Chapter 12: Springtime of Hostility
The thirteenth outbreak of Pestis Immortui , the deadliest plagues to sweep the land of Falmart, ranked among the 5 worst catastrophes to ever blight the realm. It was a perfect storm—an inevitability fueled by the squalid conditions within the Grand Army's camp, where too many men crammed into too little space, with food supplies dwindling and water fouled by the crush of humanity. The logistics of war, already strained to their breaking point, had collapsed, and the plague capitalized on this weakness like a patient predator, slipping into the cracks left by hunger and desperation.
Unlike the plagues of the past, this one carried with it a horrifying twist: it didn't just kill. It resurrected the dead. Those infected by the disease would die fevered, bloodied, and delirious, but that was not the end. Their bodies would rise again—soulless, ravenous creatures driven by nothing but the primal urge to spread death further. The undead showed no mercy, no hesitation. They attacked their comrades without recognition or reason, turning the camp into a living nightmare.
Maximillianus, Generalissimus of the Imperial forces, stood at the edge of his command tent, his gaze grim and hollow as he looked out over the once-thriving encampment. Now, what had been a symbol of the Empire's unstoppable might—a fortress of military precision and organization—was nothing more than a charnel house. The campfires that dotted the horizon in the distance no longer inspired confidence. Instead, they flickered like dying stars in a fading sky, each one representing a regiment of men who, more than anything, feared not the enemy across the Gates, but the unseen killer lurking among them.
Despair had settled over the camp like a dense fog, suffocating hope, and it was a feeling that Maximillianus knew all too well. It had been his unwelcome companion since the outbreak began. The soldiers under his command were warriors, but they were not equipped to fight an enemy like this. They were armed with swords and spears, but no amount of steel could cut down a sickness that spread through the very air they breathed. First, it had been one hundred infected men, then one thousand, and now the numbers were impossible to control. Over ten thousand soldiers lay fevered and coughing blood in makeshift sick tents, their bodies wasting away as the pestilence ravaged their ranks.
The familiar sounds of camp life—the clinking of armor, the laughter of men around fires, the lively chatter of soldiers preparing for battle—had been replaced by the eerie quiet of the dying and the sick. Worse still, the groans of the plague-stricken had given way to the far more terrifying moans of the undead, rising from the dead in a mockery of life.
The logistics that had once kept the Grand Army fed and supplied had collapsed, and Caesar had acted quickly to prevent even greater disaster. The war beasts—mighty drakes, massive war elephants, and other monstrous creatures that had once been the pride of the Imperial war machine—were sent back to Falmart. They were too costly to maintain in the midst of famine and disease, and too dangerous to be left in a camp where their handlers might succumb to the plague at any moment. But even that sacrifice had not been enough to ease the strain. Hunger and sickness competed for lives, and death was the only victor.
Faced with the rapid spread of the plague, Maximillianus had made the only decision he could. He issued new orders, brutal though they were. "Build new camps five miles back from the Gates," he had commanded his engineers. "We will isolate the sick there, and the mage medical corps will do what they can to treat them." It was a cruel necessity, and one that pained him deeply, but there was no other option. The officers were instructed that any man who showed symptoms was to be sent to the new camps immediately, along with anyone who had been in contact with the infected. No exceptions, no leniency. The sick and the dying would be quarantined, far from the main army, to prevent further spread of the disease.
Those already near death—the men whose bodies had been twisted beyond recognition by the plague—were to be burned alongside the undead, their ashes scattered in the wind, far from the siege lines. No pyres could be built close to the camp, for fear that the smoke would carry the contagion back among the healthy.
Maximillianus had given the orders, but each command had weighed heavily on him. He knew these men. He had fought beside them, shared meals with them, laughed with them around campfires. To send them to die in isolation, or to consign their bodies to the flames, felt like a betrayal. But it was a necessary evil. The plague could not be allowed to spread further. The very survival of the Empire depended on it.
The Grand Army, once the pride of Falmart, had been reduced to a hollow shell of its former self. What had once been a force of a million, prepared to march across the Gates and seize new lands, was now little more than a mass of walking dead. The undead were everywhere, their numbers swelling with each passing day as more soldiers succumbed to the pestilence and rose again as mindless husks.
Maximillianus found himself praying more often in those dark days. He was not a religious man by nature. Like most soldiers, he had believed in the gods to some extent, using faith as a balm to ease the fear of death. But the gods had always been distant figures in his mind, abstract and indifferent. To him, the only things that mattered in war were a strong shield in one hand and a good sword in the other. The gods had their place, but they didn't concern themselves with the day-to-day struggles of mortal men.
