1 Month ago – Capital Urietch, Marl Kingdom

  The sun cast a golden hue over the Marl Kingdom's neutral diplomatic compound, its spires gleaming against the azure sky. Within the grand hall, adorned with intricate tapestries and polished marble floors, two figures stood in silent anticipation.

  Ambassador Faisal Al-Mutairi of Saudi Arabia adjusted his cufflinks, his gaze steady yet contemptive. Beside him, Ambassador Khalid Al-Nahyan of the United Arab Emirates maintained a composed demeanor, his hands csped behind his back. The air was thick with anticipation, each man aware of the significance of the impending meeting.

  A soft chime echoed through the hall, signaling the arrival of the Parpaldian delegation. The grand doors opened with a measured grace, revealing Envoy-General Kaios and his entourage. Dressed in formal military attire, Kaios exuded an air of restrained urgency.

  As they approached, the ambassadors stepped forward, offering respectful nods.

  Ambassador Al-Mutairi "Envoy-General Kaios, welcome. We trust your journey was uneventful."

  Envoy-General Kaios "Ambassador Al-Mutairi, Ambassador Al-Nahyan, thank you for receiving us on such short notice. The journey was smooth, and we appreciate your hospitality."

  The trio exchanged formal pleasantries, each word carefully chosen to maintain the delicate bance of diplomacy.

  Ambassador Al-Nahyan "Shall we proceed to the conference room? We have prepared refreshments and ensured all necessary accommodations for our discussions."

  Envoy-General Kaios "Lead the way, Ambassador."

  The group moved through the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly. The walls bore portraits of past diplomatic engagements, a testament to the Marl Kingdom's role as a neutral ground for international discourse.

  Upon entering the conference room, they were greeted by a polished mahogany table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Crystal decanters of water and trays of assorted delicacies adorned the table, untouched.

  As they took their seats, a brief silence settled, each participant gathering their thoughts.

  Ambassador Al-Mutairi "Envoy-General, we understand the gravity of your situation. Please, share with us the nature of your request."

  Envoy-General Kaios "Thank you, Ambassador. As you're aware, the Parpaldian Empire faces a dire threat from insurgent forces. Their tactics are unconventional, their ideology radical. Our conventional methods have proven insufficient."

  Ambassador Al-Nahyan "We have received reports of escating violence and instability within your territories. The situation is indeed concerning."

  Envoy-General Kaios "Precisely. We seek your expertise and support in countering this threat. Your experience in dealing with simir insurgencies could prove invaluable."

  Ambassador Al-Mutairi "We appreciate your candor, Envoy-General. However, before we delve into specifics, we must understand the full scope of the situation. Transparency is essential for effective colboration."

  Envoy-General Kaios "Of course. I am prepared to provide comprehensive intelligence reports and strategic assessments. Our goal is to establish a partnership that ensures regional stability."

  The ambassadors exchanged gnces, a silent communication passing between them.

  Ambassador Al-Nahyan "Very well. We are open to discussing potential avenues of support. Let us review the materials you've prepared."

  Envoy-General Kaios produced a leather-bound dossier, pcing it on the table. As the ambassadors began to peruse its contents, the room fell into a contemptive silence, each man acutely aware of the weight of the decisions to come.

  Ambassador Al-Nahyan carefully flipped through the pages of the dossier, his fingers lingering on a map marked with insurgent hotspots and handwritten casualty estimates. The numbers were staggering. Whole districts destabilized. Colonial ports raided. Parpaldian garrisons either routed or vanished.

  "This is... extensive," he muttered.

  Al-Mutairi folded his hands on the table. "Your intelligence appears thorough, Envoy-General. But tell us—how far does this reach? Are we looking at regional containment or a full-scale colpse?"

  Kaios hesitated. A flicker of frustration danced across his otherwise controlled expression. "We are managing containment for now. But the longer these cells operate unchallenged, the more legitimacy they gain among disenfranchised colonial poputions."

  Al-Nahyan nodded slowly, setting the dossier down. "And your leadership? Are they prepared for the structural reforms that a joint counterinsurgency framework may require?"

  Kaios stiffened. "We understand the implications of requesting foreign assistance. I have been granted leeway to negotiate, within limits."

  Al-Mutairi leaned forward slightly. "Let us be clear. Limited support from us will require reciprocal actions. Intelligence flow must be open. Operational autonomy will need to be negotiated. And Parpaldia must refrain from uniteral actions that could derail coordinated efforts."

  "You wish for joint command?" Kaios asked, voice carefully neutral.

  "No," said Al-Nahyan. "But we cannot support a war effort blindfolded. Our cooperation must be strategic, not symbolic."

  The room fell into silence again. A breeze from the window stirred the corner of one of the maps. Outside, the Marl Kingdom's gardens whispered in the afternoon sun.

  Kaios finally spoke, his voice quieter. "Then allow me to ask pinly—what exactly are you offering?"

  Al-Mutairi answered. "A shipment of military aid. Crates of small arms, market-avaible drones for reconnaissance, portable explosives for demolitions. All deniable. All effective. And potentially scable if your cooperation continues."

  Kaios exhaled, nodding slightly. It was more than he had feared, but far less than he had hoped.

  Al-Nahyan added, "But we also require a signal. To your people. To ours. That Parpaldia is not merely seeking convenience, but willing to shoulder accountability."

  Kaios's brow furrowed. "A signal?"

  "A public joint communiqué," Al-Mutairi said. "You announce a regional security cooperation pact with Earth partners. Frame it as a sovereign initiative. We'll supply the nguage."

  The envoy-general's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. For a moment, the mask slipped. A glint of exhaustion. Of pride, fraying at the seams.

  "And if the Senate refuses?"

  "Then our offer expires quietly," Al-Nahyan said. "And we explore other, less centralized security partnerships in the region."

  The implication was clear. Earth powers wouldn't hesitate to shift backing to Parpaldia's colonies, breakaway provinces—or worse.

  Kaios stood, slowly. "You will have your communiqué draft within three days. But let the record show—this is not submission."

  Al-Mutairi rose as well, offering a nod. "It is survival. And survival always requires adaptation."

  Kaios looked to the window—beyond it, the Marl Kingdom's fg fluttered above a row of embassies. His own colors flew there too, for now.

  "We will adapt," he said, almost to himself.

  The meeting adjourned with ritual grace. But the fracture lines in Parpaldia's empire had widened. And in a sunlit neutral hall, history shifted by inches.

  Later that afternoon, the two delegations reconvened in a private inspection chamber—an enclosed courtyard converted into a secure review area. Crates of equipment were lined along a sandstone wall, each sealed and beled in Arabic, English, and Marl script.

  Kaios walked past rows of matte bck rifles, quadcopters packed in foam, and compact crates marked with demolition symbols. His aides remained silent, their expressions unreadable.

