Even after Victoria's armies suffered a defeat of historic proportions, the Victorian plains did not grow quiet.
It had been six weeks since the Gaulish Imperial Army shattered the border defenses.
In that span, dozens of nameless villages and keeps on the Victorian map had been painted over with blue ink.
The Victorian defensive lines were steadily pushed southward, eastward, and toward the sea; the banners of the Victorian Royal Army and the Allied Nobility Army now remained on the map as nothing more than scattered black dots.
Yet, the war showed no signs of concluding.
************************
A rural road south of Eastbridge.
Clara, a citizen, held her breath and gestured over a stone wall.
A Gaulish supply convoy was slowly approaching along the dirt track.
Five wagons, ten cavalrymen, and a single infantry platoon.
The transport horses and the soldiers' plate armor glinted faintly in the sunlight.
In her hands, she gripped a strange pipe.
A long, black barrel, a wooden stock, and a crude but functional optical sight mounted on top.
Indeed. It was a pipe gun.
Beside her, a man with a soot-stained face whispered.
"Steady your breathing, girl. It's the fifth wagon. The quartermaster will be riding on that one."
Clara bit her lip hard.
He was originally a Sergeant in the Royal Army, now simply referred to as 'Captain.'
It was an era where even asking for a name felt like an unnecessary burden to share.
Clara mentally recounted his instructions.
The first wagon: ammunition.
The second and third: general supplies.
The fourth: fuel barrels.
And the fifth... documents and commanders.
If they incinerated this wagon, they said the Gaulish advance at the front would be delayed by several days at minimum.
Clara slowly adjusted her focus through the sight.
Astride the swaying wagon, an officer adorned with gold epaulettes removed his helmet and wiped his face with his palm.
His face was etched with exhaustion.
But she did not have the luxury of feeling pity for such a face.
The Captain raised three fingers.
Then two, then one.
And so, Clara pulled the trigger.
— Crack!
The officer atop the wagon tumbled backward instantly.
Another soldier standing nearby screamed, reaching out for the officer's shoulder.
"Now!"
The Captain swung his hand down.
Deserting soldiers, urban laborers, and peasants who had been crouching beneath the stone wall rose in unison.
Obsolete crossbows taken from old Royal Army depots, hunting bows hidden in homes, and pipe guns that had filtered in from unknown sources all spat fire at once.
Two Gaulish infantrymen collapsed in the middle of the road.
A cavalryman floundered as he fell from his mount.
But the Gaulish military was a disciplined force.
The lieutenant at the vanguard immediately unsheathed his sword and bellowed.
"Take cover, left and right! Rear rank, protect the wagons! The enemy is a small force!"
The formation dispersed rapidly.
Shield-bearing soldiers stepped forward as if to encircle the wagons, while the cavalry leapt toward the road's edge, attempting to scout the flanks.
The Captain shouted again.
"Second line! Fire!"
On the hills flanking the road, several young men armed with crossbows revealed themselves.
Attached to their bolts were Originium grenades.
The two men took a single breath and pulled their triggers simultaneously.
— Boom!!
The bolts slammed into the enemy shields and detonated.
The shields were instantly perforated, and the soldiers behind them were blown back, unable to maintain their stance.
Inside a wagon, ammunition crates shook violently.
Someone scrambled to open a lid, only to be struck in the neck by an arrow and fall dead.
From the Gaulish side, Originium Arts and arrows began to fly back in response.
Two guerrillas hiding behind the stone wall were decapitated before they could even scream.
Clara gritted her teeth and realigned her aim.
This time, she targeted the soldier standing atop the fourth wagon, near the fuel barrels.
The second shot.
The heat of the barrel radiated into her palm.
In that moment, an urban laborer who had emerged from the trenches beside her spat a curse.
"Damn it, the enemy is too strong..."
The Captain roared.
"Just a little longer! Hold the line!"
Clara wiped sweat from her brow and steadied her breath.
Just as she finally finished aiming, a spark flew beside the fourth wagon.
Someone, panting heavily, had hurled a Molotov cocktail.
The flames seeped through the gaps of a fuel barrel's lid.
A second later, a blinding flash and a thunderous roar erupted.
The entire wagon was lifted off the ground and thrown backward.
Nearby soldiers were swept away, tumbling through the dirt.
Clara instinctively ducked her head.
Hot air and dust lashed against her face.
Her ears rang incessantly.
When she looked up again, chaos had already consumed the road.
"Originium dust! Protect yourselves!"
"Argh! My eyes!!"
Cavalrymen lost their reins and collided with one another, while infantrymen struggled to reorganize their formation amidst the wagon wreckage.
Seizing the moment, the guerrillas sounded the signal for a total withdrawal.
