Manhaven Second Assault Army, Ashmoore

Marcus eyed Sinne as his silhouette slowly shrunk into the distance. He was concerned by Sinne's abrupt change in behavior; Sinne was usually not one to cower from a fight. Despite his nasty personality, he was still a brilliant tactician. Naturally, Marcus became worried about the United States of America. Due to the absurdity of the reports regarding their Navy's surrender, he had doubts. However, as time progressed, clues surfaced — evidence pointing to the validity of these rumors. Not a single ship or transmission from their great fleet returned, nor did any of their forward scouting elements return.

While he was strategizing, one of his assistants walked up to him. "My lord, the Mallowvinians are marching here. We could not ascertain exactly when they departed due to the loss of our scouts, but they are currently maintaining a position five kilometers from Ashmoore's walls."

General Marcus raised his eyebrow. "And the Americans?"

"We have not discovered any of their strangely uniformed men, nor their vehicles."

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. "Well then," he said smiling. "Let us meet the Mallowvinians on the battlefield. What have they brought?"

"Their army consists of ten groups of 300. 3,000 men total, with 24 wyverns."

"Ha! That's laughably small. They've had one victory with the help of their allies, and now they have grown overly confident. I pity the men who have to follow such an idiotic commander."

Marcus walked back to the manor to inform his subordinates. Using a manacomm, he relayed his orders to the entire stationed garrison of 10,000 men. They were to assemble outside the city walls and wait for their own wyverns to strike the Mallowvinians. With a mage bombardment and volley of arrows to follow, the Mallowvinian's numbers would be hopelessly thinned. In doing so, he could turn his advantage in numbers into an overwhelming, unscalable cliff; this could reduce the chances of his army suffering casualties from magic-proficient elves and other physically strong demihumans.

With the order given, he ventured out to survey his troops. The opposing army still maintained their position, unmoving. With an army as vast and well-trained as his own, he wondered if the enemy was having second thoughts about their assault. Of course, he'd rather crush this army so he wouldn't have to deal with it when assaulting Addenhold, but if they were to retreat, that would signify a great victory with regards to morale.

From the manacomm, he was informed that his wyvern knights were ready to strike, and he gave the order to commence the operation. Simultaneously, his men marched forward, intending to reach firing range for their spells and arrows by the time the Manhaven wyverns completed their attack run. Then, he saw trails of smoke in the distance — the same trails of smoke described by all the fallen Manhavens throughout the past few weeks. His blood ran cold as he watched the trials move toward the sun, where his wyverns were positioning for a strike.

He put his hand up to his eyes, squinting to maintain visibility of the light arrows, which curved to follow his wyvern knights. Their evasive maneuvers were helpless; the manacomm became saturated with the panicked screams of the dying. Blasts echoed one after another as the light arrows found their targets, reducing the pride of the Manhaven military to mere chunks of burnt flesh and shards of destroyed armor. His troops heard the explosions as well and glanced upward. Marcus sighed deeply; he could sense the morale of his men plummet, wondering what had happened to their aerial support.

While Marcus wallowed in regret, desperately trying to salvage the operation, he noticed several dots appear in the distance. Accompanied by a rumbling sound, the behemoths eventually came into view and struck a neuron. He realized their identity: these were the same harbingers of death that felled the Second Lords Division. He felt a sharp pain in his heart as he recognized that he was in fact the idiotic commander. The Mallowvinian army was used as bait, to lure out his army and goading him into thinking that it would be an easy victory.

He quickly yelled into his manacomm, "Scatter! Scatter! Don't clump up!"

His troops obeyed his orders, but he had underestimated the speed of the flying behemoths. They were already upon his forces. "How could something so large fly so fast…?" He hopelessly asked.

The bellies of the beasts opened up, revealing their instruments of death. Marcus sunk to his knees and felt the wet grass press against him as he fought back tears. "No…" Despite his disbelief, he couldn't help but watch the bombs fall down like rain during a heavy storm. With thunder that even a heavy storm couldn't surpass, the bombs split apart into thousands of gnat-like submunitions and ignited. A cascade of light erupted from the position of his army, engulfing nearly everyone. A few who had heeded his commands early managed to survive, but not enough to make a difference.

Horns echoed, signaling the commencement of the Mallowvinian assault. They marched around the smoldering craters, ignoring the dying men. They approached the walls of Ashmoore and one person stepped forward: a man with a pointy face dressed in elegant armor.

"I am General Nou of the Mallowvine Judgement Force! Surrender now, or perish!"

His eyes red and watery from the horrific massacre, Marcus felt utterly defeated. No, he was utterly defeated, and nearly his entire army was wiped out. Seeing no other options, he gave the order to surrender.

—

Grissmond

Four men sat around a table, discussing the news of General Marcus's surrender. The information, relayed via manacomm, came as a grave shock. The Americans allowed Marcus to submit a report of his surrender and the circumstances that brought it about.

"The enemy used the same attack twice, and annihilated both of the armies we assembled?" A blonde, bearded man adorned in armor asked. "This certainly cannot be possible!"

General Riskton shook his head. "The report came from Marcus himself, one of the Three Great Generals. General Rathan, surely you at least have trust in your comrade?"

"You make a fine point, however: what if he was forced to say such things? Marcus is an excellent tactician, but not a trained spy who can stay resilient with a blade at his neck. Hmm, what happened to Sinne?"

"I believe he fell back. He departed to ask us for reinforcements directly, but it appears that he left too late. The enemy attacked right after he left."

"Hmm, lucky him. If there is one man I'd trust with regards to authentic battle reports, it would most likely be Sinne." Rathan rubbed his beard.

