Thus, Men of Iron Fought There (IC)

[Rupudska]

Thus, Men of Iron Fought There
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Leyfield Palace Park, Sovereign Duchy of Leyfield.

"The theory, then, of the fractal universe." – said Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, "Implies that several different variants of a given nation, a given course of events, can exist simultaneously, in different parts of the fractal reality. Our geographers are familiar of Kishar America, which is one of the origins of the Allanean people, an America that is protected and kept safe by a close alliance – a protectorate, essentially – of Menelmacar, an America that had been destroyed by atomic war with the Soviets, and another that had been split up after losing in the Second World War. These are just the places you can personally visit, Rudolph – just by buying a plane ticket there."

The boy looked, somewhat concerned, at the man sitting opposite him. These were things he knew – they were in some way explained in geography textbook. "Yes, Your- I mean, yes, do go on, sir."

"Another example is Rome."

"In the way in which there are places who remember Rome as a ruined civilization, in some places the Roman Empire persists as a reasonable society that has adapted civilized values, and in yet others, it's a violent shithole that bursts into people's parties."

"I understand so far, Sir."

"Which brings me to… imagine the world as a bewildering kaleidoscope of nations, events, persons. There is somewhere out there a Soviet Union where Lenin is kept alive as an undead monstrosity feasting on children's lifeforce. My Aunt has had the misfortune of meeting two separate Melkors."

Rudy winced in terror, trying to imagine meeting not one Morgoth Bauglir, but two of them.

"So, in light of this… it is necessary to keep one's eyes open at all times, is it not?"

"I don't follow, Sire… Sir."

"I apologize then, Rudolph." – Alexander said, steepling his hands and leaning forward. For a moment, he looked even more intimidating, the sun gleaming frighteningly off his spectacles – or was this just Rudolph's fear of this man that drove him to see him this way. "Let me restate, then: our knowledge of these civilizations is not proof, in itself, that the next one we meet will be like them. It is necessary to use it as a guideline – but it is always necessary to remember it is a guideline only."

"The map is not the territory?" – ventured Rudy.

"Yes!" – Alexander raised a finger. "That is wonderful! Where did you hear this phrase?"

"In land nav."

"Then it is even more brilliant!" – Alexander beamed. Rudolph stared, not quite understanding what was so brilliant about what he had said. "Which brings me to our next point. What do you know about Ancient Rome, Rudolph?"

"The school stuff – brave warriors, very disciplined. Also they kept slaves and crucified them when they rebelled. They also killed Jesus Christ in that way. At least. If you believe in Jesus Christ."

"That's very good." – Alexander continued. "So, as you very well know, the people we encountered in Berlin are Romans of a sort, although clearly they're not very 'ancient' as such. But in many ways they are like Ancient Rome."

"You mean… with slavery, sir?" – Rudolph asked.

"Boom, headshot. Exactly that way. They practice extensive chattel slavery, of the worst kind. People own, claim to own, other human beings. They work in agriculture, in coal mines, and everything else."

"So that's why they came to Berlin?"

"In effect, yes." – Alexander said, pushing his cell phone across the table. It lay there, on the pure white tablecloth. For a moment, Rudolph had to lean slightly forward, to take a look at the photograph on its screen – a grim-faced man, his cheeks and jaw looking as if they have been cut from granite, his eyebrows thick and black, and his hair black also. This man was dressed in a greyish military uniform, similar to those Rudolph had seen in Berlin. "This man is Titus Vesnius Farus, he's their equivalent of a Colonel. He has had many interesting things to say to us about our new enemies' society."

"He doesn't look like a very nice person." – Rudolph quipped.

"No, he doesn't! It's as if Lombroso was right, isn't it?" – Alexander laughed, and the boy didn't know how to answer that – he had, of course, no idea who Lombroso was. "But it's as you imagine. They've been spying on this corner of the multiverse for a while – planes slipping through portals much like the one we've seen. Previously they've been smart enough to create these in remote places where nobody has noticed the planes – and so they've decided our nations are wealthy… and full of 'barbarian races' as they spoke of it – basically meaning everyone whose race they don't approve of. They decided that if they struck directly in Berlin, Karlsland's capital, Karlsland would fall. This was, as Colonel Cooper would say, a terminal failure of the victim selection process."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"Colonel Cooper was a self-defense instructor in Kishar America. Now, at the time not everyone there carried weapons, and so he decided to dub the sort of incident where a robber and burglar accidentally goes up against an armed victim and gets shot dead a terminal failure of the victim selection process. The attacker fails to correctly judge whether or not his target can resist him – and falls to the ground dead. It's going to be the same with those Romans."

"So how have they come here?" – Rudolph asked. "Is it just another of these… fractal event?"

"Not quite, no. Or rather, that's one of the working theories that our people have. Portals, such as the ones that we've seen in Berlin, appear regularly – perhaps once every century or so – for those Romans. It's not clear to me from the documentation why they thought that this one would remain stable – I think they had some means to stabilize or partially control it."

"I'm not a big wizard, Sir. But I think…" – Rudolph paused, suddenly becoming very interested in his teacup.

"Yes, Captain Steinfurt?" – asked Alexander. "This isn't a test, I want to know what your opinion is."

"I think we wouldn't want to venture to the other side before we figure out how it opens or closes, and generally how it works."

"You're right. But I understand that Karsland's scientist have it well in hand. At least in the sense it probably won't immediately shut and leave our vanguards stranded there. We're also sending some of our mages to help them figure out. Then, of course, there's also what I like calling the Prussian way of war. Or maybe it's the Allanean way of war – it's the Allaneans that shoulder most of it."

"Which is?"

"It's my general view, Rudolph, that in situations where we have a choice in the matter, we should strive to commit a small force first. Not because we do not want to help members – which of course we do, and it is both our duty and our interest."

"Sir, I do believe that is not fair."

"How so? Is it my duty to jump in with everything first, before the situation is even clear?"

"Sir, you said that the Prussian forces rarely do much of the fighting. That's only because you rarely send them."

"And you think we should?"

"Sir." – Rudolph said. "The reason Allanea rarely calls on the Prussian forces for offensive war is because it doesn't want to be seen as dishonorable, hiding behind the Reichskamphenites' backs. But that's not that kind of war. Karlsland has been attacked. You have shown yourself the very image of an ally and a King – you literally unsheathed your sword and fought on the battlefield."

"And so?"

"And so nobody in his right will say that the monarch who has shielded his allies with his body, on the field of battle, is selfish coward."

"I am not sending you through an interdimensional portal that might close behind you, Rudolph. Next question."

"That's not what I meant –"

"Your ears are red."

"It's still not what I meant…"

"You're right in that the Reichskamphenites should be sent. But the reason I'm not sending everyone at once is not because I want to deny someone an honor, or something of this sort. The issue is to first see – first, that the situation can at all be solved with our forces, that the portal won't collapse behind them or fry them with evil magic, and second, that the various aspects can be managed – that the allies cooperate with each other well, and so forth – otherwise it will turn into a bleeding tragedy. Beyond this, as you well know, it takes a while to get the people in place. So we will expand gradually – first a small force and then, a larger ones. There is no need to jump in guns blazing…. Not at first. We go in guns blazing later."

"And this is the Allanean way of war?"

"In a way it's an extension of a greater principle. You've read Sun Tzu, I imagine."

"I don't think I have, Sir. I believe it's senior officer reading."

"It's everybody reading." – Alexander smiled. "I don't want to sound like I'm giving you a reading assignment… but you could consider it a recommendation."

Berlin
August 22, 2018
10:30 Local Time

Tanks, tank Witches, and vehicles by the hundreds shone in the midday sun as they filled the long path leading up to a podium in the grass besides the Gate. The line of vehicles was long, leading south down Heinrich-von-Gagern-Straße onto Charlottenburger Chaussee and continuing on for almost two kilometers. In the air, Karlslandic Witches flew in fingertip-tight formations, while behind the vehicles stood a handful of wide-load vehicles carrying the Japanese TSFs, disassembled for transport through the Gate too narrow to fit their sizable frames. From Karlsland, Imeriata, Austria, Japan, the lands of the Selkie, and elsewhere they came.

Their purpose here was singular, in a way - Vengeance.

Vengeance for lives lost on that day in May, when the Gate opened up and soldiers by the thousands spewed out to kill and plunder.

Vengeance for the damage done on that day in May, when the Gate opened up and titans of steel on legs, wheels, and treads spat fire and crushed buildings, cars, livelihoods, and memories underfoot.

Vengeance for the people stolen on that day in May, when the Gate opened up and ogres and beasts disguised as men came to claim any too weak to fight as their own property to be stolen back to wherever they came from and sold like spoils of war.

Yes, there was quite a bit of rage brewing on those streets in August, and one needed not be an empath to find it palpable. It could be seen on the soldiers' faces, it was written in the sky in the ever-so-slightly-too-forceful movements of the aircraft and Witches, even the faceless tanks seemed ready to cry out for the blood god in their fury.

Beside the gate, festooned with ribbons in the colors of the flags of the Trans-Barrier Alliance nations, was a raised metal platform covered in a white sheet. on its front was a large banner depicting the name and seal of the Alliance (a depiction of Saint George mounted on a horse slaying the Dragon, though on a white field instead of a red one and with a different design from the coat of arms of Moscow) as well as its name and, beneath the name, the member nations. Behind the podium, the flags of the nations of the alliance blew in a moderate southward breeze - with the flags of Karlsland and that of the Alliance (the same shield on Saint George's cross, with a raised red sword in the upper left and lower right corner, and a raised gold wand in the upper right and lower left corner) above the others. On either side of the platform were metal stairs, each leading to a group of black armored SUVs (plus an older-looking armored wagon for the Imeriatans).

Upon the platform was a wooden podium with a number of microphones for a variety of news stations around the world. There were a number of cameras, too, but the podium wasn't strong enough to support them so they were mounted in front of the podium on metal stands, or simply held aloft by the reporters. There was a man at the podium in a suit. He checked his watch for a moment, then nodded to one of the SUVs and stepped aside.

Two women stepped up, both redheads, both Karlslandic, and both in their woodland Multitarn KKU*, though from their the similarities ended. The first was Princess Hanna in the 'pantsless' (though it technically had bike shorts, which were technically pants) version used by aviation Witches, and bore on her shoulder the sigil of the 135th Night Witch Squadron, a skull with a snake crawling through the mouth and eye, fighting with a vulture perched on the top of the skull. Hence the squadron callsign of Geier. Like all night fighter (or Witch) squadrons, it was technically an interceptor squadron, and flew the Shrike as a result. The second, was Field Marshal Sigrun Model, and on her shoulder was the shield of the Alliance, as she was the officially-selected commanding officer, with dissenting votes coming most notably (and predictably) from Imeriata and Japan. Her uniform, though she was a Witch, featured pants - due to how tank Strikers worked, they didn't need to worry about direct skin contact nearly as much as aviation Strikers, so pants they could wear. Formerly commander of the Seventh Panzer Division, before moving up to the III Armored Corps to which it belonged, then the 3rd Army before being put in charge of the entire Karlslandic military forces to be deployed in the Special Region, and as per vote all military forces in the TBA. Apparently the 42-year-old's service in Desert Storm, Serbia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Tanzania, Afghakistan, Kamerun, and Syria had spoken for itself, as had her sixty five tank kills. Even as a tank Witch, she was getting old, but she still had a good few years of combat ability left in her.

"Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess Hanna Maria Isabelle Albrecht von Bayern, and Field Marshal Sigrun Model, Commander of the TBA and Countess of Magdeburg." Applause, which died down quickly as the two women stepped up. Princess Hanna was the first to speak.

"Ladies, gentlemen. It has been almost three months since Berlin was ruthlessly and senselessly attacked by the Saderan Empire, the name of the entity beyond the Gate. Two thousand, three hundred, seventy four. That is how many Karlslanders, Austrians, Imeriatans, Wolfens, Fusoans, Japanese, Britannians, Allaneans, Thebans, Polisans, Hiluxians, and Minrozians were killed, among other nationalities. Four thousand, six hundred, forty nine more were wounded, and some remain in critical condition. Over one hundred thirty were captured and brought beyond the gate, my wife - Archduchess Clara Alexandra Sophie of Austria - among them. Their fate remains unknown, what is known is what sort of world they were taken to. Sadera is a cruel, dictatorial empire. Slavery. Feudalism, and yet an almost fascist degree of control over the citizen's life. Torture. Gladiator fights, often to the death. Wars of conquest for the pure purpose of obtaining more slaves, and stamping out cultures deemed 'lesser'. Intolerance of religions besides that of its own that borders on theocratic."

