Year 928 III — Month: Year of the Great Purge City Hall – Eastern Capital of the Human Uprising
Winter is over.
The snow had melted. The mud had dried. And now, the boots of nearly 100,000 soldiers thundered through the streets—rows of black-coated infantry, rifles on their backs, eyes set forward. Civilians lined the sidewalks, cheering, waving tattered flags and ribbons, some weeping in disbelief.
Inside, behind thick glass windows, Otto stood watching them with arms behind his back.
"The nobles fled," he said calmly.
He glanced at Virella, a flicker of amusement playing across his face.
"Well—tried." He chuckled.
Virella didn't laugh. Her eyes stayed fixed on the marching columns.
"I still can't believe he made an army that doesn't even need to be close to kill."
She turned toward Otto, her expression unreadable.
"Killing from a distance. Never laying a finger. Just… watching them fall."
Otto smiled faintly. "Genius, isn't it? The Führer is truly a god among men."
He stepped closer to the window, watching as young riflemen saluted passing officers.
Then he asked, "Did he ever tell you his ambitions, Virella?"
She blinked. "No. Isn't our goal to free all the humans in the land?"
Otto nodded. "Yes, yes. Of course. But this..." he turned toward her now, eyes brightening, voice quickening, "this is just a stepping stone. A launchpad. His vision goes far beyond this war."
He raised both arms slowly, as if framing something unseen in the air.
"Imagine it—new technologies, scientific marvels. Machines that carry men through the skies, across oceans. Engines that power entire cities. Humans walking on the stars. An empire without end. From ocean to ocean. A thousand-year rule under one banner. One leader."
He paused, nearly breathless.
"Peace. Order. Prosperity. Forever."
Virella tilted her head slightly.
"Are… you okay?"
Otto blinked. His smile faltered. He looked down—not with his head, but with his eyes—as if catching himself dreaming too loudly.
"Yes," he said quickly. "I'm fine."
He straightened his coat, cleared his throat, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Anyway, we've built a proper army. Over ninety thousand soldiers now, and nearly half of them armed with rifles. If things stay on course, we'll win this war."
Virella nodded.
"Most demi-human forces are splintered now. Generals without coordination. Small bands acting on instinct."
"That's not what concerns me," she added. "What worries me are the other human factions across the kingdom. Rebels—small warlords. Won't they resist the Führer's rule too?"
Otto's face hardened.
"Some will," he admitted. "They'll want to carve out their own kingdoms. Grab little territories. But they won't last. We'll declare them enemies of the state. Try them for treason. Execute them publicly."
He turned back toward the glass, pressing one hand against the cold surface.
"Once they see our firepower... once they realize we hold the weapons, the grain, the steel, the magic... they'll bow or burn."
"And the demi-humans?" Virella asked quietly.
Otto didn't flinch.
"Any demi-human who raises a weapon dies. Those who don't—will be watched, for now. They have no leadership. No supply chains. They'll try ambushes, sure. But we'll crush them."
He crossed his arms.
"This country's not large. Barely forty-three thousand square miles. With a hundred thousand men, we can manage it. Roads, checkpoints, garrisons—we'll cover every corner."
Virella's eyes narrowed, doubt rising in her expression.
"An army that size can occupy cities and highways, maybe... but the forests, the mountains, the villages?"
Otto shrugged. "It's enough. With your magic to track and record skirmishes, we'll keep public order through fear and proof."
He turned to her more directly now.
"I want you to start storing battle footage in memory crystals. Use the ones we pulled from the mountain mines. If you run low on mana, use the embedded cores. You'll have access to the best."
Virella nodded slowly.
"I understand."
Otto stepped away toward the exit, but paused just before opening the door. He turned back.
His tone dropped.
"Oh… one more thing."
Virella raised an eyebrow.
"Forget everything I said earlier. About stars and eternity."
A slow smile crept onto her lips.
"Sure."
With that, Otto left—his coat flaring behind him as the cheers from the street outside roared louder.
City of dunes 2nd largest city in Larrak
The air stank of smoke and scorched wood.
The once-proud City of Dunes—second only to Lars in wealth and power—had become a skeleton of itself. Buildings lay cracked open like broken bones. Whole sections of the eastern districts were nothing but rubble, blackened bricks, and shattered glass. Clouds of ash and dust rolled through the alleys like phantoms. The humans had entered from the west. Now, they clawed their way east, street by street.
Lieutenant Jörg Fischer of Battalion 9 pressed his back against what remained of a bakery. The front was gone—blasted apart by mortars. A steel beam jutted out from the second floor like a snapped rib. His breath fogged in the cold air, teeth clenched around the filter of a cigarette that had long since gone out.
"Archers, second window, left side!" someone screamed up ahead.
Before he could react, a hail of wooden shafts tore through the street.
One bolt slammed into a soldier's chest—punched straight through his breastplate. Another ricocheted off a metal crate. Jörg ducked, dragging a young conscript down with him just before a third arrow embedded in the bakery wall an inch above their heads.
"Move!" he roared, pushing the boy forward. "Flank left! Müller, with me!"
Two riflemen broke from cover, ducking low as they ran through sludge and rubble. A third tried to follow—he screamed, fell to one knee, and clawed at the long arrow lodged in his thigh.
"Medic! MEDIC!" someone shouted.
