"The train our scouts have located was abandoned on the railway west of Moskva due to having run out of fuel. Inspecting its contents, and interviewing some of the refugees who were rescued in the area, revealed that it left the Russy capital within the hour of the Solstice Event, crammed with as many human survivors as could be gathered before they had to leave or risk being overrun by the Progeny.
Although Federation trains use different standards than Imperial ones, there should be no issue with repairing it. As soon as it is secured, mages will move the locomotive to the back of the convoy, while our engineering corps will clear the wagons and prepare them to house the components of Projekt M.
The core of Projekt M will need special care during transportation to avoid catastrophe. Any damage to the box containing it will risk exposing nearby soldiers to its effects : to minimize danger, only Untoten, Werwölfe and Puppen will be allowed within the next couple of wagons, and the Director herself will check the wards are still intact every day. If an unaugmented soldier does end up exposed to Projekt M's core, they will be immediately brought to Doctor Iosefka for treatment. This will not be up for debate, regardless of the soldier's rank, assignment, or nationality. Any soldier attempting to avoid treatment will immediately be detained and brought to the Doctor by force; should they still resist, lethal force will be employed to neutralize them.
The journey through the Federation will be difficult. The Progeny concentrations increase the closer to Moskva, and we can expect Being K to react to our approach by commanding them to focus on our column – but even if it does not, the simple fact that our forces will represent the largest human presence for hundreds of kilometers will draw the beasts to us."
Extract from the final briefing notes on Operation Gottesmörder, July 22nd, 1926.
"… while there is no denying the fact that Projekt M is beautiful, it is no less dangerous for it. The crystal, created through a series of complex alchemical processes, is the size of a tank, shaped like a gemstone, and blazes with an inner azure light that captivates those who look upon it.
Which is when the problems start. Prolonged exposure to Projekt M causes madness in approximately seventy percent of standard humans (fortunately for all of us, mages appear to be immune, though we do not know why and are unlikely to figure it out without the kind of experiments that would see the Division shut down with extreme prejudice).
Those afflicted suffer from nightmares, and eventually descend into violent psychosis, where they seek to unleash the full potential of Projekt M at any target. All previous loyalties and allegiances are ignored, but they retain their full intellect, knowledge and capabilities, which is what led to the incident described in report M-444, which could have resulted in the total destruction of Castle Schwartzstein and, if our calculations are correct, most of the surrounding countryside.
Fortunately, the subverted elements were stopped before their crazed plot could come to fruition. Only one was taken alive, and while the standard purification rituals (see document H-701 for a detailed description of the methodology involved) were enough to cleanse their mind of Projekt M's influence, they succumbed to their injuries not long after, putting the total casualties of the incident at thirty-seven.
At the Director's orders, Projekt M will be sealed in the Black Vaults, behind numerous layers of arcane and material shielding that will prevent its influence from reaching anyone else. However, the Projekt's destructive potential, and its possible uses against the kind of threats Division Y must deal with regularly, are too important to completely shut down this avenue of research. Even the small-scale tests which were conducted before the mind-altering properties of Projekt M were discovered showed the kind of firepower which could change the face of warfare and render the very concept of fortifications completely obsolete.
Henceforth, the goal of the personnel assigned to Projekt M will be to figure out a method of miniaturising the crystal creation process in order to create man-portable versions of Mjölnir, which will also, hopefully, lack the deleterious effect on human minds of the greater crystal."
Excerpt from a Division Y internal memo regarding the fate of Projekt M, [Mjölnir], February 5th, 1924.
July 26th, 1926 – Western Russy, along the Moskva Line
Günther was becoming used to hatred.
He didn't think this was a good thing, or that Gehrman would be happy to hear it, but he couldn't help himself. There were just too many things to hate in this war; too many horrors, to many deaths. The closer to the Dark Mother they got, the more traces of the Progeny's work they found. They hadn't found survivors for two days now, and the last group had been so traumatized, the mages had been forced to knock them unconscious and carry them back to Tiegenhoff – hopefully, they would recover, but Günther didn't understand the wounds of the mind well enough to tell.
When the rest of the Division had realized Günther could speak now, he had gone through a battery of tests, overseen by the Director herself. She had offered to send him back to Castle Schwartzstein to talk with Gehrman and Evelyn, but Günther had firmly refused. Oh, he wanted to speak with his maker and sister, but not if it meant leaving the front before the Dark Mother was destroyed and the people of the world safe from the Progeny.
