AN: So far, I'm pleased with the attention this story has garnered since publication. It demonstrates how much potential this idea has to become very popular. Take note that this story is also published in Spacebattles, where I'm more active compared to so feel free to drop by and join the club.
I guess I kept you folks waiting for this second chapter. Truth to be told, this has been in storage for some time now. It was always my intent to have chapters in-between the one already published and the one in-development; in order to make last minute adjustments since I won't publish them immediately upon completion.
However, a real-life development concerning one of my Betas pushed me to publish the chapters I currently have (this chapter first then the next one after some days). That way he can help me explain while he's still here. I was trusting that readers would understand what I meant by AU in the previous chapter, but unfortunately... no. Sometimes when you pick a story and think you understood the premise, you soon find out that's wasn't the case and that the book cover lied if you ever heard of that saying.
But I guess I'm equally guilty since this has been deliberate on my part. I made no mention of the Nazis in the previous chapter, but as expected you assumed it to be such given the premise of Wolfenstein and that Swastika symbol I placed at near the end.
So let me make one thing clear:
Those soldiers at the end? Those aren't Nazis.
Confused? This chapter provides you with answers. It's for that reason that I refrained from responding back to the reviews (at least in FF.)
Before we begin, I would like to credit my beta-readers quickdraw101 and TheDrkKnight12 for their assistance with this chapter. As fellow authors (highly recommend reading their Gate fanfics) they have been dependable during this chapter's development, and kudos to TheDrkKnight12 for adding stuff here. Unfortunately, their services won't be available for some time; quickdraw101 is going to be inactive for a couple of months until later this year and TheDrkKnigh12, for some reason, has been unresponsive as of lately. Although I'm not giving up on TheDrkKnight12, a reassurance of his condition will be helpful.
"No person in their right mind will dare attack Ziegler unless it's necessary or you have nothing to lose. Even the Nazis are cautious of that guy."
– Grace Walker, Kreisau Circle leader
Many hoped that the third millenium will usher in a new age for mankind, one devoid of the flaws of the preceding thousand years and a move to a future of peace and prosperity; the closest thing we would have to a paradise on Earth where there is perfection and contentment in the absence of suffering and struggle.
Sadly, that wasn't the case.
Peace and Unity remained a pipe dream even after the global ruination brought by the Third World War, as mankind was divided once again by its loyalties and interests. Instead, two phoenixes arose from the ashes; reborn more powerful than any nation of the old and have a different vision for the future.
On one side is the World Consortium, a clique of powerful countries bound by their economic interests. An alliance of independent political entities in name only, their economies were interwoven into a monolith and held together by titanic corporate entities known as Syndicates. They are avarice given form, nothing cannot be bought or sold in their society; not even one's body and soul.
On the other stands the Oceania Accords, born from petty revenge, grand ambition, and an idealised future. Forged from the fires of conquest by a former Syndicate executive, it is a theocratic regime named in her honour; apotheosized as a divine incarnate that came to mankind in its darkest hour. Millions are born, live, and die in the name of the Imperatrix, perpetually on a crusade to spread her faith on all corners of the sinful world.
The World Consortium abhor the shallow faith of the Oceanians, while the Oceanians revile the material excess practiced by the people of the Consortium. Opposing on philosophical grounds, this friction saw the world engulfed in a twenty-year war as both superstates vie for global dominance. The Other stood as their main obstacle to achieving this ambition, absolute victory over them will mark their victory.
But in the end, it's the immense power of the superstates that made them indestructible even to each other. War doesn't wear down their political and economic structure unlike the nations of the old.
An irritant indeed, but one that didn't deter their single-minded optimism.
For twenty years, the war was a continuous stalemate; turning points were brief before the war balanced back; territories fluctuated as battles for them were regularly won and lost.
The cost of such optimism was astronomical, millions died and entire cities were destroyed. So consumed were both sides in their animosity that they barely did anything to revitalise the ruined state of the global environment; only doing to acquire living space for the expanding population born from the demands of war.
To the superstates, the cost is irrelevant to the Great Game; the lost were replenished by millions more willing to fight and the destroyed rebuilt using practically limitless resources.
At least, the intensity diminished with the signature of the Armistice; the first, and hopefully the only of its kind.
It was the closest thing to peace people experienced in this new millennium, yet a tenuous one at best. The threshold to the Perpetual War's resumption can be crossed anytime; battles once waged in the open now receded in the shadows, where clandestine operatives waged their own war in the name of their state. Military conflicts remained still, yet pale in comparison to pre-Armistice battles in intensity, size and scope; never escalating but are the norm.
A myriad of old wounds from the Other remain sore, and each one a driving force for the resumption of the war. But there is one that both populations share, the sorest scar of the War.
The man named Armend Ziegler.
– Excerpt from Chapter 2: The Armistice and the Cold War; A House Divided: A History of the World Consortium and the Oceania Accords.
Tokyo – Japan
12:15 PM
In contrast to his peers, Armend Ziegler was an atypical commander.
Often, flag officers refrain from entering the battlefield due to the risks involved. Instead commanding within secure locations that were impenetrable and unknowable to the enemy. An intact chain of command was crucial for any military campaign, and for the enemy to strike it is far more devastating than losing an entire military unit or being cut from the supply chain.
It was a personal preference for him, so to speak. The battlefield was an environment he was intimately acquainted in his long time of service to the state, and was more welcoming than the confines of a room. What most don't realise is that leading in the front is a double-edged sword; risks coming with benefits. For one, soldiers would be galvanised at the sight of their commander on the frontlines.
But morale was just a side benefit. He has his own reasons for stepping into the warzone.
He was dressed in impeccable blackness; the most prominent being the long coat that covered his body. Its ends reached past his knees, flapping mildly from the breeze. Second to that was a memento and a trophy he claimed from a foe; a swastika-emblazoned peaked cap that tucked his neat blonde hair. It ended just below his ears, yet one can see the few graying streaks brought upon by age and stress.
For five years, he was the Warden-General of the Japan Penal Colony, the military and administrative apex of the region. But that just won't do, he never forgot that he was a prisoner just like its people. It was far from his birthplace of Switzerland within the Heartland, but he wasn't the type to be homesick.
As of this moment, he was leading a military operation inside the ruined capital of Japan. Once the seat of power of the mighty Japanese Empire, Tokyo was subjected to ghettoisation like the other cities; each functioning as the penal colony's equivalent of a prison cell block. This measure is best expressed by the perimeter of massive walls constructed around each city. Again like all cities, Tokyo is but a collection of dilapidated buildings that survived the invasion back during the final stages of the Great War.
Now it was the site of another battle, but against a new enemy.
The drones were doing their routine area sweep an hour ago when they detected a commotion in the middle of the city. Somehow, a neoclassical structure manifested at the heart of the ghetto and out came these… Romans, he still has a hard time believing it, along with other creatures of fantastical origin: dragons, orcs, pig and wolfmen.
It was fortunate that the city was walled-in, containing the invaders and preventing them from spreading outward. Otherwise, It would be troublesome and time-consuming to hunt them all down as he'll have many places to search after this storm has settled.
No, not a storm. A squall.
He issued explicit orders to kill anything that tries to escape, including the prison populace. Several of the dragon cavalries tried to either fly overhead or engage, but the stationed soldiers and weapon emplacements rebuffed their efforts. Meanwhile, his forces gather outside the walls in preparation.
The enemy was stretched thin, he ordered the attack. The entrances of the walls opened as his forces poured in to repel this invasion. By each passing second, they advanced deeper and deeper into the city from all directions, all approaching their objective.
The mysterious structure designated: Ground Zero.
The Romans were surrounded and were being butchered on all sides. Valiant as they were savage, any opposition they put up was swept aside with the pull of many triggers. They were fools–brave fools thinking that they're fighting a conventional foe while the contrary was evident. Those that survived and tried to escape were awarded the misfortune of being taken alive for interrogation.
Speaking of which, their latest catch was being dragged away, a young man no older than twenty it seemed, wearing the apparel of a Roman legionary, unconscious after stomping his petrified face. He will be tossed with the other POWs they captured for interrogation. The young man will be given medical treatment first just like all Romans that had the misfortune of being taken alive. He was bleeding from the gunshot – and now, from the broken nose as well – but it wasn't fatal; he made sure of it when he took the shot.
The equestrian would've escaped had there not been a drone overhead to notify him. They were on a parallel road when he received the information, and so, he sent the panzerhund ahead to ambush him in case he failed while he gathered his protector and a detachment of soldiers. The young man was so focused on escaping that he didn't even bother to divert his gaze from the front even momentarily. A big mistake that Armend capitalised on after he passed the intersection where they were waiting, he stepped into the street and drew his pistol.
Even after becoming a pencil-pusher, that didn't mean his martial training has degraded in the attrition of the office. His marksmanship and reflexes remained top-notch despite his fifty-five years of age. Same goes for the sharpness of his golden eyes.
Now that the prisoner was secured, he gestured to everyone to regroup.
"I never imagined Tolkien's work would exist in real life, much less Romans." His protector dryly remarked as they walked side-by-side.
At that, the Warden-General snickered and glanced at his protector and trusted confidant. Even outside the armour, Isak Dahl was an imposing figure; tall, broad-shouldered and muscular. They were roughly of the same height, but the armour added a few centimetres. His outward appearance, down to his stance, emitted an air of… militancy; befitting his role as a protector.
He first met Isak during the first day of his Warden-Generalship, assigned to be his protector. He treated him professionally and with suspicion at first; a man he had never met before was suddenly assigned to protect him It took time but he eventually warmed up to the young man; their relationship evolved from officer and subordinate to close friends that can depend on one another.
All in all, the Scandinavian stood as a warrior that evoked dread – but not on the level of the infamous Terror-Billy of the Kreisau Circle.
"I concur. I'm sure everyone wasn't expecting to see fantastic personages mingling with roman anachronisms." He replied, caressing the head of the passing panzerhund. Blood smeared its face while bits of horse flesh hung between its razor teeth.