  On the opposite side, Al-Mutairi and Al-Nahyan spoke quietly with a Marl liaison officer, observing the Parpaldian reaction.

  "They expected less," Al-Nahyan said. "But they're afraid to show relief."

  Al-Mutairi watched Kaios closely. "Pride can hide desperation. But it can't rebuild colpsed provinces."

  Kaios approached, running a gloved hand over one of the drone containers. "These are... not surplus."

  "Correct," Al-Mutairi replied. "They're functional. Not elegant. But reliable."

  "And you trust us to deploy them as agreed?"

  Al-Nahyan met his gaze evenly. "No. But we trust that the alternative is worse."

  The tension held for a long moment. Then Kaios gave a tight nod.

  The two sides turned back to the equipment, inspecting it in silence—each weighing not just the weapons, but the unspoken terms behind them.

  August 2, 1639 – Imperial Pace, Esthirant

  The Obsidian Chamber was colder than usual.

  Dark polished stone curved around the room like a judge's bench. Braziers flickered along the walls, casting long shadows over engraved depictions of imperial conquest—carved reminders of a past that no longer matched the present.

  Envoy-General Kaios stood before a crescent of thrones and velvet-draped chairs, each occupied by the elite of Parpaldia's ruling css. At the center sat Emperor Ludius, elevated on a ptform behind an ornate screen. The sovereign rarely spoke in these councils, but his presence—remote and silent—carried weight like gravity.

  To his right sat Ruperther, the Emperor's ever-stoic advisor, hands csped atop his ivory staff. On the opposite side stood Princess Remille, draped in indigo silk, her gaze sharp behind a veil of practiced serenity.

  Kaios could feel the undercurrent before he spoke: suspicion, hostility, fear dressed as righteousness. It ran through the chamber like a low, invisible current, coiling behind the polished words and ceremonial masks. He adjusted his colr, swallowed once, and stepped forward.

  "Your Majesties. High Council. I return from the Marl Kingdom with results. The Earth nations—specifically representatives of the Gulf states—have agreed to assist."

  The words fell like iron onto the stone floor.

  Murmurs erupted across the crescent-shaped table. Some leaned forward in interest. Others recoiled instinctively, as if a foreign contagion had entered the room.

  "Assistance," repeated Rius, director of the Second Foreign Affairs Department, his voice slick with contempt. "You mean interference."

  Kaios didn't flinch.

  "Guns. Drones. Explosives," he said clearly. "A starter package of tactical support—small, deniable, and immediate. Advisors may follow. All non-combatant. All under our command."

  "So we will have Earth spies walking our streets?" snapped General Sius, the veteran commander whose medals clinked faintly as he shifted in his seat. "This is submission, not strategy."

  Kaios turned to face him directly.

  "It is survival," he replied, more firmly than he expected. "Our colonial garrisons are colpsing. Outposts in the archipego are already lost. Intelligence has failed. If we do nothing, we will lose the Aruni isnds within months—perhaps weeks."

  "Then we retake them with our own blood!" Sius roared, striking the table with a gauntleted fist. "We have never—never—outsourced our wars!"

  Kaios didn't blink.

  "We already are," he said, quieter. But his voice cracked—not with fear, but with the weight of truth. "And we are running out of sons."

  That silenced the room. No rhetorical flourishes. No rebuttal. Just numbers behind the ache.

  Even Rius, always ready with a counter, exhaled through his nose and said nothing.

  A rustle of silk broke the silence.

  Princess Remille leaned forward, her voice calm, elegant, lethal in its crity.

  "Envoy-General Kaios. You mentioned terms. What, precisely, do the Earth nations require of us in return for this... support?"

  Kaios drew a sealed leather dossier from within his coat and id it gently on the cquered table. The gesture was deliberate—symbolic. A transfer of secrets. A quiet surrender of walls.

  "Transparency. Joint coordination. Access to insurgent case files, troop movements, and communications protocols. They want to know who they're aiding—and what they're aiding them against."

  Remille studied the dossier without touching it. Her eyes remained fixed on Kaios, expression unreadable beneath the veil of court composure. Around her, other council members shifted—some stiffened, some averted their gaze.

  "They don't trust us," said Elt, head of the First Foreign Affairs Department, shaking his head with visible frustration.

  Kaios's reply was immediate.

  "No one does anymore. Not even our own people."

  The chamber was silent again—but this time, not from offense. From recognition.

  The dossier sat unopened on the cquered table like a sealed confession.

  Silence reigned for a long moment before General Sius broke it again, this time with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.

  "So we'll take these foreign toys and pretend it doesn't make us their vassals?"

  Kaios stayed silent.

  Elt, ever the polished orator, took a more sardonic angle.

  "Even the rebels have those things. Drones, cheap rifles, bombs. There's nothing to worry about when we have it—only when they do."

  He leaned back, fingers steepled, smug.

  "Now we merely join the ranks of the desperate."

  That drew a bitter scoff from Minister Valda, head of Internal Affairs, seated like a hawk draped in velvet.

  "We are desperate, Elt. But I would rather be armed and shamed than disarmed and buried."

  Sius was unmoved.

  "We built fleets that shook continents. Our empire was once feared! The weapons we once thought were the most advanced in the Third Civilization—now obsolete creations compared to the ISIS barbarians who sughtered our garrisons like cattle."

  He stood halfway, fists clenched.

  "And now you bring their makers into our walls."

  Kaios felt the temperature drop. That name—ISIS—still sent ripples through every military report, every field briefing, every bloodied communiqué. The ambush in Aruni. The prisoners beheaded on holocrystals. The drone footage that showed a whole Parpaldian base overrun in under ten minutes.

  No one interrupted him. They didn't need to.

  "With that thought," Sius growled, "you can make hundreds and millions of Parpaldians fall!"

  A young officer, present as an aide to Bertran, flinched visibly. It was fear—but not of the Earth weapons. Of how hollow their own might had become.

  Bertran, seasoned but pragmatic, finally spoke, his voice gruff and low.

  "Or maybe we give them a reason not to fall."

  He looked at Kaios.

  "You're right about one thing. We are losing ground. And the ones who suffer are the boys we send without enough rifles, without enough air cover. If Earth weapons keep them breathing, then it's worth the stink."

  Rius leaned forward, tapping the table sharply.

  "You would let foreign doctrine take root in our homend? That's how colonies become protectorates. Then dependencies. Then history."

  The room tensed.

  "And what are we now, Rius?" asked Valda, cold as marble. "A sovereign power? We can't even protect a vilge from cave-dwelling radicals."

  Her words nded hard. A few cabinet members murmured in low tones. The fault lines were no longer political—they were existential. Those clinging to pride, and those clinging to survival.

  The Emperor had said nothing.

  But now, the curtains of the dais stirred.

  A single chime echoed—a ritual cue. Every minister stood. The Emperor stepped forward, robes billowing in controlled, ceremonial waves.