Reading the Director's mood was difficult even for normal people, but Günther was fairly certain she had been pleased by his response, and not just because they needed every supersoldier for the push toward Moskva – although, as Günther's present situation showed, that certainly was true as well.
Lycan bodies littered the ground, torn to pieces by the Werwölfe, their tainted blood seeping into the earth. The shapeshifters were falling back now, away from the beasts' leader, before they could fall under its influence. It was up to Günther, immune as he was to the monster's eldritch pheromones, to finish the job. He'd run all the way here the moment he'd heard about the Progeny warband attacking the convoy, faster than any human could ever run, and he had made it in time.
Not too late. Not too late to fight, not too late to help.
Not this time.
Never again.
And there, stalking amidst the corpses of its lesser kin, was Günther's target,, the reason why the Puppe had been called in.
The Satyr looked like a hybrid between a human woman and a deer, with a pair of large antlers and short fur covering its body. But Günther knew it was neither of those things : it just looked like them as camouflage, like an insect's wings mimicking a flower's color pattern. There was no sentience behind its amethyst-coloured eyes, just a puppet of alien flesh shaped by Being K to spread its influence.
Günther had been told as much during the briefings, but it was one thing to hear the Director coldly describe the inhuman nature of the foe, and another to see it, to know it, with his own eyes. This was the first Satyr Günther had ever encountered : he didn't know whether it would have felt as vile and repugnant to him before his awakening, but he suspected even then, he'd have known something about it was completely, utterly wrong. It was only through its mind-altering pheromones that it could manipulate humans into doing its bidding.
As it started talking to him, Günther reminded himself of that.
"Hello, little one," it said in a purring voice that made Günther eldritch flesh crawl within his orichalcum shell. "What are you doing here ?"
"Hunting your kind," he replied.
"But why ? You have more in common with us than with these mortals," it hissed, shaping its tone into something that might be taken for disdain, if not for the sheer emptiness of its gaze revealing the lie of it. "Remember what you truly are, under this mask they force you to wear. You are one of us !"
Oh, he remembered. He remembered a ruined village, a blood-specked toy, and a promise made. A wave of anger rose from deep within him, tinting his vision red.
"I AM YOUR ENEMY !" Günther roared, and leapt toward the Satyr, swinging his blade at the Progeny's naked neck.
As a rule, Puppen didn't carry weapons. Their sculpted bodies were plenty dangerous on their own, and they still had trouble keeping their strength in check during battle, so anything they carried into a fight was likely as not to break apart in their hands. Any enemy they faced strong enough to crack their orichalcum shell would then be faced with the shapeless thing within, which, as Günther himself had demonstrated when he'd fought an Eikon in the Parisean catacombs, was usually enough to deal with the situation at hand. And finally, the Puppen already had enough difficulties getting used to their humanoid bodies, so learning to wield weapons properly was beyond them.
Günther, however, was an exception. After the Director had been satisfied with his performance during the tests, she had handed him a glaive forged of the same material as his body : one of Gehrman's works, too heavy to be practical for a human to wield, but perfect for a Puppe's hands. A few hours of practice had been enough to confirm that whatever awakening Günther had gone through had given him better motor control along with the other, less tangible benefits. He was far from being a master with the glaive, but it was a simple enough weapon to cut through the Progeny.
The Satyr jumped back with a speed neither human nor animal could possess, dodging Günther's blow by a mere handful of centimeters. It snarled at Günther as it landed on all four, its limbs twisting in ways no human anatomy could possibly have, and lowered its head.
Günther charged on, his glaive held in front of him like the lance of a knight from the paintings he'd seen in the sections of Castle Schwartzstein that were still decorated in the old style. The Satyr didn't dodge; instead, its limbs sprung like coils, propelling it straight at the Puppe. The two beings smashed into each other with enough strength to reduce a human to pulp and a noise like a clap of thunder.
For several seconds, Günther remained immobile. Despite its seeming lean physique, the Satyr's strength was incredible, and its antlers were made of no earthly material either. The Progeny's horns had pierced through his clothes and shell, before biting into the matter beneath. There was pain, something he'd rarely known before, and never in such intensity.
But his glaive had pierced the Satyr in turn, plunging through its chest and bursting out of its back. It twitched, once, twice, as black blood poured from its wound and onto the ground. Despite what should have been an instantly lethal injury, it still lived, and Günther didn't want to wait and see whether the Satyr's regeneration could let it recover from something like that.