"Ever the eloquent sir?" Isak quipped.
"Call it the byproduct of oratory. Public speaking demands extensive vernacular." He replied, easily whisking the horse blood from his glove thanks to its hydrophobic layering. "As strange as today is, let's not forget we're not the only ones affected."
This wasn't an isolated incident. His contacts within the intelligence community reported that the Heartland has been besieged by identical portals, which explained the declaration of an alert OMEGA: BLACK. They turned to dust about an hour after manifesting, not long after he decided to attack.
Now only Ground Zero remained, and he planned on deploying a force to secure the other side.
He had nothing to fear. The other phenomena have ceased to be, yet this one still stood. It was stable while the others weren't, so it was possible to send in forces without fear of losing them forever. Of course, Zeigler knew that it would not be that easy or that simple and he was sure the men would be uneasy at the prospect of being stranded in an unknown location forever. Natural, as the unknown was always treated with suspicion and fear. So he settled with sending in a purely robotic force to do the job.
Regardless, today's bound to become a Day of Infamy for the Oceania Accord.
A few minutes ago, he received a report that the portals had disappeared. If so, why did the one in Tokyo remain? He understood that this wasn't some kind of freak coincidence but he would ponder on it later. For now, they had other matters to attend to.
"How goes our counteroffensive?"
"We've secured the outskirts and are pushing through our objective. All existing hostiles are pulling back and are experiencing high casualties. The drones, at least those not destroyed by the dragon cavalry, show an increased influx of Romans from the structure - estimates around thousands. No casualties on our side so far."
Armend nodded with a smile. It was a predictable outcome, the lopsidedness was plain obvious to their favour. Antiquated arsenal and warfighting were woefully outclassed by the power of modern warfare, allowing them to extract a bloody toll on the Romans. The increased numbers weren't concerning at all–more meat for the meat grinder. The only danger was the dragon cavalry since some air and ground elements had close-calls with those lizards. But aside from their firebreath, they were melee-oriented fighters; distance and firepower were the keys to downing them. So far there were no deaths, but it's in an officer's duty to keep casualties to a minimum as possible… on his side, that is.
They finally returned to the boulevard where the main contingent remained. They were on-guard as the sounds of battle continued playing in the background. A skirmish had broken here earlier when several Romans attempted an ambush, only to be slaughtered by superior firepower. The many corpses were a testament of that, now his men are busy piling them together to be burnt. Rifle-toting troopers kept watch while flamethrower-bearing purifiers were incinerating piles of corpses, the quality of the air stained by fresh blood and burning flesh.
The Elite Guard was the most versatile tool a high-ranking Oceanian official can use; a shield to protect, a sword to attack and a beacon to inspire. They were personal military units, a privilege of an official's long dedicated service to the Accord. His own wasn't an exception. They were supposed to be disbanded following his fall from grace, but no–loyalty cannot be easily broken by words.
The contingent brought with them a heavily-armoured prisoner transport. Two troopers carried their newest prisoner towards it. Another stood guard near the hatch, pressing a few buttons for it to open. While it parted sideways into two, a figure bolted out and tackled the unprepared soldier.
It seemed like one of the captured Romans awoke or grew a modicum of courage to try to fight his way to liberation. This one was dressed differently; unarmoured with nothing but a brown tunic and black pants.
The commotion startled everyone as the Roman stabbed an unarmored part of his arm. The soldier retaliated by hooking the Roman off of him. He stood and was prepared to run, but a nearby soldier punched him in the gut, bringing him to his knees before slamming the butt of his rifle on his face. He was quickly surrounded as he continued to reel from the assault.
Armend and Isak joined them, contributing to the Roman's agony by obliterating his kneecaps with his pistol and enjoying the screams that followed. Agony was always a satisfying spectacle to witness and it goes to show just how anyone can bleed.
"Fucking son of a bitch." The injured soldier pushed through – clutching his bleeding arm – and kicked his ribs with an audible crack. The savage screamed then heaved as his lungs recover from such attack.
"It was a mistake to let your guard down, soldier. Your recklessness could've cost you your life." Armend reprimanded the soldier before addressing the whole group. "We have enough prisoners to interrogate, the transport has served its purpose. Have it escorted to Gatehouse D-14 with a squad." He turned back to the injured soldier. "Join them and get yourself treated."
The injured man wordlessly nodded and left with another squad, but not before landing another kick on the hapless living fossil that was a roman. The squad boarded their IFV along with the soldier and drove away with the larger prison transport.
Now he turned his attention to their audacious captive and how to kill him. Upon noticing a nearby pile of corpses being burned by a purifier, an idea hatched in his head.
"Add him to the pyre." He ordered Isak, who wordlessly knelt down to grab the man's collar and drag him to the burning pile. The Roman was in desperate defiance; thrashing against their hold and screaming in his language. He picked up a few words and recognised it as some bastardised version of the latin, having studied that outdated tongue in his free time. The Roman proclaimed that he belongs to some influential family and they'll pay for this disrespect and 'the Great Empire shall avenge me!'.
Interesting.
Whoever this Great Empire is, they were foolish to come to this world and anger on of the most powerful nations in history; more so for coming in the doorstep of the feared Armend Ziegler. Well, no matter, he now knew what to...ask the captives about and what to stamp on his latest additions to his list of victims - Here Lies an Empire. It has a nice ring to it, actually.
Isak finally reached the pyre and threw the Roman atop the makeshift pyre. The defiant Roman screamed anew and louder as his flesh was burnt. Worse, the nearby purifier doused him with his incinerator.
Armend relished it as long as it lasted.
"Let us advance." He turned back to the contingent. "No more prisoners. Kill everything in your way. Man, woman, child, old, young, Jap, Roman. NO EXEMPTIONS!"
–TWG–
War Tent – Imperial War Camp – Falmart
12:15 AM
There were four things that told Pullus that something had gone horribly wrong on the other side.
First. There's been an increase in the influx of troops entering the Gate, even the reserves and those meant to guard the camp were now joining the next batch of legionaries towards the terra incognita. legionaries eschewed the disciplined awe-inspiring march and are now running fast into the Gate, but still orderly to not trample one another. The last thing they need is turning this into a chaotic mess. It was demanding, each legion was obligated to send either two cohorts or their First Cohort. The sheer volume of legionaries meant that it will take time before all can be deployed.
Two. All magicians and several other high-ranking officials have been evacuated along with the slaves and plunder the expedition procured – escorted by approximately a tenth on the expedition including half of the Oprichnina – all while leaving them here to continue the fight while they leave with all the loot. He was incredibly incensed the first time he saw this, but there was nothing he could do when they were already far away.
Three. Tensions were high around the camp between some legionaries and the officers. Friction arose between the regular legionaries – those that came from the Gate, bloodied and wild-eyed in terror – and the legati and Oprichnina. They were vehemently refusing to go back and already, there were incidents of desertions; both attempted and successful. Those that failed were punished by flaying; their bodies displayed as a warning to others. Those that succeeded were ignored as they'll need every man they can spare.
As bad as the three were, it was nothing compared to the fourth: the Oprichnina was now forcing the camp followers into the other side. The cleaners were mopping the camp of them to be brought to the Gate by both force and persuasion.
And that explains his presence in the War Tent, along with the audacity he boasted.
"What you're doing will have a detrimental effect on our morale. You're bringing our citizens into the field – the families of the soldiery! Women, children and the aged! Has it occurred to you that these people can barely fight, much less have discipline to maintain formation!?"
"The Camp Followers will bolster our existing forces, the Oprichnina are already arming the citizenry with weapons and armour we can spare. This plan will make our efforts more efficient in subjugating these barbarians." The Legatus Augusti explained. "Every son and daughter or Sadera is a warrior by birth in our proud history. What they lack is training, but they're warriors nonetheless."
"You're going to use them as shields." Pullus seethed in anger, his hand threatening to tear apart the wooden table in sheer rage over the complete disregard the legatus have for their people.
"Yes." The Legatus said bluntly, unmoved by his reasonings. "If they cannot fight, they might as well be shields."
"The men will never agree to this!" Pullus continued.
"Then we shall make them. If anyone tries something, we kill their families in front of them." This time, the Oprichniki interjected. "The soldiery can always vent their loss on the barbarians. For each lost kin is another reason for a legionary to fight harder and subjugate these savages. Surely you cannot deny the empowering nature of wrath?"
"An easy sentiment for those without any kin here."
There was a long stretch of silence that followed as everyone reeled from his statement. Then, their expressions turned to anger.
"Who are you to say that?" One of the legati growled, having the gall to be offended. "Do not dare compare common blood with the nobility. Commoners are easily expendable and easily replaceable. We, the nobility, aren't and are numbered. We are above them and not beholden to bring members of our houses here! We are a necessary component in winning campaigns like this as we have for the entire history."
"Then tell me why was the barbarian earlier laughing?!" He asked strenuously. "And his words before you executed him."
The atmosphere inside the tent changed. What was once fury changed into stupefaction. "Y-You actually worry about those, Legatus Pullus?" To Pullus' shock, all occupants hollered at him. "Oh Pullus, always the plebian–easily fooled by the bluff of the barbarian. The savage had clearly lost his mind after we tortured him. This shows how feeble his people are not only in body. This just makes our plunder easy to mould into labourers and whores."
"Why are you so concerned anyway? Are you not a veteran? A survivor of every battle against the JSDF, and was promoted as a Legatus of your legion for displays of 'courage'." The Oprichniki sneered. "Or it was a facade all along, sacrificing your men for your own personal gain?!"
Those words stunned Pullus. Suddenly, memories flashed in his mind; the blood, the flesh, the explosions, the screams… the loss. Suddenly, something snapped. Before he even knew it, he was climbing atop the table with a feral expression at the Oprichniki. "YOU FUCKING-"
"Mind your tongue, plebeian!" The Legatus screamed back as his soldiers restrained the enraged Pullus Valerii. The fool had the nerve to be offended. "Just because you're a legatus like us, that doesn't change your plebeian birth. You have no right to make demands much less reason with me. All of us but you are from houses of great renown, so know your place or I'll have my men show you."