"Such a nation is responsible for those deaths, those injuries, those captured from our nations. This will not be tolerated."

"Our purpose, your purpose here, is simple. We will return their invasion in kind - we will invade their lands, capture their cities, rescue our citizens, and on their emperor's throne we shall force upon them our demands for their surrender, and make it so they have no choice but to accept. Their slaves shall be freed, their stockpiles of chemical weapons destroyed, freedom and dignity will be returned to the citizenry, and as their government bends the knee to our superior might, they will regret ever crossing that gate," Hanna finished, as she pointed to the gate in question.

A breath was taken, and she prepared to step aside. "Countess Model, your additions, if you would please."

"Ladies, gentlemen, the press," the older woman said, with more than a little disdain on the last part. "Operation Spartacus is a simple one, though there are some complications. At this time, the Imperial Military's research and development division has yet to conclude how the Gate works, so it is our only point of entry into and out of the Special Region, though they inform me they should have it figured out 'by November'. This will put a tight but not unmanageable restriction on logistics until the situation is corrected, but more importantly, it means it is absolutely imperative we gain control of the region surrounding the Gate on both sides as quickly as possible."

"Secondly, according to our interrogation of prisoners and observations from our special operations teams in the Special Region, we are grossly outnumbered - according to our analysis, the Saderan Army consists of between thirty to thirty-five million active duty personnel, with the ability to call in another twenty million via conscription. Sadera is massive - Thirty million square kilometers, with a good third of it contiguous and the rest spread out on colonies across six continents. We may have technology, but they have numbers, and reportedly have a large number of mages both in and out of the military."

"Don't get cocky - a bullet fired from an eighty year old gun, a shell fired from a ninety year old tank will leave you just as dead as one fired from a modern gun or a modern tank; and don't get bloodthirsty - our goal is not occupation. I believe the Austrian command referred to it as 'Civilizing' - hearts and minds, everyone. We are there as liberators, not conquerors. To show them that our way of life, our government, and most importantly our lack of slavery is superior to theirs, not that our culture is better -" she paused to glance at the Imerians "- nor to simply wipe them out." she paused to glance at the Japanese. "Give their military a bloody nose and a broken jaw, spread the word about how much better life is for our citizens than it is for theirs, and free every slave we come across, hopefully without bloodshed, and march slowly but ever onward towards the capital as more and more of their cities turn to our side." She paused.

"Though of course, if the slave owners or slave sellers refuse to hand the slaves over, feel free to kill them." A few laughs, which she allowed to finish before continuing.

"It will not be easy. As I said, we are outnumbered, and the capital city is almost two thousand kilometers from the Gate. We may have to fight all the way there, we might not. Our plan is not to, but I think we all know how well plans survive first contact with the enemy, even one as far behind us technologically as the Saderans."

"One last thing, in closing - Yes, the Saderans are slavers. Yes, the nobles, the generals, even some of the officers stand a good chance of owning slaves. But we are soldiers, not butchers, and to properly engage in hearts and minds, we must be better than the Saderans. There will be no disproportionate retribution, no war crimes, no looting, no war trophies, no torture, no burning of villages, no gas attacks on civilians. We will be as better morally as we are technologically in war, otherwise we will end up bogged down in just another war where the people hate us willingly as much as the soldiers must, and both are equally willing to kill."

She paused.

"That is all. We are oscar mike in one hour. I leave the floor open to the other commanders, and to media questions, until then."

KKU - Kriegskampf Uniform, Karlsland military equivalent of the US Army's ACU - the Luftwaffe and Heer share a design, the Reichsmarine uses the similar Seemankrieg Uniform, SKU. Multitarn is just the current version of Flecktarn used by the Karlsland military.

[Japan and Pacific States]

Berlin
August 22, 2018
10:35 Local Time

Regent Takatsukasa left her column and motioned for General Ayaka and Vassal Retainer Mana Tsukuyomi to follow her, after the Field Marshal's speech and took to the stage with the two in tow, Regent Takatsukasa took the centre of the stage, General Ayaka took the left and Vassal Retainer Tsukuyomi took the right, behind the Regent. Looking over each nation's own representative forces for a moment she then began to speak in English with a notable Japanese twinge. "Gentlemen. Ladies. Soldiers of the allies armies and Soldiers drawn from every territory of the Japanese Empire and the Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. I am Regent Kyoko Takatsukasa, of the Japanese Empire, and overall commander of the Japanese forces here present, both of the Imperial Japanese Army and of the Imperial Japanese Royal Guard. This war was not started by us. This war was started by madmen, those who would see all of us here's homes' burn. However. This does not mean we shall bring such destruction to them. Japan itself as most are aware has done such things in the past. However this is the past, what happens from this day forward dictates how our descendants shall look back on us. Shall they look back on us as those who were not any better than the monsters who came through this gate with rifles in hand and the intent to kill all of us off? Or. Shall they look back on us, seeing us as the honourable peoples we are. Shall they pray for our souls after we have passed from this world, or shall they curse us? This moment. Right here. Right now. Is where you decide this. Now there's another thing I want you to remember. In Japan's own history we Imperial Guard are always at the front lines of the battle. And when we retreat, we cover the rear. We defend our allies on the fields of battle and when there is nothing to defend we go on the offensive. We will assist where we are asked, and we shall cover withdraws where we are asked. For in either case. We die honourably. That is the only desire of a Japanese soldier. We serve our Shogun and our allies, for in this war. It matters not if you are Asian, Allanean, Karlslandic, or anything else. We fight the same enemy. Remember that."

Kyoko stopped speaking for a moment to let her words sink in, before she started walking back and forth across the stage with her hands clasped together behind her back. "That soldier you see next to you, that Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, Mongolian, American, or Japanese soldier you see next to you is your brother or sister. That Karlslandic you see next to you is your brother or sister. That Allanean you see next to you is your brother or sister." Kyoko stopped back at the centre of the stage and smiled. "And yes. Even that Imerian next to you is your brother. You watch out for him and he will watch out for you. Remember who your enemy is. Your enemy is the one with a rifle pointed straight at your forehead and a intent to kill you, your brother, and your sister. Put him down before he does unto you. ...That's all."

Kyoko then left the stage and General Ayaka then took centre stage while Vassal Retainer Tsukuyomi left with Regent Takatsukasa. A smile donned on Ayaka's face before she began speaking in Japanese, obviously to the Japanese troops. "Men. It is clear that the dream of our enemy is a world, in which we no longer exist. Like other races we have learned they've conquered. We are something foreign. Thus. The war machine of our enemy, is poised across the otherside of the Gate to attack us once again. The men in your columns may not live to see sunrise but our grandchildren, will survive. And. We must never forget, the Shogun, the Emperor. Are immortal. Tenno Heika. Banzai!" Ayaka lifted her right hand to the sky holding her sheathed Gunto in it and the Japanese, Mongolian, Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, and American troops lifted their arms to the air yelling three times "Banzai", before Ayaka, satisfied with her morale booster hooked her sword back onto her belt and left the stage to rejoin her men.

[Imeriata]

Berlin
August 22, 2018
10:36 Local Time
The Imerian commander watched the speech from their commanding officer and when her eyes looked at him he gave what could generously be described as a "non-committal shrug". He did however give a frown at the term Imeriatan but decided in the end that just cutting off the commanding officer mid speech would be bad form even if the correct term was Imerian.
"Bloody Johnies, always something they get wrong!" he thought to himself bitterly. He had to admit that he was still a bit sore, as was most of his soldiers that they were not allowed to carry out the required ritualistic sacrifices soldiers needed to do before engaging in warfare. Something that made the speech the woman was spewing out very disingenuous when she decried the horrors of religious intolerance. Luckily, once they were past the gate so would it no longer be Karlsland territory and he only promised to not conduct the proper rituals on karlsland soil. After that... honour would be preserved no matter what he did in that regard.

His eyes went up a bit worried as another bunch of flying girls went past them up in the skies, another thing that the foreigners seemed to adore, just like those ungodly walkers, that just struck him as not the proper way to conduct battle. Luckily his men were all ready and about to show them how it was done, ranks upon ranks of royal guardsman in the chivalrous royal blue rather than that drab nonsense that the foreigners were wearing were ready for deployment and would conduct a proper attack. So far had his command gathered data about the foreign world they would engage in, local gravity, air composition, and air density had all been taken into account and put into the computers so that at least artillery and tracklayers would be able to compensate for any discrepancy there while the computers in the warmachines made their calculations for aiming the powerful weapons. Local magical situations had been measured and the enchantments of the federal warmachines had been given a go over to make sure they would not just flicker out of existence. The main issue he worried about was his own infantry, they did not have those fancy computers and had to make due with normal aiming like men, but he guessed that they would need to drill with target practice a lot on the other side to compensate for any slight discrepancy that would throw their aim off. Similarly did his medics and doctors run around making sure nobody brought any disease over that would cause a pandemic and plans were brought up to make sure that the new world they were about to engage in did not do the same.

He quickly took out his electronic warbook, a miniature computer bound in brass and polished wood, not that he did not care about the important questions that the journalists would certainly ask... but he did not. The book flickered on as a green text flashed by as it started itself up. Then did it finally jump into action, reports started to flood him as the medics were reporting all clear, trossen were reporting that they had their equipment stored properly and were trying to figure out a way to commandeer certain railway lines from the main harbours to Berlin to ensure quick and efficient travel for their weapons and ammunition, and everything else they needed. There were even an angry letter from the head cleric about how not being able to conduct the rituals would bring grave danger down on them all and would displease the silver forged god of war. Fancy little tools that allowed him to track and communicate with almost every aspect of the army, even corporals in charge of sections had the tools handed out to them and were able to pinpoint enemy units and dangers and pass this information up among the chain of command. It was a bit worrying how dependent on technology this made the army but the result spoke for themselves. Of course without satellites they would have a hard time working on the other side but the engineers and aerocorps had assured him that they could just use warballoons and drones until they got a working satellite into orbit. Another report from the tross outlined how certain industries and refineries might be converted on the other side to shorten supply lines that way, but without a firm understanding of exactly what they were working with instead of quick observations by scout teams so were they unable to say exactly what they could and could not do. He sighed as he took a step forward, well at least the conflict would be interesting if nothing else.

"I am lord squire commander Erik auf Stjärnkhrone! In command of his royal highness, may his name eternally be blessed, krigsmakt! I am commanding this force through the right of blood!" he said as he quickly took out a dagger and cut himself over the palm of his hand as his blue blood started to pour gently down the open gash.
"The same blood that runs through the veins of his royal highness, may his house eternally be blessed, and can be traced back through the ages to the dawnage and has run through the veins of countless warriors, chieftains, lardins, high kings, soldiers, officers, and gentlemen!" he continued holding up his hand for everyone to see, the famed blood of the Stjärnkhrone dynasty slowly pouring down his arm now.
"The blood of my ancestors will be the covenant by which me and my men will fight, the full rules of chivalry will be enforced in combat as well as the arbitrary rules put forward by Karlsland high command! However, I am more than assured that every guardsman and our comrades will go into battle a paragon of virtue! Chaste, brave, and honourable! So to all our men, I hope that this will be a jolly good fight, fame, wealth, and glory to the victors and that those who fall will feast eternally with the gods!" he finished taking a step backward.

