Today is the day of the coup, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I don't know when it'll start, but I need to get out of here. The pieces are all in place, and let's face it, the plan is fucking perfect. How did I not see this earlier? This is my fucking job. There's nothing worse than being outdueled, outmaneuvered, out-fucking-witted by an idiot, and here I am, writing a pathetic entry into my journal about being outsmarted by someone who shouldn't be in charge of anything.

What a great Fifth I've been. Fuck.

I don't feel like writing anything else.


The coup had already started. Fire torched the once majestic city of Osliton. Centuries old architecture fell as fire caused even the most resilient of structures to fall. That which fire could not destroy, looting claimed. The evening sky above streaked with smoke. Rivers of illuminated ammunition – flaming ballista and catapult rounds – cut through the sky. Hundreds of men lined the city streets, executing those who had pledged loyalty to the Emperor.

Through a dark alley way, a man cut quickly and pressed himself against the wall. He breathed deep, obviously tired from the way he panted. He poked his head out passed the side of the wall, checking to make sure no one was still following him. Satisfied, he exhaled and slumped along the wall. Gods, he was so tired. He had been running almost non-stop since the coup began that morning. At the very least, he had almost made it to the docks. Maybe a minute or two of running and he would get there. The still loyal members of his spy corps had ensured that a small boat, a cutter, would still be at safe at dock.

"Gods damn that bastard! I should have killed him years ago!"

He regretted not killing him. He should have done so, but he was overconfident. He was sure that the bastard wouldn't have done anything even if he were alive. Now look were it got him. He was on the run in the capital city, a city that should have been loyal to him. He took one final deep breath before propping himself up against the wall. He was tired, so very tired. Soreness had already set into his muscles, and his joints ached.

Forcing himself to move, he started into a slow jog, moving down the alleyway and into the main street. Most of the fighting was centered in the middle of Osliton, where the Royal Guard attempted to fight back against the sea of flesh that was thrown at them. The fighting had started in the morning, where the Royal Guard had received reports of fires being set near the Imperial Castle. While splinters of the Guard attempted to police the areas, more and more fires began, slowly drawing away the guard from the center of the city. After they had been spread thin, the coup began. Hundreds of citizens unleashed knives and whatever blades they could find in their homes. Taken by surprise, the guards were killed without putting up much of a fight.

He shook his head as he kept jogging. No need to think about the past. He needed to keep moving. He apparently had been given a kill on sight order from the usurpers. He snorted a little. It wasn't like he was dangerous anymore. He didn't have his spies, they had all been found and killed. Any of them who weren't found disappeared underground already. His assassins had been scattered and were trying to survive by themselves. Even his elite Shadow Corps, his personal cloak and daggers, had been found, and while they certainly put up a fine display of killing, nothing could stop an overwhelming flow of bodies. Hell, even his armies had been scattered. The infamous Death's Hand couldn't even fight back as they were murdered in their beds in the dark of night.

Still, he kept moving. The docks were right in front of him. He would get out alive.

"General! What a lovely surprise!" he heard. He stopped. "No, they've found me?"

He turned around, only to find the man who he should have killed so long ago. The massive fat roll of a man stood before him, eagle eyes glinting in the darkness. His robes were bloodstained, and he held a bloody sword limply by his side. On his head was the bloody crown of Oslia.

"Duke Mahkno," he acknowledged. "Judging by the crown, the Emperor is dead."

"Oh yes. I killed him a few hours ago. You should have seen him squeal like a pig! But, enough talk of dead men, I am more interested in what's going on in front of me," the Duke smiled evilly. "Surely, General, you weren't planning on leaving the city! What would Oslia do without its precious Fifth? Why, you don't even have an heir to leave the title to!"

"Is that why I have a kill on sight order placed on my head?"

"Oh that little thing?"

It wasn't a surprise to say that he hated the absolute fuck out of Duke Mahkno. The fat piece of shit was a greedy, corrupt bastard, the only lord who had somehow managed to make money during the war ten years ago rather than lose money. There was also his liking for the little virgin girls in the red light district. That just made him a disgusting pervert. He was a cruel and evil man. Hell, Duke Mahkno was almost a stereotypical fantasy villain.

