanical efficiency. As the titan kicked off the ground, the stone pavement buckled and cracked, and the windows of nearby buildings shattered from the sheer kinetic pressure.
—CRUNCH!!—
"Gahck!!"
—SNAP!—
The six men at the vanguard were struck directly by the shield and sent hurtling through the air like ragdolls. Two died instantly, their necks snapped. Four others collapsed in the dirt, coughing up viscous blood as their spines were pulverized.
The second Steam Knight swung a massive axe mounted on its elbow. With a pneumatic hiss, the pistons fired, and the axe-blade flashed with blinding, lethal speed.
—Whoosh—THUD!—
"AGHHHHH!!"
With a single horizontal arc, three soldiers were bisected at the waist. They fell, hearts ceasing to beat even as their eyes remained wide in shock.
The next swing caught a Sarkaz shotgunner firing from behind cover; the blade sliced through both the man and his barricade as if they were made of parchment. Red blood and offal sprayed across the uniforms and faces of the survivors.
The third Steam Knight aimed a flamethrower mounted on its right arm. It depressed the trigger of the hideous device.
A glob of sticky, incandescent fire lanced into the trenches.
—ROAR!!—
"Agggh! NO! STOP!"
"Mother! MOTHER!"
The conflagration engulfed the ranks. The smell of burning gunpowder was replaced by the gagging stench of searing flesh. Screaming soldiers bolted from their positions, only to be crushed underfoot or struck down by the edge of a shield.
"Retreat! All units, fall back!"
The company commander screamed, but the formation was already a ruin. The first Steam Knight slammed into the artillery battery. While the infantry gun was still halfway through its recoil, the knight smashed the barrel with the corner of its shield, twisting the metal like soft lead.
Then, it brought its mace down on the head of the veteran battery sergeant, shattering his skull instantly.
The second Steam Knight leapt over the ruins, crushing an ammunition wagon beneath its weight.
—KBOOM!—
A secondary explosion swallowed the immediate vicinity, staining dozens of men in a wash of fire and blood.
In less than three minutes, the 2nd Company was annihilated. Abandoning the political officer's desperate commands to regroup, the soldiers threw down their weapons and fled in every direction, only to be butchered by axes or incinerated by jets of flame.
A few Sarkaz and Infected soldiers tried to resist with Arts, but within seconds, they were twisted so violently that they were forced to see their own backs with their dying eyes.
Out of the two hundred and twenty men, only seven managed to swim across the river to safety. As these fortunate few fled the carnage, the last thing they saw was a blue service cap spinning through the air, carried away by the wind.
**********************************************
Rear Command Post.
The clatter of telegraph machines and typewriters created a cacophony of bureaucratic urgency. On the tactical map spread across the table, wooden blocks representing military units were being shifted by several aides.
I stood there, staring at the map with a heavy heart.
"Sector Alpha has run into heavy resistance. Can we divert more manpower in that direction?"
"Should we dispatch the 11th Division, Comrade Chairman?"
"In my estimation, diverting units from the 15th Division is more appropriate," another suggested.
"Hmm... agreed."
A telegraph operator rushed over and handed a slip of paper to Wrangel. She broke the seal, and as she scanned the lines, her face turned to stone.
"The 2nd Company has been wiped out... Three Steam Knights encountered... seven survivors."
Laman bolted upright, his hand slamming onto the desk with a heavy thud.
"A whole company of over two hundred men wiped out by only three? Steam Knights or not, this is absurd...."
Alexandra asked calmly, "What was the report on their equipment and behavior?"
Wrangel flipped the page. "Imperial crests visible. CQC armaments: shields and pneumatic axes. Ranged: flamethrowers. They pursued and eliminated all retreating parties. Combat duration was less than three minutes. These are undoubtedly the Steam Knights sent by the Royal House."
Everyone's eyes turned toward me.
I... well, I was momentarily speechless. I needed to think fast.
Then it clicked. I processed the logical conclusion and spoke clearly so everyone in the room could hear.
"Militarily, this is insignificant. Even Steam Knights cannot overturn a front line with only three units. But politically... it's a different matter entirely."
I pointed to the tactical map.
The location where the 2nd Company had been decimated was not a vital strategic hub.
"The Royal House needs to build a justification—to say 'we did our best' for the record. Only by doing so can they mitigate backlash against the Crown when they sign a ceasefire, or when they later redistribute the estates of nobles who have gone missing or died without heirs. The Steam Knight is the ultimate symbol of the Crown's power. Deploying them to the front is a purely symbolic move to create political legitimacy."
Laman grit his teeth. "Then those three knights are...?"
"Simply put, they are sacrificial lambs. But simultaneously, they are monsters capable of destroying an entire company single-handedly. More importantly—"
I folded the telegraph as I continued.
"—this is a signal that the Royal House is sincere about negotiating an end to this war. Having built their legitimacy through this sacrifice, there will likely be no further resistance from them."
In other words, those Steam Knights could be killed or left alone; it mattered little to the grand strategy.
But then, someone spoke up.
"I will go and deal with them."
It was Alexandra.
I stared at her, my train of thought momentarily derailed by her blunt confidence.
"... What?"