[The Selkie]

Berlin, 22nd of August 2018.
SDF-Army Force Grey Wolf.
The SDF-Army Force Grey Wolf was smaller then most of the other forces present. The entire SDF was smaller then some of the forces dispatched. They still had mustered two regiments and then some, the 18th Maor-Regiment was already present with some smaller units, and would cross the threshold, the heavier 11th Dragan-Regiment was on standby, as were a few other, smaller units.
What they didn't have in numbers, though, Brigadier Liam Óga of the Tribe of Laois, commanding officer of the Mobile Forces Command and its dispatched force to aid in Operation Spartacus, knew they had in sheer and simple moxie.
He was a tall man, clad in the Blue Dress of the SDF-Army (foregoing the heavy overcoat, mainly because it was August and warm around these parts), one of the very few people of the SDF wearing the heavy garment. He was also dark-blonde, green eyed and watched the other commanding officers of the forces dispatched to the Special Region, the lands beyond the Gate, give their speeches.
One of the other few officers clad in Blue Dress was Lieutenant Colonel Kendra Cumasach of the Tribe of Cork, a violet-haired woman from Geata. She was his Chief of Staff and stood directly next to him. She snorted in amusement at some of the speeches, especially Princess Hanna's. “The girl will fight with her heart, not her head.”, she mumbled to herself and the Colonel. “Her rage will fuel her actions. Luckily, she is not in charge.”
“Model is too young.”, Óga remarked with a frown, he both being older and preferring an older commanding officer himself (but having bowed to the wisdom of that appointment by recommendation of the Foreign Office, albeit with reservations), watching witches pass above them without moving his face. “I do not like the notion of sending children to the battlefield, no matter their powers... even if we once did the same.”
“We do not do that anymore. Not since Anfa Ridge.”, Cumasach mumbled back, referring to a battle against a foreign power trying to 'civilize' the Selkie, which broke them in 1903 – at the cost of a lot of kids from the Younger Militia. Ever since then, the Selkie used the Younger Militia in ceremonial roles or as manpower reserves for natural disasters.
Remarks by Model about the abhorrent nature of their enemy and their ways, and especially about civilizing them, were ignored. Selkie, although not slavers anymore, had a history with it, the Tyranicide's stay in Leuda was now three centuries ago on the year. What both the Princess and Model made were speeches for the press, not for the soldiers, justifications for what they were about to do.
Then, Regent Takatsukasa stepped up and called upon the honour of her soldiers and cautioned the soldiers to watch out for the soldier next to them. General Ayaka spoke about the enemy wishing to destroy them and their way of life, poised to do so.
The Imerian leader, Erik auf Stjärnkhrone, certainly had a bombastic way of speaking... cutting himself for a point was an interesting way to tell about the own ancestry. Indeed, however, Cumasach had to say, that he was successful in making it clear to his people, what they were going to do.
While others talked, Óga reflected on the past few weeks: When the news of the attack on Berlin arrived, the Foreign Office began to run around in circles like headless chicken. It was not unheard of to have incidents in places of diplomatic meetings attended by Ambassador Groups, that was nothing new, but the scale seemed... interesting.
When more and more details came in, the SDF began to mobilize as small group of soldiers, also known as the 2nd Company, Great Woods Rangers, to get their people out, but it turned out, just as they were about to send a message announcing their sending and departure, that the Karlslandians had everything under control.
And so, analysing began the day after, including first testimonies, interrogations following a week later upon return to the Free Lands.
Four people of the Ambassador Groups had been there, Donald Crionna wounded (and by now set to retire, the Silver Fox loosing the control over his arm), Marla and Aingeal a bit shell-shocked due to helping wounded at an aid post, Ayden eaten by his own demons due to having Crionna wounded on his watch... their testimonies were limited, but especially Marla's and Aingeal's adventure on the roof proofed very useful.
But as the news of the attack reached the public the next morning, things went haywire. Sacred Laws by Carman Fea stated, that a parliamentary was untouchable, as were unarmed and innocent civilians, even in a besieged place. That celebrations were to honour.
And this affront against the Goddess of Science and War could not be left standing – one could, and some did, argue, that this was not their problem, but they were quickly overshadowed: It became their problem the moment Mister Crionna's shoulder had been hit.
He would survive, he was even back in the Free Lands, but the damage was done. Sadly, this was not an issue, which could be merrily dealt with by sending a few cruise missiles (most likely the SDF-Navy sending an escort vessel to the actual ship firing those, basically outsourcing the dirty part). No, this needed a more hands-on approach.
And with the High Priest of Carman Fea, Glynn Uisinn of the Tribe of Westmeath, lobbying for war, there was little the Elders, stricken with fervour as well, could do to oppose... instead, the Foreign Office asked the Karlslandians with insistence, whether or not they could send a force to aid them in their punitive expedition.
It was granted, after a few details about their enemy became known and a simple punitive expedition turned into a 'civilizing' tour. The term had been received with disdain.
And from there, it went. Mobilizing the Mobile Forces Command was not a problem, it was made for that purpose, moving the units selected for the expedition, known as Operation Spartacus, to Karlsland was more of one, but the SDF-Navy and their Freighter Auxiliary Group took care of that. They would move supplies, replacements and field post to the harbour of Amsterdam for the duration of their stay, where their allies would take care of the rest of the way, if needed with help of the SDF.
18 Maor was now in Berlin, having spent time preparing themselves, many of the soldiers trying to learn German (many succeeding to some extend), 11 Dragan would move in at a later point, as well as several other units. 18 Maor was a light regiment, compared to the heavy 11 Dragan, ideal to push in and to wreck havoc while 11 Dragan was the sledgehammer. With them was also a company of the Great Woods Rangers, special forces, who participated in reconnaissance on the other side, compared to those regiments a dagger.
The SDF would not stand in the shadow of the larger forces in this punitive expedition turned educating tour, however. They would do their part.
Carman Fea demanded so.
Fire for the Fire-Goddess. Arrows for the Archer-Goddess., Óga thought to himself, referring to Carman Fea by her nicknames, Let the Raven Ashes cover the remains.
He was torn out of his thoughts by the commander of 18 Maor, Lieutenant Colonel Viola Arán of the Tribe of Fermanagh, stepping up. A blonde (long hair, but bound back into a pony tail), blue eyes and with a pair of rimless glasses adorning her nose, once a bugler of 5 Horse, who had a motherly vibe around her. She was dressed in Duty Uniform, fully-equipped webbing above that, handgun at her hip, helmet on a strip dangling at the other side. She would be on the frontlines as long as needed.
“I'm not a fan of long speeches, so, short and simple, people.”, she began, causing her soldiers to chuckle, “We are here, the enemy, Sadera, is there. Soon, we will be there. In Sadera. We will fight the enemy, will conduct ourselves befitting of Selkie-Warriors and soldiers of the SDF, will break the enemy with the help of our allies...” Óga couldn't help but smile. SDF-soldiers had moxie. “...and force them to surrender.”
She let a beat pass, then continued: “Our Karlslandian allies are in this for revenge, for vengeance. This is not our path. We are in this because the enemy attacked our ambassadors and innocents. The enemy broke Sacred Laws. We are Carman Fea's Plague to punish them.” She gave a small smile. “We will fight with our heads, not our hearts, and see to it, that they stay attached. What stands in our way, is done away with. Who opposes us, will be defeated. If the enemy strikes at you, strike back thrice as hard. And we will all return home safe and sound.”
While Arán spoke, she spoke calmly, steady, with little to no emotion in her voice, her soldiers nodding along. They would not commit warcrimes, not by their standards, at least, and they would try to win hearts and minds of the enemy population (there was a reason, why they brought an enhanced field hospital and an additional logistical unit with them, although it was on standby), but for that even to begin, they needed to fight.
And fight, they would – Selkie were usually fun people of song and dance at peace, something they preferred, but cold-hearted soldiers when forced to fight. The Saderans would soon learn, what that meant.
“Ar aghaidh.“, she spoke – onwards!
„Chuig briseadh!“, her regiment replied with one voice – towards battle!
An old battlecry of the Selkie, which had a lot of history. That phrase had made people opposing Selkie, both Mercenaries and regular fighters, afraid for centuries, ingrained into the memories of those, who had opposed Selkie Light Cavalry – one of the finest light cavalries money had been able to buy. And with tanks, that would not change.
Arán stepped down from the podium, having spoken to her soldiers, not for the press, not available for questions, that was what the Mobile Forces Command Staff Press Office was for, and went back to her regiment, talking with the soldiers, inspecting, joking, talking, comforting and giving their famous moxie.
Their equipment had been ready since yesterday evening – they themselves were now.

[Allanea]

For a moment there was silence. The Allanean force stood on the square like statues – several thousand men, blue berets askew on their heads.Overhead, the division banner fluttered – a rampant gyphon on a light-blue background. Their rifles held at port arms, black steel bayonets glinted only slightly in the sun. Before their force, a small, open-topped jeep moved, carrying a man with two large stars on each of his shoulderboards, stitched in brownish-green. This was Colonel-General Dmitry Mikhailov.

Men!

The General required no loudspeaker, no audio system to carry his words over the square. Two decades of military service had taught him to impose his voice on the minds of recruits, to speak over the roar of vehicle engines and the din of battle. In the pure Berlin air, his words seemed to float over the ranks.

As you already know, we are at the site of an enormous tragedy and an enormous mistake. A slaver power, operating via the portal you see at that square, attacked Karsland during a national celebration event, kidnapping several national dignitaries and civilians from several visiting countries, including several Freemen. It is believed that these are now either dead, or being awfully tortured or enslaved.

The General paused.

As for the mistake… the mistake is that the enemy has broken into the wrong country's party and kidnapped the wrong countries' citizens.

He looked over the men and women of the Silver Gryphons – young, most of them, their bodies seeming like chiseled from marble and ebony and bronze, their gloved hands holding their weapons firmly

History knows well that tragic sequence of events – of a group of villains who prosper for centuries, carrying out one act of brutality after another. Sandera is that group. The basis of its economy is millions of individuals, held as forced labor in mining for coal and lead, iron and copper, forced into fighting each other in the arena, heinously executed for the slightest transgression. However, as it often happens in history, the villain one day oversteps themselves. One day the bank robber runs into a security guard with a pistol or a police team. One day the mob runs into the one witness that's not afraid to testify. The terrorist finally angers their enemies into retaliation. Then, as they stand on battlements of their castles, they see the very woods moving against them, the dawn rising crimson as the weight of all their misdeeds comes down upon them.

Silver Gryphons! You have the honor of standing here among some of the finest and bravest allied troops. We have with us the finest in military technology. We have the Karlslanders on our side. Moreover, we have the Imerians, who have shown themselves in three conflicts to be the furious supporters of honor and justice. Together, we have the honor of being the leading wedge of an all-destroying force, which will sweep the slaver before us.

The hand that had been raised against our allies will be shorn off.
The foot that had been raised to tread on Prussian soil shall be amputated.
The chains of slavery shall be broken and cast underfoot.
The capture and suffering of innocent civilians will be avenged seventyfold.

And you will be the engines of that vengeance. Where you advance, the dark clouds of slavery and injustice will recede. Every step you make, you will advance the light of liberty and progress another foot.

I congratulate you.

Hurrah!

The roar of thousands of thousands seemed to shake the square itself as the general's jeep carried him by the Allanean ranks.

Hurraaaaaaah! Hurrraaaah! Hurraaaah!

[Wolfenium]

Berlin, Karlsland
August 22, 2018
Eva Lilith von Wolfenstein

"I will not send soldiers to die on foreign soil! Not again! I will not have you indulge in fantasies of conquest and bounty like those generals in the war. Who do you think you are!?"

That was the response Eva got from Emperor Karl Franz von Wolfenstein, sovereign of the nation, when she first proposed military intervention against the 'Saderans'. Her elder brother by four years, Karl was thrust onto the throne after the horrific arson that claimed the lives of her grandfather, Emperor Heinrich, and her sister, Heidi. Already orphaned after the deaths of their parents, Karl had had to govern a nation dragged helplessly into war, as rival factions within the imperial inner circle vied for influence over him. On one side was the old order, Edenite nationalists once brought to power by the previous dynasty, the Sommers. Having ruled Wolfenium since the end of the Wolfen Civil War nearly a century and a half ago, the nationalists were severely dis-empowered by the rise of Heinrich. His death, and Karl's ascension, provided them a chance to retain their vision of Wolfenium as a unitary, Edenite nation-state. And the war provided a rare opportunity to fulfill the grandest dream in Wolfenium's creation - usurping the legacy of the Astoli Empire from Amythyst.

But Karl grew to resent their overbearing zeal. While he disliked his distant, often ill-tempered grandfather, he began to fear the path Wolfenium was being steered into. The growing radicalization and imperial ambitions of his subjects under war fervour threatened to extend the war beyond control. To that end, he turned to the very allies that helped Heinrich bring the Edenite radicals in line - the formerly repressed minorities of the western states. But eighteen years after his coronation, Wolfenium looked no nearer to resolving this impasse as before.