The Pestis Immortui had changed that. No amount of steel or strategy could stop this enemy, and so Maximillianus had turned to prayer, seeking guidance from powers greater than himself. He prayed to Ral, goddess of learning, and to her brother Elange, god of knowledge, hoping that they might grant him the wisdom to find a way to stop the plague. He prayed to Hardy, goddess of the underworld, for mercy on the souls of the dead, and to Emroy, god of death and war, for the survival of his men. He prayed to Rory, goddess of victory, begging her to let them win against the undead horde that had consumed so many of their comrades. And finally, he prayed to Mabel, goddess of hope, for even the smallest glimmer of light in this darkness.
Weeks turned into months. The plague spread faster than any messenger could carry word, and the undead continued to rise. By the end of the first month, fifteen thousand soldiers were dead, claimed by the Pestis Immortui and the undead it left in its wake. The pyres burned day and night, their acrid smoke filling the air as bodies were consumed by the flames. The priests and priestesses of Hardy and Emroy worked tirelessly, slaying the undead and tending to the dying, but even their divine magic could only do so much.
Maximillianus did everything in his power to maintain control, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands. Every day, more men fell ill. The engineers, under constant pressure, expanded the sick camps until they sprawled across the landscape like a second city of suffering. But it was never enough. There weren't enough mage medics in the entire army to care for the infected, and so the battle mage corps, usually reserved for combat, was called in to assist. These mages, more accustomed to casting fireballs and lightning bolts than healing spells, did what they could, but their efforts were woefully inadequate.
The sight of the undead—once his own soldiers, now hollow-eyed, shambling horrors—was one that Maximillianus would never grow accustomed to. The way they moved, the vacant, hungry look in their eyes, the sound of their lifeless moans—it was all too much like a nightmare brought to life.
Winter passed, and with it, the Grand Army's strength. By the time the snows began to thaw, one hundred thousand soldiers had been lost to the plague and the undead. But that was just the beginning. Across the Empire, the toll was far worse. Eleven million souls—citizens, soldiers, peasants, and nobility alike—had been claimed by the Pestis Immortui. The fires of the pyres burned hotter and higher than any in living memory, consuming the dead before they could rise again as part of the undead horde. In just seven months, one percent of the Empire's population had been wiped out.
And yet, as the days grew longer and the first signs of spring appeared, the tide finally began to turn. The plague had been brought under control, though the cost had been unimaginable. The sick camps were slowly emptying, and the undead sightings had diminished. The fires of the pyres still burned, but they no longer blazed with the ferocity they once had.
Prince Nero, who had fled the camp early in the outbreak to seek refuge in the capital of Sadera, returned now that the plague was under control. His first order of business was to resume the invasion of the Americas—a campaign that had been delayed by the Pestis Immortui. The Empire demanded expansion, and the war machine could not be halted, not even by a plague of this magnitude.
Maximillianus watched the prince's return with mixed emotions. Relief that the worst was over mingled with a deep unease. They had survived, but at what cost? A hundred thousand dead soldiers, eleven million dead citizens, and an army that was still reeling from the devastation. The Grand Army would march again, but it would never be the same.
As the invasion plans were drawn up once more, Maximillianus couldn't shake the feeling that the Empire had paid too high a price for its ambition. The Pestis Immortui had shown them all how fragile their world truly was—how even the greatest empire could be brought to its knees by a force beyond its control.
And yet, as the sun rose over the plague-ravaged camp, Maximillianus knew that they would march on. They always did.
Frederick – February 13th, 1864
Colonel Garnet Wolseley stood at the edge of the battlefield, the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood heavy in the air. The sun was now fully above the horizon, casting its golden light on the once-green fields that had been transformed into a nightmarish landscape of carnage. Bodies of Saderan soldiers, clad in their impossibly thick plate armor, were strewn about like broken dolls, their gleaming armor now dented, twisted, and covered in blood. The ground beneath them was soaked with crimson, and the Union soldiers moved among the dead and dying, their boots squelching in the mud as they scavenged what they could.
Wolseley had seen many battles in his time—the brutal engagements of the Crimean War were etched into his memory—but this, this was something else. The sheer destruction wrought by the Union's new handheld rifled cannons and artillery was beyond anything he had witnessed before. It wasn't just the devastation; it was the manner of death. Limbs torn from bodies, gaping wounds where organs had once been, and armor shattered like tin under the might of these terrible new weapons. The battlefield looked more like a slaughterhouse than a site of military glory.