"Get this plebeian out of our presence." The legatus augusti ordered his guards. "And bar him from ever entering until this campaign ends. He shall not derail our plans any further."
It seemed the disrespect extended to even the Praetorians. They disregarded his rank as a legatus and shoved him unceremoniously out of the tent before returning inside. The guards outside sidestepped to barricade the entrance should he attempt to barge in again.
Pullus returned those stern arrogant gazes with a sneer. Foot lickers. He was tempted to say it directly, but withhold his tongue. The last thing he wanted was for this to escalate. He was aware of his unpopularity with the legati, and a second offence might mean his legion paying the price for his continued defiance.
He walked away. He had no destination in mind, but he wants to be anywhere but near that War Tent. He can't stand the presence of it. The place itself was a representation of the noxious cesspit that is the high society of the Renegade Empire. Yes. Renegade. The Hawks represented the worst attributes of Sadera; arrogance, glory-hunger, disregard for the common folk–one that endured for hundreds of years of their hegemony in Falmart.
It was a good thing his family wasn't here. He thanked the Gods again for keeping them safe, in the hands of Empress Pina and the JSDF. However, that didn't make him comfortable. Many of his men have families with them, unlucky to find themselves with their husbands, fathers, brothers and sons under the tyrannical shadow of Zorzal El Caesar.
Aemilius.
His discomfort strengthened. Aemilius was sent ahead of the Gate just like many legionaries, unaware that his family would be joining the fray. The young lad had entrusted their safety to him before his departure, yet how can he honour his promise when the Oprichnina have already beaten him and he can't do anything about it?
His musings were interrupted by a commotion to the left. A legionary and his parents stood against two Oprichnina. The exchange between them was heated, but the family was unable to approach them given how threatening they held their spears. But why?
The answer: two more Oprichnina emerged from a nearby tent, dragging along two screaming girls and a woman.
So that's why. They must've seen what the cleaners were doing to the other camp followers, and planned to send the woman and her children away, only to run out of time as the Oprichnina reached them first. There wasn't any sign of struggle between the legionary and his parents and the Oprichnina – from the lack of injuries and the fact that the cleaners' absolute authority meant resistance is lethally dealt with.
Pullus felt pity for the family, especially for those girls since they remind him of his own daughters.
Soon enough a small circle of legionaries formed around the scene, no doubt feeling the same as him regarding the Oprichnina's conduct. They were all watching the scene with the visible displeasure, sympathising with their fellow legionary.
The woman hugged her crying daughters and began pleading, hoping to appeal to some sort of conscience they have. Had he not been angry, he would have snorted. A conscientious Oprichnina? Might as well hope for a day when the Hawks bow to the JSDF.
Neither Oprichnina were having none of it. Instead, they screamed at the woman's audacity for questioning their authority before backhanding her. This sight enraged not only the husband and his parents, but also the gathered legionaries now numbering a dozen or two. They screamed at the Oprichnina and were already advancing menacingly. It was unexpected for them, but they still tried their damndest to remind them of their authority – of their role as extensions of the Emperor.
As much Pullus would savour this moment, he knew the repercussions of assaulting an Oprichnina. This is bad. Under Imperial Law, assault or murder of an Oprichnina amounts to the following punishments: Execution of the offender, decimation of the perpetrators' legion, seizure of his assets and the enslavement of his relatives.
Such draconian measures perpetuated their power, and explained the unwillingness of legionaries to disobey them.
"Everyone stop!" He ordered just as swords were finally drawn. Everyone knew who he was, even he was known by legionaries of other legions. "Disperse, you know the consequences of attacking the Oprichnina. I will handle this."
For a few seconds, everyone was tense. Even he was unsure whether his command would be followed, but it was better to try than do nothing and cause more bloodshed. The legionaries were clearly conflicted, they knew the punishments but they've put up with the Oprichnina's oppression for too long; the camp followers were the final nail in the coffin for many.
But they were more rational, so they conceded and dispersed.
"It's good to see that you're considerate." One of the Oprichnina said, wearing the arrogant smirk that Pullus had grown to dislike.
"Leave." He said, quite boldly in the face of Zorzal's enforcers. "I'll take it from here."
The same man scoffed. "And why should I do that?"
"Because we need everyone for this campaign." He looked at the legionary. "That man looks willing enough to assault one of you, especially with what you're doing with his family. Taking the Imperial Law into account, you will deprive us of useful manpower and worsen the unrest in the camp caused by the decision of the other legati. Such a counterproductive act, aren't you people delegated by His Majesty to boost morale and cohesion?"
The Oprichnina seemed mildly irritated at being lectured on their roles. But in the end, they saw reason with everything else he said. "Fine, we have more people to handle."
They left, and he approached the legionary while his parents approached the woman and children. "Thank you my lord." The young man said. He was a bit older than Aemilius, but looked taller.
"What caused this?"
"I saw that the cleaners were rounding up the families and bringing them to the Gate. I realised what they were planning and i tried to warn my family and help them escape somehow. My parents and I tried to distract them to no avail, mere seconds before you appeared."
"How do you intend to escape?" Pullus asked. "We are on an island in the far east; surrounded by a large expanse of the ocean. "
Seeing as the man has no words, he continued. "You do know what will happen if they're caught? You'll be charged with desertion and executed as a 'traitor'; your family enslaved."
"What else could we do, good sir?" The man's father said while tending his granddaughters, wiping the fresh tear trails off their soft cheeks. "It's a risk we must take. If we are sent to the other side, there's no coming back and we could be killed… or worse."
"Our grandchildren will suffer no such fate." Added the grandmother of the girls. "Better us than them. They're too young to suffer the horrors of war."
As Pullus pondered at the family's plight, an idea hatched in his mind – one that would allow him to kill two birds with one stone. "What's your name and legion, legionary?"
"My name is Tellar, My lord. I am of Legio Xaric."
"Tellar." He put a hand on the young soldier's shoulder. "Others suffer your plight and without a doubt had tried what you're doing. My legionaries have their families as well and those in the front-lines lack knowledge of this development. Even though there's nothing I can do for my own legion, I am willing to help your family."
Their faces brightened. "Y-You will, my lord?" Tellar stammered in shock.
"We must try."
"But what of the others?" Tellar's wife interjected. "They won't be so fortunate."
Tellar knelt down to face her, his face solemn and determined. "We have no choice, Ajahna. It will alert the cleaners, and you know what they will do to you and our daughters."
"Your husband's right." Pullus checked the surroundings. The area was fortunately devoid of Oprichnina, which makes things easier. "Follow me."
For the next few minutes, they moved in a quiet fashion to not garner the attention of any Cleaner in the vicinity. Pullus knew that they had to be quick if his plan was to work.
Of all forces in their military that suffered in the war against the JSDF, none bled the most as the Wyvern Corps. For hundreds of years, the dragon cavalry had maintained their aerial dominance in the battlefield. Even before the Imperial Schism between the Saderan Royalty, the Wyvern Corps were already a fraction of themselves. The Renegade Empire procured most of them, but even that wasn't enough. It had gotten to the point of supplanting the Corps with mercenaries.
In general, Pullus has a personal dislike for mercenaries. They fight and spill blood not for the protection of people, but for gold. Their loyalty was on a flux, always determined by the highest bidder and essentially making them a privatised military force. But there are those who had taken this scrounderally profession in the name of desperation–former legionaries stripped of wealth or discriminated folk like the Warrior-Bunnies.
As much as he hated dealing with mercenaries, he has no other alternative.
Pullus knew that an entire mercenary band of Wyvern riders was hired in this expedition. They were called Windrunners, famed for their speed and skill in the air, as such cost a fortune to hire. No doubt Zorzal employed their services should they need to deal with the iron pegasi of the otherworlders, but he'd seen firsthand the results of such an engagement.
It was fortuitous that the War Camp's Wyvern pen was located in the outskirts, that meant Tellar's family could escape faster. There were ten riders present, the entire mercenary band and they were tending their mounts, and they noticed their approach.
"Look who came to visit us men, the popular Legatus Pullus." What appeared to be the leader strode forward to them, mocking him with that accursed nickname. "What business do you have here?"
Pullus kept his mouth closed and instead threw a pouch at the mercenary. Everyone heard the clanking sound and when he poured the contents to his hand, they became speechless.
Thirty sinku.
"Is that enough for all of you?"
In an instant the dismissive faces of the Auxilia changed into interest. "You have our attention."
"I need you to deliver this man and his family to Sadera."
The man frowned. "That journey will take nearly several weeks! And this money covers most of the resulting expenses." He said, pointing to the sinkus he received from the legatus. "You need to do better, we aren't a charity like the JSDF."
Pullus had anticipated this and he came prepared. The legatus withdrew another pouch and poured the contents into his hand.
The mercenaries' eyes beamed once again; this time, a total of ten suwani lay on Pullus' hand. But instead of giving it to them, he slammed them on the armoured chest of the Tellar, knocking him out of his stupefied state. "Bring them safely and he'll pay you."
"Fine." The leader pocketed the money before turning to his men. "Prepare the Wyverns, looks like we won't be seeing any battle after all. Ready the spare saddles for our passengers and keep your flight stable. We're riding to Sadera."
The mercenaries went to prepare their mounts while the family approached him. "H-How?" Ajahna tried to ask but was beaten by the legatus.
"As dishonourable as it is, the dead no longer need material wealth." Pullus explained neutrally, having no shame nor pride in robbing the dead. It was distasteful but ultimately pragmatic given their war with Japan, a currency's value is worthless if not used. "I suggest you prepare for your departure. I must talk to Tellar."
The family nodded and they moved forward to assist the Windrunners in their preparation, leaving Tellar alone with Pullus.
"I… I couldn't thank you enough, my lord. We're going to be safe there." Tellar chuckled momentarily at how lucky they were, but his mind returned to pressing matters. "But… why the Capital?"
