Imperial Calendar 2017 / French Revolutionary Calendar 228.
Eastern Front of Europe.
June. After the E.U. army's failed assault on St. Petersburg and the conclusion of the Battle of Narva, the Narva–Tallinn war zone in Estonia.
What should have been a lush, green, and vibrant temperate primeval forest had become a wasteland.
A falcon circled high above, overlooking the scarred earth.
To the west stretched a plain dotted with rivers and lakes. Scattered buildings lined the rural cement roads—burned shops, roofless houses, already reduced to ruins.
In the wetlands, destroyed tanks and armored vehicles lay scattered, alongside wreckage of Knightmare Frames. By the silhouettes of their heads, one could tell some were Britannia's [Sutherland], others E.U.'s [Alexander].
Trenches stretched north to south for kilometers, cutting through the burned woods. Anti-tank ditches, dragon's teeth, and other obstacles crisscrossed the landscape. At the junction of rivers and roads, groups of soldiers clustered like ants, filling gaps, some moving, some still.
Above the positions flew deep-blue banners.
On a blue field spread wings resembling both dove and rooster, twelve feathers symmetrically outstretched. At the center, the stylized capital letters EU. It was the national flag of the United Republic of Europia.
Bzz… bzz…
Engines roared. A military truck followed tank tracks, mud and rubble scattering under its wheels.
Stopping at its destination, an E.U. driver in gray-blue uniform jumped down, helmet under his arm. Lighting a cigarette and exhaling rings, he called out: "Hey, fellas, supplies are here."
This was a semi-permanent stronghold built from a forest ranger's firewatch cabin in the burned woods. Nearby lay the collapsed wreck of a fire lookout tower, blown apart by shells.
At his call, weary infantry emerged from foxholes and trenches, cursing as they moved.
"Rations No. 4 again? My mouth's gone numb. Damn it, when's our unit rotating home?"
"Putain! Those soft eggs in Paris and Warsaw—reinforcements take their sweet time."
"And those Britannian swine—starting wars every damn year! Don't they have lives to live?"
...
As they unloaded supplies—
Whoosh—
A sharp sound cut the air.
The falcon above cried uneasily, beating its wings higher, agitated by the ruined environment. Forced to fly farther, burn more energy, migrate sooner.
In response—
Boom… boom… boom…!
Dull explosions echoed across the sky, rolling closer.
Artillery.
Yet no one along the burned-forest line cared. Except the green recruits who had only just arrived.
Here, you had to get used to such days.
Morning, noon, and night—Britannian artillery rained shells on E.U. positions from Narva to Tallinn. Most came from Kiviõli, perhaps Tapa, or even Tallinn itself.
The veterans could tell by ear—the shells weren't aimed at them, but at rear cities, supply lines, or valuable targets Britannian scouts had marked.
Grizzled soldiers joked with the recruits, saying that shell screams were their free wake-up calls and dinner bells.
Until someone pointed out their embarrassing tale: the time a shell really did hit the burned-forest sector, catching one of them mid-toilet, his bare ass flashing as he scrambled into the shelter.
Laughter followed, rowdy and carefree.
But from the observation post returned a young E.U. second lieutenant, his tactical terminal in hand, brows furrowed.
"All of you, stay alert."
He spoke heavily.
Britannia's recent tactics gave him a bad feeling…
To the east, though the Raphael Knights had been mauled by WZERO suicide assaults and withdrawn to recover, the Michael Knights had reinforced. On the very next day after their Third Princess returned to St. Petersburg, Britannia had launched a counteroffensive—seizing Narva, Sillamäe, Jõhvi, and Ahtme in a direct strike.
Then, Britannia's Northern Army Group halted its advance.
For an entire week, every single day, came the unrelenting roar of artillery.
With no discernible pattern—sometimes in the morning and evening, sometimes only at noon. At times the barrage lasted all day. Targets shifted constantly, weapons varied—heavy guns, railway cannons, rocket artillery. Every round left its mark, swathes of burned forest scarred with craters. His platoon had already lost an entire squad to such fire.
Britannia had introduced new heavy-caliber guns and experimental munitions. Their shells barely made a sound in the air—leaving almost no time to react or find cover.
Unlike the urban battles in southern and central Ukraine—where even after bombardments, Knightmare sweep units and vehicle fire support had to engage at close quarters—the fighting in Estonia had, for nearly a week, been mostly duels between artillery batteries and aerial dogfights. Face-to-face infantry clashes were rare.
Was it because Britannia's Southern Army Group was in the critical phase of its Kyiv offensive?
Was that black vulture Vela focusing her main breakthrough this year in central Ukraine? Even the Fifth Knight of the Round, Lord Moltke, had been dispatched to Ukraine. The pressure there was immense, pleas for reinforcements flooding in one after another.
By comparison, the north truly felt like a proving ground, a place for training and testing.
After suffering from suicide shock tactics, Britannia had also formed special task units composed of soldiers from Area 11.