He walked slowly through the rows of fallen Saderans, his eyes lingering on their faces. Up close, they didn't look like the demonic invaders he had expected from the rumors circulating in Europe. They looked oddly human, their pale skin reminding him of Germans or Slavs, though their strange, vividly colored hair—blues, greens, and purples—set them apart from any people he had encountered. Their armor was another thing entirely. It was impossibly thick yet these men had marched and fought in it. Wolseley knelt beside a fallen Saderan and tapped the metal with the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowing.
"This must weigh over two hundred kilos," he muttered to himself, incredulous. "How in God's name could anyone fight in these things?"
He stood again, looking out over the battlefield where Brigadier General John E. Smith's Union soldiers moved among the dead, looting the corpses for anything of value. The Union army had become a well-oiled machine of war, but Wolseley noted the hunger in their eyes as they tore rings off fingers, pried open pouches filled with gold coins, and examined strange-looking gemstones embedded in some of the Saderans' armor. They were like scavengers, picking the bones of the fallen, yet Wolseley couldn't blame them. War had a way of turning men into something less than human.
Beside him, Major Lathrop barked orders to a squad of infantrymen who were dragging the bodies into piles, separating the Saderan dead from the few Union casualties. The Saderans' armor was of particular interest. It wasn't just thick—it was valuable. Hundreds of kilograms of steel adorned each corpse, steel that could be repurposed for the Union's war effort.
"General Smith," Wolseley called out as he approached the Union commander, who was standing near one of the artillery pieces, watching his men work. "You're stripping them of their armor?"
Smith turned to face Wolseley, his face hard but triumphant. "We are. These bastards are walking around with more steel on their backs than we could get from a dozen foundries in a month. I figure three of them could provide enough material to make a new 15-pounder cannon."
Wolseley couldn't argue with that. The Union was desperate for resources. The Civil War had already strained their industry to the breaking point, and every pound of steel, every nugget of gold, was worth its weight in lives.
"These helmets alone," Smith mused, picking one up from the ground, "damn near weigh as much as a full set of our own gear. Strip a few thousand of these corpses, and we'll have enough material to equip an entire regiment."
Wolseley nodded, his gaze returning to the field of dead. "They're... strange," he said, his voice contemplative. "Not quite what I expected. They don't look like demons, despite the stories. Their skin's pale as any European, though their hair—" He gestured toward a nearby corpse with a mane of bright purple hair. "I've never seen anything like it."
Smith grunted. "Demons or not, they're dead all the same. And good riddance. This victory will send a message to their emperor that we're not to be trifled with."
As they spoke, a sudden, guttural cry pierced the air, cutting through the low murmur of the battlefield. Wolseley and Smith both turned toward the sound just in time to see one of the Union soldiers stumble backward, his face contorted in shock. A corpse—one of the Saderan soldiers with a massive, gaping wound in his chest—was lurching toward the living, its movements unnatural and jerky. Its eyes, wide and glassy, were filled with a savage hunger, and it lunged at the soldier, its teeth sinking into his exposed neck.
"Christ!" Smith shouted, drawing his revolver as the men around the scene reacted with equal horror. "Shoot it! Shoot it now!"
The surrounding soldiers hesitated for only a moment before raising their rifles. A volley of gunfire rang out, and the Saderan's head snapped back as a bullet tore through his skull, spraying blood and brain matter across the ground. The body collapsed in a heap, twitching for a moment before finally going still.
"What in God's name was that?" Wolseley asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. He had seen the dead rise in stories told around campfires, but never had he expected to witness such a thing in reality.
Smith holstered his revolver, his face pale but composed. "I don't know," he said grimly. "But whatever it was, it's not natural. These... creatures... they may not be human after all."
The Union soldiers, once busy looting and collecting the armor, now stood frozen, eyes wide with fear as they looked around at the sea of bodies, half-expecting more of the dead to rise. Nervous murmurs spread through the ranks, the tension palpable.
"Everyone, stay sharp!" Smith ordered, trying to regain control of the situation. "Keep an eye on the corpses. If any of them move, you put them down immediately."
Wolseley walked closer to the fallen Saderan, the one that had attacked. The hole in its chest was wide enough for a man to fit his fist through, yet somehow it had moved, had risen. It shouldn't have been possible. He prodded the corpse with the tip of his sword, half-expecting it to spring back to life, but it remained still. Blood oozed from the head wound, pooling on the ground beneath it.
"What do you make of it?" Wolseley asked, turning to Smith.
