The royal army entered the southern woods with the arrogance of a thousand years of tradition. The Knights of Dernholm rode in tight, gleaming formations, their heavy plate armor clanking as they pushed through the undergrowth. Behind them, the Mages of the Court walked with staves held high, their eyes glowing with the raw arcane energy they intended to unleash upon the "peasant rabble."
They saw nothing but trees and shadows. They did not know that the Revolutionary Guard, clad in their camouflage attires, were lying prone in the brush only yards away, their silhouettes dissolved into the natural patterns of the forest.
The silence was broken by the sharp, rhythmic crack of a sniper rifle.
From a concealed position high in the canopy, a revolutionary marksman peered through his high-magnification optics. He wasn't aiming for the knights; his target was the primary battle-mage. The bullet, a high-velocity slug of modern lead, tore through the air before the sorcerer could even finish his incantation.
One by one, the key mages were taken down. Only the strongest among them—those whose very presence was so steeped in Magickal Aptitude that they weakened the natural laws around them—survived the initial volley. But even they were not unscathed. The modern rounds punched through their shimmering wards, leaving them wounded and gasping as their spells flickered and failed.
"Open fire!" the command echoed through the tactical headsets.
Suddenly, the forest erupted in a wall of fire. This was not the erratic, smoke-filled discharge of the Flintlocks or revolvers from the North. These were modern assault rifles and submachine guns, weapons that didn't care about the user's magical standing.
In the world of Arcanum, magic is a gift of the few, scaled by talent and years of study. But the technology Alex had taught the craftsmen was the ultimate equalizer; it could be used by anyone with a steady hand and a neutral aptitude. Because the revolutionaries were commoners without magical stains, their firearms functioned at full power, unrestrained by the paradox of magickal interference.
The Royalists were butchered in their saddles. The modern ammunition shredded through the knights' steel plates as if they were made of tin. Fragmentation grenades bounced between the horses' legs, sending jagged steel through the ranks of the infantry. The miniguns on the ridges began their terrifying, high-pitched whine, cutting down entire swathes of the King's vanguard before they could even draw their swords.
The forest floor, once covered in moss and wildflowers, was quickly stained with the crimson of the Cumbrian nobility. The "peasant" army was no longer a joke; they were a wall of lead and logic that the old world simply could not climb.
As the surviving Royalists began a panicked retreat toward the capital, the revolutionaries stood from the brush, their modern helmets and plated armor unmarked. They didn't cheer; they simply reloaded their magazines. The Civil War had begun, and the Crown was bleeding.
******
The second day of the Civil War began with the ground trembling. King Praetor, desperate and humiliated by the initial massacre, had emptied the barracks of Dernholm. An even larger army—a sea of steel and silken banners—marched into the southern valley. Thousands of infantrymen and the remaining heavy cavalry pressed forward, commanded by lords who believed that sheer numbers could finally overwhelm the "peasant lead."
The Revolutionary Guard held the line, but they were reaching their limit. The air was thick with the scent of cordite and the screams of horses. Assault rifles barked from the trenches, and fragmentation grenades turned the charging front lines into a graveyard of jagged metal. The landmines Alex had taught them to bury erupted in geysers of dirt and fire, shattering the momentum of the Cumbrian knights. On the high ridges, the miniguns provided a constant, terrifying curtain of heavy fire, their barrels glowing cherry-red as they swept the battlefield.
Despite their modern weaponry, the sheer mass of the Royalist army began to close the gap. The mages, shielded by the bodies of their own men, began to chant spells of earth-shaking power. The revolutionaries were tired, their ammunition was running low, and the weight of the monarchy was pressing down on them.
Then, from the direction of the southern mountains, a new sound drowned out the din of battle—the roar of high-performance combustion engines. Under Alex's relentless teaching, the mechanics at the laboratory-ship had worked day and night to finalize the apex of their new technology. Three types of Combat Vehicles tore across the uneven terrain, their sleek, dark hulls shimmering in the sun.
First came the Raider Combat Vehicle (RCV). These light, agile machines surged ahead of the main line. Armed with a roof-mounted Gatling machine gun, the RCVs specialized in crowd control and hit-and-run tactics. They swerved between the trees, their high-traction wheels kicking up dust as they shredded the Royalist flanks before the knights could even lower their lances.
Following them was the Multipurpose Tactical Vehicle (MTV). A heavily armored beast that functioned as a mobile fortress, its twin semi-automatic cannons barked with a rhythmic thud, turning the King's heavy infantry into crimson mist. As it moved, it deployed a trail of landmines from its rear, cutting off any hope of a Royalist flanking maneuver.
Finally, the "Big Daddy" of the Republic's arsenal appeared: the Executioner Tank. This heavily armored battle tank moved with a speed that defied its massive size. Its primary semi-automatic tank gun leveled the stone barricades the Royalists had tried to hide behind. As the Royalists attempted a desperate counter-charge, the Executioner Tank slowed to a halt. Its hydraulic stabilizers slammed into the earth, and its chassis shifted with a series of heavy, metallic clacks as it entered Siege Mode.
In Siege Mode, the tank became a stationary, invincible heavy turret. While it could no longer move, its rate of fire increased exponentially, raining shells upon the King's army with the frequency of a heartbeat. The Royalist vanguard simply disintegrated. The knights, who had spent their lives believing they were the masters of war, found themselves facing a force that had bypassed centuries of military evolution in a single day.
"Return to standard mode!" the tank commander shouted as the last of the Cumbrian cavalry broke and fled. The Executioner's stabilizers retracted, and the iron predator began to roll forward again, leading the Republic's march toward the gates of the capital. The limit had been reached, and the Republic had not broken. It had grown teeth.