"I hardly consider that little. Especially considering how it's made my day rather shitty," he retorted. He needed to buy time. If he'd been found that meant that in the brief period of time that they had been speaking, he had already been surrounded. He had no doubt that whatever forces the Duke was commanding were elite. After all to sneak up on his own Death's Hand, and to defeat the Royal Guard, they had to be some sort of crack troop. That meant that he needed to gaud the Duke into doing something stupid and escape. That, or pray that the gods loved him enough for a miracle to happen.

The duke laughed. "I would imagine it would make your day rather horrible, wouldn't it?"

"Well, it already started off as a rather shitty day. Woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning, you see." He glanced around, trying to see if anything would allow him to make a distraction or something.

"Ah. I see. Unfortunate."

"Yes, quite."

There was an awkward silence.

"So, can I leave now? I'd prefer not to get executed."

Duke Mahkno laughed.

"That's a yes right? I can leave now?"

The duke laughed again. "I'm sorry, General," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "I'm afraid I can't let you do that. You see, your family tends to have an… obsessive loyalty to the throne. I need to make you an example."

"Oh. Well. Shit."

With an unvoiced command, the duke's soldiers swarmed him. He fought back of course, but the weight of the day suddenly collapsed on him and he could barely put up a fight. He managed to lash out at the nearest attacker, and landed a solid blow to the man's nose, breaking it and sending blood flying through the sky. He wasn't so lucky with any of the other soldiers though.

A swift blow to the head knocked him down to the ground. Two guards picked him up and forced him to his knees.

The duke walked up to him, a lecherous grin on his face. "… you can't have my ass," the general forced. The blow to his head was still affecting him, and he felt the world start spinning. That was probably why he was continuing to taunt Duke Mahkno.

"I wouldn't want it."

"Bullshit."

"Ever the dirty mouth, general. Even at the brink of death. Admirable, perhaps." A deadly glint flashed across the duke's eyes. "You know, I wonder what else that mouth is good for."

"…see, you're just incriminating yourself right now."

The duke narrowed his eyes, instantly getting the reference. "Slander and insults to the end I see."

The guard's grip grew tighter as the duke pulled a small black vial from his robe. The general knew what this was, he knew it because he was the one who had brewed it just the other day. Poison, and a deadly one at that, containing quite a few agents that worked effectively to attack the brain to leave a man a writhing wreck on the floor.

Duke Mahkno saw the look of familiarity in his eyes. With a grin, he swirled the vial around. "Recognize this? This is the poison that's going to end your life. My favorite part is that you were the one who made it. Men!"

A rough gloved hand grabbed at his jaws, forcing his mouth open as the Duke uncorked the deadly poison. He walked forward, swirling the liquid inside the vial. Almost nonchalantly, he poured the poison inside the general's mouth. The hand shoved his mouth closed and forced him to swallow. The poison went down his throat, the raw acidity of it burning and stabbing as it went down.

Gagging, he managed to spit out, "Damn you, you bastard! Damn you to hell! I'll kill you for this! I swear, I'll kill you for this!"

Duke Mahkno leered over him, his devilish grin somehow shining in the moonlight. "General, where was this fire earlier? Where was your pride? I thought you were the Fifth, weren't you supposed to stop this from happening in the first place? And yet, you've flopped over and died. You let me walk right on top of you. What did legends say, that you were supposed to do what was necessary? Not a very good Fifth are you, General?"

"Fuck you!"

The duke simply laughed and turned to walk away. "Enjoy the poison, General. I hear it's quite painful."

The general thrashed against the hold. He knew the poison inside and out, after all, he had made it. He knew that he had at most ten minutes before the poison would set into his nervous system and start destroying him from the inside, and that was if he were incredibly lucky. That meant he had thirty minutes of actual movement before the poison would cripple him. He would then have another ten minutes of twitching before he died, horribly and painfully.

The guards let go, now confident with the knowledge that, within the hour, the last of the Emperor's finest would be dead.