Smith shook his head. "I've seen a lot of strange things in this war, Colonel, but this... this is something else. Could be magic, could be something worse. I don't know."
"Magic," Wolseley muttered, glancing again at the strange, otherworldly battlefield. "If this is what magic can do, then we're fighting more than just men in armor. We're fighting something far beyond our understanding."
Nearby, the soldiers resumed their work, but the atmosphere had changed. What had once been a scene of triumph and scavenging had now become a place of dread. The men moved more cautiously, their eyes constantly scanning the bodies for any sign of movement. One soldier, visibly shaken, approached Wolseley and Smith.
"Sir," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "do you think... do you think more of them could come back? Like that one?"
Smith, ever the pragmatic commander, placed a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. "I don't know, son. But we'll be ready if they do. Keep your wits about you, and don't hesitate to shoot if you see anything strange."
The soldier nodded, though the fear remained in his eyes as he rejoined his comrades.
Wolseley and Smith exchanged a glance. This battle had been a victory, but it was clear that whatever was happening here, whatever these Saderans truly were, the war was far from over. The Union army had new weapons, yes, but they were fighting an enemy that seemed to defy death itself.
As they walked through the battlefield, they saw more signs of the Saderans' wealth. Rings of gold, ornate brooches, and even jeweled crowns lay discarded among the dead. These weren't just soldiers—they were nobility, warriors from a world that seemed more like the medieval kingdoms of Europe's past than the modern era of rifles and artillery.
"These bastards are rich," Smith muttered as he watched his men loot the bodies. "If we weren't fighting for survival, I'd say we've struck a king's ransom here."
Wolseley nodded. "It reminds me of the old dukes and kings of the 15th century. They went to war like this, in full armor, carrying their wealth with them. Makes them easier to kill, but also... well, there's something tragic about it."
"Tragic?" Smith raised an eyebrow. "These sons of bitches invaded us, butchered our people, and burned our towns. I don't see much tragedy in putting them in the ground."
Wolseley chuckled darkly. "Fair enough, General. Fair enough."
As they moved on, the sound of another gunshot rang out, followed by a chorus of shouts. One of the soldiers had shot a corpse, which had appeared to twitch, though upon closer inspection, it had simply been the way the body had settled in the mud. The men were jumpy, their nerves frayed by the earlier incident.
Smith turned to his officers. "We need to finish up here and get the hell out. I want all the armor and weapons stripped from these bastards. Steel is too valuable to leave."
Nero Base– February 25th, 1864
Generalissimus Caesar Avitus Maximillianus stood at the head of a long, polished table within his command tent. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink as maps, charts, and reconnaissance reports lay scattered before him, depicting the eastern seaboard of America. A heavy silence filled the space, punctuated only by the low murmurs of aides-de-camp and officers quietly discussing their various duties. The invasion of the Americas had been delayed for months, first by logistical issues and then by the horrors of the Pestis Immortui plague. But now, with the undead threat under control and the army slowly recovering, the Empire's attention turned once again to the conquest of this new land.
Maximillianus turned to face his senior officers, men of high rank and experience who had fought beside him in countless campaigns across the Saderan Empire. Yet this campaign would be unlike anything they had faced before. The land they aimed to conquer—once a united nation but now fractured by civil war—presented a challenge that would test their military prowess and the might of the Grand Army.
His piercing gaze drifted over the map, focusing on the area labeled United States of America. He couldn't help but scoff inwardly at the notion of a nation breaking apart over something as trivial, to his mind, as slavery.
"What a strange people," he muttered under his breath. "To divide themselves over the fate of slaves. Slavery is a natural part of any empire. But it appears that the Americans value their so-called 'freedom' over common sense. No matter. This division is their weakness, and we will exploit it."
In the Empire, slavery was an accepted institution, though it had waned over the centuries. It was no longer a primary engine of the economy, but rather a tool of punishment and control for rebellious provinces. Slaves, after all, were expensive to maintain, and as Maximillianus had often noted in council meetings, higher education and proper incentives made free laborers far more productive. Still, when a region dared rise against the will of the Emperor, the threat of slavery could swiftly bring it back in line.
"Wyvern reconnaissance scouts," Maximillianus continued, tapping the map, "has shown us the bounty of the southern lands. The Confederates hold fertile soil, vast plantations, and an abundance of natural resources. It is a land ripe for conquest." His eyes briefly flicked to Prince Nero, who stood to the side of the assembly. The young prince had already begun envisioning what the future could hold, his ambitions flickering in his gaze as he imagined the new estates he could claim in this Confederate land.