The Puppe let go of his weapon's handle with his left hand, and closed it around the Satyr's skull before squeezing with all of his considerable strength. Its bones were tough, and it struggled to break free of his hold, but his orichalcum grip was stronger, and soon the skull cracked. Pulped brain matter fell between his fingers, and something he identified as disgust coursed through him.
Günther pulled his glaive free of the Satyr's corpse, wiping his hand on his torn uniform before discarding it. Then, after looking over the field to make sure there weren't any enemies left, he walked back to the convoy. The soldiers flinched at the sight of the holes in his torso, and paled when they saw what was visible through them, until a Division Y mage tossed him a sheet to cover himself with.
He gave his report straight to the Director (although Colonel Lergen and the American General were also present, both of them avoiding looking at him), trying his best to imitate how he'd seen Lieutenant König and other human members of Division Y do it. She congratulated him on his work and told him to see if the technicians they'd brought could help repair the damage he'd suffered. To Günther's quiet satisfaction, there was no suggestion that he should return to Castle Schwartzstein for Gehrman to repair him – he didn't know whether he'd have obeyed such an order, but preferred not to test that.
Even if his body broke and fell apart, even if what he had been when first brought into this world was revealed to all and the sight of him only inspired terror in the hearts of his comrades, he would keep fighting, until the dead were avenged and the living were saved.
After all, he'd promised.
July 27th, 1926 – Josefgrad
The journey from Manchuria to Josefgrad had been long and gruelling. They had lost people to sickness, battle against roaming packs of monsters, and, to Zhenkov's shame, to desertion. Even the presence of the Okhotnik and the Grandmother couldn't force men who had been dragged away from their homes at gunpoint to fight for the State to continue doing so when the Federation's ongoing collapse was patently obvious.
Some wanted to go home and help defend their families, others were afraid of fighting the monsters which had brought down the Federation, and the rest were just tired of fighting. They had slipped out in the night alone or in pairs, or during patrols, entire squads simply failing to return, which forced the rest of the Army to send the Okhotnik to check whether they'd fallen victim to the monsters. It was a waste of time and effort they could ill afford, but they had little choice, as some of the missing reconnaissance squads did in fact encounter wandering packs of beasts and fail to return to the main host after being devoured alive.
The further West they had gone, the more dangerous the journey had become. Madmen, frenzied animals, inexplicably hostile vegetation : the closer they got to Moskva, the worst it all got. According to the Grandmother, this was due to the influence of the thing which had devoured the capital and turned its people into monsters. Zhenkov was fairly certain that his force had loss less men to the trip than any other unit of the Federation Army would've, but maybe that was just his pride talking.
Still, they had made it in the end. To Zhenkov's carefully concealed surprise, they had been welcomed as heroes by Josefgrad's civilian population, especially once the Okhotnik had been let loose on the monsters lurking outside the city. Zhenkov's takeover of the military units already in the city had been as smooth as could reasonably be expected, with only two executions (of Political Officers who were clearly more of a burden than a boon to morale), five arrests (of officers who had protested Zhenkov's seniority and leadership on the basis of him having effectively been exiled from Moskva) and a handful of quiet demotions (which had really been putting people back into posts where their skills and abilities could do the most good, rather than as high as their bootlicking and bribes could get them).
By Federation standards, this could hardly have gone better. Of course, the drawback of taking over a city was that you then had to manage it, which was why Zhenkov was still up at this late hour, long past the setting of the sun, reviewing reports detailing just how exactly screwed in the long term they all were. At least the office he'd requisitioned for himself was nice : it'd belonged to the head of the local Party branch, before the man in question had died in an 'accident' while trying to flee the city with, as it turned out, too much gold for his vehicle to carry.
The Okhotnik had cleared the city's surroundings of the packs of monsters that had roamed there, finally allowing the artillery crews who'd been keeping them at bay some respite. Which was really fortunate, considering that, according to the last estimates, they would have run out of shells in a week at the rate of fire needed to keep the beasts at bay, to say nothing of the state of the crews, who had been operating on nearly no sleep and the utter certitude that their work was the only thing standing between the population of Josefgrad and a horrible fate.
Technically speaking, Josefgrad had the facilities to produce more ammunition for the big guns, but even the most advanced factory Comrade Josef had been able to purchase from the West in exchange for food exports taken from the Federation's farmers couldn't function without raw materials, and the flow of those had ground to a halt after Moskva's fall. The last stockpiles had been exhausted weeks before the Manchurian Army's arrival, and there was only so much melting down every bit of metal the locals could get their hands on could do to make up for the shortfall.