"Because I fear we have roused another titan." Pullus placed a hand on his shoulder, and Tellar now realised just how grim the legatus' face was. "You must inform Empress Pina and the JSDF of what happened here – everything, Tellar! – for the moment you've reached the Capital, you might be all that's left of this expedition."
–TWG–
Tokyo – Japan
1:05 PM
The battlefield was a symphony of death and destruction; wherein armaments were musical instruments – with an added lethal flair – and their operators the musicians. Each soldier a skillful musician proficient with their weaponry as they performed for the heavenly gods of war.
The soldiers of the Oceania Accords marched unrelentingly, advancing and crushing – no, butchering – any foe they encounter. The Saderans' attempts to repel them were completely futile, their resistance was like water against concrete. The streets were a testament of the extent of the bloodshed; the blood of thousands creating literal rivers of red as they filled every crevice, fissure and crater in the wartorn pavement.
The Oceanian forces were barely a fraction of the Saderan expedition, but they were enough to not only contend but repulse the latter in every engagement. As minutes continued to pass, the encirclement was getting smaller and smaller with a guaranteed Oceanian victory, and it was a noose closing on the Saderans' collective necks.
Infantry and Armour elements were at the forefront of the assault, who were in turn led by the Elite Guard and the Warden-General himself. The Air complement, even far fewer than their Saderan counterparts, has usurped the airspace and has driven those of the enemy near their FOB and is now giving ground support while more and more troops are being deployed directly to the front by transports both terrestrial and aerial.
The Saderans continued sustaining astronomical losses and their lines were collapsing, maintained only by those who had yet to do battle, those too controlled by the Oprichnina or those too stubborn to consider retreat. The survivors of such attacks arrived in the main camp and were causing more problems for the leadership, with only the draconian Oprichnina keeping everything from descending into chaos.
–TWG–
"Charge! Raise spears! We outnumber these beasts."
Jaron charged alongside his fellow cavalrymen in a narrow street flanked by buildings. He joined the war cry as they increased their momentum, steadying his spear forward – pointed to pierce the beating heart of their enemies.
So these are the creatures terrorising our men. Iron beasts they were called. The pack reciprocated the gesture of the Saderans and left the scene of their previous carnage for a fresh one. It was a grisly sight; men and demihumans lie dead on a street smeared by their own blood. They were all viciously mauled with most already dead, but an unfortunate few were alive writhing and groaning in agony – one centaur torn in two!
The pack consists of six of these creatures, galloping at them with abandon.
"Aim for the joints!" Jaron was confident. We outnumber them. We shall prevail!
They were faster and more numerous, meaning they can gain momentum faster and have more force to strike the creatures, who are – on the other hand – a pack of six.
When they were just a few meters away, two of the beasts closest to the sides leapt onto the wall, affixing themselves before pouncing into the middle of the formation. He was caught off-guard as a rider far on the left had his face cleaved, and he felt drops of blood stained his face.
The remaining creatures leapt at the front, mostly avoiding the spears straightened at them and mauling those in the front line. One beast bit the head of their commander's mount and crushed its skull. He fell and he found himself in the jaws of the same creature.
Their stunt cut the unit in two; the frontlines were being mauled by four beasts while two kept the greater bulk preoccupied. The two beasts were impervious to their strikes as they worked in tandem cleaving the cavalrymen near them. Horses and men cried as they were dismembered and disemboweled. Chaos was quickly spreading in their ranks as the front ranks were rapidly torn apart. Those at the rear tried to overwhelm the two beasts by attacking altogether, but they unleashed their trump card; a column of fire erupted from their mouths to engulf those at the front. Jaron's horse panicked as the fire ended just in front of the rider before them and threw him to the ground. Morale finally shattered and all remaining riders galloped away.
Burning men and horses alike ran amok trying to put out the fires in vain, and they died a horrible death if the beasts hadn't finished them. Behind this curtain of fire were the dying screams of men that became fewer and fewer as they were cut down.
He attempted to run, but only succeeded for a few seconds before one of the beasts leapt in front. Jaron fell to the ground in shock and the creature pinned him by his arm. He cried in pain and terror as the limb was reduced to mush by the sheer force of it's paw.
Overwhelmed by fear, Jaron could only scream and raise his hand in futility at the claw arching towards him.
–TWG–
Besides the faint sounds of thunder, the footsteps were all that was audible in the street.
Immediately after they crossed to this terra incognita, two centuries of the first cohort of Legio Xaric were immediately deployed to the frontlines to supplement the forces there. Time was of the essence as one can tell by their brisk yet orderly pace. It wasn't just the stomping sandals of men, they were joined by the ground-shaking steps of the lumbering ogre in the rear, the thumping feet of orcs and the solid hooves of both centaurs and cavalry. Together, they number five hundred strong.
They knew nothing about the nature of the enemy, other than they were comparable to the daunted JSDF that was humbling the Empire. Most forces of the expedition were stationed in the Far East, away from the Capital, so they know little about the Men in Green other than the tales by the smallfolk or their fellow legionaries. They sounded formidable, but few in number. It's for this reason that many in the expedition are confident in this campaign as they have the numbers that their foe lacked so much. They were a destitute kingdom, which is why their warriors are so few to just police their large civilian population.
"Move with haste, we must punish these barbarians for their audacity!"
Of course, like all formations in the regime, elements of the Oprichnina were attached to ensure that the Emperor's will was carried out. The legionaries dared not convey their thoughts, lest they and their families be subject to their authority.
"We are sons of the Empire, we have endured calamities from time to time and so shall we again!" The Oprichnina were giving rousing words to motivate them, which appeared to be working. "We shall not be cowed by the cowardly magika of barbarians. They are weak, reliant on distance and fragile up close!"
The formation's advance halted when all of a sudden, a wyvern fell in front.
No, crashed would be a better term given that It was dead; riddled with holes that a few recognised to be all too similar with the iron pegasi fielded by the JSDF. Parts of its body were ablaze, and it's stomach ruptured front and back. There were signs of physical struggle; the scales on its body were cracked as if something punched it and it lacked a wing – torn from the looks of it. It's neck was broken along with its other wing.
It was an unnerving sight as they stopped in front of the battered smoking carcass, even the Oprichnina were mesmerised. The Wyvern Corps were a daunted force of the Empire for generations, and to see one of their numbers defeated like this…
There was a startled cry as something fell in the middle of the formation. It was the rider. His entire face smeared with blood that came from his mouth, while his chestplate was dented as if someone of great strength punched him.
The two sights were out of reach for many in the rear, but their attention was drawn elsewhere. Not in the ground, but in the sky. Word slowly spread and the audience grew larger groups by groups: Something was in the sky.
Contrasting the cloudy horizon were four massive figures. High in the sky but close enough for them to detail their appearance; kept stationary by the fires streaming from their backs and legs. No, they weren't burning; fire rises up into the air, not down, especially in a thin concentrated spread.
The figures were armoured… too armoured to be considered a man; there weren't any exposed parts in their armour for limbs to move seamlessly. So they concluded these beings to be golems instead, sentient personages of the earth given life by skilled magicians.
Their arms were a pair of weapons. Only one of their numbers carried no weapon, but in his hand was something that evoked more terror than the strange objects of his brethren.
A dragon's lone wing hung from his arm, it's scales matching to the dead beast blocking their advance. Vice-grip crushed the beast's thick hide like clay as fire continued to ravage the flesh.
When the realisation set in, the same golem made a headlong towards them, casting the torn wing aside, followed by its brethren. "Don't just stand there!" the Oprichnina snapped the Saderans out of stupor. "Archers, fire volley!"
However, the formation was too panicked – too overcome by indecision to respond adequately to this threat until it was too late. Only the archers were an exception as they drew arrows from their quivers. A few were sent upon the golems, but were either missed or bounced off.
The four golems split; two landed atop the colossal pile of rubble on the sides while the remaining struck the ground. One landed on the battered hide of the wyvern with a crunch, its weapon roaring continuous thunder and spitting torrents of metal that peppered the front ranks.
The other golem – the weaponless one – directly struck them by going for the middle of the formation. It's massive feet flattened the head of an unfortunate legionary; the poor son of Sadera barely registered the pain on his shocked face as his body was crushed top-down. The remaining force was still powerful, as it sent the entire century to the ground.
This created space for the golem, it rose and summoned two long blades from it's wrists and systematically cut down those within reach. Nevertheless, the legionaries charged at the being that towered over them all, hoping to overwhelm it with numbers. It was comparable to a heavily armoured knight wielding two broadswords, but the difference is that this creature's attacks were swifter and It doesn't tire. This is a golem, it's stamina limitless. Their only hope was to find what animates the creature and destroy it.
Virtually, the entire formation was trying to swarm it – from the cavalry to the orcs. But they all fell in their attempts, the golem wasn't only swinging his blades but was also launching explosive projectiles from his arms and shoulders.
It was the same case for the golem atop the wyvern. Seeing its weapons insufficient to stem the tide, it summoned two more atop its shoulders, doubling its firepower.
The other two golems provided covering fire for their brethren with their own terrifying weapons; one unleashed a pair of luminous beams of blue that slagged metal and scorched flesh while the other splattered them with fireballs that were difficult to put out. Attempts to climb the rubble and reach them were difficult and wasn't worth the effort, they were quickly noticed and killed.
With their ranks breaking so quickly, the ogre charged from the rear, its war hammer raised to crush the golems. This earned him the attention of the golems and was dealt with coordinately. A laser to the chest and fireball on the face. It screamed in agony and threw away its burning helmet, leaving its burnt face vulnerable to attack. The melee golem propelled itself to its new target, it's thrusters burning those behind it. Long blades made a deep incision on its neck before jumping past as the ogre collapsed on the ground, dead as well as those it unwittingly crushed. A puddle of red expanding from its neck.
The death of their strongest weapon was the last straw for the formation. Morale plummeted and terror filled the vacuum as men made a mad dash to escape wherever they can. The Oprichnina – who had gathered in the rear – were unsuccessful in stemming the tide of panicked men and auxilia, many managing to squeeze their way out.