Looking down at her blood crimson army uniform as she sat with the other representatives at the platform, Eva tried hard not to pull a grimace. She knew he still did not approve of the deployments, but three months after the fact, he had to cave into some sort of action. That came in the form of a reinforced brigade of Panzergrenadiers from the veteran 4th Panzer Division in Ronan and Outer Alstein, along with supporting battalions from the less vital Army Corps South, away from the Amythysian border. She even obtained the deployment of the dreaded Mobile Section Six combat mages from Belka. Though, she half-expected her adopted niece, Füchsin, to force the issue, ever the pro-Belkan supporter.

In all, the bellicose tone of her so-called allies had bode much ill, not so much for the mission itself, but for the goals they had in mind. Justice? Brotherhood? Glory of battle? All of them were sheer nonsense. In the end, rescuing the captured civilians and punishing the Saderan leadership were all excuses for a much higher purpose. It was the zeroth, unspoken rule of geopolitics, and she would never be allowed to speak the truth of it at the podium.

"Has everyone lost their minds," a voice whispered in Eva's ear, "do they think occupation is fun?"

Seated beside her was an aloof, dark-haired woman, dressed in a white uniform as a faint frown was written on her face. Her rank, a colonel, seemed highly unusual for someone who looked like she was in her late-twenties. And her direct superior, a goatee-wearing elder with small round-rimmed spectacles, seemed old enough to be her grandfather.

"Don't ask me," Eva growled, "we're just extra hands on deck. Seven dead, twenty wounded and fourteen missing, and we're expected to look the other way?"

"You're the one who proposed this, Your Highness," the woman remarked, "you tell me what you have planned."

Tightening her clasped hands, Eva could already feel the stranger getting on her nerves. She was a Wolfener, that her uniform was too obvious to ignore. But to be this obstinate in front of a royal... the Archduchess could only guess how far the prestige of the imperial office had gone down the shitter.

"How bold of you to ask," Eva sneered in a low voice, "you from the western states?"

"Outer Alstein, to be specific," the colonel playfully introduced herself, "or have you never set foot outside your capital, Your Highness?"

"The Iren," she surmised, "of course... I thought we drove you people into extinction. I don't believe you're looking for a dragon to bring back? Those beyond the portal might not be as bright as the old Astoli ones."

Unable to suppress an ironic smirk, the woman answered, "please. Dragonborn are not so easily eradicated."

Looking over the ranks of her command, Eva tried hard to recall the names of her military staff. One, a rather short, brunette Fuso woman in blue, seated between the elder and the Iren woman, was no stranger to the princess. She was a friend of Nanoha, and her commanding officer as well. Needless to say, she was one person she did not want to make an enemy out of. The old man, she recalled, was a brigade commander in Army Corps Northwest during the Wolfen-Amythysian War, where the Belkan Front was. As for the sassy-mouthed Iren, she had no clue. She had read that she had been at the Battle of Ronan, but beyond that, it was hard to believe she had even fought the war eighteen years ago, much less with a rank this high.

"Major General Klaus Vanderbilt, Colonel Hayate Yagami, and..." she recited, stopping at the statuesque colonel.

"Colonel Raghnall," the woman introduced herself, "Brigid Raghnall, or Brigit Reinhold, whichever you like."

Grimacing at her sharp tongue, Eva could already tell she was not going to like the Iren woman. Like all non-Ruberians, the Iren had been forced to adopt the names and tongues of their Edenite rulers. Years, if not centuries of service to the Dukes of Alstein and other Gael-Ruberian lords was punished with the rise of the Edenite Sommer dynasts as Emperors. That Eva, an Edenite, held the title once owned by the House of Staufen, was an insult to their legacy of coexistence with their Gaelic subjects. But she could hardly be bothered to criticize her. There were more important matters to attend to than defending her family's track record.

'Pack of self-righteous clowns,' she thought, 'this is conquest. Treat it like one.'

Such sentiment, however, were best kept in silence. At least, not within their allies' earshot.

---

Berlin, Karlsland
August 22, 2018
Carla Vasa

Three months. Three months could feel like a blink of an eye when one is preoccupied, but when your mind is haunted by tragedy, it could feel like an eternity. Even as a friend, Carla could scarcely imagine what was going through Hanna's mind these few weeks. And when she spoke at the podium, it seemed her worst fears had been confirmed. She wanted blood, and she wanted it now. Gripping her own hand tightly, she had reason to worry she might be going too far with her brand of justice.

"Fear not, Your Highness. I'm sure Madam Model will know how to rein her temper in," spoke the commander beside her, a tall, slightly tanned man with a goatee and long, dark hair tied in a pony tail. The head of the divison-sized expeditionary force, Major General Hugo Skarsgård appeared more like an art critic than a seasoned officer of the Royal Baltlandic Army. Even his subordinates, a burly thuggish redhead and a blonde, scarred Viking-looking type, seemed more suited for the role than him. But Carla needed a calm mind for this, something neither the bull-headed Brigadier Öberg or the scowling viking Amundsen possess. If not Skarsgård, there was always the blonde, stern-looking witch beside her.

"I hope so too," Carla remarked, "I'm not sure any of them can understand the meaning of restraint."

"'Restraint'," Amundsen grumbled, "you speak as if the Saderans hold the same standards on human dignity as us. Never mind them, our allies do not consider us past our instincts as raiders and berserkers, while our less reputable personalities at home think the opposite."

"Are you suggesting we indulge ourselves in crimes against humanity," Skarsgård interjected sternly, "Amundsen, we are not savages. Such talk of 'killing slavers' and 'punishing the treacherous invaders'... It's obscene."

"But this is war, SIr," Öberg declared, a tad too loudly as Carla shushed him, "this is not something we can pussy-foot through. Casualties are inevitable, as will hate. You cannot expect us to be forgiving to such unprovoked violence."

"We have to, Öberg," the division commander stated firmly, quite resigned to the two gung-ho men's nagging, "if you want to be unscrupulous about it, think of it as psychological warfare. Weaken the resolve of the enemy with magnanimity and their armies will desert. How does that sound?"

"That still sounds like pussy-footing," the redhead grumbled, shirking at his suggestion as he turned back towards the audience. Shaking his head, the commander could only relent at High Command's rather odd choices for leaders. And all in front of Her Highness, as she pouted at the adrenaline rush of the brigadiers.

"This doesn't look too good," Carla whispered to the lone female of the staff, "what do you think?"

"I'm here to do my job, not judge my colleagues, Your Highness," the fellow witch stated, "just be careful out in the field, and try to listen to commands. I still outrank you, Major."

Carla was already starting to doubt High Command's picks herself...

[United Islands of Polis]

Berlin, Karlsland
August 22, 2018
Field Marshal Joseph Niels Karfit, 5th Constitutional Expeditionary Force

Moments before the Ceremony

Field Marshal Karfit and his convoy had passed through the busy streets to Berlin towards the Polisian embassy. Like most of the buildings stuck in the warzone that had transpired a few days ago the compound walls were scorched, chipped and damaged.

As the Field Marshal stepped out of his MRAP Head Ambassador Yugi Bareagudia was the first to greet him with a warm smile.

"Ambassador what happened to your arm?" Joseph asked as he shook his hand.

"It matters not if it means saving lives Field Marshal." Yugi replied back as they went inside to discuss a few things important to the campaign.

Most things transpired from the procurement of railways from the harbor and a few hangars in the multiple International Airports in Berlin along with hiring multiple trucking companies to put less stress on the Logistics Corp.

So far they had confirmed one railway platform to help and a few trucking companies to help haul smaller supplies such as food parcels and equipment no heavier than an APC.

"Honestly Marshal, I was shocked when the Premier told me he was send it an entire Expeditionary Force here. I was panicking over logistics." Yugi said as he sipped his cup.of coffee.

"Don't worry, I plan only to send one division at a time along with its complementing formations, they'll be working on tours so they can shift out. That way we don't end up starving our own men." Joseph said as he stared into the window.

"So what's the word on the survivors?"

"It's not the best."

Ceremony Proper

Field Marshal Margot sat there as the others went on about their stances and the like. The only thing he and his aides gathered were they were here mostly for revenge. So was he, by as long as he served this allied force and the Premier he would be tied down to the rules of engagement set forth by the allied commanders and the Premier.

On an outside notehe could see why Karlsland was such a popilar destination for tourists. The odd engineering and such would definitely draw anyone's attention here, even his own. He in fact started questioning why he never came here with his family once.

Realizing no one else was going to take a go at it the Field Marshal stepped up to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen. The tragedy that had transpired here a few days ago had left the nation's here today shocked as the blood of the innocent were spilled for no apparent reason and without warning."

The Field Marshal paused to look at the audience slightly.

"At 0234 hours Premier John Nikolai Greyhound had called my residence to inform me of me and my men's immediately departure for Karlsland within the next 7 days. I was told of a massacre and ti expect updates from the news and intelligebce center within the week."

"Upon arriving I had visited the Polisian Embassy and the surrounding hospitals. The casualties with the 2 tour groups were even worse than i expected. I I'd spoken and comforted personally 6 individuals, 2 of which are now orphaned children. I I'd to even witness one child asking her father to wake up while his body layer in a morgue."

"We are all here today to bring these people to justice So I any means necessary! We will walk through that gate and ask nicely if they will surrender. If not we will shower them in lead filled retaliation for what happened here. BUT! This is not to be confused with conquest or genocide as out goal at the end of this all is to bring their government to justice."

"We will extract vengeance not on the single soldier but on their commanding officers by bringing them to court and giving then proper sentence. And with that my dear comrades. Let is act as a civilized world will and bit commit warcrimes but bring these People who dare call themselves human to justice and come back home with minimal bloodshed! URA!"

In the staging area all sounds were suddenly drowned out by a deafening yell of URA had taken over sound for awhile until the Field Marshal had raised his hand to stop then take his seat waiting for the next event to happen.

[Minroz]

Theme

Berlin
August 22, 2018

The Minrozians are no different from their allies. They too want to bring swift justice on the invaders from other side of the Gate. The subjects of the Middle Kingdom, the Minrozian citizens, were victims of the Saderan atrocities as much as everyone else presented on the awful night before. The day the Saderans attack had outraged the whole Minrozian Empire. About thousand Minrozian citizens dead or injured, only few were taken prisoners into the other side of the Gate. Attacking the imperial subjects of the Son of Heaven without warning constituted as the declaration of war against the Middle Kingdom. The Qing Empire without a second thought joined the Trans-Barrier Alliance in Operation Spartacus, as well as alliance obligations in support of Karlsland and Austria-Hungary.

Out of all the order-of-battles in the whole alliance, the Minrozians has contained high number of elite units, particularly the Eight-Banners and some exotic soldiers from imperial tributaries back in their homeworld. The whole Minrozian Expeditionary Forces contained some of the finest, mostly comprised of hardened veterans who’ve seen action in many battlefields with high success rates. Be it witches, soldiers and mages, half of them have already undergone genetic-engineering therapies by magical means, possessing extended lifespan whilst retaining their youthful appearance to the point they’re often mistaken for teenagers and young adults by non-Iclamians. One can say they’re like elves in regards to years and appearance alone. If anyone looked past their exteriors, the Minrozians were much as soldiers as everyone else in the Trans-Barrier Alliance.

It has been three months since the Tragedy. Sitting on the podium with other allied commanders is Major-General Yi Jiguang, commander of the entire Minrozian Expeditionary Forces. A grizzled veteran of many battles including the Iclamian Neuroi War, Pelles, Yuzhnoslavia, Nanyang War, Khaydaristan, Heljmenistan, Aden Straits and Souriya, General Yi possessed centuries-worth of experience, and helped by the fact he’s a high-born - a genetically-enhanced human with longer lifespan than his normal peers. In technically, the Minrozian general is perhaps the oldest of all allied commanders.