"It's done! Retreat to the mountains!"
The Captain grabbed Clara's shoulder and pulled her away.
"See that, girl? That's enough to stall them for three days. Let's move!"
Clara was gasping for air, but her eyes were still fixed on the road.
Beyond the smoking ruins, she saw a Gaulish commander screaming curses toward the heavens.
In that instant, an absurd question escaped Clara's lips.
"...Do you know where these guns even came from, Captain?"
The Captain let out a hollow laugh.
"Who knows?"
Another explosion echoed behind them.
Even as she ran, Clara felt the weight of the strange firearm in her hand once more.
The metal of this gun bore no Victorian crest, nor the initials of any King.
Instead, unfamiliar characters were engraved in tiny lettering.
[С.С.С.Р]
************************
A secret supply depot in the southern reaches of the Union.
Amfielice was inspecting crates laid out on the warehouse's concrete floor.
Frank stood beside her, clutching a folder of documents.
His face showed a mixture of fatigue and a peculiar excitement.
"Won't letting this much leave create a hole in our finances?"
Amfielice asked.
Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"These are decrepit models we used ten years ago anyway. It costs more to maintain them as strategic reserves than they're worth."
Ivanov's low voice drifted from behind.
"Compared to the actual costs of war, disposing of old, defective stock is practically cheap."
He gave one of the crates a light tap with the toe of his boot.
"Provided those guerrillas know how to use them properly, of course."
Amfielice opened a crate and pulled one out.
"If it's this simple, even the remnants of the Royal Army will learn quickly."
Amfielice remarked.
"The problem is time."
She gazed at the map pinned to one of the warehouse walls.
For six weeks, the red lines had been descending relentlessly southward and eastward.
In the first week, Gaul pierced the Victorian border defenses. By the second, they had seized two small nomadic cities behind the primary line.
In the third week, they took key railway hubs. In the fourth, a medium-sized industrial nomadic city fell.
By the fifth week, the Royal Army's last large-scale counter-offensive had ended in catastrophe. Now, at the start of the sixth week, the Gaulish occupation already extended past central Victoria and was stretching toward the northern plains.
And at the edge of those northern plains lay the southern border of the Union.
Wrangel, leaning against the wall, spoke up.
"The guerrillas are fighting quite well. Looking at the reports... raiding supply lines, sabotaging railroads, severing communications... Gaul is going to have quite the headache."
Ivanov crossed his arms.
"Be that as it may, they cannot win in a set-piece battle. In the end, whenever they clash with the Gaulish regulars, it's Victoria that gets pushed back."
Frank pointed to the small white flags pinned to the map.
"That is precisely why we help the guerrillas buy 'time.' We must give the Victorian people a taste of small victories so they don't suffer only defeat. Only then will they eventually think to form their own organizations later on."
Amfielice remained silent for a moment.
The red line on the map was now merely centimeters away from the Union's border.
Those centimeters on paper were, in reality, dozens of kilometers.
In just six weeks, the war had drawn that close.
"We are not yet prepared to fight directly," she said.
"However, if the moment comes where we have no choice but to fight, we must at least ensure that line stops in a position more advantageous to us. As long as resistance continues within Victoria, Gaul will have to keep an eye on their own back."
Ivanov nodded in agreement.
"So that's why you're sending obsolete pipe guns and ammunition to the guerrillas."
Amfielice gave a short laugh.
"Yes. And a little something extra."
She opened another crate.
Inside was a massive stack of thin pamphlets.
Wrangel picked up a single sheet.
"Propaganda?"
"Yes."
Amfielice spoke calmly.
"They aren't texts calling for people to fight for the Victorian King. However, they aren't calling for surrender to the Gaulish banner either. They are calls to resist the oppressor while protecting one's own village."
Frank clicked his tongue.
"If I were the King of Victoria, I'd find it quite troublesome to figure out how to respond to this."
Ivanov added as he walked toward the warehouse exit,
"Regardless, six weeks in, the front line is still within Victorian territory. That is the time we have bought for ourselves in this war."
Amfielice nodded at his words.
"The longer that time stretches, the firmer our defensive readiness becomes. And simultaneously..."
She looked at a small blue line separately marked on the southern border of the Union on the map.
"The greater the chance that we finish our preparations to hold that line."
****************************
In southern Victoria, upon the plains following the old Royal Roads, the banners of the Gaulish Legions fluttered endlessly.
Corsica I brushed the dust from his field uniform while looking ahead from his warhorse.
For six weeks, he had almost never returned to Lingones.
While the Emperor's seat was in the court, for him, it felt much closer here, in the heart of the front lines.
"Report," he said curtly.
His Chief of Staff unfurled a document while mounted.