"Ground scouts report that the Confederates are not as industrialized as their Union counterparts," added one of Maximillianus' advisors. "Their strength lies in their plantations and natural wealth. But their forces lack the strength and discipline of the northern armies."
Maximillianus nodded. "Yes, their military capabilities are less developed. But they will fight fiercely to defend their way of life—one that is similar to our own in many ways. We cannot underestimate their determination."
"Our objective is clear," Maximillianus began, his voice calm but commanding. "We are to subdue the Americas, break their will to resist, and incorporate them into the Empire. But let us not underestimate the challenge that lies before us. These Americans—though divided—possess a formidable industrial base, and while they lack the sophistication of our magical warfare, their technology is advanced. The strategy, therefore, will be one of decisive strikes at their key cities, coupled with naval blockades to cripple their ability to sustain the war effort."
He gestured toward the large map stretched across the table, a detailed rendering of the eastern United States, with key cities like Washington, Richmond, and Baltimore marked in bold ink.
"We will split our forces into three main armies," Maximillianus continued, his finger tracing a path along the map.
"Legatus Calpurnius, you will lead two hundred thousand men to Baltimore," He paused, eyes narrowing as he studied the vast map of the Union territories sprawled across the table. His fingers traced the intricate lines of roads and rivers, lingering on the city of Baltimore, a strategic gem on the Chesapeake Bay. "This city is critical to the Union's supply chain and their overall war effort. It serves as one of their most vital logistical hubs, providing a lifeline to Washington, D.C., and acting as a key link to the Northern states via their railroads and shipping lanes. Its fall will cripple their ability to reinforce Washington and sustain their armies in the field."
He tapped his finger on the map, directly on Baltimore's harbor. "Not only that, but Baltimore's proximity to the sea makes it the ideal location for opening a new dimension gate. Once the city is under our control, our navy can enter their waters, bypass their coastal fortifications, and begin blockading their major ports—Boston, New York, Philadelphia—all within striking distance."
Maximillianus straightened, his posture towering as he addressed Calpurnius directly. "The most direct route to Baltimore begins at Emmitsburg, Maryland, located just south of our current position in Gettysburg. The road ahead will not be easy; you will need to follow the Emmitsburg Road, a key artery running southeast through Maryland's farmland. It's about ten miles from Gettysburg to Emmitsburg, a journey that will take you through hilly terrain and small farming villages. The Union forces are likely to have outposts or patrols in this area, but they are thinly spread due to their commitment to other fronts."
He gestured to a secondary map, showing the full breadth of Maryland's road network in 1864. "From Emmitsburg, you will take the main road southeast toward Westminster, approximately 30 miles northeast of Baltimore. This road, known as the Old Emmitsburg Road, follows the course of the Monocacy River, a vital waterway for the Union's supply lines. Be mindful of the crossings. The Monocacy Junction just outside of Frederick is a critical rail link for the Union, connecting Baltimore to the larger supply network that runs to the north. If you can capture that junction or, at the very least, disrupt it, the Union forces in Baltimore and Washington will be cut off from their northern reinforcements."
The Generalissimus paused, allowing the significance of the logistics to sink in before continuing. "Once you reach Westminster, you will find the crossroads town protected by a small garrison, likely no more than a regiment or two—around 1,000 to 2,000 men at most. This town, while modest in size, is another crucial point for the Union's supply routes. It serves as a relay station between Baltimore and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, via the Western Maryland Railroad. You must take Westminster quickly and decisively to ensure the road remains open for our advancing forces."
Maximillianus pointed at the map once more, his finger tracing the Baltimore-Reisterstown Turnpike. "From Westminster, your army will take the Baltimore-Reisterstown Turnpike, a well-maintained road that will lead you directly into the heart of Baltimore. This road runs through some of the wealthiest farmland in Maryland, but beware—Union forces may attempt to set up defensive positions along this route, especially near the smaller towns of Reisterstown and Owings Mills. Reports suggest there could be militia and hastily organized Union regiments in these towns, potentially adding another 3,000 to 5,000 men to the enemy's strength."
He paused, letting the weight of the operation settle in. "In total, Baltimore is defended by roughly 10,000 men, though this number could increase if they receive reinforcements from Washington or other nearby Union positions. Many of these troops belong to local garrisons and reserves—militia units that lack the discipline and experience of battle-hardened veterans. However, you should not underestimate them. The Baltimore harbor is also guarded by Fort McHenry, the key coastal defense installation that has protected the city since the War of 1812. If we are to open a dimension gate and allow our navy to enter the Chesapeake Bay, you will need to either capture or neutralize this fort. It is heavily fortified and armed with over 100 artillery pieces, many of which are positioned to repel any naval assault."