Professional, honourable, hard-working and father to his men; he served his country and the Dragon Throne for nearly hundred years ever since he joined the Celestial Army as a teenager before undergoing genetic-engineering therapy. He has slowly climbed and earned his current rank as a general. On other hand, Yi Jiguang has little-to-no interests in politics or career advancements; his chief interest is being a professional soldier for the Middle Kingdom, nothing more. Besides which he’s not one for political farce; Yi Jiguang would rather not deal in politics if he can’t help it. Ironically, he’s quite familiar with intricacies of politics.

By decree of the Guangxu emperor and unanimous verdict of the Grand Council, Yi Jiguang was appointed to be the supreme commander of the Minrozian forces in Karlsland as part of the Coalition who’re going to enter into the Gate. However, no proud Minrozian commanders want to be commanded by a non-Iclamian ‘outsider barbarian’. Anyone else are busy in other theaters. Therefore in interests of keeping good relations with their allies, he is exactly why he’s chosen for the job as the Minrozian CO. All in all, Major-General Yi Jiguang doesn’t mind in cooperating with fellow allied commanders; even Marshal Model is significantly younger than him in years.

Next, it is his turn for a speech. Orders from Zhongyang for him to do so. The senior commander doesn’t consider himself as a politician but he’ll give out his own words of encouragement. He began speaking in his humble manner.

“Ahem.” Jiguang cleared his throat. “I am Major-General Yi Jiguang, commander of the Minrozian Expeditionary Forces. Men and women of the alliance, I salute you. I want to apologise that speeches is not my strong suit. The people before me haven spoken the words that we’ve already known and deserves praises then me. And I’m just a military man, first and foremost. But know this; we Minrozians, the people of the Middle Kingdom are here to fight the enemy who doesn’t respect the rights of nations other than themselves. If we don’t act against such injustices, we’ll be no better than them. I must implore everyone that while retaliation is the right response to the tragedy three months ago, we should not let our anger and hate cloud our judgements as civilized beings. Know this; each of us will be defined by our actions in the coming battle. And I have nothing but words of encouragement. My friends and comrades in the Transbarrier alliance, we Minrozians are with you. Stand fast. Stand strong. Stand together. Godspeed.”

With the finality, he bowed respectfully and returns to the seat.

“Awww~,” Yawned the black-haired girl, who is dressed in the same military uniform as him. She seems to be little bored by the speeches. She is Colonel Hei Xiangyin, commanding-officer of the witch corps assigned to the Expeditionary Force. A woman of Taiwanese aborigine heritage, she joined the Eight-Banner Witch Corps at tender age of twelve and rose to become one of elite ace witches in the country and known for her happy-go-lucky personality as well as her love for animals. Like most of her comrades, she’s over hundred years old in age. Like her colleagues, Xiangyin have seen many battles before. Despite her outstanding record, she’s content to remain in her current position as colonel, serving as big sister figure to her witches and younger members of the Eight-Banners.

Sitting next to her is Prince Wonggu in his digital-camouflage military uniform. Observing, he’s been silent the whole time. Never much a fan of politics, he’d rather sit out in the sidelines. Even though, Wonggu cannot ignore his family political background as royals and he has a role to play. It also helps that he and his men, the Black Wolves Battalion, are a well-decorated unit, full of war heroes.

“Aiya…” Yi Jiguang inwardly sighed in response; he knew the girl is not a big fan of speeches. Trying his best to ignore his witch 2IC and then looked back at the rows of Alliance armies. In the room, full of imperialistic nations, he and many of his fellow Minrozians were reasonably perturbed underneath their stoic expression. They personally find it distasteful to work alongside ‘arrogant’ nations who have little-to-no respect or regards for others. At least, some of them are decent he finds. Needless to say, the Minrozians are ambivalent at best and they’re no strangers to geopolitics. Ironic-enough, the Qing Dynasty itself has its own alliance similar to NATO and Warsaw Pact, mostly comprised of Minrozian-friendly nations ruled by varied right-wing regimes and monarchies.

“So we done?” Xiangyin whispered to ever-serious Yi Jiguang.

“Give the general a break, you know he doesn’t like politics.” said a portly Eight-banner officer sitting next to Wonggu with his arms crossed, looking relaxed. He is colonel Tan Raobao. He’s Wonggu and Xiangyin’s direct superior officer. A highly-respected veteran in the whole Middle Kingdom, he’s been in many wars from young age and always brings victories for the Great Qing, he’s also best friend of the Qianlong emperor (Wonggu’s father and Guangxu’s predecessor) since childhood. Ranbao is the man that the soldiers of the Celestial Army look up to.

“Hey, don’t beat up yourself, Yi Jiguang. I don’t think any of us are good at it. I can’t even think of my own from my marriage with my wife.” Tan Ranbao quipped to the general.

“Yes. Well, at least we get formalities out of the way.” Jiguang whispered back to the two.

“Oi, don’t get me wrong. It’s a good speech, sir.” The black-haired witch commander quipped.

“Hmph, don’t pay too much mind, sir. You did your best. Although, we have a job to worry about.” Wonggu said to the General. The prince is a big believer in actions speaks for itself, not words.

“Heh, right,” Xiangyin cannot helped herself but agree with him. “Just take it as another day at work, eh.” She gave out a friendly grin.

“Be patient, bannermen. We will have our fight. We just have to march alongside with our allies.” Jiguang smiled.

"Well, there's accommodations of tech differences here." Ranbao pointed out.

If it’s not really problematic enough, the Minrozians could have brought in their standard mechs and battle-suits and all sorts of high-tech gadgets. However, Zhongyang feared they might fall in enemy hands or even their allies, not wishing the outsiders to take hold of their technology. Whether out of consideration to their allies or not trusting the outsiders enough to keep secrecy of their advanced tech, the Minrozian refrained from bringing in equipments which considered being straight out of science-fiction. Much to the annoyance of Minrozian troops as a whole but they stowed their complaints, due to their strict discipline as expected of the elite marine forces of the Qing Empire.

Minroz pride itself on their reputation as the benevolent force in the universe. For their faults as a quasi-authoritarian monarchy, the Minrozians genuinely believed in the greater good and justice for all. Innocent lives will be rightfully avenged. The Minrozians have already made their ritualistic prayers of good fortune to the higher powers, the heavens and to Apghi – the God of War in case of Ajarists, before preparing to move out. Nevertheless, the ‘Fascist Romans’ Saderans will soon taste the wrath of the Middle Kingdom in due time.

Hakim Raharjo…

He watched the rally, dressed in his military uniform with the ghillie cap and a wide bucket hat, holding the rank of captain. The tragedy from three months ago is all too familiar to him. It reminds him of the dark days his country is invaded by a superpower hell-bent on conquest under flimsy pretense of ‘freeing the people and restoring democracy’. Hakim can sympathised with folks who suffered from tragedies on that very night.

On other hand, he finds speeches by the Karlslanders and the Japanese as reeks of hypocrisy, considering their track record of imperialism. At least, the former are better in regards to civil rights. Same goes for his Karlslandic acquaintances he met in person, seeing them as decent people. This is the point-of-view from a man who hailed from the nation which used to be a western colony and got invaded by a country which preaches democracy, justice and equality for all yet treated his people lower-than-dirt just because they’re different. The timely interventions of the Qing and their allies, together with international outrage, have prevented Nusantara from being conquered. Hakim, like most Nusantarans, owed a great deal of debt to Minroz for saving their country.

In the last two months, he spent time attending to his princely duties with his wife in organizing a military expedition. At the same time, he spent the rest of his time together with his friends, family and the woman he truly love before preparing for his deployment. Ai was not too happy to see the man she loved going to war, for good reasons. She’s pregnant with his baby from July. As much as they don’t like the looks of their predicament, it took a long night for them to accept. As much as Ai wants to come along, she has royal duties to attend to and the baby as well. Thus, the Prince-Consort came to Karlsland on her behalf in representing the Great Qing.

Today, he just arrived in Berlin from two days ago to rendezvous with the Minrozian forces. While he holds the rank of captain, Hakim carried a huge weight of authority in virtues of being the husband of Crown Princess Ai. Although on field, he still answers to General Yi Jiguang himself. The Nusantaran man questioned how things will goes once the coalition enters the ‘gate’. Being a realist, he doesn’t expect the alliance to go smoothly. Considering lots of different nations with different agendas altogether, one of it he expects certain nations to commit war-crimes when nobody’s watching. Here, he’s among the Minrozian troops who’re all looking forward to teach the Saderan barbarians a lesson.

Hakim sneaks a peek at the Karlslandic redhead princess herself, wondering how she’s holding up. Ever an insightful man, he knew it’s not easy. He can imagine what has gone throughout Hanna’s mind already.

“I hope Hanna is okay…” He murmured. Despite his exterior of apathy, he’s actually worried for Crown Princess Hanna as friend. It’s not the first time he seen people gave in to anger and revenge. Hakim knew what’s like to be one….

[Persitama]

On the Other Side...

The building was older than almost anything else left in the world as they knew it. A great tower, long enough to reach the heavens, absolutely dwarfing anything else in all Persitama.

Xerxes Sansah was ready to partake in a ritual to truly steel himself for these dark times coming ahead. At the young age of 16, he had become the youngest King of Persitama. In two years, he had quickly found the task taxing, mentally and physically, bureaucracy slowly overwhelming him and becoming his biggest concern, the noble politics proving to be nothing noble either. Between all of the aging old men trying to throw their daughters and sons into a loveless marriage with him, assassins ready to take his life and his title, and simple plots to take advantage of him, he had wondered if the true enemy of the Persitaman people were the Saderans at the borders or the snakes that ruled over it.

Nonetheless, at the age of 18, he had entered his first, and so far only, meeting with the Oracles of Khara. It was here that he learned that the Dark Times were coming, and that he would have to take extra measures to keep the vestigial Persitaman empire intact. He was none other than an Eternal King, a title bestowed upon those whom were destined to defend the Empire from its greatest threats. He would be the first since the establishment of the Empire thousands of years ago to claim the title, and most importantly, he would have to undergo one of the most dangerous rituals of the known magical sciences to truly achieve his might.

Thus he stood disrobed and practically nude, lying down on a stone tablet while several figures stood around him, their eyes and faces utterly masked by a black hood, only a golden mask around their eyes even pointing towards the notion that they had eyes of any sort, looking back at him with endless dedication. He lied rather uncomfortably, several pens and brushes rubbing against his dark skin with an eerie precision, all of this combining to make his situation even more awkward. The only consolation was that some of his guards were in the room as well, making sure everything went as planned.

He breathed in and out, the nudity less discomforting to him than all the prodding these so called mystics were doing coupled with the simply uncomfortable fact that he was lying down on bare rock. The fact that his staff had been pried from him by these same mystics leaving him feeling far more nude than the token piece of clothing he wore.

When they were done, they began to chant. They spoke in alien tongues, a language he had not heard once before in his life, only adding to their unknown nature.

It seemed everyone else around the mystics, unique mages that studied rituals on peering onto other realms, shared the King's own concern.

Nonetheless, it was time for the true test to begin, for his ascension to the title of Eternal King.

The pain he had felt had made him pass out long before he could scream.

***

He awoke in his similarly near nude state, covered in the red, black, and gold paints of the mystics and with his favored staff besides him. Made of pure steel and wood and enchanted several times over, it would serve him well here.

A dull ache hit every bone in his body. It was intolerable enough to the young king that he had instinctively cast his first spell, his staff glowing for a second before a blue light engulfed him for a brief second. The pain subsided, letting him finally think more clearly.

He awoke in none other than a catacomb of sorts. Around him were the skulls of a thousand dead, arranged in an almost perfect circle and leading towards a hallway, Ancient corpses littered the floor, weapons and armor rusting away around their bones. Xerxes had no need for these, his staff would do him fine, and the unrelenting heat he suddenly felt made him rather weary of wearing any true armor besides his enchantments.

He walked forwards, his feet touching an uncomfortably cold stone floor, feeling chills run through his body despite the heat. The Mystics had told him that he would have more magic at his disposal here, enough to last him most of his time here, however long that would be. Another sliver of his magic would be spent crafting himself some sandals, hugging his feet to the ankles.

The end of the catacombs approached, a steel gate opening slowly as if in response to his presense. This entire scenario reeked of evil, no wonder he was tasked with retrieving such an important artifact from the wretched hands of this realm's inhabitants.

