Chapter 12. The decline of the Leifor Empire.

The grand Intelligence and Information Warfare Bureau complex loomed over the surrounding buildings, emphasizing its strategic significance. Inside, in one of the most heavily guarded offices, silence reigned.

"Your Excellency, if I may," an officer in a perfectly pressed black uniform said, snapping to attention. He handed over a folder stamped with the words Classified.

Seated behind a massive oak desk, a man clad in a strict gray military jacket adorned with golden epaulets accepted the folder without rising. His gaze was cold and piercing. As he flipped through the pages, he carefully analyzed the reports. Suddenly, his brows lifted slightly.

"So… this Russian Federation is truly a threat?" His voice was deep but composed, each word carrying immense weight.

"Precisely, Your Excellency. The documents contain an analysis based on Forms 304-986HA and 3054-2345AT, compiled by the Precision Engineering Development Department scientists," the officer stated crisply, maintaining his rigid posture.

The man gave a small nod and delved deeper into the contents. His attention halted at blueprints depicting aircraft with unconventional designs. Tiltrotors, high-speed jet monoplanes—these were technological outliers that challenged the Empire's long-held military doctrines.

"They… have learned to build such machines?" His Excellency narrowed his eyes, his expression shifting from surprise to contemplation.

"Yes, sir. We confirm that their air forces may already surpass ours."

A brief silence filled the room, broken only by the faint rustling of turning pages. Then the man lifted his gaze.

"And their navy? How strong is it?" His question was cold, but the tension in the air became palpable.

The officer stepped forward.

"Sir, their fleet vastly outclasses ours. Our assessment suggests their military technology is decades ahead of ours—possibly more."

His Excellency's face remained unreadable. He placed the folder down on the desk and slowly exhaled, as if carefully weighing his next words.

"I see. War is not just bloodshed and destruction—it is the catalyst of progress. It seems they've endured long and brutal conflicts, just as we have." He paused for a moment before pointing a finger toward the ceiling. "But they will not understand that. Their unchecked annexations of weaker nations have clouded their judgment. They've grown drunk on their own grandeur."

Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's the status of our operation?"

"Sir, the 1st and 2nd Armored Divisions are fully equipped and ready for deployment. However, Supreme Commander Caesar…" The officer hesitated briefly, carefully choosing his words. "He is strongly opposed to deploying an aircraft carrier. Instead, he insists on using the Atlastar-class super-dreadnought."

His Excellency scoffed, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

"Caesar has always been a stubborn man. Let him have it his way. The priority is ensuring the operation proceeds without failure."

"Understood, sir!" The officer snapped a crisp salute before turning toward the exit.

As the door closed behind him, the man once again fell into deep thought. War, progress, ambition—all tangled into a complex knot that he would soon have to untangle.

Deep within the vast ocean lay a secret capable of shifting the balance of power. Gra-Valkas — a rising empire that seemed to appear out of nowhere—had rapidly conquered primitive nations. Then, it set its sights on the nations of the Second Civilized Zone. But the great powers scoffed at the idea: barbaric outsiders beyond the civilized territories — what threat could they possibly pose?

Everything changed when Gra Valkas launched an invasion of the Kingdom of Paganda. This small island, protected under the might of the Leifor Empire, unexpectedly fell to the invaders' overwhelming force. The Leiforian Emperor took it as a direct challenge. In response, he ordered the assembly of the Western Armada—a fleet of forty-four warships, including the wyvern-carrier Dragon and majestic one-hundred-gun battleships. Their mission was clear: to punish these audacious barbarians with fire and steel.

On the deck of the flagship, tension thickened in the salty, smoke-laden air.

"Admiral," one of the officers broke the silence, his voice steady. "Reconnaissance reports enemy fleet sightings. Additionally, they've identified a massive warship—over three hundred meters long—armed with heavy-caliber weaponry."

Admiral Baell, tall and imposing, his gaze as cold as ice, studied the horizon, as if trying to see the enemy with his own eyes.

"Deploy the Wyvern Lords into the skies," he commanded. "The vanguard moves to intercept. We will show these upstarts what it means to stand against the Leifor Empire."

The orders were relayed with perfect precision. The blast of a naval horn shattered the stillness, and magical communication spread the admiral's words to the furthest ships. Signalmen executed commands with such speed and coordination that the fleet seemed to move as a single entity.