  Ludius, ruler of the Parpaldian Empire, looked older than his portraits suggested. His voice, though, was unyielding.

  "The Empire does not break because it is bruised."

  Silence.

  "It does not colpse because its borders fray or its enemies multiply."

  He stepped closer to the table. His gaze swept the chamber like a bde.

  "The Empire breaks only when its stewards stop believing it is worth bleeding for."

  A pause. Then—

  "This council may debate tools, alliances, and concessions. That is wise. But make no mistake: this is not a debate about our identity. This is about our endurance."

  "Pride is not armor. It is not strategy. And it is not enough."

  He let that hang. Even Sius said nothing.

  "Let them send their drones. Let them send their crates and rifles and operators. Let the world think we are weakened."

  He pced a hand ft on the dossier Kaios had left behind.

  "We will use their tools. Not because we bend to them—but because we survive them."

  Now his voice hardened.

  "Parpaldia is not a relic. It is an anvil. We are struck. We are reforged. And when we strike back—when we are ready—it will not be in desperation. It will be in judgment."

  There was a sharp, still silence afterward.

  Even Rius bowed his head, ever so slightly.

  Remille didn't move. But her eyes flicked toward Kaios, just for a moment.

  Kaios exhaled slowly.

  The Emperor's words didn't erase the fractures in the room. But they bridged them—temporarily. Enough to pass the measure. Enough to receive the aid.

  Enough to keep the Empire alive—one more day.

  The Obsidian Chamber was nearly empty.

  Where moments ago it had echoed with thunderous debate and sharpened ideologies, now only a pair of voices remained—low, steady, and far from the bombast of the council floor.

  Kaios stood near the table where the leather dossier still y, unopened since the Emperor's closing words. His gloves rested beside it, fingers curled inward like clenched thoughts. Sweat clung to his colr, not from heat, but pressure.

  Across from him, Princess Remille lingered. She hadn't followed the others out, nor had she signaled her intent to stay. She simply remained—watching, thinking.

  Kaios broke the silence.

  "I expected worse."

  Remille tilted her head.

  "You didn't get better."

  "No," Kaios admitted. "But a crack is better than a colpse."

  She walked slowly to the dossier, tracing a finger along its edge.

  "Do you believe they'll keep their word? The Earth envoys?"

  "So far, yes. But their trust is pragmatic. Conditional. If we falter again, they'll shift allegiances without hesitation."

  He rubbed his eyes.

  "I've seen it in their eyes. They don't see Parpaldia as an empire. They see it as... a project. A patient."

  Remille sat, crossing her legs with the deliberate poise of royalty trained for war through diplomacy.

  "And do you see us that way?"

  Kaios paused.

  "No," he said. "I see us as a nation that's spent too long polishing the ruins of its own mythology."

  The princess didn't respond at first. She simply stared at him—quiet, probing.

  "You spoke pinly today," she said. "Rare for someone in your position."

  Kaios gave a tired smile.

  "Pin words are hard to twist."

  "And yet," she said, "they make enemies faster than lies."

  He nodded.

  "Then I'll make enemies. But I'd like to know I still have allies."

  She leaned forward.

  "That depends. What are you trying to build, Kaios? Survival is not the same as vision."

  Kaios met her eyes.

  "I want a Parpaldia that doesn't fear mirrors. That doesn't kill messengers or silence its own reformers. I want us to outlive this storm—not as a memory, but as a power."

  "Ambitious," she murmured. "But lonely."

  A beat.

  "And you, Highness? What do you want?"

  Remille stood. Her steps were slow as she walked to the tall window at the far end of the chamber. Outside, Esthirant glowed under dusk—the streetlights flickering like uncertain stars.

  "I want to know this country will still be standing when my father is gone," she said. "I want to know it won't colpse the moment I inherit it."

  "Do you think it will?" he asked quietly.

  She looked over her shoulder, not answering right away.

  "I think the wrong people believe they'll still be in control when it does."

  That nded heavy.

  Kaios folded his arms, exhaling through his nose. The tension of the council still clung to his bones.

  "You know Elto's already preparing a speech to rewrite what happened here today. Sius will leak rumors of betrayal. Rius will do nothing and still cim victory."

  "And you?" Remille asked.

  "I'll be called arrogant. Maybe un-Parpaldian."

  "Were you?"

  Kaios turned to her, surprised by the question.

  "I was honest," he said. "And we both know that's what they hate most."

  She smiled—not warmly, but with recognition.

  "You should come with me," she said.

  "Where?"

  "The West Wing. There's a briefing tomorrow at dawn. The first crates from the Earth shipment are being catalogued at the docks. I want someone there who understands both the gift and the trap."

  Kaios didn't answer immediately.

  "I've spent the st month convincing Earth diplomats that we're not backward zealots," he said. "Now I'll spend the next month convincing our own people that accepting help isn't treason."

  "And when that fails?" she asked.

  "Then we use the tools anyway. Quietly. Until they start working."

  Remille nodded once, satisfied.

  "Good. Then we're on the same path. Even if no one else knows it yet."

  Imperial Garden

  The stars had begun to emerge.

  A narrow gravel path curved through the private imperial gardens—hushed, heavily guarded, and scented with twilight dew. Kaios and Remille walked slowly, side by side, their steps the only sound besides rustling leaves.

  "You know they'll come for you," she said quietly.

  Kaios smirked.

  "They already have. They just don't realize I've stopped fearing their scorn."

  "Not scorn," she corrected. "Silencing. Discrediting. Perhaps worse."

  "Then I'll need more than titles to survive."

  "You'll need me," she said pinly.

  Kaios stopped walking.

  "Are you offering an alliance, or an arrangement?"

  Remille turned to face him, the garden light tracing the edges of her face—noble, young, weary.

  "An understanding," she said. "You move forward. I keep the roof from falling on your head."

  He considered it.

  "Deal," he said. "But I want one more thing."

  "Name it."

  "When the storm passes, and the throne is yours... don't forget who helped you keep it from being buried."

  Remille's answer was a nod.

  "If we reach that day, there won't be much left to forget."

  They reached the garden gate, where a guard waited in silent formality.

  Remille turned to Kaios one st time.

  "Thank you. For not groveling. For not folding."

  "Thank you," he said, "for still listening."

  She stepped into the pace, leaving Kaios alone with the stars—and a war not yet fought.

  Midnight

  The city shimmered like a dying consteltion.

  From the balcony of the Eastern Spire, Kaios watched Esthirant stretch out below, its towers and domes cloaked in the gold-and-gray haze of nightfall. It was a beautiful view—imperial, orderly, eternal on the surface. But to Kaios, it looked like scaffolding around a corpse.

  Trade ships still dotted the bay. Temples still rang their bells. But he could see the bones beneath the glow. The empty factories. The silent shipyards. The soldiers being buried quietly under vague citations of "training accidents."