Maximillianus's eyes darkened as he continued, his tone grave. "Baltimore's importance cannot be overstated. It is the largest city in Maryland and serves as the primary manufacturing center for the Union's war effort. Its factories produce rifles, cannons, and other essential war materiel, while its shipyards construct and maintain vessels for the Union navy. The city's railroads connect it to the Union heartland, and its harbor allows for the constant flow of goods and troops from the Northern states. If we take Baltimore, we will sever one of the Union's main arteries, making it far more difficult for them to defend Washington."
Legatus Calpurnius leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the map, fully grasping the enormity of the task at hand. "Generalissimus, the Union's forces may be thinly spread, but they are entrenched in this region. Once we begin our march, they will surely move to fortify their positions. How do we handle their inevitable reinforcements?"
Maximillianus nodded, acknowledging the concern. "The Union's nearest forces lie in Washington, roughly 35 miles south of Baltimore. They will likely attempt to send reinforcements via the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, which runs through key towns like Relay and Ellicott's Mills. If the Union high command realizes the scale of our invasion, they will likely mobilize every available regiment to defend Baltimore and Washington. But this is where our strategy shifts."
He pointed to Frederick, Maryland, positioned west of Baltimore. "Frederick is a critical hub for Union logistics, connected to both the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad and the Georgetown Pike that leads directly into Washington. My forces will strike Frederick and seize control of the town and the nearby Monocacy Junction. By doing so, we will effectively block any attempt to reinforce Baltimore from the north and cut off Washington's primary supply line. Without those railroads, the Union will struggle to move men and materiel between their cities."
Maximillianus then shifted his attention to another legatus, Lucius Domitius, a grizzled veteran with a reputation for brutal efficiency. "Legatus Domitius," he began, his voice commanding, "you will lead three hundred thousand men south, to Richmond. The capture of Richmond is critical to the collapse of the Confederacy. This city is not only their capital but also their industrial heart. Their entire war machine depends on it. To strike Richmond is to strike the very heart of the South."
Maximillianus turned back to the large map of the American South, pointing to key locations along the route Domitius's forces would take. "You will march from our current position near Gettysburg, heading southwest toward Hagerstown, Maryland, via the Monterey Pass. The pass itself is treacherous terrain, but it is well-suited for our legions. From Hagerstown, you will follow the Valley Turnpike, a road used extensively by the Confederate armies."
Domitius's eyes flickered with understanding. The Valley Turnpike, also known as the Great Wagon Road, was a historic thoroughfare that stretched through the Shenandoah Valley. During the Confederate campaigns, this road had been of vital importance, providing a defensible corridor along the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Alleghenies.
Maximillianus continued, his finger tracing the path down the map. "This route runs through West Virginia and hugs the Blue Ridge Mountains, giving your army natural protection against potential flanking maneuvers. The Shenandoah Valley is rich farmland. The Confederates have called it the 'Breadbasket of the Confederacy,' providing them with much-needed food and supplies. Your forces will be able to live off the land, resupplying as needed while you push south."
Maximillianus gestured to Staunton, a town at the southern end of the Shenandoah Valley. "Once you reach Staunton, you will find the Virginia Central Railroad, a critical artery that connects the Shenandoah Valley directly to Richmond. This railroad, while modest, is of immense strategic importance to the Confederacy. It allows them to move troops and supplies from the valley directly into the heart of their capital. If you take control of Staunton, you will have two options: either follow the Virginia Central Railroad southeast toward Richmond or continue along the Old Stage Road. Both routes will lead you straight to Richmond."
Domitius leaned in, eyeing the map closely. "And what of Confederate resistance in the area, Generalissimus? How many men do they have defending Richmond and the Valley?"
Maximillianus straightened, his face set with a look of grim determination. "Richmond is defended by approximately 60,000 to 80,000 Confederate troops, but they are stretched thin. Many of their veteran soldiers have been killed or wounded in battles across the South, and their ranks have been filled with conscripts, old men, and young boys. The Confederacy is on its last legs, but do not underestimate their resolve. These men are fighting for their homes, and they will defend Richmond with everything they have."
He paused, then added, "Additionally, Richmond is home to the Tredegar Iron Works, one of the largest producers of artillery and munitions in the Confederacy. Capturing or destroying it will cripple their ability to manufacture the arms and ammunition they need to continue the war. The city's fall will also have a devastating psychological impact. With the capital in our hands, the South's leadership will have no choice but to flee or surrender."