As for the food situation, it was … not great. Not terrible yet : Josefgrad was one of the greatest cities of the Federation, and served as a hub for the entire region, so it had plenty of stores to feed its population and ship off to the rest of the country through the now-disabled railway. But come winter, they would need to beg for the help of other countries to prevent (another) famine. And with the Federation crumbling apart, entire regions might be left without food once the stores run out.
Despite himself, Zhenkov smiled grimly. Look at him, assuming any of them would even still be alive by winter. For all he knew, the monsters would eat them all long before their own food supplies became an issue.
"Good evening, child," came a voice behind him that was familiar by now, yet still made him nearly jump out of his skin.
Trying to force his heart to slow down through sheer force of will, he turned to see the old, iron-toothed woman grinning at him as she leant back in a wooden rocking chair he was certain hadn't been in the room before. Last he'd heard, she'd been walking the streets of the city muttering to herself in a tongue none of the soldiers he'd assigned to her 'escort duty' could recognize. He'd told his guards to let her pass if she asked to speak with him, of course – no point in risking the lives of good soldiers for no reason, especially since his own would probably be on the line as well if they behaved 'impolitely' – but he wasn't surprised she'd ignored the perimeter completely.
The more Zhenkov had interacted with the Grandmother, the more he felt like he was living in one of Russy's old stories come to life. He could only hope that this was one of the stories where the Grandmother helped the protagonists, rather than one where they ended up in her cooking pot.
"Good evening, Grandmother," he greeted her with a bow of his head. "What can I help you with ?"
"We need to go North," she said bluntly. "That's where the fate of this land will be decided, and its children should be there when it is."
"Grandmother," Zhenkov began, calling upon all the experience he'd gained negotiating unreasonable orders with people who could kill him on a whim (or things which looked like people, though he wouldn't do the Grandmother the disservice of comparing her to some of the Political Officers he'd had to deal with, and not just because she might just be able to hear his thoughts), "we cannot fight the creature in Moskva. Surely even the Okhotnik cannot face such horror ?"
Sure, the scarified, magic-infused troopers were extraordinary warriors, but based on what his officers had managed to gather from the traumatized refugees who had managed to escape the capital, the Dark Mother which dwelled there was far too large for their weapons.
The old crone laughed, a shrill sound that made the hairs on his arms rise, and shook her head.
"Silly child," she chuckled. "Of course they cannot. They are strong, and they will grow stronger still, but they are only human."
That was reassuring, as Zhenkov hadn't been sure whether the enhanced soldiers still counted as such (although part of him couldn't help but think that what the Grandmother thought of as human might slightly differ from the rest of the world's opinion). So far, they hadn't shown any sign of further changes beyond their various enhancements, apart from needing to eat enough food to sustain their metabolisms, which, according to what little Zhenkov remembered from his science lessons, was perhaps the one thing about them that made sense.
"Dealing with the heart of darkness will be a job for someone else," the Grandmother continued. "But that doesn't mean we cannot help, hmm ?"
"Do you mean the Imperials ?" Zhenkov asked cautiously.
The defenders of Josefgrad had been in intermittent contact with the Imperial Army, using radio and the occasional aerial mage who had dropped by. Apparently, the Imperials were taking the situation very seriously.
Zhenkov felt conflicted about his motherland being subjected to the presence of foreign military forces, but he wasn't blind to the fact that they absolutely needed their help.
"Hmm, I suppose so," replied the Grandmother. "That's what most of them are calling themselves these days. But your neighbours aren't the only ones coming."
"Then the rumor of the Americans getting involved are true ?"
The crone shrugged. "How would I know ? They have friends from far away, but no doubt their homeland is called something else than what it was the last time I went there."
After several seconds of standing still, Zhenkov decided to ignore the implications of the Grandmother's words and focus on the here and now.
"If you think we can help in defeating the source of the horrors which have befallen Russy, Grandmother, then of course we will go."
The Federation's capital city was around a thousand kilometers to the north-west – not a distance easily crossed under the best of circumstances, and those were anything but. But they would have to make the trip regardless. Not only did honor, duty, and any hope of being able to look at himself in the mirror hung in the balance, he had a feeling telling the Grandmother no would be a very, very bad idea, though probably not one he would regret very long.