  Everything was still functioning. Nothing was thriving.

  He leaned forward against the iron railing, fingers curled tightly around the edge. Somewhere far below, the first Earth-made drone was being unloaded into a guarded warehouse at Dock 7.

  That's how empires die, he thought.Not with fire. But with foreign parts and nervous silence.

  Boots scraped behind him.

  He didn't turn around.

  "Sir," the aide said softly. "Word just came from the docks. The first shipment has arrived. Marked as agricultural aid, just as arranged."

  Kaios nodded.

  "Condition?"

  "Intact. Crated. No one from the civilian manifest noticed. But..." The aide hesitated.

  Kaios finally turned, his face pale but calm.

  "But?"

  "The handlers at the dock overheard some of the colonial officers. They're already talking."

  Kaios raised an eyebrow.

  "About what?"

  "That this is the beginning of something bigger. That the advisors who follow the crates won't stop at giving orders."

  The aide looked uncomfortable.

  "Some say we're inviting occupation through the back door. That Earth advisors will become Earth governors."

  Kaios let out a slow breath, looking back toward the harbor.

  "Then we prove them wrong," he said.

  He let the words sit. Then added, with less certainty:

  "Or we make them right on our own terms."

  The aide didn't respond. Neither agreed nor questioned it. He knew better.

  Later that night, Kaios sat alone in a modest chamber—part office, part war room—located two floors beneath his residence. It had no portraits. No banners. Just maps. Redacted printouts. Holograms. Old war trophies turned into ashtrays.

  He unsealed the first Earth crate with his own hands.

  Inside: rows of standardized rifles. Modified AK derivatives. Simple, reliable, effective.

  He set one on the desk like a relic dug up from a more efficient civilization.

  Beside it, a second box. Inside: micro-drones, palm-sized, with thermal optics. Silent rotors. Civilian-market bodies, retrofitted with military firmware. Nothing that would change the world—but enough to burn holes through insurgent bunkers.

  He tapped the side of one drone and watched it blink to life for a moment before powering down.

  A third crate remained unopened. Marked: TYPE-B – Shaped Charge, Controlled Yield.

  Not fshy. Not revolutionary. But lethal. Untraceable. Deniable.

  Kaios sat down in the low light and stared at all three.

  "These aren't weapons," he muttered. "They're leverage."

  He didn't just mean leverage against the insurgents.

  He meant the old guard. Sius. Elto. The church. The colonies that thought of Esthirant as a memory instead of a mother.

  He meant the empire itself.

  A coded triple-tap. Kaios gnced at the wall clock—well past midnight.

  "Enter."

  The door opened and Bertran stepped inside, unarmored, in pin ministerial robes. His face was tired but resolute.

  "I thought you might be awake," Bertran said.

  "Bad habit," Kaios replied.

  Bertran eyed the crates, then the rifle on the desk.

  "So it's true. We're armed by foreigners now."

  "No," Kaios said. "We're surviving with foreign tools."

  "For now."

  The general circled the table, brushing a finger along the rifle's frame.

  "They'll use this as proof you've sold us out."

  Kaios looked up.

  "Let them. As long as we live long enough for history to judge us."

  Bertran crossed his arms.

  "Do you think this will be enough?"

  "To win? No. To dey colpse? Yes."

  "And after that?"

  Kaios didn't answer.

  Before retiring, Kaios wrote a short note on official parchment. No cipher. No embellishment.

  Highness,The weapons have arrived. Quietly, as promised.I'll inspect the shaped charges tomorrow.Dock 7 has been reinforced. No leaks so far.Still—expect them soon.Enemies within move faster than any drone.– K

  He sealed it with wax and sent it via personal courier, bypassing pace bureaucracy entirely.

  Let them spy on paperwork, he thought. I'll use paper they don't expect.

  Kaios stood once more at the balcony before retiring.

  He looked again at Esthirant, and now, despite the quiet and the night and the glow, he imagined the sound of gunfire in the streets.

  Could it come here?The insurgents were still far from the capital. But what insurgents had ever needed to march when all they had to do was wait?

  Could Earth flip the board?Could one envoy, one general, one drone operator decide that Parpaldia wasn't worth the investment and simply pull the plug?

  Could the old guard sabotage the whole thing out of spite?He knew at least two ministers who'd rather see the Empire fall than change.

  He leaned on the railing and stared at the water.

  "Let them try," he whispered.

  Then he turned and shut the door.

  September 7, 1639 – Northeast Vilge, Contested Zone – Aruni, Parpaldia Empire

  The vilge was burning.

  Gunfire cracked through the air like bones snapping in rapid succession. Tracer rounds streaked between shattered huts and charred palm trees, illuminating the misty haze of smoke and ash. The air reeked of cordite and scorched blood. Screams echoed across the vilge center—human and inhuman, as desperation collided with discipline.

  "Contact left! Third hut—five, no, six hostiles!"

  Corporal Linhardt Velin pivoted sharply, leveling his M16A4. His enchanted visor fred with a runic overy, marking enemy silhouettes in glowing red. He fired three tight bursts—two insurgents dropped before they could rise from cover, the third staggered, then vanished in a cloud of icy mist as Private Elgar raised his hands.

  The Empire's most elite wizards, adapting fast, efficient, and terrifying. An irreparable asset of the empire.

  "Freeze Hex—Three-Point Cascade!"

  The remaining insurgents were fsh-frozen mid-step, limbs locked mid-run, mouths open in unfinished war cries. Frost exploded outward like a shockwave. Shards of ice sparkled briefly in the moonlight before melting on contact with the scorched dirt. Their bodies colpsed like shattered statues.

  "Clear left! Advance to the centerline!" Linhardt barked, voice hard and focused.

  His team moved like fluid shadow—six soldiers wrapped in deep navy cloaks with crimson trim, armor ptes engraved with imperial sigils, and high-durability Kevr melded with mana-reinforced threads. Each bore a rifle—some M16s, others AK-47 variants or surplus Chinese Type 56s—but their deadliest weapon wasn't their gear.

  It was what they were.

  The 2nd Elite Imperial Magic Caster Division.Imperial Wrath.

  Their boots crunched over broken gss and burning thatch as they advanced into the heart of the vilge. The temperature fluctuated between searing fire and frostbitten chill—evidence of spellwork fresh in the air. Elgar's breath fogged his visor, steam rising off his armored colr even as sweat glistened under his helm. His st frost hex had dropped the temperature in a ten-meter radius. Now it felt like a war between seasons.

  "Eyes sharp," Linhardt warned, his voice cutting through comms. "We're not through it yet."

  To their right, a weather-beaten house with green shutters exploded outward—walls splintering like paper. A pipe bomb, sloppily wrapped in nails and shrapnel, sailed toward them midair.

  "Wall Hex! Double Shield—Reflect!" bellowed Sergeant Daere.