Majestic wyverns, their fiery eyes glowing with predatory intent, launched into the sky. Their powerful wings beat against the air as they flew in tight formation, ready to meet the enemy head-on.

Meanwhile, the Gra-Valkas super-dreadnought Atlaster surged forward, cutting through the waves with its colossal, impenetrable hull. Onboard this steel behemoth, confidence reigned.

"Captain," the radio operator's voice broke the tense atmosphere of the bridge. "Enemy forces approaching. Likely wyverns."

Captain Luxtal nodded calmly. He remembered his first encounter with these creatures during the conquest of Paganda. They were once considered symbols of primitive military power, but to Gra-Valkas, they were nothing more than another obstacle.

"Deploy the Antares fighters. Let's show them their era is over."

The proud monoplane fighters of the empire, the Antares, sleek and swift, roared as they ascended into the sky. As the wyverns approached, preparing to unleash their deadly fireballs, it was clear that their attacks were slowing against the superior technology. The Antares guns tore through the air, ripping wyverns apart in a blaze of flames, their bodies plummeting into the ocean below.

The battle had begun. The wyverns fought valiantly, but their speed and fire, once feared by their former enemies, were useless against these new opponents. The Antares systematically dismantled their ranks.

On the horizon, the outline of the Leiforian flagship became visible. The Wyvern Lords tried to retreat, but for many, escape was no longer an option.

Luxtal watched the carnage unfold with cold certainty.

"We will crush them," he declared, his words swallowed by the thunderous roar of the Atlaster's guns.

In recent years, the Gra-Valkas Aeronautical Design Bureau had been refining old biplane concepts. The lower wing was modernized, and with a thousand-horsepower engine, they had exactly what they needed to create a next-generation fighter. After countless trials and experiments, they finally built an aircraft capable of dominating the skies. It boasted a top speed of 550 kilometers per hour and unmatched maneuverability. This fighter, known as the Antares, was armed with a primary 20mm cannon and an additional 7.7mm machine gun, ensuring formidable firepower in aerial combat.

"Captain, enemy targets are approaching at 350 kilometers per hour. We have about seven to eight minutes of clear visual contact," the radio operator reported, his eyes locked onto the radar screen.

Captain Luxtal nodded, lost in thought for a moment.

"They're much faster than Paganda's wyverns. How is that possible? Do these so-called 'superpower' barbarian nations not have real aircraft? Are they actually trying to replace them with stronger wyverns as an alternative?" His thoughts raced as his gaze shifted toward the horizon, where the shadows of enemy forces began to emerge.

"Captain, enemy wyverns are now in visual range. Permission to use the experimental anti-aircraft munitions?" The radio operator's voice wavered slightly with anticipation.

"Yes. Load the main guns. The first and second with standard rounds, the rest with test shells. Sound battle stations," Captain Luxtal ordered firmly.

"Aye, sir!" The radio operator quickly saluted and barked into the intercom. "Attention! Battle stations! Prepare for anti-air engagement! All hands, clear the deck! Gun crews, ready the firepower!"

Klaxons blared as red warning lights flashed throughout the ship. Sailors scrambled off the deck while gunnery crews prepped the weapons. Two of the six 460mm guns slowly rotated upward, locking onto the sky, poised for action.

"Load!" barked the commander of the first gun.

"Gun ready for action!" came the loaders' response.

"Target! Take aim!" The commander's voice was sharp and unwavering. "Fire!"

The thunderous roar of the cannons was deafening. All six guns fired in unison, sending shockwaves across the water, rippling through the ocean's surface. Overhead, two squadrons of wyvern lords soared into view—one flying at standard altitude, the other higher to minimize blind spots.

A moment later, the sky was ablaze with light, and unbearable heat engulfed the first wyvern assault squadron of the Laiforian fleet. The Laiforian riders barely had time to react before they were annihilated. The second squadron, witnessing the devastation, froze in sheer shock.

"Scatter! Break into single combat formations!" bellowed the commander of the second group, realizing that their traditional tactics were utterly useless against such overwhelming firepower.

Breaking away was their only chance at survival. The commander's eyes widened as he finally spotted the enemy vessel—a behemoth on the horizon, towering without sails, an absurd and incomprehensible monstrosity.