"Cowards! " An Oprichnina pointed his sword at the retreating legionaries. "You dishonour our-"
Slowly, the Oprichnina were slain by those they herded to their pointless deaths as they reached their breaking point.
"To Hardy with the cleaners!" A centurion swung his sword and decapitated the Oprichnina blocking his way. But his efforts were in vain as two massive blades erupted from his stomach, before being cut into two.
Even with the enemy broken, the golems continued their assault. Some fell to their knees – wounded – and begged for mercy, but were answered by their weapons. A few even slit their throats when escape was impossible.
After just a few minutes, the two century strong formation was no more; only the dead and dying for the carrion birds to feast. All of them perished in agony and dishonour, most never having swung their blades or launched arrows at their strange killers. Dismembered, disemboweled or burned while the golems strode in the area for survivors and executed them.
One legionary was trying to crawl in vain when the blade-wielding golem lifted him by his feet. He was groaning from his injuries as well as the vice grip around his heel.
"P-Please..." He clasped his hand tightly as tears streamed down his forehead. It may not understand his language, so he gestured. "Mercy!"
He knew it would understand, but he wasn't expecting what happened next. There was a distorted laugh before it spoke in an unknown tongue to its brethren.
"Regardez-le! Il me demande de pitié." Soon enough, two more gathered around and shared a laugh; finding humour in the man's agony and helplessness.
One of them approached, punching him in the stomach and causing him to gag. Next, he screamed as his sadistic captor made a long incision on his bare hip, blood flowing down profusely and there wasn't anything he could do to relieve the pain.
"Jean!" came a stern call directed to the golem holding him. All heads turned to see the last golem approaching, the one that summoned beams of light from his weapon. By his tone, he was the commanding figure of the three. "Qu'est-ce que tu pensais, c'était imprudent! Charger au milieu de la formation ennemie?! Es-tu fou!"
His captor has its own defense. "Calmez-vous, chef. Ils ont aucune chance de nous blesser avec leurs armes. On porte des armures, c'est impossible."
There was a pause until the golem spoke again. "Bien." It swivelled its head around the carnage they just wrought. "Cette zone est clair. Allons-y, le Gardien-Général veut tout les forces d'avancer, le Directeur- veut que toutes les forces pour continuer d'avancer." Fire erupted from the golem's back and feet, causing it to rise upward. The other two weren't far behind.. "Et tuez-le!"
Watching its brethren rise to the air, the golem dropped him on his back before planting its feet on his stomach. The legionary groan as he felt the weight of the construct on him, and for a moment he feared that he'd be crushed to death.
But his death was worse than he imagined. Now the same fire erupted from this golem's back, but he wasn't rising yet. It seemed that fire needed to erupt from...
The horrifying realisation set in. No… no, no! But before he can send another plea, fire erupted from its feet – one of said feet being on him. The sheer force of the fire blew open his stomach, quickly incinerating his organs as he screamed in agony, the fire spreading throughout his prone body. He felt every agonising moment before his life came to a merciful end, a cruel and unusual death he was unfortunate enough to suffer.
–TWG–
Alexander Pelham wasn't sure if he was dreaming, drunk, or had completely lost his mind when faced with the reality before him. As a member of the Elite Guard, he was rigorously trained to face any manner of foes for the safety of their patron official.
He never imagined using that training against historical constructs.
Alex, as called by his colleagues, could imagine everyone feeling the same without an ounce of doubt. The statewide alert made them… well, alert and ready to mobilise when reports of unknown hostile forces appeared in Tokyo, but nearly skidded to a halt when they discovered that they're fighting Romans. He actually thought it was a terrible joke at first, possibly a glitch in the surveillance drones. That was the assumption until they were deployed to see them firsthand.
Multiple elements of the Elite Guard supplanted the local garrison; those under the direct command of the Warden-General himself, or those – such as his squad – allocated across the vanguard to support the regular forces.
They numbered around two-hundred and fifty soldiers, but they were holding their own against an entire legion of five thousand, not counting the humanoid auxiliaries. Numbers, though intimidating on paper, meant nothing when you have the firepower to offset that advantage; the enemy has swords, shields, arrows and multitude of freaks, but they have guns, tanks and other special weapons. Even without air support, they can overpower them.
The bulk consisted of regular troopers, with only three Elite Guard squads attached to support them. Even in the massed formation, Elite Guardsmen were easily distinguishable from the regular troopers armour-wise.
It was functionally identical, but with a different pattern and more armoured. Two features were the most striking; the balaclava-like helmet with visors and the dual crimson shoulder capes independent of one another.
The fighting was strongest in the center, he knew because his squad was positioned there.
"Focus fire on the cavalry." The SQUADLINK ensured a channel exclusive to the use of his squad alone, allowing his order to be heard clearly amidst the deafening weapons fire. Beside him, Angus and Ramos were quick to comply and brought their gauss rifles to bear down on the warsteads. Together, American, British and Spaniard decimated the front ranks along with other troopers that took notice, they were no more in a matter of seconds.
Similar events played from the sides. A formation on the right made the foolish decision of charging a unit with attached purifiers, getting incinerated by their flamethrowers as a result. That broke the charge and routed the survivors only to be gunned down as they retreated. Farther on the right side, a similar charge was made and incinerated, this time it was a dreaded flame tank that unleashed twin firestorms that burned everything.
"Fucking bastards keep coming." Hans remarked, ambivalent whether someone will respond or not. He continued bombarding the Roman formations with his grenade launcher. "The fuck's motivating them?!"
"These guys have their own commissars, those dog-hatted men at the back." Louis radioed the German after blowing up the head of a commissar, who was struggling with a panicked legionary. As the squad's sniper, he went to a vantage point in a ruins beside the squad, on the third floor where he methodically terminated targets. "Been shooting them since I positioned here, and I got another one down."
"The grunts are motivated by fear ya sod; take the head, the body collapses." Angus interjected, the Englishman not sparing at glance at any of his comrades as he continued to pepper the Roman lines with his gauss rifle.
The Oceanians were advancing steadily but surely, even as the Romans put up a staunch defense that saw hundreds die in seconds. The enemy was losing a lot of assets in their attempt to stall the inevitable.
Oceanian battle-chatter was active in the coordinated assault, effectively organising themselves unlike the rabble-like leadership of the Romans whose means of organisation is concentrated under their officers.
[Keep at it men. This is a fucking turkey shoot!] Two charging roman centuries were whittled down mere meters from their original position under combined firepower, it happened so suddenly that the officers only realised it after some seconds before they joined the corpses of their men.
An armoured ogre appeared from an intersection, roaring with its warhammer raised. [Salvo that big ugly fuck!] An Oceanian MBT responded with an HE round straight to its head, pulverising it in a shower of red. Its carcass crushed those underneath.
[Incoming!]
Alex looked up to see many boulders descending from the sky. "Cover!" It took his whole squad a few moments to dive away just as a boulder slammed at them. Louis had to retreat deeper into the ruin as another struck his original vantage point, crushing the foundation and leaving him exposed.
Several more followed, the barrage striking the entire formation. The Oceanians attempted to strike them down through combined firepower of their gauss weapons with the help of the auto-targeting turrets of their IFVs, each accelerated round strong enough to chip away a portion of the projectile, its fragments harmlessly falling into the ground. Although the gaussian storm of metal destroyed many, the sheer number overwhelmed them, striking a few vehicles and some troopers.
For a moment, the entire advance halted as they reeled at the attack.
[Enemy artillery in use. We sustained casualties!]
[My leg!]
[I got a man down! Help me push this rock!]
[Medic!]
"Everyone alright?" Angus asked, not bothering with the SQUADLINK and asking with his own voice.
Alex did a quick scan of his squad. All of them were intact, even Louis as he took another vantage point. "We're good. Return fire." They returned to mowing down the enemy force. "We need to deal with the enemy artillery. I'm going to call in air support!"
"Ehhh... autre probleme." Louis said from atop. "Look above, enemy air cav's back!"
Looking up, they could see the unmistakable figures of the dragon cavalry. All were perched atop the surrounding ruins behind the enemy formation, none flying yet...
Another storm of boulders came and fell past the dragons, who rose into the air not long after.
–TWG–
"So few of them, but too powerful to fight." Tavus murmured to himself, watching the battle below alongside the other riders.
The Wyvern Corps were exclusive to the nobility, as only they have the wealth and knowledge to tame such beasts. He was a nobleman himself, but he wasn't Old Blood; a term denoting inherited nobility by virtue of birthright. It was something he earned after saving a noble's only child held for ransom by bandits, who awarded him with the title as a reward for his efforts.
But it didn't matter anymore, he had been stripped of his barony by the orders of Zorzal El Caesar.
His escape had failed, but he can't blame himself for trying to; having been dragged by the self-proclaimed Emperor during their exodus to Telta like many others. There was no use in fighting the JSDF, better to spare his family from the conflict.
In a rare show of mercy, Zorzal had agreed to spare his wife and daughter. But even that proved sadistic as he was press ganged into Viscount Herm's latest tactic like all treasonous elements in the nobility.
One that would claim his life.
"This is it, my friend. Know that it's been an honour fighting with you for many battles, but the gods have dictated this to be our last." He comforted his mount, who grunted solemnly. Amarr too accepted the unwanted fate forced upon them, and it laid bare for all to see.
The wyvern was dressed in a net filled to the brim with barrels, each bearing a seal of enchantment by Godasen and his magicians in preparation for the conquest. Though small, it was the quantity burdened by his mount that it was difficult to ascend but he carried on.
The second barrage now descended into the barbarians. It's time.
The call finally came. "To the skies!" one hundred dragon cavalrymen took to the air and into the enemy, screaming their war cries and praises to their gods. Tavus let them get slightly further before joining them. Their charge hadn't gone unnoticed and the front ranks were quickly assailed by the enemy's metallic arrows. Many fell in just a few strikes, but all pressed on towards the barbarian lines.