"I'll kill you, you rat bastard! I'll kill you!" the general howled, writhing on the ground. He could feel the poison beginning to sink in, making the very tips of his fingers numb.

"Let's go," Duke Mahkno said, motioning for his guards. "He'll die soon. May as well let him stew in his own misery."

He needed to move, and he needed to move fast. He knew the antidote, any good poison maker could make antitoxins, but where could he get the materials? And how could he get them before he died? And, hell, the antidote needed an hour at the very least to mix completely. The cold sensation sank into him; he was going to die here. Fear set in his heart and time felt as if it had slowed down to a halt.

Oh gods, I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

It was at that point that the improbable happened. From the corner of his eye, he saw a hint of movement. Two black clad soldiers popped into view, quickly and quietly. With practiced precision, they moved quickly up to the duke's guards and slit their throats.

"We're under att—" the words were cut off as an arrow lodged itself in the guard's throat. From the rooftops, a group of the black clad soldiers appeared, armed with bows and arrows. The street filled with arrows as the Duke's guards scrambled into action. Shields were raised, swords were swung, and the street filled with blood again.

The general picked himself up and ran. He knew who they were. The black clad brings of death, his very own company of seasoned assassins, the Death's Hand. Things were looking up, just slightly. He kept moving, the burning in his legs returning, as he was driven by the desire to get away. He put one foot in front of the other as many times as he physically could. He could do it. He had to do it.

Then the horrible crippling realization that he couldn't feel his fingers set in.

Fuck. I can't feel my fingers. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The poison was working quickly, and if he didn't get the antidote soon, it would be too late.

Fuck.

He didn't even know why he was moving, clinging to a desperate attempt at life. He knew that creating the antidote would take time, time that he didn't have. Even if he were to somehow make that antidote before his body failed him, he didn't know if he could take it before the poison did serious damage to him. He knew that the antidote needed to sit and mix and form into a solution before it would do anything. The two active ingredients needed to break each other down and form into an entirely new ingredient before they would act on the poison.

There go my feet.

He collapsed on the street, his lungs burning. He couldn't feel his feet or his fingers, and slowly, he felt his arms and legs dying. His vision started to go cloudy, and his thoughts turned into piles of jumbles layered on top of each other. His mouth felt dry and pasty and he wanted to vomit. The sounds of battle had long since disappeared, replaced with a low whine and the sound of… a voice? Something?

He tried desperately to listen closer, but he could barely concentrate. Did the poison move this fast?

"General."

There was the voice again. Did the poison make hallucinations too?

"General, drink this, you'll feel weak, but you'll be fine after a short time."

He felt cool glass touch his lips and a vile liquid slip into his mouth. The taste of copper and old people assaulted his tongue. He wanted to spit it out, but he felt so tired. Eventually, the liquid crawled into his throat and he couldn't resist the urge to swallow.

"Captain," another voice said, "the courtyard is secure. We have a straight line to the docks. A small transport vessel has been prepared."

"Take your unit to the rooftops, secure the AO as we are en route. After we have finished, consider your contract severed."

"Roger."

The feeling of being picked up and almost violently hoisted onto a man's back was not foreign to the general. He had been wounded in battle more than a few times, and the quickest way to evacuate a casualty on foot was to hoist the man onto another's back. But with the hallucinations and the inability to feel his limbs made this particular feeling a little too much.

Bile clawed up his throat, and a disgusting mix of water and other bodily fluids decided to exit his body via his mouth. The resulting mixture covered the ground, conveniently missing the man carrying him.

"Urgh. Thank you, general, for not vomiting on me. Good aim, if you're conscious."

"Urghiemnoaeconcaiouseo" came the muttered, and possibly delusional, reply.

"I will assume you said something along the lines of 'thank you Captain Koslov! I have been practicing my vomiting skills for many months!'"

Slowly but surely, the general felt his body return. He still felt weak, but at the very least, he could feel. His vision was still blurry, but he felt the hurried long strides taken underneath him. Rough leather armor scrapped at his chest, knocking the wind out of him just a little as the man underneath continued running.