The wyvern lords, guided by instinct, let out powerful roars, urging their riders to accelerate to breakneck speeds in a desperate bid to breach the defenses of this iron-clad behemoth.

"Gods… what is that?" one of the riders gasped, barely keeping his grip on the reins. His gaze fell upon a dent in his breastplate—a reminder of a 7.7mm bullet ricocheting off the armor. He barely had time to process what was happening before realizing that his entire squad was gone.

"Forward!" he roared, his spirit burning with the need for vengeance. His wyvern lord surged forward, climbing higher and higher, pushing its limits.

But then the unexpected happened. A single anti-air bullet found its mark, piercing through his armet and delivering a fatal impact. His head slammed back into his helmet, and he lost consciousness instantly, plummeting lifelessly into the ocean below.

The battle lasted no more than twenty minutes. When the smoke cleared, not a single enemy rider remained.

"Admiral Bel, we've lost contact with both assault squadrons," the mana-com operator reported, his voice shaken by the sheer destruction he had just witnessed.

"What?! How is that possible?! Damn savages, mocking us with their very existence! We cannot afford to be humiliated by them!" Baell's voice trembled with fury.

"All units, forward! Wipe them out completely!" he bellowed, his hatred fueling his determination for a renewed assault. "NOW!"

"Yes, sir!" The operator hastily bowed and disappeared from the admiral's sight, wasting no time in relaying the command.

At the same time, on the bridge of the superdreadnought Atlastar.

The bridge of the superdreadnought was cloaked in tense silence, broken only by the hum of instruments and the quiet footsteps of officers. Every crew member was already bracing themselves for the inevitable clash.

"Captain! The enemy fleet will soon enter our gun range!" the radio officer reported, his voice trembling with anticipation.

"Understood," Luxtal nodded, lost in thought for a brief moment. Then, gathering his resolve, he issued his order in a firm, commanding voice. "They lag behind us by a century, yet they call us barbarians. How pathetic. Relay my command! Once the enemy ships enter the five-kilometer engagement zone, unleash a full broadside from all batteries! Gunners—coordinate target instructions! Execute!"

"Aye, sir!" the radio officer responded sharply, his eyes flicking to the instruments, ready to transmit the command.

The Leiforian fleet, sails fully unfurled, surged forward, carried by the wind enhanced by enchanted stones known as the Tears of the Wind God. These magical artifacts amplified the gusts, propelling their vessels with supernatural speed. Their ships danced across the waves as if alive, leaving foaming trails in their wake, ready for battle.

"Enemy vessel will be in sight soon!" shouted one of the officers, his gaze locked onto a long-range glass screen.

Admiral Baell squinted, his eyes widening in shock as he finally laid eyes on the monstrosity—a titanic fortress of steel, the same behemoth that had annihilated two entire wyvern squadrons in mere moments. His voice escaped in a hushed whisper:

"Gods… What is that fortress?"

Baell's face darkened, and the smug confidence that had once defined him evaporated like morning mist. A cold, paralyzing realization gripped him, as if he had been plunged into icy waters. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, and his fingers, clenched around the ship's wheel, tingled with an unsettling numbness. A biting wind slithered down his neck, forcing an involuntary wince. Yet deep within him, pride and courage burned like embers, driving his blood forward, staving off the creeping dread.

The Leiforian navy had not suffered defeat in three centuries. This armada—anchored by a hundred-gun ship-of-the-line and forty-two ensigns under its banner—was meant to carve Leifor's name into history as an unconquerable force.

They would not allow a single ship, no matter how mighty, to mock their legacy.

This battle would be decisive.

The eighty-gun ship-of-the-line "Goforce", one of the finest vessels in the Leiforian fleet, sliced through the waves, its massive hull cutting through the sea like a titan of old. The ship's plating, reinforced with an anti-magic alloy, gleamed under the sun as if to proclaim that no spell or enemy weapon could breach its defenses. The deck buzzed with activity—officers barking orders, sailors tightening rigging, checking cannons. Everything spoke of a crew ready for battle.

The Leiforian fleet, tightening its formation around the enemy, began to shift into a battle line, drawing ever closer to the super dreadnought. Their decks came alive—sailors preparing for the decisive clash ahead.