  Her arms snapped forward, fingers forming a triangle. A transparent hex barrier shimmered to life, yered twice over, like folding gss. The grenade struck the outer yer with a thunderous cng, the explosion billowing outward—then reversing like a vacuum. Fire and shrapnel surged back into the ruined home, igniting the grenadier who'd thrown it.

  The man's scream sted half a second.

  "Bastard melted his own face," Daere muttered, already scanning for the next threat. She drew her sidearm with a smooth, practiced motion.

  From above, tracer rounds raked across the pza like fming needles. A rooftop two buildings down fred with muzzle fshes as a PKM machine gun lit up the square. Its operator—bearded, scarfed, yelling in Arabic—cackled as the gun tore into the ruined cobblestone.

  "Suppressive fire!" Linhardt shouted.

  Private Marn dropped to one knee behind a shattered cart, propped his Type 56 against the edge of a burnt-out fence, and returned fire in quick bursts.

  Linhardt didn't waste a second. His off-hand rose, index and middle finger glowing bright red.

  "Ignis Shot—Ricochet Variant!"

  A compressed fireball spiraled from his palm like a comet. It smmed into a burned-out water tank, ricocheted with unnatural speed, and crashed into the rooftop nest with a detonating whoosh. The gunner had time to scream once—then vanished in a plume of smoke and scorched limbs.

  From behind the shrine, more insurgents emerged—five, maybe six—armed with a mix of AKs and captured Parpaldian sidearms. One wore a stolen Imperial military vest, bloodied and mismatched. Another held a fre in his hand, signaling the drone team overhead.

  "Push forward! Al-mawt lil-kuffar!" one screamed.("Death to the unbelievers!")

  Another ughed as he unched a rocket-propelled grenade toward the squad's direction.

  "You think your magic makes you gods? Your Empire dies in fire!"

  "Counter Hex! Cone Split!" shouted Juno, dropping into a kneel.

  Three hex-shields formed in a triple fan, each etched with glowing violet runes. The RPG smashed into the central barrier—cracking it but not penetrating. The impact redirected it slightly—causing the round to veer and explode against a nearby well.

  "They're using our old tech!" Marn spat. "How the hell did they get those vests?"

  "Probably looted from Fort Aruni," Daere said grimly. "From our dead."

  "Then we take it back," Linhardt growled. "Elgar, light 'em."

  Elgar inhaled sharply, then raised his arms, chanting in low, resonant tones.

  "Frost Chain—Entanglement Protocol: Sleet Vine."

  Blue vines of ice erupted from the cracked earth beneath the insurgents, spiraling up their legs. The first militant screamed as frost crawled up his thighs, cracking skin and freezing muscle. Another tried to shoot downward—his bullets shattering against the living frost as it gripped tighter, faster, stronger.

  One of the insurgents, pinned to the ground, yelled back desperately:

  "They are demons! Shoot their faces! Aim for the faces!"

  "They bleed just like us!" barked another. "Alh is greater!"

  He raised a homemade thermite charge above his head.

  "Shahid! Shahid!"

  "He's gonna suicide!" Marn yelled.

  "No, he won't." Linhardt raised one finger."Thermal Snap—Direct Core Surge."

  A tight burst of superheated magic struck the charge in the man's hand. It exploded instantly, disintegrating both arms and blowing his chest open in a molten spray.

  From the east, another wave rushed in—smaller, tighter, moving through narrow alleys and ducking under balconies. These were no amateurs—they were fast, smart, and using broken terrain like veterans.

  "Status!" Linhardt barked over the squad net.

  "Left fnk clear!""Right holding—pressure's building near the shrine!"

  Juno tapped her comm-bead, breathing hard.

  "Captain, enemy signals fring around the eastern alley—looks like they're regrouping with rooftop coverage."

  Linhardt scanned his visor's HUD, then narrowed his eyes. The enemy wasn't retreating. They were maneuvering—trying to pinch the squad and box them into the courtyard.

  "They're trying to fnk and lock us in. Cut through the central corridor—burn out the nest near the old bell tower."

  "On it!" Daere called, sprinting forward.

  As Daere and Marn swept toward the bell tower, two insurgents on the second story opened fire—short, accurate bursts.

  "Covering fire!" Marn shouted, sending rounds into their window.

  One insurgent ducked back, yelling:

  "You can't kill faith, Imperial pigs! This nd is not yours!"

  Daere raised a glowing palm.

  "Kinetic Lance—Pulse Hammer!"

  A thin beam of blue light surged forward—silent and fast. It hit the wall below the insurgents and exploded upward like a battering ram. The second floor colpsed beneath them.

  On the far side, Elgar activated a rune sewn into the lining of his cloak and slid across debris like ice, spinning to one knee beside a crate of potatoes.

  He held up both arms.

  "Cryo Sunder—Shatter Bloom!"

  A sphere of condensed ice formed in his hands, then detonated in all directions. Freezing spikes stabbed into every shadow for ten meters. Screams echoed. One insurgent staggered out—blood trailing down his legs—before Daere finished him with a clean shot.

  With the machine gun nest reduced to rubble and the fnking maneuver broken, Linhardt regrouped the team in the center pza.

  "Clear status!"

  "Juno, green.""Elgar, green.""Marn, good.""Daere—some bruising."

  They were battered. But intact.

  Behind them, the remaining insurgents began to flee toward the vilge outskirts—scrambling over fences, dropping gear, some screaming about "djinn in uniforms."

  Linhardt stared after them. Then clicked his comm.

  "Do not pursue. Let the medics through."

  They'd broken the back of the ambush.

  The ground smoked beneath them. Frost met fire in swirling pockets. Bodies littered the square—twisted, burned, frozen mid-sprint.

  Marn let out a shaky breath.

  "Forty-plus down. We were supposed to lose this one."

  "We didn't," Linhardt replied. "Because they didn't send an army this time."

  He looked around at his squad—six ghosts in cloaks, rifles still warm, mana still crackling around their armor.

  "They sent Wrath."

  They sprinted down a tight alley between two colpsed buildings, the corridor so narrow their shoulders brushed ash-stained walls. The sun had long dipped beneath the jungle canopy, casting the passage into flickering shadow—only the pulse of nearby fmes and HUD overys kept the world lit.

  "Stack tight! Watch the windows!" Linhardt called.

  Private Elgar took the lead, one hand on his rifle grip, the other glowing faintly as he fed passive mana into his outer hex-yer. Marn covered the rear, rifle shouldered, eyes darting between rooftops.

  They were halfway down when a harsh shout broke the quiet.

  "Yalh! Now—now!"

  A burst of automatic fire erupted from above.

  Two insurgents burst from a second-story window to their left, silhouetted by firelight. One had a rusted AKM, the other a battered CAR-15—likely captured from Earth-aided forces. The AKM gunman sprayed wildly. Bullets cnged off Elgar's enchanted shoulder pte, sparks and spent mana flickering like fireflies.