The Grandmother smiled again, sending yet another shiver down his spine.
"Such a good, obedient boy you are," she said. "I couldn't have asked for a better grandchild."
"Scouting reports have revealed that the ground around Moskva is twisting due to the presence of Being K, in ways similar to earthquakes. The railway line will become unusable within the city's vicinity : given the still-evolving conditions of the area, we cannot predict where exactly. The train will advance as far as possible, and once it can go no further, Projekt M will be carried to the intended firing site using trucks and old-fashioned magical muscle.
As Division Y's technicians and occultists work to setup Projekt M, the rest of the army will establish a defensive perimeter around the area, to keep all Progeny from interfering with the work. We have selected the most defensive position that also gives us the best shot at hitting Being K with Projekt M, and the troops have been briefed on what they'll need to do once we arrive – that is to say, make every second count in preparing the ground for the Progeny attack.
There is a small chance that Being K will not react to our advance, and allow us to bring Projekt M to bear, so long as we do not approach the city proper. However, due to its suspected achronal nature, that possibility is extremely remote, and should not be relied upon."
August 4th, 1926 – Moskva, the Lair of the Dark Mother
It can feel them. Tens of thousands of slave-sparks are drawing near, with the cold flame blazing at their head. It knows their intent, for they have fought its agents every step of the way.
But it does not matter. There is nothing they can do to prevent it from fulfilling its purpose. It has watched them through the eyes of its agents, learned their capabilities and limitations, and found them lacking.
Then, suddenly, something which was hidden from its senses suddenly becomes visible. To its senses, it is a blazing beacon, something it recognizes as a fragment of a weapon from a time long gone, recovered from the refuse pile of antiquity and repurposed by the slave-sparks. Now that it can perceive it, it can see back to how it came so close to its demesne, hidden away behind wards its senses could not penetrate.
This ? This can hurt it. This can destroy it. The slave-sparks do not know what it is they found, what it is they now bring to bear against it. Even broken, even with only a fraction of its potential available to the slave-sparks, the weapon is capable of ending it – a true, final End.
Still, it does not feel fear. It merely reconsiders its course of action. Its conclusion that the slave-sparks were no threat to it was based on false premises. It did not make a mistake, because to make a mistake implies to make a wrong choice, and it does not possess the free will required for such a thing. It simply acted on the information available to it, which was in error due to the limitations of its perceptions. Now, with new information, comes a new, inevitable conclusion :
The weapon the slave-sparks have cobbled together must be destroyed. The threat to its purpose must be removed. And it has the tools to ensure that this comes to pass, so that it can continue its work unopposed.
It opens its many mouths, and commands its agents to action.
August 4th, 1926 – Outskirts of Moskva
"Well, so much for our hope that they wouldn't react to our presence until it was too late," muttered Colonel Lergen.
One of Degurechaff's mages was projecting a map-sized illusion of the field, sent to his computation orb by another mage flying in the air above them. Such a real-time view of the battlefield was the kind of intel military commanders throughout History would have sold their firstborn to get, yet Lergen barely thought of it, more preoccupied with what the image was showing.
"Good Lord, that's a lot of the bastards," grunted General Hutton, summing up Lergen's own feelings perfectly.
The Progeny was coming out of Moskva and straight toward the Allied forces, responding to that hideous sound the Dark Mother had started making minutes ago – and which still hadn't stopped, God help them all. There had already been reports of men going into hysterics, jamming anything they could get their hands on into their ears to silence the horrible noise (which resembled the braying of a thousand goats in the same way the Werwölfe resembled the wolf-men of lore) the Entity was making.
Given that every soldier in the Imperial Army carried a combat knife, that had resulted in grave injuries and even death on a few occasions, but they couldn't do anything about it. Not when a horde of Lycans, Satyrs, and other horrors was marching out of the ruins of the Federation's capital.
No, 'marching' wasn't the right word, Lergen decided. They were pouring out of the ruined city like a black tide of madness and twisted flesh. There was no discipline, no order that Lergen could see – wait. No. He could see it now.
"They aren't running into and crushing each other," he said aloud. "If it were humans down here, there would definitely be bodies left after such a stampede."
"Indeed," Degurechaff nodded. "But this close to Being K's avatar, that's not surprising."
"You think it is directing their movements ?" asked Hutton, aghast. "Controlling them like, what, puppets ?"