Scouts reported sightings of watermelon-sized drones flying frequently between the lines, Narva sector swarming with Knightmare activity. Rumors spread that special forces brigades tasked with infiltration, reconnaissance, and sabotage had seen their casualty rates spike sharply…
The second lieutenant prayed Warsaw's Eastern Front headquarters wouldn't blunder with half-baked schemes.
As he walked the trenches, calling for the quartermaster sergeant and planning to share a meal before phoning Tallinn—the largest city in Estonia—to urge heightened alert, suddenly—
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—
He jerked his head upward, eyes widening at the sight of a "meteor shower" falling from the heavens. Muscle memory outpaced conscious thought. Kicking over his stool, he dove headlong into the shelter, his voice ripping his throat:
"Scatter! Scatter!"
The next instant, an ear-splitting shriek like a blaring siren tore through the sky.
Moments later, the trench's chatter was drowned out by thunderous detonations, impacts slamming endlessly, explosions merging into a deafening roar.
Heat, ringing ears, suffocating air…
"Cough, cough…"
Hot air filled with ash and burning debris choked the lieutenant, forcing ragged coughs. He had no sense of time. When at last the quaking ceased, he pushed himself upright, wiping dirt from his body, staggering out. His balance faltered from the shockwaves.
The piercing ring and pain in his ears told him plainly—his eardrums were damaged.
Unable to discern how many more blasts followed, he stepped from the shelter into a blurred haze. Everywhere he looked: flames and ruins. The semi-permanent stronghold built from the ranger's firewatch cabin had collapsed.
"Sergeant, count heads! Get back on the line!"
"Medics, tend the wounded!"
Forcing himself calm, the lieutenant barked orders to the surviving combat-capable men. Then—his foot pressed into something soft and sticky. He looked down. A lump smeared with blackened blood and ash. A chunk of flesh…
Boom… boom… boom…
At last, his hearing returned faintly.
He turned at the sound—westward.
Bursts of fire, pillars of smoke rising in clusters.
This scale—creeping barrage?!
As the shellfire pushed deeper into E.U. lines, in a heartbeat a colossal mushroom fireball surged skyward—directly at the E.U.'s ammunition and fuel depot!
The earth throbbed like a heartbeat, thunderous echoes hammering his ears. Even miles away, the blazing column pierced the clouds.
Amid the soul-shaking chain explosions, he heard the frantic cry of a scout at his side:
"Sir! Britannia's Knightmares!"
He looked up—and even without binoculars, he could see them.
On the eastern plain, black dots streaked forward at high speed, smoke rising in their wake.
Britannia's Knightmares surged across trenches and dragon's teeth, their landspinners tearing the ground, flinging up grass and soil.
No need for orders. Survivors of the defensive line opened fire instinctively.
In an instant, a storm of bullets raged.
The Knightmares raised their smoothbore cannons, flashes sparking one after another—
Boom!
The lieutenant hit the dirt by reflex. The explosion landed just ahead, showering him with dirt, wood, and stone fragments that clattered across his back.
"Open fire, fire at will!"
Pulling down his headset, he roared.
An armored vehicle, spared by the bombardment, rolled into firing position. Its 30mm autocannon began to snarl.
But then—the whir of propellers. Several drones descended suddenly, slamming straight into the vehicle.
Boom, boom, boom!
Dust and rubble erupted. A blast from above silenced the autocannon.
At that moment, a white-and-gold Knightmare streaked forward, cutting through the line.
Vrrrm! A high-frequency vibration blade swung out. With a single stroke, it cleaved an E.U. frame—lumbering and clumsy, built as a stationary fire-support platform—in two. The machine detonated in an instant.
The lieutenant staggered, staring up at the steel giant before him.
Perhaps to proclaim itself the embodiment of justice and legitimacy, this Britannian frame was painted white and gold.
Its massive arm rose slowly.
A cannon muzzle, larger than that of any attack helicopter, leveled directly at the E.U. officer.
From its speakers, the Britannian pilot's voice rang out: "Please surrender!"
The lieutenant froze in astonishment.
That tone—so humble, so hesitant.
Not like a Britannian at all…
But he remembered his duty—to delay the enemy. He forced out a question: "Who are you?"
"I am Ku—"
Bang!
An explosion ripped him apart, scattering him into a cloud of blood.
"Corporal Suzaku Kururugi!"
A [Gloucester], bearing a Roman-style crest on its helm, halted behind the white-gold frame. From its loudspeakers came a scolding bark: "Advance. Must I repeat myself?!"
Inside the cockpit of the Seventh-Generation prototype Z-01 [Lancelot], Eleven Expeditionary Corps member Suzaku Kururugi lowered his head, whispering softly: "Forgive me."
Then, falling back into formation, he launched forward with the rest, his frame an arrow tearing into the front.
The [Gloucester] overseer seemed satisfied with his performance. Sweeping his gaze across the line, he raised his lance high. His voice boomed, broadcast across both loudspeakers and internal comms:
"It was the E.U. who opened the gates of hell first!"
"It is by Her Highness the Princess who granted you rebirth! Now—show these Frenchmen who the real devils are!"
"For the Empire! For the Princess! For your honor!"
"Kill! Until the earth is soaked with their blood!"
"Advance!!"
"All Hail Vela!!" ×N