  "Contact high! Window—twelve o'clock!" Marn shouted.

  Elgar didn't flinch. The impact had rattled him, but not slowed him. His feet slid wide, center lowered, and both hands came up like a duelist drawing an invisible bow.

  "Cryo Dart—Pierce Configuration!" he snarled.

  Two narrow spears of ice formed midair—glinting cobalt, each glowing with internal runes. With a flick of his wrists, they unched upward at absurd velocity.

  The first dart impaled the AKM gunman straight through the chest. It kept going, pinning him to the back wall. Blood sprayed down the alley like bck paint.

  The second insurgent saw the light and screamed—

  "La—, stop! Wait—"

  Too te. The second dart skewered his left thigh, then burst into sub-zero vapor. His body froze mid-fall, shattering when it hit the stone alley floor.

  Then came the ctter.

  "Grenade!" Marn shouted.

  The second insurgent had dropped a live grenade just before impact—an old Russian F1 model, yellow-ringed, cooking fast.

  "Air Bubble!" Linhardt snapped.

  His palm struck the air in front of him. A glowing dome of compressed mana formed instantly, shimmering blue and white like a heat mirage flipped inside out.

  The grenade exploded a half-second ter.

  The pressure hit the shield with a thunderous boom, fire and shrapnel blossoming outward—then curving inward, bouncing along the dome's compressed contours. The energy folded and spun, sucking the explosion back into itself.

  The bst didn't reach the team—but the heat cracked stone, and the noise left ears ringing.

  "That was close," Marn said, shaking his head.

  "Too slow," Linhardt replied. "Next time, faster trigger discipline."

  Before they could catch their breath, Juno called out.

  "More upstairs!"

  A third insurgent popped out of a rooftop hatch across the alley—this one carrying a sawed-off shotgun and wearing a salvaged Imperial chestpte over civilian robes.

  "They're inside the buildings! Ambush pattern!"

  He fired. The bst struck Juno's side but was caught by her yered cloak—embedded mana cloth shimmered, dispersing kinetic energy like ripples in water.

  Juno winced.

  "Mana flux destabilized. One more like that and my cloak's toast."

  "I've got him," Elgar growled.

  "No—watch left. I'll take the roof," Linhardt countered.

  He raised his hand and invoked.

  "Ignis Bolt—Magnet Burst."

  A palm-sized fireball formed, crackling with red sparks and heavy with condensed charge. It unched toward the rooftop and then, at the st second, detonated with a directional magnetic pulse, yanking the shotgun out of the insurgent's hands—and tearing off two fingers in the process.

  The insurgent screamed, stumbled back—and tripped into his own trap.

  A tripwire snapped underfoot.

  "Trap!—Topside!" Juno shouted.

  But the explosion was localized. A ceiling-mounted fuel canister above the alley ignited, raining down fming debris.

  "Shield Dome—Inversion Field!" Daere snapped.

  She projected her own barrier, forming a horizontal disc above the squad. The fming oil and wood bounced off the inverted hex like rain on a drum.

  "Push through!" Linhardt ordered. "We're stuck in a kill zone."

  They advanced, firing at every rooftop, balcony, and window.

  "Marn, right stairwell!""Clear!""Juno, any visual on thermal?"

  "Two heat signatures above us—holding corners. Might have RPG."

  "On me. Breach and burn."

  They reached the stairwell. Linhardt kicked the door in.

  The room inside was dim and choked with smoke. A small fire burned in one corner, casting light across two militants waiting with rifles trained.

  "You're too te!" one snarled in Arabic. "The empire is dead—we buried it in Aruni!"

  "You should've dug deeper," Linhardt snapped back.

  "Fshfire Hex—Vertical Spiral!"

  A fme cyclone erupted from his fingertips and carved through the room, swallowing the defenders in a howling column of fire. Their screams were cut short by incineration.

  "Clear," he said.

  On the rooftop now, the wind picked up—smoke blowing east.

  Linhardt turned to see Elgar, Daere, and Juno holding the center alley, casting spells through broken windows, calling out enemy positions with clinical calm.

  A final wave of insurgents broke cover below—eight men running through the alley with suicide vests and SMGs. They screamed in unison:

  "Shahid! Shahid!""With us is fire! With you is weakness!"

  Linhardt raised his comm.

  "Elgar. Signature spell. Take them."

  Elgar's eyes pulsed blue.

  "Cryo Barrage—Absolute Zero."

  He raised both hands and drew a complex rune in the air. A vortex of snow and vapor formed overhead, compressing until it shrieked.

  The moment it touched the alley floor, the world snapped silent.

  Everything in a 15-meter cone froze instantly—mid-run, mid-yell, mid-breath.

  The suicide squad turned to crystalline statues. One tripped, shattering the others like gss dolls.

  The squad stood still, panting, weapons lowered.

  Shards of ice and burning debris littered the alley. Steam hissed as frost met fme.

  "Anyone else want to try?" Juno asked no one in particur.

  "Doubt it," Daere muttered. "They're out of prayers."

  In the main pza, the enemy dug in like ticks in scorched flesh.

  A dozen insurgents had fortified the steps of the vilge's broken temple. Behind sbs of repurposed metal pting and sandbags, they y with belt-fed PKM and MG3 machine guns, surrounded by crates of homemade molotovs, grenades, and captured rifles. Smoke billowed from burning braziers—half spiritual, half tactical, masking their silhouettes.

  Downrange, vilgers cowered behind makeshift barricades—stacked tables, broken wagons, even a colpsed shrine gate. Screams leaked out in waves. A woman tried to crawl away from the firefight, dragging a limp toddler. Her older daughter pulled her back, sobbing.

  Linhardt ducked behind a stone pilr and tapped his comm.

  "This is Wrath Alpha. We've got LMG entrenchment at the temple perimeter. Civilians in line of fire. Requesting permission—artillery-grade."

  The voice from command crackled in through the static.

  "Permission granted. Precision fire only. Do not level the vilge."

  Linhardt switched channels.

  "Elgar. Burn it."

  Elgar's breathing changed. His gauntlets clinked softly as he lowered his rifle and pnted both boots into the dirt. His eyes glowed—not with rage, but resolve. Mana flooded into the air like static before a storm.

  A glyph—vast and circur—spun open above him, yers of crystalline frost forming with meticulous symmetry.

  "Rime Spear—Heaven Drop Formation."

  The clouds above churned.

  From the sky descended a ten-meter crystalline spear, spiraling with ethereal blue light and threaded through with crackling fire-magic along its jagged shaft. It fell not like an arrow, but a verdict.

  It crashed through the roof of the temple, smmed into the center of the LMG nest, and erupted into an upward bloom of frost, fire, and pulverized stone.

  Three insurgents were instantly vaporized—shredded to mist and armor fragments.