Domitius listened carefully, already formulating his approach. "Once we take Staunton, I'll send part of my forces to sever the Virginia Central Railroad. Without their rail lines, the Confederates will be isolated, unable to move reinforcements or supplies to Richmond."
"Precisely," Maximillianus replied, his tone approving. "And as you continue your march toward Richmond, you will find the Old Stage Road provides another viable route. This road has been used for generations, connecting Staunton to Richmond. It's less likely to be heavily guarded. Use it to your advantage, moving quickly to outflank any Confederate defenses."
Domitius's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Richmond is not only the seat of their government but also the symbol of their rebellion. Take the city, and the Confederacy will have no choice but to capitulate. Jefferson Davis and his cabinet will be forced to flee, and without their leadership, the remaining Confederate armies will crumble."
Maximillianus gave a small nod, his eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze to the map once more. "And then there is Washington."
The room fell into a tense silence, every officer present knowing the weight of what the Generalissimus was about to say. Washington, the Union capital, the seat of Abraham Lincoln's government, was more than just a city—it was the heart of the Union cause. Its capture would not only cripple the North's ability to wage war but would also deliver a psychological blow from which it might never recover. Maximillianus understood this better than anyone in the room.
"We all know the importance of this city," Maximillianus said, his voice low but resolute. "Its fall will not only shatter the Union's morale but also break the spirit of their leadership. The people of the North, already weary from years of bloodshed, will lose all faith in their government's ability to protect them. Without Washington, their political center, the Union will collapse like a house of cards."
His finger traced the route his army would take. "I will personally lead three hundred thousand men to take Washington," he declared, his voice unwavering. "We will march south along the Emmitsburg Road, entering Maryland at Emmitsburg. From there, we will press forward to Frederick, a critical junction just 25 miles from here."
Maximillianus's gaze shifted toward Legatus Marcus Calpurnius, who stood near the table, attentively listening. "Frederick is of immense strategic importance," Maximillianus continued, addressing the group but keeping his eyes on the map. "Not only does it sit at the crossroads of major roads leading to Baltimore and Washington, but it is also where we can gain control of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad—one of the most vital supply lines for the Union."
The B&O Railroad, he explained, ran from Baltimore through the fertile Cumberland Valley and was a lifeline for transporting men, supplies, and munitions to the Union forces stationed in Washington. By seizing it, the Saderan forces could starve the capital of reinforcements and provisions. This would also make it impossible for the Union to use the railroad to move troops quickly between Washington and other battlefronts.
"From Frederick," Maximillianus went on, "we will advance south along the Georgetown Pike, a well-used road that cuts through Rockville, Maryland. This route leads directly into Washington. Rockville is about 20 miles from Washington, a key town that will act as our staging ground for the final assault."
Maximillianus paused, allowing his officers to absorb the gravity of the plan. "But Washington will not fall easily. It is one of the most heavily fortified cities on this continent. It is protected by a ring of forts, over sixty in total, each equipped with heavy cannons capable of firing on advancing troops from long distances. The Union has prepared for a siege, knowing that losing Washington could mean losing the war."
His hand swept across the map, circling the positions of the forts. "These fortifications form a nearly impenetrable defense around the capital. The northern and western approaches, especially, are lined with these forts, starting from Fort Reno on the western edge, down through Fort Stevens to the north. These forts are garrisoned by nearly 200,000 Union soldiers, many of whom are battle-hardened veterans from campaigns against the Confederacy. Each fort is armed with heavy artillery capable of unleashing devastating volleys on advancing infantry."
The officers shifted uneasily at the mention of Washington's formidable defenses. Maximillianus noticed their discomfort and raised a hand to reassure them. "Do not be disheartened by these fortifications. The key to taking Washington lies in speed and surprise. The forts are strong, yes, but they rely on the unity of their defensive ring. If we can seize Frederick and cut off the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, we will sever their supply lines, preventing reinforcements from reaching Washington. With Frederick under our control, we can push toward Rockville and divide our forces to pressure multiple points in the defensive ring."
Maximillianus's finger moved back to the map, tracing possible weak points in the Union defenses. "Our forces will approach from the north, bypassing their more heavily fortified eastern and southern defenses. If we can break through the lines at Fort Stevens and Fort Slocum, which guard the northern approaches, we will have a clear path to the city itself."
He continued, "Fort Stevens is key. It lies directly on the Seventh Street Turnpike, the primary route into Washington from the north. If we breach this fort, the rest of the Union defenses will be forced to collapse inward, focusing on protecting the heart of the city."