At three miles out from the Atlastar, the Leiforians saw its midship and aft turrets begin to rotate—aiming straight at them. A moment of tense silence filled the air before the thunderous command was given, and from the massive barrels of Atlastar's main guns, plumes of smoke erupted.

A sudden, haunting whistle tore through the sky as an artillery shell screamed toward its target. Just before impact, a veteran boatswain, standing near the cannons, barely had time to shout:

— Brace for impact!

The sea exploded in towering columns of water, sending foamy shockwaves outward. The shells had missed—but only barely. The uncanny precision and devastating speed of the enemy's fire left the Leiforian officers shaken.

— They're hitting with this kind of accuracy from that range?! — one of them gasped, unable to believe what he had just witnessed.

Before they could recover from the first salvo, the secondary guns of the super dreadnought fired next. The Leiforian ships desperately maneuvered to evade, but not all were so lucky.

One shell, fired from miles away, slammed dead-on into the starboard hull of a Leiforian warship. The explosion rocked the entire vessel, tearing through its armor, igniting its powder magazine.

A blinding flash, a thunderous roar—and the ship was gone.

— Direct hit! — the gunner reported, his voice even but laced with satisfaction.

BOOOOM!

The sea lit up with the inferno of the detonation. Flaming debris—planks, masts, shredded sails—rained down into the water. The blast was so intense that sailors on other ships had to shield their eyes from the glare, some even diving for cover as fragments of the ship whistled past.

— Goforce is sunk! — the mana-comms operator aboard the Saint, a vessel sailing near Goforce, choked out, his voice trembling with a mix of shock and despair.

Standing on the bridge, Admiral Bael froze, as if a phantom spear had pierced his chest. This ship had been key to his strategy—one of the Leiforian navy's finest. Losing the Goforce was a crippling blow.

But there was no time for grief.

Bael clenched his fists, his face darkening with rage.

— Damn barbarians! — he snarled, whirling toward his officers. — All ships, open fire! Show them the full might of the Leiforian fleet!

The sea erupted with cannon fire.

Hundreds of massive projectiles, wreathed in enchanted flames, streaked toward the Atlastar, leaving thick trails of smoke in their wake.

Yet far in the distance, towering over the ocean like an unstoppable force of nature, the super dreadnought remained unfazed. It fired again.

Its massive 460mm guns, weapons akin to the wrath of gods, continued their merciless bombardment. One by one, Leiforian ships were torn apart.

A colossal explosion engulfed the Toronto, turning the ship into a fiery inferno before it slowly sank beneath the waves.

Next came the Leiforia—the pride of the fleet, the symbol of their naval supremacy. Even in its final moments, its mighty cannons roared, but they could do nothing. One precise shot struck home.

BOOM.

The Leiforia erupted in flames. Its hull split apart, fire consuming everything.

— Ship-of-the-line "Toronto" and the hundred-gun "Leiforia" have been destroyed! — the mana-comms operator whispered this time, barely able to force the words out.

Bael stood there, shaking with fury. His fist slammed into the railing, so hard that his knuckles split open, blood dripping down his hand.

Their enemy was superior in every way—technology, firepower, strategy.

There was only one option left.

— Raise and flip the flag,— Baell's voice was hoarse, as if the very words had physically wounded him.

Silence. His officers stood frozen, unable to comprehend what they had just heard.

One of them, Captain Reynold, hesitated before speaking:

— Admiral, but…

The gunshot rang out before he could finish.

Reynold collapsed, slumping forward onto the deck.

Bael lowered his smoking pistol, his cold gaze sweeping across the remaining officers.

— Any more questions? — he asked, his voice like ice.

No one spoke.

As the Atlastar drew dangerously close, the crew of the "Saint" braced themselves for their final stand.

Bael stood tall on the bridge, his gaze locked onto the monstrous cannons of the enemy.

— When I give the signal, fire everything we've got, — his words carried across the deck, as if he were speaking to the gods of war themselves. — We'll show these bastards what true power is.

And then—

He raised his hand.

— FIRE!

All the guns aboard the "Saint" roared at once. Smoke engulfed the deck, fire burst from the cannon barrels. Sailors shouted in adrenaline-fueled excitement, their hearts filled with the desperate hope that at least one shell would find its mark. But as the smoke cleared, the "r" continued its advance, its armor untouched.