  The rest tried to flee.

  One scrambled over a side barricade, dropping his belt-fed in panic.

  "Retreat! The devils bring ice from the heavens!"

  Another tossed aside his weapon and charged toward the civilians, screaming:

  "You think they'll spare you?! The empire kills all!"

  "Chain Hex—Thermal Overload!" Juno intoned coldly.

  Her right hand glowed amber. Runes spiraled outward from her palm, targeting every remaining kinetic source. The screaming insurgent burst into fme mid-sprint—flesh turning to charcoal before he could reach the vilgers.

  Another turned his gun on Linhardt.

  He never got a shot off.

  Two rounds, center mass. Linhardt's sidearm whispered its judgment.

  Then, silence.

  Smoke curled from the temple ruins. Shattered banners and bckened skulls littered the steps. The ground still hissed from the rapid temperature shift—ice meeting fire in whorls of steam.

  Linhardt exhaled.

  Juno scanned her HUD visor.

  "Forty-six down. One drone confirmed. No friendlies lost."

  Daere, crouching near a colpsed column, let out a ugh that sounded more like a release of pressure.

  "That's a first."

  Elgar wiped frost from his brow.

  "We're adapting."

  Marn looked out at the courtyard.

  "They never expected magic and M16s."

  The vilgers emerged slowly—like ghosts rising from rubble.

  A boy, maybe seven, crawled from under a splintered house beam. A woman stumbled into the square with a torn shawl and a fractured arm, clutching a baby wrapped in soot-stained fabric. One by one, they came—dozens of them. Faces smudged with ash. Eyes red. But alive.

  An older woman, teeth missing and hair singed, fell to her knees before Daere and began weeping.

  "You saved us," she whispered. "You came... after all this time, you came..."

  Daere knelt beside her.

  "We're te, but not gone."

  Linhardt stepped forward, slinging his rifle behind his back.

  His cloak fluttered lightly in the wind—runic trims still glowing from residual magic, imperial sigil centered between his shoulders.

  He looked over the battered, bleeding survivors—then past them, at the toppled shrine, where a child's sandal hung from a half-colpsed altar.

  "This vilge is secure," he said, projecting his voice over the square. "Medical teams are en route. Stay indoors and off rooftops until we complete our sweep. You're safe now."

  A trembling man, blood on his shirt and soot in his beard, stepped forward. He looked young—but the war had aged him twice over.

  "They told us the Empire was dead," he said, voice barely louder than the wind. "That we were forgotten."

  Linhardt looked at him. Then at the faces behind him.Men, women, elders, children. Their fear hadn't vanished—but something stronger had taken its pce: awe.

  "It's not dead," Linhardt said. "It's angry."

  A pause.

  Then came the cheer—quiet at first, like the crackle of a fme in a damp room. But it spread. A woman raised a fist. A man let out a shout. And soon, the pza echoed with ragged appuse. Not celebration. Relief.

  A child wandered close to Elgar, wide-eyed, and touched the glowing rune on his breastpte.

  "Are you the Sky Knights?" she asked softly.

  Elgar looked down at her, surprised.

  "No," he said after a beat. "But we bring the storm."

  The girl smiled and ran back to her mother.

  The squad regrouped at the center of the square.

  Linhardt crouched to reload and whispered, almost to himself:

  "We're ghosts to them. Weapons with names."

  Daere nodded, checking her sidearm.

  "Good. Maybe that's what the Empire needs."

  "Or maybe it needs us to survive long enough to become more."

  He stood and turned to Elgar.

  "Prep a perimeter. No surprises tonight. We've bled enough."

  "Roger."

  Above them, the clouds cleared—slowly, uncertainly. Moonlight filtered through, softening the harsh edges of the vilge-turned-battleground.

  The Empire was bleeding.

  But tonight, it wasn't dying.

  2 Hours After – Unknown Jungle Redoubt – 37 km Northeast of Aruni Line

  The drone feed stuttered before stabilizing, pixeted smoke wafting up from the broken vilge like incense at a funeral. From above, the temple ruins looked like a shattered jawbone—cracked, bleeding, and ringed with corpses.

  In a dark, foul-smelling bunker, a group of armed men stood around a flickering monitor. The air stank of rust, sweat, and incense burned to mask the blood beneath their boots.

  On screen, Linhardt's squad moved through the square with military grace—exhausted, but victorious.

  One insurgent let out a hissing breath.

  "Look at them... cloaked like death monks. One even kissed a child."

  Another spat on the dirt.

  "The child should've spat back. Let their babies grow into orphans—they deserve nothing else."

  A third, younger fighter with a stitched eyelid chuckled softly.

  "I want to see their faces when we boil their tongues."

  The man seated in the chair remained silent. He leaned forward, hands csped like a priest before judgment.

  Abdul Basir al-Khattab—the architect of a hundred massacres. His voice, when it came, was slow and final.

  "They're not soldiers."

  A long pause. The others waited.

  "They're actors in uniform. They wear Earth's teeth and Parpaldia's robe... but their hearts are still children's toys."

  One of his lieutenants leaned closer, eyes narrow.

  "They use magic, Commander. Real power."

  "Power," al-Khattab repeated, "is nothing if not feared. And they have not yet feared us."

  He pointed to the screen, where Elgar's ice spear impaled a now-ruined shrine.

  "They desecrate ground older than their bloodline. Burn temples to rescue peasants who'll spit their names into the mud next week."

  He stood.

  The others stepped back instinctively.

  "We are not fighting an empire anymore," he said, pacing. "We are fighting a corpse that thinks it still breathes."

  He gestured to the frozen insurgent bodies on-screen.

  "Magicians," he said slowly, "you twist the elements as if creation were yours to rewrite."

  "You paint the air with runes while children choke in fire. You freeze men in prayer. You kill with elegance, then expect praise."

  He turned, face half-shadowed.

  "You will not be given mercy for your poetry."

  The stitched-eyed soldier grinned.

  "Let us melt the skin from their hands—see if they cast fire then."

  Another whispered:

  "Let us bury them alive with their own vilgers, then flood the grave with pigs' blood. See if God hears them scream."

  Al-Khattab raised a hand, silencing them.

  "No. Not yet."

  He picked up a small device from the floor—one of the newer drones recently acquired.

  He stared at it like a serpent he was teaching to bite.

  "Let them see us coming. Let them hear our voices before they die."

  His lips curled into something colder than a smile.

  "Let them understand damnation before the bde even touches them."

  He pressed py on the drone footage again—watching as the camera circled Linhardt and his squad, zooming in frame by frame.

  "We will strike them not as enemies... but as reminders," he said. "That this nd is not saved by mages in armor. It is cleansed in suffering."

  Evening – September 8, 1639 – Southern Jungle Theater, Forward Operating Trenches

  The thunder of distant shellfire rumbled through the trees.