Given their predicament, it was easier to descend than ascend due to their additional weight. Amarr was mostly gliding, only flapping his wings if needed. Tavus had put his training to use for one last time, expertly avoiding the felled dragons and the enemy's arrows. It did help that they were at the rear, meaning the front ranks will bear the brunt of them.
As one, rider and mount accelerated towards the barbarian formation. He has already found a target in the left, a two-snouted iron beast that spat fire from them.
They were few, so this attack would devastate them.
He was almost there when he became the last of his group, but it was too late for them to do anything. Their cold composure transitioned to frantic horror upon discovering his target.
This is an example of Herm's genius. He lacked any weapon, because they were the weapon.
In their final moments, mount and rider let of a scream of angered despair until a great fire snuffed their lives.
In one single moment, the bodies of Tavus and Amarr were vaporised. In their place, a bright thunderous flash that shook the entire battlefield with the power of a god's concentrated wrath and cracked the very pavement below. It was strong enough to shake the precarious foundations of what towering ruins that remained standing in the test of time, to the point that some portions looked ready to fall or even fell outright, crushing anyone unlucky in their encroaching embrace with the earth.
But the most affected were the Oceanians, and the results were magnified by the fact that it was the flame tank that was targeted, the volatile fluids empowering the blast. Those closest to the suicide attack had the mercy of a painless death, their bodies incinerated quick enough for the nervous system to react. Armour and flesh turning in slag and ash in a microsecond after the impact, the intense heat having transformed their composition instantly.
The same mercy cannot be afforded to those in the periphery, far enough to register the effects of the explosion. Men and vehicles were thrown away like garbage afire, some completely yet others partially.
One attack by the Saderans. Half of the Oceanian force dead.
–TWG–
The Hell's Gate can be likened to a fortress on tracks.
Imperious. Impervious. Imposing; the power of a dozen tanks consolidated in one.
Vindicating its status as a mobile fortress, the superheavy tank was armed to the teeth by weapon emplacements dispersed all around its massive frame; four flamethrowers at the corners, two missile launchers at the sides and four autocannons at the front and back.
Many were burned, gunned and obliterated by these weapons. The Romans have tried and failed to stop the advance of this iron juggernaut but failed horrendously, dying horrific deaths instead.
Undying. Unrelenting. Unforgiving.
Although quite unnecessary, a contingent of Elite Guardsmen followed as escorts. They were at the rear, so as to not be caught in the Hell's Gate's warpath.
However, the main gun was the most powerful weapon in the arsenal; a spinal-mounted particle cannon whose size and power made it look more suited to a naval vessel than an earth-cruising vehicle. Only the head of the barrel was exposed, the rest was underneath the head of the tank. But its power had a price. In order to contain the sheer force it can deliver, the tank's head was fixed to the body, not axial like that of the others. This meant that the Hell's Gate must turn in order to aim and use its primary weapon.
Fortunately for the Romans, it had remained silent throughout the operation and its ammunition unspoiled.
At least until they reached the main encampment.
But the Hell's Gate wasn't just a superheavy tank, a fist to strike the enemy head-on. It was also a command vehicle, an operational nerve centre where battleplans are conducted, overseen and assessed.
Within were the commanders of the operation: the Warden-General, his Hound and the COs of the participating military units.
They surrounded an instrument of war, indispensable as a calculator would to a mathematician and a bible to a priest. The holotable was the size and shape of a stone table. Its surface was of glass, projecting a blue three-dimensional layout of a battlefield the ghetto had become. It was detailed adequately with their forces coloured green while the Romans coloured – quite appropriately – red.
The noose was tightening on the Romans, more and more were retreating close to their main encampment and so were the resistance getting intense.
Ground Zero was located beside what was once the Fushigi-yagura Keep, where the bulk of the camp's forces were.
So far, everything was going according to plan. But as the famed Prussian General Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke once said. "No plan survives contact with the enemy."
An entire unit of the first-wave was just gutted; their forces halved in an instant. Now it was imperative to know how, since this was a concerning development that could affect the operation.
[A dragon just went straight towards us and exploded, troops say that it was dressed in a net full of barrels. Heavy casualties. Romans are now charging, all of them. Artillery keeps pounding us. We won't be able to hold.]
Isak gave his order. [Panther-Two, this is Fenrir. I'm sending in Panther-Four to reinforce your position, seven-fifty meters from the rear. Do a tactical retreat until reinforcements arrive.]
[Roger that, Fenrir. Panther Two Actual out.]
"A kamikaze attack?" Armend raised an eyebrow as he summoned a small display in his hand showing the decimated group, who were quickly reforming into an organised retreat. Wounded but unbeaten, Panther-Two kept firing in addition to hurling more and more explosives at the Romans, who had seized the opportunity and charged en masse. No more formations, just an all-in charge to kill the troopers once and for all. "Considering that it dive-bombed a flame tank of all things, the explosive yield was amplified."
"It's tactically ingenious, sir. They can't harm us in a traditional manner, so they strap themselves with explosives and try to rush us, using the others as meat shields; devastating, but cost-inefficient. I didn't expect them to be this desperate… although it was bound to happen sooner or later"
Armend chuckled. "When all the cards are stacked against you, you'll do anything to change your predicament." He continued. "It brings back memories, Jap kamikazes streaking down from the skies towards our ships and formations as we ravaged their empire and homeland."
"What's concerning is if more of these Roman… kamikazes..." Isak couldn't believe his own words. "Are out there. The enemy must have kept them in reserve, a trump card should the tide turn against them."
"That tide has already turned the moment I ordered the attack." The Swiss commander corrected his confidant. "Nevertheless, alert the men of this development. I want them neutralised at a moment's notice."
"Yes sir. And what of Panther-Two's predicament?"
Instead of delegating, Armend opened a channel to give the order himself. "Saber, I got coordinates for a strafing run."
–TWG–
1:20 PM
The screams of a burning trooper were silenced, his helmeted head jerking back at the force of a bullet moments before he was cut down by an advancing roman from behind.
Alex quickly swung his line of fire back to the advancing tide of Romans. The formation was in a precarious situation right now. The tables have turned against them and now the enemy's numerical superiority has transcended from a manageable threat following the attack that took out half of their two-hundred fifty strong force.
The surviving elements quickly reorganised for a retreat while the Romans charged, abandoning all semblance of organisation as they raced to spill their blood.
Reinforcements wouldn't arrive until some time. To compensate, the Oceanians intensified their attacks; MBTs were now firing on masses instead of just the large monsters while demolition troopers were hurling more and more grenades and planting more and more mines, which would be quickly disarmed when they would advance again.
The only thing constant was the fusillade of gauss rounds that tore apart their front ranks without pity; proud men and mighty beast becoming softened swiss cheese. No blade tasted blood and no shield stood strong, useless against the storm of metal. Yet their fanaticism drove them, and no enemy was more dangerous than a fanatic even if all odds are stacked against you.
[Panther-Two, this is Panther-Four Actual. We heard you guys lost control of the party and took a beating, so don't mind if we crash in and ruin your fun.]
"Seriously?" Angus groaned, exasperated. "Just help us!"
Alex would've voiced his agreement had he bothered. There was no point of wasting a thought in the current situation. If anything, it was a distraction even for a moment. The legion may still be far, but the idea of archers interspersed in their disorganised ranks was too close for comfort. If he had to guess, those in the front are now in range.
It doesn't sit well with him, and so he couldn't afford taking his attention off.
Panther-Two totalled to 250 troopers; subtract half and you get 125, then add another company of Panther with the same amount of troops and now you get 375; much more than their original number. It's all speculation, since they have lost additional soldiers who failed to regroup in time or were too wounded by the kamikaze attack. But It was more than enough to handle the advancing tide of Romans that threatened to drown them in blood and steel.
Panther-Four quickly engaged the roman legion as soon as they were in range, while demolitions troopers moved to disarm the mines they've planted. Only a few detonated during their retreat, mostly those in their original position which was now passed by the enemy lines.
While it was good that reinforcements finally arrived, the issue with the roman catapults still remained. Their tanks could've neutralised them earlier had they not been placed behind the cover of rubble and small buildings, ensuring protection as well as the capability to fire their stone projectiles.
The problem was soon solved when a squadron of Oceanian aircraft passed overhead, strafing the ranks of the Romans with a combination of ballistic and explosive ordinances until striking the location of the enemy artillery, turning the strong wood into splinters that maimed their operators and those unfortunate enough to be nearby.
[This is Saber Two-Three Actual. Artillery is neutralised. Move in!]
The loss of their strongest weapons and death of many men in a short span obliterated the inflated morale they had gained from their previous victory. Now they were in a full-scale retreat as they removed everything that would slow them down in this field of slaughter. And so, the galvanised Oceanians advanced ever methodically. Rank upon rank of black armoured troopers gunning down the retreating Romans in sight. Many tried to surrender to them, hoping for leniency.
Yet no quarter was given. Romans were shot in the head or peppered throughout the body as they bled to death, others thrown to the ground and beaten relentlessly until they expired, the latter was more evident with the troopers of Panther Two due to the devastating attack they suffered. Some screamed as they were either crushed by the underside of unheeding vehicles or mauled by the unmerciful panzerhunds.
Not all that stayed behind remained to surrender, they hid behind the ruins and rushed at the opportune moment. It was mostly a single man but there were few groups. There was some success in a way that they injured a trooper before dying, but most were foiled by gunfire or the vigilant panzerhunds.
–TWG–
1:40 PM
As a man who has defied the odds and survived battles against an otherworldly force from time to time again, Pullus always wondered how long his luck would endure should the war against the JSDF drag on. His miraculous survivability was always divinely ordained, living for another day while others perish by the will of the Gods.
The fabled veteran had long concluded that it must have something to do with his pious upbringing, his parents never worshipped a single deity like some do and instead venerated the entire pantheon. To put their words simply, one god cannot offer all and all are equal. They imparted this belief in him. Additionally, he had never committed a transgression and was an honourable man to his human beings – even the enslaved – compared to the usual sanctimony demonstrated by the nobility.