The first of them would make himself present soon after. A man in armor Jafir did not recognize approached, a red cross upon the cloth covering his otherwise mail covered body, a horned, rounded helmet glaring at him with pure hatred.

He spoke in the same unholy tongue of the mystics, and yet Xerxes could understand his words perfectly

*You bear the ears and eyes of those who killed the sons of my Lord. I will smite you from this world abomination.*

Awfully proud words coming from an abomination.

In truth, Xerxes knew nothing of what he referred to. While he did have the same cat ears of other Persitamans, and he bore similar eyes to them, simply colored an unusual jade, he wouldn't look radically out of place with more 'normal' humans as far as he could tell.

As his opponent branded a longsword, Xerxes made his move. He wouldn't waste too much magic, simply moving with quite the speed towards his opponent. As he edged closer to him, the moment of truth came to him.

Bluntly put, even a non magician in full plate had a major advantage over him in a straight fight. He wore no real armor, while his opponent could easily withstand quite the beating from even a blunt instrument if not used with enough force. Xerxes lifted his staff, its shaft glowing a ghastly red, stopping just ahead of the armored being and letting loose a red projectile mere feet away from him.

It tore right through the armor of his foe. In past eras against lesser mages, perhaps his armor could have withstood a magic missile to the face. Now it merely served to throw sharp pieces of metal into his torso, not that they were necessary to kill him off, no match for the power of the greatest Dynasty of Sorcerer Kings in all Persitama.

In truth, he could have- should have tried to talk with him, but he knew the face of a man who sought to kill him with no regrets better than anyone else in the kingdom as far as he was concerned, obscured behind a helm or otherwise. To talk would have been to waste valuable time.

He didn't look twice at his foe as he sallied forth and out of the catacombs. What awaited him was the sort of realm one could only conjure up in dreams or nightmares.

A Castle lay in the distance, a field of dying crops and grasses next to a small farm ahead of him. Horses, slowly rotting and dying, wandered alone or with more armored men upon their ranks. Decay steeped into everything, from the rotting wood of the farm to the men themselves, their bodies half starved and decaying, even as they did their work. In front of the farm was a cross, a body charred and burned on it, seemingly the victim of some local punishment.

Xerxes almost pitied their state, but he knew that they would not take to him kindly, not if they were anything like the first he had slain.

His work was cut out for him, at least.

[Britiannia]

Summer of 2018

Sir Peter Keith Asgill, 2^nd Baronet and Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Britannia was found on this murky, wet May morning in Whitehall staring blearily at BBC's morning news report. He had already been awake and working non-stop for twenty four hours already, having had no sleep whatsoever since the eighth of May, plans of doing so rudely interrupted by the events that occurred on Liberation Day.
They had expected that the Liberation of Europe week, taking place in Berlin this year would proceed solemnly and peacefully as usual, without any major incidents, but that expectation was squashed in the span of a mere six hours. The first alert to London that something was seriously wrong actually came via social media. Images of dragon riders attacking people, of tanks and infantry roaming Königsplatz, and of a building sized portal in the middle of it, posted on Twitter and Instagram had been snapped up almost immediately by MI6, and the Foreign Office had attempted to reach the Berlin Embassy almost immediately. They eventually reached their Ambassador, a whole hour after the initial attack, on Tempelhof Airport with half his staff scattered across most of Berlin trying to ascertain how many Britannian subjects were missing, wounded or killed. BBC news crews on site had been reporting non-stop from the ruins of Hotel Adlon since 11 pm, even while under fire by what appeared to be wyvern riders.

Back home in London, after watching and making jokes about the last state ceremonial event of Liberation Day at 8 pm Greenwich Time, Prime Minister Asgill had retired to his room with a glass of port, only to be unceremoniously brought back into the Cabinet Room by a gaggle of agitated civil servants, stuffed in the state car by an equally agitated aide and brought directly to COBRA in the Palace of Whitehall. It was only while underway that he was first informed that a significant incursion had occurred in Berlin at 10 pm Greenwich Time, and by the time he arrived at COBRA he was greeted by a scene of controlled chaos as the Imperial Defence Council, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the intelligence services all tried to ascertain what had actually happened. The meeting that followed lasted into the early morning hours as the rain outside incessantly poured down.
Having determined what actually had happened in Berlin, and relieved that this apparent foreign incursion had been decisively beaten off, the next natural step was to wait and see how Sudentor would respond, and if any assistance under the Sudentor Treaty was required. Meanwhile Number 10 would provide a supportive and sympathetic missive condemning what appeared to be a barbarous attack in the middle of a pan-European holiday of remembrance.

The response came as the Cabinet Office, still gathered in the COBRA room had breakfast together: Yes, Karlsland was activating Article Five, and yes if Britannia could provide forces that would be most helpful. There was no debate in that Whitehall room that stormy May day as all present agreed unanimously to deploy.

From there it took Her Majesty's Armed Forces a mere month or two to move 7^th Armoured Brigade and quick reaction force squadrons of the Royal Air Force to Potsdam. On a sunny July day in Prussia-Brandenburg the British Berlin Brigade, formed from the Desert Rats of Second Neuroi War fame in conjunction with both Army and Air Force units was stood up. On the 22^nd of August they stood with their Ostmarkian and Karlsland allies in Tiergarten, before the portal that marred the Königsplatz, poised to pay retribution to the atrocities committed to Europe three months ago.

The brigade commander of the Berlin Brigade that Whitehall had selected was a career officer that had been serving since the nineties, and by rank probably the most junior of all the national commanders that had been assembled here. Brigadier the Honourable Arthur Augustus Alcott, MC, CB, OBE, a through and through Foot Guards officer by profession had been leading the Desert Rats for a mere year, having served as Brigade Major of the Household Division and battalion commander in the Grenadier Guards in Afghakistan. Representing Britannia in the Trans-Barrier Alliance and leading the spearhead of the Ostmarkian Corps was thus a tremendous honour for such an officer. Walking up to the podium as the next scheduled speaker, Brigadier Alcott, in his black Number One dress uniform struck a solemn and subdued impression in the assembled audience. Coming to a halt at the podium, he took a brief look over the assembly and the surroundings, pausing at the Swiss and Ostmarkian embassies in the background, their battle scars covered by scaffolding, and sighed.

"Your Imperial and Royal Highnesses, Royal Highnesses, Excellencies, Lords, ladies and gentlemen. As the Britannian representative of the Trans-Barrier Alliance, it is a tremendous honour for me, Brigadier Alcott, Officer-Commanding of the Berlin Brigade to be standing here on this solemn occasion. We are assembled here, responding to calls of arms by the Empire of Karlsland, in line with the Sudentor Treaty and other treaties in the aftermath of an attempt to invade and occupy the city of Berlin. Our foes chose the Liberation of Europe Day of 2018 to make this attack, no doubt expecting the European Community to have relaxed its guard while commemorating such an important day. Unfortunately for them they ran head first into one of the premier powers on this continent and in the process violated one of the most solemn days of remembrance we have. They have in line with their notions of 'civilised behaviour' seized our citizens as slaves, no doubt in a crude attempt to gather intelligence on us. Liberation Day commemorates the three decades of desperate struggle against an Enemy that would have the planet colonised. It commemorates the tremendous sacrifices in blood that this world have made to preserve its freedom and independence. And now, seventy years later, the European Community finds itself under assault by yet another alien race, its motives none too different from those of the Enemies that we evicted in 1948. Our response, of course will be none too different as well. The Saderan Empire will pay for the sacrilege it committed three months and thirteen days ago, and in the process made to realise just what a terrible disaster it has invited upon itself."
Taking a break, Brigadier Alcott surveyed the mass of soldiers, marines, non-commissioned officers, officers, generals and admirals before him, sighed before continuing:
"This task however, My lords, ladies and gentlemen will not be simple in any sense of the word. The Saderan Empire is an Empire six times the size of the Romagnan Empire at its peak and in possession of an armed forces unseen on this planet since the dark days of the Second Great War. It will be a long and hard struggle in bringing down this machine of Imperialism, Colonialism and Slavery, there will be hard fought battles only imagined in the minds of military theorists of the Cold War. There may even be defeats as we attempt to dismantle a war machine wielding some fifty million men in arms. But bear this in mind as we battle our way through their lands: Europe, and its ideals of liberty, justice and brotherhood, together with its friends assembled here today will prevail over this tumourous mass and their barbarous ideals, no matter how much blood, sweat and tears that is required."

[Sadera]

Alnus Gate Hill
Alnus National Park
18th of Paramat, 1839
0022 Local Time

It was a very unusual sight that one would behold on that summer in the closing year of the fourth decade of the nineteenth century of Saderan's existence around the Great Hill of Alnus. Tanks, ogres, giants by the hundreds, along with a surprisingly small number of titans (a cursory few dozen of artillery-bearing units) along with myriad thousands of armored cars and infantry, all with guns pointed at the ancient Gate that sat upon the hill of Alnus and for which the National Park was created. Above, planes by the hundreds - mostly attackers, dive bombers, and a few squadrons of medium bombers - patrolled the skies, waiting to do the unthinkable and bomb the Hill. It was necessary - if the individuals from this 'Berlin' were as capable in war as some of the survivors had claimed, they were a dangerous foe indeed.

An old, crumbling thing, the Gate on the side of Falmart was much less modern (and much less clean) than the one in the crystal citadel on the other side - distinctly ancient. To a foreign mind it would be described as 'Etruscan' in form, with a wide roof and proportionately short-looking pillars, and a number of grotesques resembling trumpet-bearing angels above each of the two massive columns. To the Saderans however, it was merely old, and revered.

Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore Antonius Gracchus wiped a sweaty brow from within his command car, essentially a TL35 Scutum armored car with a more powerful radio and its seating arrangement, meant for transporting troops, replaced with a simple command room, complete with a magnetic table for which to map out situations on. He was right to sweat, as he was in a bit of a pickle. From a purely tactical and strategic standpoint, ignoring technology he had a clear advantage. The enemy could come from one direction, out of one point, and that point was fairly narrow - much like a tunnel, in more ways than one. The opening of said tunnel he had surrounded on three sides, with enough firepower to obliterate almost anything any other nation on Falmart could possibly conceive of throwing at them, and then some. Sure, the Gate had proved resistant to nitroglycerin, TNT, and was estimated to be able to handle direct hits from everything up to and including the ten thousand kilo earthquake bombs built by the Air Force to destroy heavy titans and superdreadnoughts.

Ignoring technology. Which had gotten many generals killed, though mostly by Saderans. Still, it was the dead of night, and there were no city lights to provide illumination like Berlin had. In order to see, the enemy would have to wait for the Saderans (or themselves) to launch illumination mortars, and Gracchus did not intend to give them that time. Still, had a hard time shaking the feeling that tonight the situation would reverse.

The weak sound of rocket-like motors signaled that he was about to be right, though he did not know it yet. The movement of several very small, very fast aircraft caught the attention of some of the infantry near the front, and while they aimed to fire, no sounds came to indicate they had hit anything, or that whatever had come out had hit anything yet. Faintly, he saw trails of smoke shoot out from the small aircraft. Rockets? But why were they pointing -

He saw the rockets turn, and did not notice the Karlslandic tanks and tank Witches beginning to peek out of the Gate.

Guided rockets!

<<All units, fire at w->>

Both sides had given the fire at will order to their forces on the Falmart side simultaneously, and by sheer coincidence, Legate Gracchus' vehicle was one of the first hit by a Karlslandic tank - when interviewed at a later date, the commander of said tank would claim he had ordered it fired upon because 'the antenna made it look important'.

As TBA forces began pouring out of the Gate, what commanding officers (and more importantly aircraft) were left began to open fire, or dive for the deck to drop bombs on the invading forces. Said forces began to scatter, less out of fear of the vehicles getting damaged and more out of fear of the infantry doing so, and to form something resembling an initial perimeter to protect said infantry.

[Allanea]

Silver Gryphons convoy, several hundred meters beyond the Gate

The air was filled with the howling of bomber engines, the whistling of bombs, the clattering of aviation machineguns and automatic cannon. The new world to which the Allaneans had now crossed was a violent place, its skies crisscrossed with the rails of guided missiles and burning enemy aircraft, its ground littered with the wreckage of vehicles both enemy and friendly.