  The jungle had turned into a bckened crucible—choked by smoke, twisted metal, and the moans of the wounded. A once-proud Parpaldian line now clung to a shallow trench network dug into the red cy, stretching through scorched palms and half-flooded gullies. Rainwater and blood mixed underfoot. Mosquitoes circled helmets. The trees hissed with fire, not rain.

  Linhardt and the rest of Imperial Wrath moved silently through the brush—armor humming faintly, visors dimmed, rifles held low. The forest seemed to part for them.

  Even here, in the Empire's worst hour, the name Wrath carried weight.

  They emerged at the edge of the trench line—where weary soldiers raised dull eyes at the sound of approaching boots. At first, just another patrol. But then the cloaks appeared. The rune-glow. The rifles.

  One corporal—mud-caked, sleepless—whispered, half in disbelief:

  "Wrath..."

  The word passed like static down the line. Helmets turned. Faces lifted. Hope—fragile and flickering—caught fire.

  The trench had been manned by conscripts—barely-trained youth, too old for cssrooms but too young for horror. Their uniforms still had tags. Some carried Earth-provided AK-47s or FALs, while others clutched Rhen Mark bolt-actions from a century ago—relics of Parpaldia's st great war. Bayonets rusted at their belts. One squad had a Maxim-type water-cooled machine gun repurposed into a bunker weapon, patched with spell-ced steel to keep the barrel from exploding.

  They weren't soldiers. They were survivors waiting for an excuse to colpse.

  But now they stood straighter.

  "By the stars," someone said, "they're real..."

  The forward command dugout had been reinforced with steel ptes, sandbags, and jungle debris. An imperial banner—burned at the edges—still hung over the entrance.

  Inside, a war table glowed dimly with spell-mapped terrain projections. A half-dozen officers looked up as Imperial Wrath entered.

  Their commander—Colonel Ardon Vern, face lined by battle and sleep-debt—stepped forward.

  He wore enchanted pte over a scorched greatcoat, a sidearm holstered under a tattered shoulder sash. His eyes didn't shine with ceremony—but with relief.

  "Imperial Wrath," he said, voice gravel and command. "I wasn't sure if the stories were real anymore."

  Linhardt saluted.

  "Ready for deployment, sir."

  Ardon returned the gesture, but didn't drop his guard.

  "Our troops were thrown into the battlefield while only being trained for a few weeks. Some were handed rifles without even live-fire drills. They were told 'hold the jungle.' That was it."

  His gaze swept over Wrath—six figures, runes glowing, weapons clean, eyes hard.

  "You've been the only ones delivering decisive action. While on every front, we bled just to hold a straight line—you brought victory."

  No one spoke. Behind them, outside, the artillery rolled on.

  Ardon stepped to the table, tapping a glowing point with a finger.

  "Four clicks north, the line's colpsed. We lost two-thirds of the 17th Company. Earth gear helped, but they didn't have the training. Just courage. The 3rd Magic Division was posted there as reinforcement..."

  He hesitated.

  "What's their status?" Linhardt asked.

  Ardon sighed.

  "Among the few who survived, the rest may have died in battle. But those survivors—those few casters who made it out—are invaluable."

  "The enemy's using scorched-earth tactics. Drones, cymores, even scavenged WW1 mortars retooled with demonic hex rounds. Our forward bunkers are falling apart. They're improvising better than our rear logistics."

  Linhardt nodded grimly.

  "We'll take point. Give us the coordinates."

  Ardon tapped another mark on the map.

  "You're heading straight into the maw. That's where legends are made... or buried."

  Outside, the jungle glowed red from intermittent shell bsts. Smoke drifted between the trees, illuminated by fmebursts that rose and fell like breath. The muddy trench line was barely holding—reinforced with scavenged logs, half-buried crates, and blood-streaked sandbags that stank of sweat and powder.

  Soldiers huddled shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow corridors of earth, their faces pale and streaked with grime. Some carried Earth-provided AK-47s or dusty FALs, while others clutched Rhen Mark bolt-actions—weapons from another war, another world. Ammunition was scarce. Food, scarcer. But what they cked in supplies, they made up for in fear.

  One man stared bnkly ahead, holding his bayonet with trembling hands. Another prayed, lips moving too fast for meaning. In the rear line, a corporal tried and failed to fit 5.56 NATO into a curved 7.62 magazine. No one corrected him.

  They were tired. Hungry. Terrified.

  And something was wrong with the air.

  It started with a smell.

  A sharp, acrid bite—like rusted iron and rotting meat boiled in ammonia. At first, it was dismissed as jungle rot or sulfur from a faulty rifle. But then came the coughing.

  Down the line, one soldier colpsed, hacking violently. Bck mucus spilled from his mouth. Then another clutched his throat, gasping like a fish on dry nd.

  "What the hell is that?" someone shouted.

  "Gas? Is it gas?!"

  Linhardt and his team had barely arrived when it hit.

  A thick, greenish fog drifted low over the trees—unnatural, oily, and heavy with dread. It clung to the jungle like a parasite. Where it moved, death followed.

  A private screamed as his skin blistered in seconds. Another cwed at his eyes, shrieking until his voice gave out. Helmets fell. Rifles dropped. Men panicked.

  "Masks! Does anyone have a—!""It's in my lungs! Gods, it's in my lungs!"

  Daere yanked a gasping corporal into cover and pressed a basic purification rune to his chest. It fizzled and sparked, useless.

  "It's not working," she whispered.

  "The magic's not filtering it," Elgar confirmed, voice tight.

  Linhardt crouched behind a sandbag wall and pulled the wounded soldier's colr back. The man's skin was peeling, like wax over fme. Blood bubbled from his nose.

  "This isn't a battlefield. It's a sughterhouse," Marn muttered.

  "We're not equipped for this," Daere said. "We don't even understand what this is."

  "Chemical warfare," Linhardt said quietly. "Earth-style. But twisted."

  Behind them, a private stumbled from the fog—half his face burned away, uniform hanging in strips.

  "Sector F... they're all dead," he wheezed. "The gas... then the noise..."

  Linhardt caught him before he colpsed.

  "What noise?"

  The man's bloodied eyes twitched.

  "A machine. Big. Slow. You'll hear it soon..."

  His voice faded to nothing.

  For a moment, all was still.

  Then, through the mist, came the sound.

  A low metallic grinding.

  Like steel dragged across gravel.

  Then a deeper rumble. Heavy. Mechanical. Inevitable.

  Treads.

  The jungle shook.

  And Imperial Wrath turned toward the fog, unsure whether they were witnessing the future of war—or its final ghost.

  ___________________________________________________

  Goal of this chapter is 40 hearts, and let's wait for 2 weeks ??

  By the way,

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  Summoning Earth is looking for Writer, if you are interestedCheck out our Discord for more info

  https://discord.gg/zCaBd9JTuR