Baell closed his eyes, and in that moment, the fleet's fate was sealed. The "Atlastar" unleashed its final barrage. Six massive shells tore through the sky. There was a brief moment of silence—then, a deafening explosion.

The flagship "Saint" was obliterated. Its shattered remains quickly disappeared into the churning waters, leaving behind only black smoke and tattered, burning sails.

On the bridge of the "Atlastar," Captain Luxtal calmly observed the end of the battle. He adjusted his cap and turned to his lieutenant.

— "Victory is ours. Send a telegraph to the capital: the enemy fleet has been destroyed, the path is clear. Have them dispatch the landing forces to seize the Leiforian capital."

The lieutenant saluted and moved to carry out the order.

But Luxtal suddenly raised a hand, stopping him.

— "Wait. We won't just send the message." His eyes glinted with cold fire. "Let's give the Leiforian capital one final gift. It's time to show them the true power of Gra-Valkas."

The "Atlastar" slowly turned its massive guns toward the distant horizon, where the faint silhouette of enemy towers could just barely be seen. The people of Leifor had no idea their moment of reckoning had arrived.

The next morning, the capital of Leifor awoke to the thunderous roar of artillery. The "Atlastar" methodically shelled the city. Each steel payload shattered buildings, ripped apart cobblestone streets, and turned once-grand palaces and temples into smoldering ruins. Within mere hours, half the city was reduced to lifeless rubble. Fires raged across what was left, black smoke choking the sky, blotting out the sun.

Panicked civilians ran for shelter, but with every new barrage, their hopes of survival dwindled. The Imperial Palace, once a proud symbol of a global superpower, now stood in ruins, barely held up by its crumbling columns.

Days later, the shores of Leifor were illuminated by a new threat. At dawn, the Gra-Valkas National Army's amphibious assault began. Dozens of armored troop carriers descended from the warships, storming the beaches, followed closely by waves of infantry. The 1st and 2nd armored divisions surged into the capital, their advanced war machines punching through the enemy's defensive lines with terrifying ease.

Leiforian infantry, armed with outdated flintlock muskets, desperately tried to hold their ground, but the soldiers of Gra-Valkas fought with cold, calculated efficiency. Their bolt-action rifles and 7.7mm crew-served machine guns were symbols of their dominance. Magically enhanced muskets, once the pinnacle of Leiforian military technology, were useless against modern firearms.

The Leiforian Guard, the pride of the empire, was utterly crushed. Their rigid battle formations, designed for classic warfare, became death traps. The machine guns shredded their ranks into pools of blood. Desperate screams, the shriek of shrapnel, and the relentless gunfire blended into a single, nightmarish symphony of war. Panic spread among Leiforian troops, who abandoned their posts, fleeing for their lives and leaving their comrades behind.

By the following morning, the once-proud capital of the Leiforian Empire was a shadow of its former self. The streets were littered with debris, overturned carriages, and corpses. The few buildings that remained intact had been turned into command centers and barracks for the occupying forces.

In the central square, beneath the scorched banners of Leifor, a scaffold was erected. The imperial family, captured while attempting to flee, was publicly executed. Their lifeless bodies, displayed for all to see, became the ultimate symbol of Leifor's fall. The citizens, paralyzed by the horror before them, stood in silence—some weeping, others too numb to look away.

The National Army of Gra-Valkas celebrated a victory that cemented their empire as the new superpower of this New World.

The remnants of the Leiforian Guard and regular army surrendered en masse. They chose captivity over a futile death. The Gra-Valkas Empire officially declared the complete annexation of Leiforian territory. Former imperial lands were swiftly repopulated under strict occupational rule. But the process was far from peaceful.

Any signs of resistance or attempts to revive Leiforian nationalism were crushed with merciless brutality. Mass executions became routine. Anyone even remotely connected to underground movements or rebellions was swiftly tried by military tribunals—and almost always sentenced to immediate death. The native population, stripped of their rights and freedoms, found themselves in a nightmare with no hope of reclaiming their culture or nation.

These events sent shockwaves throughout the New World. Once the fifth-ranked global superpower, Leifor had collapsed in a matter of days. And in its place, the Gra-Valkas Empire now reigned supreme, a brutal testament to their military superiority and unrelenting ambition.