A short, balding man spoke up. "I might not be the most knowledgeable in military affairs, but even I can see that our reckless disregard of the information at hand has led us to lose three major forces already. First, the Great Fleet: we did not take time to research the Americans and charged at them despite the overwhelming technological disparity. Second, the Second Lords Division: while we did not inform them of the fleet's surrender, they themselves experienced American firepower first hand when they lost their scouts. Third, the Second Assault Army: despite knowledge of the enemy's capabilities, they still engaged in combat."

"Well, Lord Prusnam, that does make sense." Rathan nodded in agreement. "Yes, we should tread with caution now and assume that these absurd reports are true, lest we lose more men to ignorance."

Riskton said, "Let us then analyze these absurd reports… Lord Prusnam, what kind of weapons did the Americans employ?"

"Each major defeat included the use of a weapon that our men have described as 'light arrows' or 'homing light arrows'. Fired from their iron dragons and iron warships, these weapons are primarily used against our wyvern knights, following them at unimaginable speeds before making contact and exploding."

The wizard among them, Holdall, raised his eyebrows. "What else?"

"Their warships boasted a cannon, much like the Allatians', except this single cannon could fire rapidly and accurately. Finally, the attack employed by their behemoth iron dragons was a bombing run. We've tossed around the idea of throwing bombs from wyverns, but decided against it due to the weight capacity of wyverns and the effectiveness of their fireballs, which completely negate the need for bombs. It seems that these Americans, having no wyverns in their arsenal, went a different route."

General Riskton hummed, deep in thought. "Holdall, what do you think?" He turned to look at Holdall, who was wide-eyed in severe shock. "Holdall? What's wrong?"

"Homing light arrows, magical cannons, raining bombs… No! It can't possibly be—!"

"Holdall? What is it?" Prusnam asked, worried.

"The United States of America must be the Banished Empire of old! The Vexomir Empire!"

"Good heavens, no!" Rathan recoiled in fear.

"Wait," Prusnam interrupted. "If they truly are the Vexomir Empire, why bother engaging in diplomacy in the first place? The legends depicted them as brutal overlords, masters of the slave races, which consisted of all other races but themselves. Furthermore, the legend said that when they return, darkness will envelop the skies for a brief moment."

"Hmm… yes, you do have a point about diplomacy. Their envoys did seem rather polite. And the skies… there was an incredible storm to the east, but I know of no darkness that occurred. I apologize, perhaps I was out of line with this hasty assumption."

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Then, a voice called out from the hallway. "Pardon me for interrupting, but I used to be a scholar before I found my passion for cooking."

"Ah, Head Chef Wileman!" General Riskton immediately recognized the man. "That all makes sense now; you sound quite sophisticated for merely a chef!"

"My lords," he bowed. "I was able to catch some of your conversation as I was walking by, and I must pose a consideration. The Vexomir Empire was a transferred nation. The United States of America claims to be a transferred nation as well. Both employ iron dragons, iron warships, and homing light arrows. Therefore, would it be safe to say that their power levels are similar?"

"Hmm, yes that is a quaint observation," Rathan said. "But that doesn't explain why we cannot detect their magic."

Holdall picked up on this, suggesting, "What if their magical power levels are so great that they cannot register on our detectors?!"

The four men muttered in agreement, realizing that at the very least, the United States had a level of power comparable to the feared legend of old. While they talked, Wileman excused himself. "Y'all have a nice day. I've got to go get some ingredients for the meals tonight."

The four men waved him goodbye. "Strange fellow, isn't he? I've not heard many people say 'Y'all'. Come to think of it, I haven't heard anyone say that word," Prusnam said.

"Well, he did tell me he was from a remote island south of Kombali. Bunch of barbarians down there, so it wouldn't surprise me if he uses barbarian terminology," Riskton said. "Anyway, how are we going to give this news to His Highness?"

Holdall shuddered. "Either way, he will not like it. Perhaps if I emphasize their magical prowess, we may yet be able to avoid catastrophe."

—

The four men knelt before their king, none uttering a word.

"So," King Manhaven said, his voice echoing throughout his throne room. "What news do you bring?"

The four men looked at each other, silently beckoning the others to go first. Eventually, Riskton decided to take the initiative, unwilling to allow the awkward silence to continue. "Your Highness… we received an update from General Marcus regarding the Second Assault Army."

King Manhaven smiled. "Ah, so we have finally taken Addenhold, I assume?"

Riskton bowed down further to hide his face. "Your Highness… The Ashmoore garrison was wiped out. The Second Assault Army divisions stationed there suffered over 90% casualties."

The atmosphere in the room simmered as King Manhaven radiated silent anger. "How?"

Riskton looked over to Holdall, signaling him to elaborate. The old wizard began, "Your Highness, we face a transferred nation just like… the Vexomir Empire!"

"Hmm…" King Manhaven stared down at Holdall, who was visibly terrified. "If we were truly fighting the Vexomir Empire, we would not have had the opportunity to even surrender."

"I meant we are fighting a force like—"

King Manhaven cut him off, preventing Holdall from giving a vital explanation. "Rathan, why have we lost our position in Ashmoore?"

"Your Majesty, it is because Marcus was unable to receive reinforcements. He only had access to about ten thousand men; a hundred thousand should have been on site for preparation to push further into Mallowvinian territory."

"Ten thousand? What is the rest of the army doing?!"

"Your Majesty, the army has received numerous setbacks. Many of the lords within our army are refraining from sending their troops."

This time, it was Prusnam' turn to feel the heat. King Manhaven glared at the frail man. "Prusnam… have you not conveyed my will to the lords?!"

"Your— Your Highness, please forgive me! I have conveyed your will, but none wish to—"

"No matter! Let them know that if they do not meet expectations, they will earn my ire! I will personally strip them of their titles if this continues any longer!"

"I shall let them know, Your Highness," Prusnam replied meekly.

"Now go. The next time I receive news from you lot, it better be good."