"Your Majesty, the Rosehill sector is fully secured. Remnants of the Royal Army have fled into the mountainous regions, but they pose no significant threat."
"And the central front?"
"The enemy cavalry corps is reorganizing, but they have effectively lost all combat capability. However, guerrillas composed of provincial remnants, noble retainers, and civilians are attacking our supply lines across various locations."
Corsica I raised an eyebrow.
"Guerrillas?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. We cannot ascertain the source of their weaponry, but there is clear evidence that gear not of Royal Army standard is being supplied. We expected nothing more than hunting bows, yet there are signs of strangely shaped firearms being used..."
"Let them handle that on their end."
Corsica I waved his hand dismissively.
"If a supply line is unstable, you broaden it. Do not rely solely on the existing railroads; expand the temporary supply routes. Fixating too much on a small wound leads to missing the larger surgery."
The Chief of Staff nodded.
"We will reach the border soon."
Corsica I's gaze naturally drifted forward.
Far away, beyond the low hills, the faint silhouettes of walls and fortresses were visible.
Well-ordered trench lines, barbed wire, and concrete bunkers.
But he didn't need to look at the maps the Legates brought to know those were not Victorian walls.
"The Union border."
Corsica I murmured.
"Is this their southern defensive line?"
The Chief of Staff continued.
"Yes, Your Majesty. According to reports, this defensive line is a layer thinner than the main fortress lines the Union originally built to face us directly in the east. Compared to the lines built specifically to stare us down, this is closer to a secondary rear line..."
"Yet it is sturdy."
Corsica I dismounted and checked the map spread out over the dirt once more.
"Sturdy, but weaker than their original fortress lines."
He smiled slightly.
"That is good news."
The staff officers glanced at one another. Some thought it bold, while others thought it dangerous.
Looking at the front, Corsica I continued softly,
"The fortress lines they stacked up in their southwest were a shield meant to stop us head-on. But we have no intention of ramming into them directly. That is why we circled around to the south."
He drew an imaginary line on the map with his finger.
The Chief of Staff asked cautiously,
"In that case, Your Majesty... do you intend to change the objective? Before completely subjugating the Victorian capital, to begin war preparations against the Union—"
"No."
Corsica cut him off decisively.
"Turning one's blade toward the next enemy before the current King is slain is a fool's errand, no matter how brilliant a strategist one claims to be. The Victorian war will be concluded as planned. I am merely adjusting the direction of that conclusion."
He looked up at the sky.
Sunlight filtered faintly through the overcast clouds.
"Capture the King of Victoria, and turn Victoria into a puppet to serve as an auxiliary force. Then, we shall make them bleed in place of our own soldiers. If we can spare our own blood by spending that of the Victorians, is that not a bargain?"
The Chief of Staff whispered,
"Binding Victoria and the Union together, to then take them all at once later..."
"Exactly."
Corsica I smiled.
"Those fellows must be preoccupied right now, frantically reinforcing their southern defenses. Handing out strange weapons to guerrillas to harass us. Fine. For the price of bothering us now, I shall ensure they pay double later."
He raised his field binoculars.
Atop the southern Union defensive line, he could see tiny dots moving.
Judging by the uniform colors and formation, they were Union infantry.
"They probably believe they are ready."
Corsica I spoke in a low voice.
"But preparation is a thing that is always lacking. One day, when we finally cross that line, they will realize they finished this line far too hastily than originally intended."
He lowered the binoculars.
"Time is not on our side."
He spoke as if confessing a secret.
"Therefore, time is also our enemy. And if that is the case, we must deal with the enemy as quickly as possible."
One of the staff officers asked tentatively,
"The capital of Victoria... how much time do you estimate, Your Majesty?"
The corners of Corsica I's mouth curved upward.
"Six weeks have already passed."
He spread his fingers.
"Three more weeks will be sufficient."
"...You intend to bring the capital to its knees within three weeks?"
"We must."
Corsica I replied.
"The moment the capital falls and the King of Victoria is in our hands, we gain access to Victoria's population of seventeen million. Surely that noble Aslan will not flee his own capital? We shall win the victory on the battlefield, and then we shall force the meaning of that victory upon the Union and the others at the diplomatic table."
He looked out over the plains once more.
"Imagine then, what those southern defenses will look like, and the expressions the Union leaders will wear. I have come this far imagining those very faces."
The staff officers fell silent.
A wind blew.
The banners of the Gaulish Imperial Army whipped violently.
Beneath those banners, hundreds of thousands of soldiers were preparing to march.
Corsica I spoke one last time, his voice low and crystal clear.
"Today we place Victoria beneath our feet. Tomorrow, we shall grasp the Union."
He mounted his saddle once more.
"After that, all of Terra."
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