A small bomb narrowly missed a truck full of soldiers, and the air filled with oaths and shouts of pain as the explosion showered the men in shrapnel. Inside the truck, the driver slumped over the steering wheel, bright-red arterial blood splashing onto the windshield as the truck came off the road and tipped. Another truck was hit directly, a two hundred-pound bomb smashing in its rear section, straight among the troops seated there. Within a fraction of a second, several dozen highly-trained paratroopers, wearing the finest body armor and carrying the finest rifles and electronic gear, simply ceased to exist, an unguided bomb made by a semi-literate laborer somewhere putting an end to their participation in this fight.

The convoy began to scatter – what Allanean military slang called 'unroll' – spreading out away from the road as the men began to prepare to fight. Soldiers leaped free from their trucks. Michael Garrish was one of then, crouching behind a bush. His weapon of course was a simple automatic rifle – and though the dive bombers that bobbed and weaved overhead were outdated by decades and decades, the rifle seemed almost useless. That, however, did not matter.

The Airborne Infantry Field Regulations were clear:

Engage enemy attack aircraft with small arms fire.

Michael hefted the rifle to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger for several seconds. Ideally he was meant to aim, to lead the enemy planes by so and so many aircraft-lengths, but in reality, he just aimed at one of the bombers and pulled the trigger. The bolt clattered for what seemed like an impossibly long time, even though of course he knew, rationally, that it was mere seconds until the rifle locked back on an empty magazine.

Mortar bombs, coming in without a whistle, struck among the Allaneans. Some missed – of course, under those circumstances, many would miss – but some did not. Michael saw a man being flung several yards by the explosion and onto a bush. For a few moments, the man struggled against the branches, and then froze and moved no longer.

Around him, men were taking shelter where they could – behind bushes, trees, boulders, their camouflage cloaks and uniforms making them nearly invisible from the skies. Automatic weapons put up an ungodly racket, as those men who were not tasked for an anti-air weapon used whatever they had. For his second magazine, Michael was calm enough to track the enemy plane by five plane-length. As the grass and soil were thrown about him in clumps, he was persuaded some of his bullets had found purchase, and perhaps the pilot was firing the machineguns at him personally (naturally, though the former might have been true, the latter was nearly impossible).

No doubt it was nearly impossible for a man with a rifle to shoot down a dive bomber, per se – but the storm of fire was not meant to do so, or at least it was not its first objective. Rather, the threat of hundreds of riflemen and machinegunners opening fire at once was meant to distract and disorient the attacking enemy pilots, while encouraging the troops below.

But the enemy pilots only had limited time, though they did not know it.

The time they had was thirteen seconds, and the clock was already running, the precious moments trickling away like golden sand in some royal hourglass.

There was a whistling – a whistling that made Michael almost giggle as he heard it, the familiar sound of tiny MANPAD rockets ascending towards their targets. From a set of parts in a box, to an emergency weapon, a MANPAD took only thirteen seconds. This was as much time as the enemy had.

In fifteen seconds, a trained crew can raise the wheels of a towed automatic cannon, load the guns, take off the safeties. At the sixteenth second, the first dual-barreled gun was already tracking its target. And then Michael heard it – the deafening, clattering sound of AA fire.

– "Get some!" – he shouted as he saw a dive bomber torn suddenly apart by multiple impacts, its wings speeding to the ground separately. – "Get some!"

Now the fight was joined.

[Austria-Bohemia-Hungary]

No. 506 Squadron (Noble Witches), Royal Air Force - Alnus Gate Hill, Alnus National Park, Falmart - 0020 Local Time Estimated

The flight through of the portal was long, with no illumination of any kind at all, but Acting Group Captain Sybil Picton, late the Dambusters had little to no trouble with it. With night vision goggles and the return from her electro-optic systems the darkness of the tunnel was clear as day to her. The tunnel eventually ended in a scene of utter chaos as Witches, tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, antiaircraft guns and the infantry itself were all getting stuck in hard, pushing ever relentlessly against the defences the Saderans put up.
As Group Captain Picton and the leading element of the Britannian Witches shot out from the tunnel they pulled up in a vertical zoom climb with maximum afterburner, shot past the orbiting hostile fighters with an alacrity (and a sonic boom) that no piston fighters could possibly match. Snapping back down above then Sybil gave one order: "All Noble Witches. Weapons free. Clear the skies off of these annoyances for our allies."
With an near enthusiastic affirmative still echoing in her head set Sybil selected eight large'ish looking tanks on the ground and released the entire payload of Brimstones stored in her Striker Unit.

The MBDA Brimstone 2 was an antitank missile guided by milimetric-wave radar and semi-active laser homing. Suitable in mass launches it would form a swarm of missiles networking together to deal a devastating blow to any tank formation. A Witch's Striker Unit could carry eight missiles, a flight of four would carry thirty-two and a squadron ninety-six missiles. In an instant, high above the heads of Saderan armour a swarm of these missiles raced down at them at supersonic speeds, bringing with them calamity as a tank battalion would just simply vanish in dozens of near-simultaneous explosions.

Air-to-ground munitions expended, Sybil dropped her two short-range air to air missiles and then readied her MBK-27-6, the magic driven rotary weapon of choice amongst European Witches.
"All Witches, this is Noble Leader. We have only limited ammunition for our MBK's and there's plenty of enemies to go around. Make every shot count. I wish you all a jolly good hunting. Noble Leader Out."

---

2^nd Royal Tank Regiment
(OOC: Playing: Regimental Quick March of the Royal Tank Regiment (My Boy Willie))

The one with the honour of leading the entire Ostmark-Britannian Corps was the 2^nd Royal Tank Regiment, a part of an old and storied formation that played a vital part in inventing the tank itself. Indeed their regimental quick march even commemorated the World's first tanks, developed during the fighting in Northern Gallia and Belgica against the Neuroi. During the one hundred years since the days on the Somme they had come a long, long way from the rhomboid things not too unfamiliar to the Saderans to modern, high technology and highly lethal war machines that could take 125 mm kinetic-energy penetrators to their turret faces and not be penetrated. The war machine that was the pride and joy of the Tankies was the Fighting Vehicle 4601 Ceredigion, a 65 ton monster that was, thanks to its third generation composite armour package virtually impervious to any modern ammunition in service in 2018 bar the most highly advanced of warheads and penetrators. A full squadron of these, Cyclops Squadron of the 2RTR to be precise thundered onto the battlefield at speed, firing every weapon they had against enemy contacts with - for the Saderans - terrifying accuracy aided by a fire control system the Saderans haven't even begun to dream of.

Later on, there would be a painting drawn of the Second Royal Tank Regiment's first action in the world of Falmart. It would depict the leading Ceredigion of the regiment, painted in mottled woodland camouflage and dug in behind a berm of dirt, it's cupola mounted heavy machine gun blazing away at the dive bombers above it, the Regimental Tactical Recognition Flash in brown, red and green fluttering from the radio antenna, and the 120 mm main gun issuing a brilliant muzzle flash against whatever foe that it had sighted. Behind it in the cover of its stout armour airborne infantrymen from the Free Kingdom of Allanea were laying down fire with their own weapons against their own targets. In the distant background, infantry fighting vehicles of the Imperial and Royal Army, the British Army and the Karlsland Army, and Chieftains from both Wolfenium and Ostmark were advancing up to join their comrades in the front. This painting would be simply named "Fear Naught".

[Japan and Pacific States]

OOC: Playing Sakura Neo Military Songs: Battotai
& Get Ready to Die

---

Alnus Gate Hill, Alnus National Park, Falmart - 0020 Local Time Estimated

"Advance!" A Japanese Tank commander spoke through a handheld loudspeaker, and immediately the engines of the newest Japanese MBTs started up, rolling towards the Gate and through it while the mechanised infantry drawn from Japanese Mongolia, Japanese China, Japanese Korea, Japanese Western America, & Japanese Vietnam followed up behind in their WAPCs and APCs, the Self Propelled Artillery, MLRS' and Towed Artillery followed up behind while the transport vehicles with the Tactical Surface Fighters remained on the otherside of the GATE, awaiting the go ahead when the area would be cleared.

Crossing over to the Gate, the first Japanese tank through's drive had his vision port temporarily blocked with dirt thrown up from a stray artillery shell. However with a quick hit to the vision port, his sight was no longer blocked. Following up behind the first Japanese Type 10, the second manuvered to the first's side. The third took up station on the otherside, the other tanks followed suit doing so as well while the infantry began to pile out of their WAPCs and APCs as they came through the Gate, joining their allies they fired on the enemy, IJA and IJRG forces worked together in almost perfect unison while supporting the allied forces. Finally the artillery came through with the Anti-air guns. While the Artillery lined up their shots and fired away along side MLRS units, the Type 87s did what they could to keep the skies clear of enemy forces as they supported the witches in the skies.

Meanwhile, General Ayaka, Regent Takatsukasa and Vassal Retainer Mana Tsukuyomi sat in a Type 82 command vehicle listening to reports as they came in from the front. General Ayaka herself secretly desired to be up at the front with her men, but orders were orders, she was in all technicalities under Regent Takatsukasa's command and had to follow her orders to the letter... Her order's just so happened to be to remain at her side and assist her with coordinating the IJA with the IJRG. A lacklustre use of her skills but nonetheless she'd still have to comply.

On the otherside of the Gate, the Japanese tanks stopped and only moved with the allied forces, firing on whatever targets were infront of them. The commanders of each Type 10 knew they were driving a Leopard or any other tank the allied forces were using, the IJA's tank doctrine had switched in the early 60s to light, highly mobile tanks, a drastic change from the late Asia-Pacific War implementation of Super Heavy Tanks in China and the USSR. But the Japanese were going through their own experimentation with the concept of "blitzkrieg" and light, fast tanks were what the Shogun had ordered production and design teams to focus on. Only draw back of this was the armour of Japanese tanks was rather lacking, so they'd have to keep out of the gun sights of their enemy, atleast from the sides anyway.

[The Selkie]

Berlin, this side of the Gate.
Cean, Sio-I Mobile Command Post of I./18th.
With the Japanese Pacific States Forces commiting their first units to the fight, the tensions grew.
Major Raidri Smig of the Tribe of Antrim, Commanding Officer of I. Squadron, 18th Maor-Regiment, a brown haired man with an angular face made to scowl, knew, that his Squadron would be the first across the threshhold, the first of the SDF-Forces. The plan was clear and made clear by their commanding officers.
He got Captain Leonard Trilseán's, full name Leonard Trilseán of the Tribe of Sligo, a young man, who looked young enough to look like he played dress-up with Daddy's Uniform, 14th Company, the Armoured Company of the 18th Maor-Regiment, to secure their advance as well.
'Armoured' in this case did not mean MBTs, but APCs and SPAAGs and HARVs.
APCs, which were empty, additional transport capacity and fire support for engaged troops, SPAAGs, which would be occupied with clearing the skies with their 30mm autocanons, HARVs, which could also be used as Tank Hunters, but shouldn't be engaged by tanks themselves.
Following them, support elements would go through, providing aid in making their secured foothold one which they could hold and where they could provide triage and first aid to the wounded.
Apparently under enemy artillery fire, if the reports coming from the other side through the radio were to be trusted. Already, there were the first reports of losses arriving in dribs and drabs. Of course, they were listening.
He would have defended Alnus differently, but luckily for them, it seemed as if their enemy had a different idea then to use a year's worth of mines and artillery to make any advance through the gate impossible. The enemy's loss, their gain.
So far, everything according to plan. Colonel Arán would give the signal for the advance soon, he knew. But even Moltke knew, that no plan survived the first hard contact.
"Sir.", one of his aides poked his head in, another sound entering with it, "The soldiers are singing."
And indeed, they were, passing time and nervousness with a merry tune, reengaging their moxie - they were confident to the point of arrogance, Smig knew, but even they felt nervousness before a battle.
Fear, too.
Smig recognized the notes floating into the Mobile Command Post as well: The Field of Grass and Fire, also known as the Pikemen's Song, a song every Selkie knew from their days with the Younger Militia.
"Carry on.", the Major ordered and a moment later, the aide vanished again. A few beats passed in silence. "So march, march, you bastards / Through fields of Grass and Fire / So march and holler, come, give it all you can / Or the enemy, he will best us, we'll never see our land!"
Not only his men were afraid, but would soon go away.