Tellar's family was in safe hands now, as everyone in the camp was too preoccupied with the Legati's new orders for any distractions. He didn't stay to watch them leave like an optimistic sort, he was already certain that they would succeed. A curt farewell to Tellar after imparting his warning, he departed to rejoin his legion; time was of the essence here, figuratively and literally. Word about his outburst probably spread around the camp by now and the Oprichnina would keep an eye on him given his… reputation among the soldiery; better he gets back to his legion else they vent their antagonism towards them.
He was never popular with the nobility anyway. The aristocrats grew accustomed to having the reigns of power in every institution, a particular case in the military. To have a plebian on their level was definitely an insult to their pride. His popularity among the legionaries was a salt to their wounds, one that irked them to no end.
Regardless, it matters not now that he had crossed into the terra incognita. The Gate had manifested on palatial grounds, which naturally contained fortifications that the Renegades were quick to make use of. The area was quickly converted into their main foothold should the plethora of tents be any indication along with the marching legionaries and hectic metalworking.
The walls were manned with archers and ballistae as the sappers built gates of heavy wood around the entrances.
As fortuitous the place was, Pullus couldn't help but be unnerved by the macabre atmosphere of the area, it was closer to a slaughterhouse than palatial grounds. Entire walls and floors were bloodstained to such an extent as if someone was painting them with that. The area bore the telltale marks of fires; no grass grew from the blackened soil while scorched trees stood as ominous monuments. Ashes littered the streets along with the skeletal and rotting remains of what were once people, the stench was strong and had to be disposed of in the dangerously polluted moats beyond the walls.
"What happened out there, Aemilius?" Even Pullus dreaded the words he said. His tone was normal, but the connotation was that of dread.
He carried a sleeping Calliope on his arms, and he would've smiled at her innocent bliss had the situation not been dire. Why he carried her was because Cara was kneeling to comfort visibly shaken Aemilius, who was lying on a blanket.
The medical tent was large since it was designed to be able to treat many injured at once. And indeed, it was filled to the brim with injured legionaries. The medicae were moving from patient to patient, trying to help in any way they can. Consequently, the air was thick with copper, no doubt from the injuries – fresh and treated – of the legionaries.
All of them were part of attack forces sent towards the barbarians of this terra incognita, and the only survivors that escaped their centuries' annihilation.
He was looking down on the aforementioned legionary lying on a blanket. He was one of the injured legionaries who were lucky to get back alive, and his eyes show the terror he felt fighting the otherworldly force.
"It-It was terrifying, sir Valerii. We never stood a chance." Aemilius picked his words, tightening his hold on Cara's hand. "We were marching to the front lines when we-we… we came across a group of barbarians in a wide street. Their armour was black like coal and they carried equally black staffs. We outnumbered them, our numbers supplanted by the auxilia and we were confident in our victory. We charged, the cavalry riding upfront to spill first blood while we followed behind. It took the barbarians seconds to kill them all before they turned their attention on us. They were killing us in droves, without honour nor mercy while we never had the honour of swinging our blades. It wasn't long before our charge became a rout, but the Oprichnina kept us from escaping. The cleaners were so preoccupied by our attempts that they didn't notice the iron beast behind them, mauling most of them in a single swipe."
Pullus looked down from the young legionary's face and winced. His body was toned like other legionaries, but the torso was covered in a large white blanket, showing three lines of deep red from his shoulder and down to the corner of his abdomen. It was a miracle he survived that.
Aemilius noticed his gaze. "I was struggling with an Oprichnina when he was cleaved from behind; painful, but I thank the gods that only the tips of its claws cut me. I was bleeding as I escaped with the others, pursued by the same beast and its barbarian masters. Our numbers were greatly thinned when we reached camp, we were very fortunate since not a minute later the gates were closed to anyone outside."
"This must be the power of the people in the JSDF's world." Aemilius said, his tone carried the same fear that can be found in his eyes. "I've only heard tales, but now I've seen it with my own eyes. What chance do we have against that?"
Aemilius was afraid and it wasn't without reason. Unlike Pullus and Gaius, he has never fought the JSDF since the debacle in Alnus. He had been transferred to the eastern regions months before – joined by Cara – along with many other legionaries, in order to deal with the bandits and greenskins plaguing the region. They couldn't relegate the task to the local vassals that time since they were understrength and restricted to defending their territories.
While it spared them of the carnage consuming the Saderan heartland, it left the eastern legions woefully unaware of the enemy they were currently fighting.
"Are the barbarians taking prisoners? How were they taken?" It was something Pullus had to know immediately. He was there in the very beginning when they crossed towards the Kingdom of Japan, and he had seen many taken prisoner as they all raced to the Gate when their conquest faltered. Pursuing them alongside the JSDF's soldiers and their iron beasts were a force identical to legionaries; clad in armour and bearing shields, but armed with sticks instead of blades. While some of the still prideful soldiers jeered at this, he saw the intent. They aimed to subdue – to pacify – and not kill. It would be months before he learned from an acquaintance in the Rose Order, that thousands have been taken and kept to gather information and serve as bargaining tools.
"I've heard from some survivors that made their way into the camp. They told of how those that surrendered or abandoned were subdued with utmost brutality then loading them into the belly of these… self-moving wagons. But that was earlier in the conflict, their wagons have now left and the barbarians are no longer taking prisoners from their attacks. They're killing everything in their path."
This is bad. The fear knotting his stomach tightened. The foe they are fighting are truly different this time, lacking the valour and honour of the Japanese.
His musings were interrupted when the horns were blown. Everyone in the medical tent froze, for It meant only one thing.
"They have reached us." He muttered, just before distant thunder broke out and the screams that followed.
–TWG–
1:45 PM
Sure enough, the walls were completely surrounded. A tense standoff arose between the forces of two worlds; one to conquer and the other to punish. Yet… no shot was being fired, to the confusion of both sides who assumed an immediate engagement. Instead, a heavy and uneasy quietude.
But it was the Saderans who were feeling a significant pressure. Between them and the Oceanians were a field of corpses, each one killed in a fashion of unrestrained brutality. They were witness to a scene of tantamount butchery and a display of power, for those were the corpses of legionaries forsaken by the Legati to continue fighting. Carnage, beginning immediately when the enemy appeared; their first line of defence, one that was swept aside in a matter of seconds.
They kept their bows drawn, ready to release their volley at a moment's notice. The Oceanians likewise did the same, their fingers remaining in the trigger.
But the Oceanians weren't the only problem of the Saderans. Unrest had taken hold behind the walls at the proximity of the enemy; the citizens of the Empire support war, but they only know of war in the safe confines of their homes and behind the stalwart ranks of their brave men. They know not the feeling of the enemy being so close, nor that they were more powerful than their legions. And so, panic consumed the camp followers.
Those inside had to placate the rioting citizenry, as many were already making their way into the War Camp's centre and away from the walls. A task nigh-impossible to do, as the camp was in complete chaos.
The conscripted camp followers, in the middle of training when the horns sounded, were immediately muster. They were no soldiers, yet given a spare blade, shield and armour to fight. They never wanted this fate, yet merciless commissars coerced them. Boys and old men unsuited for war, lacking the strength and fortitude of an adequate warrior in mind and body. Peasants who had only worked the fields, servants who only cleaned dishes, and traders whose craft only involved currency.
In this chaotic situation, only a scant few onlookers noticed how they were formed into separate formations and placed before the actual legionaries.
They have been armed, but never intended to be fighters. Shields. Human shields to absorb the enemy's attack.
It seemed that not even the conscripts themselves noticed. Too overtaken by dread to realise their predicament.
"All units have arrived. We are now ready to press on." Isak reported. The commanders regarded the haptic displays of the camp, showing the situation behind the walls.
Armend smiled, teeth bared at the chaos within the camp shown by the overhead drones. It was always amusing to see discord taking hold for practical and personal reasons. For one, the enemy is disorganised and will be more predictable, their resolve and will crumbling. Another, dread and panic were pleasing sights. It was plastered openly in their faces, even those that hid it he could see from their bodies.
The overall situation was an example of the cyclical nature of history, as the old aphorism "history repeats itself" says. Hundreds of years ago, Attila the Hun had rampaged across the Roman Empire and had even reached the northern regions of their Italian heartland. All that prevented him from sacking Rome was the efforts of one man: Pope Leo I. By means forever lost in the sands of time, the clergyman convinced the Scourge of God to turn back and leave Rome alone.
This one was a smaller comparison. Romans invaded out of expansionism, barbarians – them – forced them back and surrounds their heartland. Only this time, Armend doubted they have their own Pope Leo the First or anything similar to convince him to turn back, even if they do then the cleric will find him unreasonable. He will secure Ground Zero, even if he must enact another massacre within the former Imperial residence similar to the one he did two decades ago.
He had contemplated calling a squadron to cleanse the entire area barring Ground Zero. It would make things easier and their advance wouldn't be stifled by the desperate resistance of the Romans. Though pragmatic, he eschewed the idea for the traditional solution; namely, brute force. The air units have done their part in this operation, and the rest was the army's to complete.
And so, he ended the tense quietude with a single command.
"Fire."
The Hell's Gate's cannon – gargantuan by the standards of its brethren – fired in a deafening roar and both the gate – scratched and pounded countless times by the forsaken legionaries that lay dead at the base – and the gatehouse – mounted by faltering archers – were obliterated, sending rubble, wood and men crashing deep into the camp.
A testament of its power was that it sent a shockwave coursing throughout the area, sending people to the ground and causing ears to hurt.
Every Oceanian followed suit and depressed their respective triggers, capitalising on the shell-shock induced by the Hell's Gate's main armament. The other nine gates were blasted by tank fire while the infantry made quick work on the archers stationed on the walls, at least those that remained standing or were using said walls as support when the shockwave happened.
The Oceanians entered unopposed, armoured vehicles were at the forefront while troopers screened their flanks. All forces dispersed to secure the area. The Saderans inside tried to muster a defence and repel the barbarians that breached their camp, but were slaughtered in the first seconds of their attempt. The Oceanians were methodical, there was no mad scramble to secure the area. They scrutinised every tent before tearing it and subdued whoever they could find with force before rounding them up, those that resisted were shot.