"…Koslov?" he asked weakly.

"Of course it's me, General. Who else would come in the middle of the night to make a daring rescue? Only the great Captain Koslov!"

The general coughed. "Bring me back," he said weakly, barely managing to point toward the direction in which they had just come, "I have to kill that fucker." The general pushed and squirmed, struggling weakly against the larger man's hold. The man's grip just tightened.

"Stop struggling, General. You're much too weak. I promise you can kill him later. For now, you must survive. We're here."

Here referred to the docks, where a small transport ship sat there afloat amidst the wrecked husks of the once proud Oslian navy. Fire had wrecked the devastated docks, or what was left of it. Even the civilian vessels, merchant ships and fishing boats alike, had not been spared from the blaze. Ballista bolts and massive boulders and crushed arrows littered the scorched docks, indicating that, at the very least, the Oslian Navy didn't go down alone. Outside the transport vessel was a frail old man, supporting himself up with the help of a healing staff. Upon seeing Captain Koslov run over, he quickly shuffled towards them, ushering the two toward the ship.

"…Captain Koslov, why are you doing this?" the general asked as the captain quickly dropped him to the ground.

"Because, Colonel General, you are an important player in Fate's game. I also tend to try and save my superiors when they are near death, it's the right thing to do, no?" the orange haired man said, a ghost of a smile flashing on his face. He turned toward the healer.

"Sir healer, please, take the General as far away as you can. Keep him safe. He is the future of Oslia."

The old man just nodded and grabbed the general by the collar of his shirt and started to drag him toward the ship.

The captain's face hardened as he turned toward the general, now being dragged inelegantly on the ground. "I promise your revenge will come soon. I pray you find neither fluff nor feathers, General."

The general managed to choke out a response as the healer dragged his almost dead body aboard the small transport vessel. "Go to hell, Koslov," he said feebly, finishing the traditional expression. The last of his energy used up, the general slipped into a deep sleep.

It would be the last time he would see Oslia in a long time.


The final blow in the conquering of the once great empire of Oslia was the razing and destruction of the capital of Osliton in 422 After Dragon. The city fell to the Valmese warlord, Walhart after the betrayal of Duke Leon Mahkno, who secretly coordinated with Walhart in order to bring in Valmese troops into the city. Once the Valmese units were in place, a coup d'état occurred in which rebels, already fed up with the continuing war between Oslia and Valm, stormed the gates of the castle with the assistance of the infiltrators. The resulting battle between the rebels and their Valmese allies and the royal guard of Osliton was a quick and decisive one. Caught off guard, the royal guard was swarmed and destroyed. In addition, many of the army battalions in the vicinity were destroyed by quick Valmese action. Caught up close by the heavier infantry and great knights of Valm, the much more lightly armed Oslian defenders were crushed.

Oslia, once the reigning super power of the western continent, had fallen to Valm.

- Excerpt from "History of the Emblem"


If you're down here, it's probably either because you've read this chapter. Hopefully, you liked it. If you didn't, that's okay too. Personally, I thought this was a really bad chapter, but that's because I'm a bad writer, and... yeah. Anyway. The end really sucks. I think I repeat "dragged" like six times. But that's okay.

I'll keep this note short. This is what happens when you take Fire Emblem Awakening and make it bigger. Much, much, much bigger. Battles are conducted between hundreds and thousands of guys instead of... fifteen.

I also throw in a new character! Basically I thought that Robin was a child who needed to grow up because it's impossible to keep everyone alive in war. While it's nice, and I totally agree with the idea of trying to keep as many of your guys alive, it's naive. A lot of characterizations of Robin tend to make him/her obsessed with keeping everyone alive, and a lot of people do this thing where Robin grows up by accepting loss.

Too bad that's not happening. Nope. We're going to throw in an asshole who subscribes to the Russian Army's way of doing things. That's how we're going to solve this. Growing up and character development? Naw, let's just throw in an asshole who says shit and kills people.

Anyway, that's all of that. I hope you enjoyed reading this meandering piece of garbage.