The humans had the numbers. But the beastmen were dug in like ticks. These weren't front-line soldiers. They were remnants—hunters, temple guards, street gangs—but they knew the terrain. They used every wall, window, rooftop and sewer grate. They moved like ghosts and struck like lightning. Every step forward was paid in blood.
Across the city, the same story played out.
In the northeast, a demolition team tried to plant charges near the old temple district. Before they could finish, a tripwire triggered an avalanche of bricks and debris from above. Screams followed—legs crushed, helmets shattered. Survivors pulled twisted bodies from the dust, weeping.
Near the market square, Sergeant Weber's unit advanced under cover—until smoke flared from a rooftop and spears rained down like teeth from the sky. One soldier was impaled through the mouth, his corpse yanked off the ground by the weight of the spear shaft.
Elsewhere, rifle squads took up positions behind broken trams and looted wagons. But the enemy was already above them—leopard-kin scaling balconies, hawk-kin shrieking from above as they dropped small firebombs. A soldier's face melted in seconds. His screams echoed over the battlefield until they faded into gurgling gasps.
"THEY'RE IN THE DAMN BUILDINGS!"
It was chaos.
Not just fighting. Not just dying.
But a slaughterhouse made of alleyways and ruin.
Jörg's unit broke through the western square by noon. Smoke hung low, mixing with the coppery scent of blood. Someone—maybe a demi-human child—had burned alive in a laundry cart. All that was left was a curled shape and a black outline scorched into the stones.
A heavy knight of Battalion 9 burst from cover. His full plate armor shimmered dull red with blood. In his grip, a two-handed hammer rose and fell—once, twice. He crushed a charging jackal-kin's ribs, then stomped a second beastman into the ground. Behind him, engineers laid down canvas, preparing to mount a Maschinenwerfer.
"Set the crank! Sweep the rooftops!"
The crew assembled fast, bolting down the heavy crank-handle. Ammunition belts snaked through crates behind them.
The gun spat death.
It howled like a mechanical beast, chewing through roof tiles, stone, and flesh. Six demi-humans tried to leap from one building to the next. Only one made it. The rest were torn apart mid-air, limbs flailing as they tumbled to the ground.
Just then, a horn blew from deeper in the city.
And they came.
A wall of beastmen—wolves, badgers, jaguars, some in torn guard armor, others in rags—charged from the smoke. They carried crude axes, bronze-tipped spears, rusted swords. Some held curved daggers, others had nothing but broken bottles and sharpened tools. Dozens screamed war cries in a dozen languages.
The machine gun swung left and tore through them. Blood splashed onto the cracked cobblestones. Screams echoed through the plaza.
Still, they came.
A boar-kin rammed into a soldier, goring his stomach with a pitchfork. The man fell screaming as the boar-kin grabbed his rifle and beat him with it until it snapped.
"KEEP FIRING!" Jörg yelled, firing round after round. His rifle's barrel was hot to the touch.
A soldier beside him fell with a tomahawk buried in his neck.
Then the beastmen reached the gun crew.
One lancer threw himself onto the Maschinenwerfer, stabbing wildly. The crew screamed—one man took a dagger to the ribs, another lost his jaw.
A rifle cracked.
The lancer twitched and dropped. His body tumbled backward over the sandbags.
Another soldier sprinted forward, kicked the corpse aside, and reloaded the jammed gun with shaking hands.
The crank turned again.
Screams. More blood. More bodies.
Still, the humans pushed forward.
Elsewhere, Captain Albrecht watched from a balcony half-collapsed by mortar fire. Blood smeared the banister. A corpse—one of his officers—hung limply off the edge, his spine bent the wrong way.
"We're bleeding out for every street we take," Albrecht muttered.
A messenger boy limped up, pants soaked in red.
"Sir—message from the north wall. Battalion 12 is stalled. Archers on rooftops. Civilians helping them."
Albrecht didn't blink.
"No retreat," he said. "Send flamethrowers. Burn them out."
"But sir—"
"Do it."
In the southern ruins, a young rifleman named Felix stumbled between charred timbers. His side bled from a jagged cut—probably from falling debris. His helmet was gone. His eyes were wide.
Nearby, his friend Leon lay half-buried under bricks. Only his mouth and one hand moved.
"Felix…" Leon croaked. "They… they're everywhere…"
"I know," Felix whispered.
His rifle was jammed. Useless.
He heard a growl.
A beastman—fox-kin, maybe—crept around the corner with a knife in hand. Felix raised the jammed rifle instinctively. Useless.
Then—
BLAM.
The beastman dropped. A medic stood behind him, pistol raised.
"Get him up," the medic barked. "We're pulling back two blocks!"
Felix nodded, eyes still locked on the corpse.
In the north, Battalion 11 had fortified a cathedral.
Or what was left of it.
Its steeple had collapsed in the opening barrage. Now it served as a temporary command post. Mortar teams braced between stained-glass windows. Snipers peered from broken arches.
Across the square, a dozen beastmen crouched behind merchant stalls and ruins. They had no ranged weapons—just bows and short spears. But their aim was deadly.
An arrow flew.
One soldier caught it in the eye.
Another dove, caught his leg on a jagged beam, and howled in pain.
Inside the cathedral, Commander Riese pointed toward the lower crypts.
"Flush them out. Gas grenades. Then flame."
A silent nod.
The war had entered its ugliest phase.
And it wasn't close to over.