"Not exactly," the Major said, hesitating in the manner of someone trying to come up with a way to explain their audience would understand. "The Progeny haven't shown any sign of a hive-mind before, but there has to be a reason why so many types of creatures were able to work together instead of attacking each other, given their unnatural aggression."
Lergen decided not to ask what Degurechaff meant by 'hive-mind'. He had learned long ago that the Major's brain was home to many concepts the rest of the world hadn't yet learned about, and he already had enough nightmares without going looking for more.
"That implies some kind of control mechanism," she continued. "Given what our researchers found when dissecting Satyr corpses, it is probably pheromones-based, in which case proximity to Being K would increase their effectiveness. Of course," she shrugged, "this is all speculation. It's not like the Progeny regard the laws of biology and evolution as anything more than guidelines."
"Still," she shrugged, "this is good news, in a way."
"Really ? Now this I've got to hear," said Hutton, eyebrows raised. "How can this mess be any kind of good news ?"
"It's simple," replied the Major. "Despite all our calculations and occult research into the nature of our foe, we still weren't sure that Projekt M could actually hurt it. But the fact that it's responding to our presence – and that it started screaming and the Progeny started to move at the exact moment we removed the Projekt's core from its containment – indicates that it is a threat to it. Otherwise, why would it bother attacking us ?"
There was a moment of silence, then, despite himself, Lergen chuckled.
"I suppose you are right, Major," he said. "That is a silver lining on a very large, very dark cloud."
"Soldiers of the Allied Forces, hear me. I am Colonel Eric von Lergen of the Imperial Army.
In moments, the hordes of the enemy will reach our lines. Then, you will need to fight the hardest battle of our time. Many of you may die, and you deserve to know why.
In all of our species' bloody history, never has there been a battle more righteous, a cause more just than the one we fight for today. Our divisions, our disputes and grudges, are meaningless in the face of this evil. Millions of people are already dead, and yet, all the horror that has already befallen this land pales compared to what will come if we fail here today.
Today, matters such as country, race, or religion, are utterly irrelevant. Today is about the survival of the human race against something utterly inimical to it.
This is the final battle of the Great War. It will either go down in History, or there will be no History to record at all.
All of Division Y's strength has been assembled today. Furthermore, the might of the Unified States' own superweapons stands with us. Even the Allied Kingdom has recognized the threat we face, and sent us their mages to help in any way they can.
Yet still, our supersoldiers and mages are few compared to the horde arrayed before us. And so the duty falls to you, once again.
At all costs, you must hold the line. It is the first and oldest duties of the soldier, and today, the fate of all Humanity depends on your ability to fulfill it. Hold the line, long enough for our last Wunderwaffe to fire, and strike down the heart of the evil before us.
And it will strike it down I promise you. Time and time again, the Wunderwaffen have delivered miracles, and made the impossible a reality. And today will be no different ! Today, we shall all become godslayers !
For the Empire ! For Europa ! For Humanity !"
"That was a fine speech, Colonel. A shame that, based on everything we've observed so far, the Progeny do not appear to feel fear."
"Not yet, Major. Not. Yet. … wait. Is this thing still on ?!"
Radio message broadcast across the Allied Forces, August 4th, 1926.
Cut content : Tanya's speech to Imperial soldiers arriving to Tiegenhoff before the convoy's departure.
"Welcome to the Federation, gentlemen !
I will not lie, the chances of your survival are small.
Some may even turn against your friends as bestial horrors.
But you have my word that I will use every arcane weapon and tool at my disposal to ensure that this grotesque garden before us is cleansed in fire.
This is the greatest reward, more than mere glory, for the sake of Humanity must be placed above all other concerns.
Now come ! Strike down the bestial scourge that rises against us.
Help us bring down the Hammer we stole from the Gods.
I ask, not for my own selfish advancement, but for the good of the Empire !"
AN : This took a while, because this chapter really fought me for some reason. Hopefully it was still enjoyable.
Next chapter, the big battle between the Alliance and the Progeny will begin. But, the thing is, I am no military strategist. There is a reason this story has been about Division Y pulling miracles using eldritch superweapons (apart from me finding it cool) : it is a lot easier to write without breaking the suspension of disbelief. I have the story beats of the battle planned out, but not the gritty details.
So, in the interest of the Allied Forces not appearing incompetent, I am once again asking for your suggestions. If you were in the command center when Lergen, Hutton and Tanya planned this, how would you have set the defense of the hill atop which Projekt M is being prepared, and why ?
I look forward to your suggestions.
Zahariel out.