Domitius, who had been silently listening, stepped forward and spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension in the room. "And what of the Union forces in the city itself, Generalissimus? Will they not rally once we break through the forts?"
Maximillianus gave a curt nod. "Indeed, Domitius, they will rally. But that is why we must act with speed. Once we break through the outer defenses, the Union troops in Washington will be in disarray. Their government will be in panic, and their chain of command will falter. If we strike quickly and decisively, we can capture key points in the city before they have a chance to organize a proper defense."
He pointed to the White House and Capitol Hill on the map. "Our objective will be these critical locations. Once we seize their government buildings, the Union's leadership will either flee or surrender. Without their political leaders and their capital, the Union will lose its will to fight."
Domitius crossed his arms, considering the weight of the mission. "What about the river defenses, Generalissimus? The Potomac River forms a natural barrier to the south. Won't the Union Navy attempt to reinforce the city from there?"
Maximillianus smiled slightly, pleased by Domitius's strategic thinking. "The Potomac will be a challenge, yes. But with the fall of Baltimore—and the opening of a new dimension gate there—our navy will enter American waters. We will establish a blockade along the Potomac, cutting off any naval reinforcements from the sea. Once Baltimore falls, Washington will be isolated on all sides."
Legatus Calpurnius, who had remained silent until now, spoke up, his voice filled with confidence. "With Frederick and Baltimore under our control, the Union will be trapped. They will have no choice but to abandon Washington or face destruction."
Maximillianus nodded, the weight of the entire plan resting on his shoulders. "Exactly, Calpurnius. The key to this campaign is coordination. You will take Baltimore and cut off their eastern supply lines. Domitius will move south to Richmond, breaking the Confederate backbone. Meanwhile, I will march on Washington, and with the capital's fall, both the Union and Confederacy will crumble."
He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room full of hardened commanders. "This will be the decisive blow. We are not merely fighting to defeat an enemy; we are fighting to reshape this continent. If we succeed, America will fall under Saderan control, and the vast resources of these lands will fuel the Empire for centuries to come."
The confidence in Maximillianus's voice was infectious, and the gathered officers exchanged nods of approval. The Generalissimus had thought of everything, and the plan seemed flawless on paper. But still, the complexity of the campaign was not lost on them. This was a new type of war, fought on unfamiliar soil against an enemy that—while divided—was far from defeated.
Maximillianus continued, outlining the logistical challenges they would face. "Each army will carry enough supplies for two weeks. After that, we will need to rely on foraging and resupply through the dimension gates. Our engineers will establish depots along the way, and our mage corps will ensure that food and water can be purified and stored. Speed will be essential. We cannot afford to be bogged down by supply shortages."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled officers. "The Americans will not sit idly by while we march on their cities. They will counterattack, and they will use every advantage they can—terrain, fortifications, even their superior knowledge of the land. We must be prepared for a protracted campaign, but our strategy will be one of overwhelming force. We will strike hard and fast, give them no time to regroup, and crush their spirit before they can organize a coherent defense."
The Generalissimus's words hung heavy in the air. This was the culmination of years of planning, of months of recovery from the plague, and of the Saderan Empire's relentless ambition.
Maximillianus then turned to his final point, his eyes narrowing as he addressed his most trusted officers. "Prince Nero will remain behind at the gate. His role is critical. Should the Union or Confederates mount a counteroffensive through the gate, Nero will command the reserves and ensure that our link to Falmart remains secure. Failure to hold the gate would spell disaster for the entire campaign."
The mention of Nero caused a few murmurs among the officers. Many wondered whether he could be trusted with such a vital task.
"We march in two weeks," Maximillianus said, concluding the meeting. "Use the time to prepare your men, to train them for the battles ahead. This will not be an easy campaign, but it will be one for the ages. The conquest of America will secure the future of the Empire for generations to come. We will show these Americans the true might of the Saderan legions, and we will bring their land under our control."
The officers rose from their seats, saluting the Generalissimus before filing out of the tent. As they departed, Maximillianus remained behind, his gaze fixed on the map of America. His mind raced with thoughts of the coming battles, the strategies that would need to be employed, and the countless challenges they would face.
But in the end, he knew that victory was within their grasp. The Empire had faced greater foes in the past, and it had always emerged triumphant. This campaign, though fraught with danger, would be no different.
As the last officer left the tent, Maximillianus allowed himself a small smile. The invasion of America had begun, and soon, the stars and stripes of the Union would fall before the might of the Saderan Empire.