Parameters have been reverted to take prisoners and any resistance will be dealt with utmost lethality. Orders were to subdue anyone regardless of apparent value, those that resist were to be terminated.
The contingent led by the Hell's Gate did no such thing. Instead they raced towards Ground Zero, to capture it.
–TWG–
1:55 PM
The crowd around the Gate grew larger and larger from the arriving camp followers. With the enemy bearing down on the camp, the civilians were scrambling to escape back into Falmart. They didn't want this, coerced upon this terra incognita and they certainly do not want to be taken prisoner by these barbarians.
Predictively, the heart of the camp was anything but tranquil, it was a different level of chaotic; any indication that a battle was taking place was drowned by the clamour of the camp followers, seeking salvation through the Gate had it not been for the Oprichnina between them.
The cleaners have established a perimeter, their numbers worth a century if he could guess. These men eschewed the standard gear of the Oprichnina in favour of the heavy shields and armour used by legionaries, just repainted to show its association with the Oprichnina. With their shields, they formed a wall around the Gate. The Legatus Augusti's order still stands: no one leaves. They were stone-faced to the anger and desperation of the crowd before them, unmoved by the arguments of men, pleas of women nor the cries of children.
There have already been several instances of people trying to force their way through, but were cut down for their attempts. This measure served as an effective deterrence, but failed to quell the crowd regardless.
Moving through the mass of panicked individuals was Pullus, his eyes directed towards the line of Oprichnina. He was going to reason with them, vain but he was out of options. Aemilius insisted that he accompany him, but he declined. He was going to do this alone.
He approached the seniormost Oprichnina, who scowled at his presence like he was an unwelcome visitor. "Get back, Legatus Pullus! That's an order!"
"On my ass!" He retorted, his patience for the cleaners lost. "You have to let the people in, this isn't a safe place for them! It's only a matter of time before the enemy reaches us here."
"Then let them come, our legionaries will face them in a glorious battle. We still have a significant number of men held in reserve, and the barbarians will be crushed by our fortitude and might."
"Even if that's the case, the lives of the camp followers will be imperilled."
"If they want to live, they must take a sword and fight instead of clamouring here and being a burden."
"You are talking about conscripting men, women and children who are incapable of such things. Not all of them can be conscripted, they must escape while they still can! Now!"
"No one gets through!" The Oprichnina stressed. "We will uphold that order until this conquest has triumph-"
"THE CONQUEST IS LOST, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!" Pullus has had it, letting his anger unleashed. "Many times we've tried to repulse the enemy, yet we failed to halt their advance and now they've broken through our stronghold. There's no glory here, we never conquered this land, this is Japan all over again thanks to the godsdamned fools leading us. We gained nothing but bring the wrath of another titan upon our people, one that is vicious unlike the JSDF! If reason still lingers in that-that hubris-ridden... head of yours." He dared jabbed his finger into the forehead of the Oprichnina, who was abashed by it. "You shall let them pass, or I will kill you!" To prove his point, he unsheathed his sword.
Instead of being cowed, a shield bash threw Pullus on the ground. "You dare threaten the Oprichnina, chosen by His Majesty to carry out his will?!" He moved forward and towered over the fallen veteran, and Pullus considerate side just realised what he had done. The crowd became momentarily silent as they backed away from Pullus, not wanting to get caught in what was going to happen. "Legatus Pullus Valerii, you have assaulted a member of His Majesty's Committee for Protecting and Restoring the Primacy and Authority of the Emperor and shall be punished accordingly." The Oprichnina raised his blade to strike down Pullus…
Had he not exploded into gore.
The grisly display caused a cascade of horrified screams while the Oprichnina tried to make sense of what just transpired before they too began to suffer the same fate.
Their answer came in the form of seven towering figures that dropped at the very front of the Gate and immediately began butchering the present Oprichnina.
Pullus was stunned at the grisly scene before the perpetrators arrived; seven towering figures dropped behind the Oprichnina, before the Gate's entrance where they continued to butcher them with their weapons. He shook himself out of the stupor and ran to get back to the medical tent. He pushed through the camp followers who were running away from the towering giants as they preoccupied themselves with the Oprichnina. The cleaners were no match for their weapons, and they fell in droves.
Only one of their numbers didn't attack. Instead it turned and experimentally sprouted fire on the Gate, to see if anyone was coming and attack their perimeter from the rear.
The camp followers scattered, only to turn back when the barbarians appeared on the periphery of the area. While not being killed outright, they often unleashed their weapons on unarmed men, women and children to impel their return. Some stopped and fell on their knees to beg, but were answered lethally.
This lasted until everyone was herded together in one area, and they could do nothing but huddled together in fear. An uneasy silence blanketed the area as the barbarians kept their vigil on his people, soulless gaze and black staffs pointed at them with understandable gestures; try anything, you die.
The same cannot be said elsewhere. Faint thunder and screams rang throughout the camp, getting weaker by each second. They prioritised capturing the Gate to stem the possibility of reinforcements and any of them escaping.
The tide had been too strong for Pullus to move. Instead of reuniting with Aemillius and Cara, he stood between his terrified people and the enemy. legionaries were intermixed with the crowd like spots of oil upon a body of water, distressed yet bore their shields to protect those behind them. Futile given the power of their weapons, but valiant nonetheless.
He moved his gaze from the line of soldiers, and into the contraption facing the Gate. He recognised some similarities to that of the wagons used by the JSDF, namely the so-called threads and the large 'snout' at the centre. But it all ended there, this thing eclipsed the Japanese's in terms of size. What's more were the plethora of weaponry mounted upon its frame, all which were pointed at them.
"Unhand me, you filthy barbarians!"
Pullus scowled. Atop the stone keep nearby, the barbarians dragging down the Legatus Augusti and his cronies. He found solace at the rough manhandling of the idiots responsible for this debacle, yet he hid it beneath his facade in case they saw him.
"UNHAND ME!" He repeated, spittle flying from his mouth. One of his handlers had enough and slammed his staff on his belly, causing his knees to weaken and his mouth to heave.
Some of the Legati were aghast at such treatment and made their opinion known. "How dare you!? Do you know who he is and who we are?!" The Legatus of Legio Xaric seethed. He was making every attempt to struggle against the hold of his captors and began his ramble. "We are from noble houses of the Empire, and we shall see to it that you and your people will pay dearly for this disrespect! I shall personally see the subjugation of your lands and the enslavement of your peop-"
A bang. His ramble ended abruptly into agonised wailing, one of his escorts drew a wand from the waist and used it to explode most of his upper jaw. The proud Legatus fell down on his knees clutching his ravaged face, screeching while the barbarians laughed at his agony. One of them kicked him down the slope and into the ground.
Pullus felt his blood run cold just like the formerly prideful Legati. Gone were their arrogance and sense of indignation, replaced by terror at what was done to their peer. The maimed Legatus was the centre of attention, as he was picked up by one of the giants guarding the Gate before the crowd, right in front of him to be exact.
As he was being carried, there was a development in the background. The remaining giants guarding the Gate parted to the sides and left the entrance's path clear. Pullus watched as dozens of the barbarians' infamous four-legged iron beasts galloped through, interspersed with lithe black humanoid figures – their nonhuman nature plain to see – that he'd never heard of, running at a speed that outpaced the beasts.
No doubt to clear and secure the camp for the barbarians' later use.
The maimed Legatus was dropped into the ground and laid there, the pain too intense for him to pay heed at the unwanted attention and pity. The nobleman was clutching his profusely-bleeding face, crying and wailing like a child in a manner unbefitting to a man of his status.
A small group of barbarians converged upon his fetal form with their weapons aimed, two independent capes billowing from their backs, and opened fire. Pullus remained petrified as they all witnessed the high and mighty Legatus literally torn to pieces by otherworldly weaponry; a grisly death. The intensity was such that specks of blood splattered on his face. Nothing recognisable was left after they ceased, just a red splatter of flesh and bone.
The despair was thick and palpable. Camp followers were comforting one another with hollow words and lucid dreams while the legionaries were at a loss of what to do and fearful of what lies ahead of them under the heel of the barbarians, some were even audibly hoping that the JSDF will come and rescue them. After all, didn't they possess the same mysterious arsenal of these barbarians?
Pullus hoped as well. No matter how much he desired, this was out of his control. The Gate has been usurped, and his people left at the mercy of the usurpers.
And so, he could do nothing but watch as their beasts continue charging through the Gate.
It's widely agreed that everyone's the mere idea of fighting Armend Ziegler is terrifying, but that's nothing compared to being taken captive. Don't get me wrong. No one wants a horrible death, but it's better than that monster's hospitality. Your corpse could be hacked to pieces, crushed or something worse, but at least you're not confined to some asylum as a mindbroken loony. He knows how to break you and make you wish for death.
Do not let his soldiers take you alive. EVER! That's the first rule in any engagement against him.
– An unknown Oceanian Trooper.
AN: That's it for this chapter, people. I'm certain this has left you with a lot more questions than answers given that this wasn't within your expectations, this is a Wolfenstein AU of my own design after all. For that reason, this story is my first attempt at worldbuilding so excuse any flaws those experienced will notice and point them out so I can correct them as soon as possible. Not everyone starts a pro, after all, it takes practice.
Despite the changes, this is STILL Wolfenstein. The setting is just different. The Nazis are still around and so are the characters we love so much in the games. If you're disappointed by the turn of events and want to leave, that's your decision. All I'm asking is try to give this story a chance.
I've taken a lot of influences throughout worldbuilding, and you can tell from this chapter that 1984 is one of them; we have two superstates in a perpetual state of war for global supremacy. Just think of TWG as a more sci-fi version of Orwell's work.
Lastly, this chapter officially introduces the story's villain protagonist Armend Ziegler, the Warden-General in charge of the hellhole Japan has become. I'm looking forward to writing more about this guy, because things are going to be dark here. The following chapter will contain more information on him, and none of those is good.