Faolchú-Ceann.
Faolchú-Ceann, Wolf-Leader, was the leading vehicle of 14th/18th, with Captain Trilseán occupying the Commander Spot on the Sio-II-APC he was in. Commander of the 14th Company, with its four platoons, commander of the A-Platoon and commander of the vehicle - not entirely empty, but loaded with supplies, mostly ammunition and medical supplies, and ready. The engine was running already.
Judging by the radio traffic, their allies were doing good work so far, the crew of his APC watching the advance of their allies towards the Gate from the camera of their RWSs, the Captain himself controlling the grenade machine gun.
The enemy would soon break, he was sure of that, with that onslaught of troops. Their enemy and allies might had manpower to waste, but the SDF did not have that luxury, but he knew, that there would be losses, wounded and killed, missing soldiers most likely blown to tiny bits by artillery.
He would freely admit, that he was afraid under his webbing and helmet and behind his APC's medium composite armour... it could withstand many things thrown at it, but it mostly relied on its low profile to be able to ruin the enemy's day, if there was no infantry mounted. The 8x8 wheel drive gave it an excellent mobility as well.
Captain Trilseán breathed out.
Colonel Arán, sitting in her own Mobile Command Post not too far away, was most likely listening in as well, waiting for her higher ups to give the signal for the next contingent to go through.
The plan was for the smaller contingents to wait until the enemy was fleeing before someone spearheaded the drive to establish a landing head, where they would dig in, while the smaller contingents already prepared the first fortifications and smoked out enemy troops, which stayed behind, doing that part of the heavy lifting, while their larger allies did theirs.
He knew, that many of the infantry already learned one important phrase in Saderan: "Hands up and throw the weapons away, if you want to live!" They couldn't even say hello in the local language, but that phrase was a good start.
The Captain petted the driver onto the shoulder.
"We'll manage.", he said, less to assure the driver, but to assure himself. "We always do."

[Imeriata]

Berlin, Scanderan wave

Erik auf Stjärnkhrona was fuming as he stood and looked over his men for the first push, the fifth group to move through the gate, the third or forth was more fitting for the warrior worthy of the Scanderan fame. They were all members of the highest culture and proven warriors that had conquered empires when the Krauts and almond eyes were still squabbling amongst themselves.
"Well at least they had the sense to send in Allaneas, those chaps were as decent as Johnies came!" He thought grumpily to himself as he concentrated on the second reason he was rather in a foul mood. His hand hurt and he for what was likely the twentieth time debated if it had been the greatest idea ever to cut his hand to prove his point.
"LAUNCHING GOLEM AEROPLANE!" Someone roared as a small host of tiny aeroplanes, their bright orange double pair of wings and beige bodies at first taking off awkwardly into the air as they started to head to the gate, but as they quickly gained speed did the unmanned aeroplanes become more and more impressive in how they handled themselves and he saw them dash through the gate before taking hard turns and vanishing out on the other side.
"ESTABLISHING FARSIGHT COMMUNICATION!" the same man, dressed in an adjutants uniform with his left arm matching the intricate austrian knots of Eriks own uniform and his right being a simple single knot with white fillings that showed that the man was an adjutant in service of a squire commander.

Erik took a moment as the screens were loading to look at his men, they were all ready from the looks of things, a few were checking out their ammunition or offering up small sacrifices by burning food or flowers to the spirits of their rifles, others were eating meals really quickly as a last chance before going into combat. A bunch more laid back as their fellow comrades in arms combed their hair and rubbed perfumed oils into the long manes that warriors were supposed to sport, others further along the process of getting ready for battle were braiding one another's hair like true brothers and comrades did. Flowers, medallions, and beads were all braided into the militaristic and masculine braids that Imerian soldiers wore. Some men that were already done could be seen having rather impressive braids filled with feathers of terror birds, claws, flowers, coloured marble beads, and silver all hanging from them. Some entrepricing fellows had decided that "who is going to stop a fully armed and armoured Scanderan war party? nobody that is who!" and had gathered around a cleric that cut the throat of a shagrat, after all the krauts had been very clear that they were not allowed to hang horses as sacrifices but hey, they did not say anything about the regular sacrifices. They were all shrieking the praises of the gods and the silver forged Bel first and foremost in the "kulning" manner that Scanderans prayed in.

"FARISIGHT COMMUNICATION ESTABLISHED! THE SPIRITS OF THE MACHINE ARE PLEASED AND ARE WILLING TO SERVE THE FAITHFUL OF THE DIVINE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, MAY HIS NAME ETERNALLY BE PRAISED" the adjutant continued to shout as the farsight screens in the command vehicle started to flicker and maps from the other side of the gate that the golem areoplanes, or drones as the foreigners called them, started to beam through their internal computers. The call drew Eriks attention from the men as the message were passed along to the NCO's that went around and demanded order and battle readiness from the men. Braids were quickly finished, food were thrown away, and the shagrat. Well the cleric continued but the men rushed off. Erik looked back at the screens as red and blue symbols started to show up representing allied and hostile enemies, this time simply determined from going through whatever radio communication that the Scanderans had access to and by taking into account which direction large group of people and artillery was facing.
"There seem to be enemy contact, here, here, and here that seems the most pressing issue, inform the self propelled shells in the first barrage that they will form the first wave and give the spirits their guidance!" Erik muttered pointing quickly at what at first glance seemed to be the most obvious enemy contacts. He knew that the self propelled shells, missiles he recalled foreigners calling them, were not actually guided by spirits but rather by some really fancy computer communicating with a satellite, or in this case just the drones they sent in since they lacked missiles. However since the chronicles said that all objects and things had spirits in them did he like most Scanderans visualise that the computers allowed the spirits of the missiles to communicate with the high command properly.
"SELF PROPELLED SHELLS BE READY TO LAUNCH!" Someone roared from the command Demi tracklayer into a radio as he could see how the artillery started to move towards the gate turning their deadly payloads towards the gate. Generally was it considered poor form to open up an artillery barrage inside an allied city with missiles going basically just 90 degrees but there were nothing against doing so in official doctrine so his officers had all decided that this was a great plan.
"FIRE!" the same radio operator roared after a wink from Eriks hand as all of a sudden the street leading up to the gate filled with smoke and flame. Erik could see the streaks of fire going through the gate, moving forward a few horse lengths before streaking straight up to the sky, it would take a moment or two before they were able to contact the drones and then use them as a targeting system but there apparently were doctrines about this sort of manoeuvre. Highly classified doctrines that refused to tell when on earth this would ever come up but they were there. Not even his access levels as a member of the Stjärnkhrone house was enough to get that information oddly enough. Swarm after swarm of self propelled shell or missiles kept roaring through the gate as the men took up positions and the tracklayers or tanks positioned themselves.
"HALT RELOADING!" The radio operator roared again after a second wave of the hand as a final wave of missiles roared through the streets before finally going through the gate and speeding up into the night sky on the other side.
"FULL ADVANCE!" Erik roared as the message were repeated by the radio operators. All around him could he hear how horns took up the call with their loud "BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUR" sounds as NCOs sounded the order to attack.
"FULL ADVANCE!"
"FULL ADVANCE!"
"IN THE GLORY OF THE HIGH KING, BLESSED ETERNALLY BE HIS HOUSE, CHARGE! KILL EVERY STINKING SCOUNDREL YOU CAN GET YOUR HANDS ON!"
"FULL ADVANCE!"
Screams started to roar as tanks moved forward and infantry moved forward in the smoke filled streets, their bayonets attached and pointing forward, their dark blue tunics and white trousers proudly displayed as the war banners of the federation moved in the wind.

---

The other side of the gate.

There had been day just a moment before as Olof Holgerssen was one of the first men through the gate. Armoured tracklayers moved on through the gate as a covering shield, some of them wore radar towers with a pair of heavy machineguns that were borderline autocannons. These monsters were the first to move, pointing upwards and filling the air with white streak as tracer bullets started to fly like crazy while the metal monsters still were moving. Their cannon towers only pausing to determine if what they were picking up was enemy aeroplane or those flying girls that their allies had around. The tank just in front of him swung its tower around, halted for a moment and then just moved on. The gunner apparently made the call that it was one of the girls and not the enemies they were shooting at. A loud explosion in the air even signalled that the targeting computer had been able to intercept an enemy bomb and detonated it with a well placed salvo of heavy rounds.

"MOVE IT YOUR DAMNED SODS!" came the roar from the NCO as Olof's amazement at the battle was interupted by a heavy whack by a metal plated stick at his shoulder by the lance corporal as the whole group started to advance. He rushed forward about five horse lengths before his group threw themselves on the ground, using a flair launched into the sky as light did the group aim at whatever sign of the enemy they could see and opened fire. While every Scanderan soldier were supposed to be able to hit a target at the horizon so did actual combat make that feat less than a guarantee and the group just fired at a target before moving on to the next one. The goal was not really to kill anyone but just to make them keep their heads down as the machineguns that hammered away attested. On their right did the rest of the group rush forward rush forward under the covering fire. Something that was repeated on the scale of the whole platoon, and then the regiment, and then the division level as the advancing part of the army rushed towards cover while their comrades opened fire to keep the enemies heads down. Where there were not enough cover did soldiers advance with entrenching explosions. It was a marvellous sight as men in blue charged forward with large metal sticks that they pushed quickly into the ground before falling back. Huge explosions rocked the fields as the directed charges went off leaving a small trench. Before the dirt and rocks had stopped falling from the air did the blue and white men advance again and threw themselves into the new cover before their own friends advanced under their own cover. It was a calculated charge, firing followed by screaming charges with lowered bayonets towards the next piece of cover followed by shooting like madmen. Leapfrogging from cover to cover. Something even the tanks repeated as they drove from cover to cover, firing as they went. Their electronic targeting systems making them not relying on the light of flares but allowed them to fire continuously, the males using their heavy cannons to either shoot high explosive anti tank shells on bunkers or enemy target or serving as assault guns by launching explosive shells at enemy trenches. The female tanks on the other hand just filled the air with lead as their automatic cannons roared and showered the enemy with hail of leads. Quickly adding to this hell was the mortars that every platoon carried and the independent mortar batteries every regiment used, that started to hammer everything that even looked like enemy positions. Large warhounds, more the size of bears that actual dogs were quickly spreading out amongst the soldiers sniffing and keeping advancing in good order with the rest of the men, ready to dash forward and howl if they spotted something the humans did not. The Neko fighters also seemed to enjoy themselves, while the blessed sun was not up and the sun god did not witness them so were their eyes more accustomed to the dark and they were often forced to wait as their slower human compatriots tried to catch up in the darkness, only able to make proper time as the flares started to light up the sky. Soon as the advance continued did even the roar of Scanderan artillery join the fray, deploying this close to the front line was generally frowned upon but so was advancing without artillery cover. With thunderous roar could Olof hear how the large metal constructs started to unload entire magazines worth of shells as called in by officers marking their targets in small hand held computers that sent their information back either through the drones or the war balloons that by now were being deployed to provide the guard with radar cover and GPS. After the heavy pieces were done shooting so did they stop, the crew jumping into the half tracks that hauled them around to relocate in an attempt to confuse enemy airplanes and counter artillery.
All around the horrid chaos that the royal guard of the absolute royal federation executed with the precise and well oiled finesse that came with experience and training. The only thing missing was the aerocorps but not even the flyboys were crazy enough to go through the gate at full speed in their jet powered machines and the autogyros were seen as too exposed without proper air cover to be unleashed now so they just had to hope that the witches or whatever the flying girls were called could do their job.

[Wolfenium]

Alnus Gate, Berlin Side, Karlsland
August 22, 2018 C.E.
Royal Baltlandic Air Force

Flying in formation towards the gate, the Baltlanders were the next to head in behind the Germanic witches. While fitting, as support for their more southernly counterparts, the kingdom had not seen international warfare since the Napoleonic Wars. Leading the formation in her SAAB JAS 39 Gripen, Arnhild and her witches were preparing to make the dive into the portal. The southern Germanics were already paving the way, but the skies still need to be cleared.

"To the fighting men and women of the Baltlandic kingdom," Öberg 's voice boomed in the radio, "Valhalla smiles up on you! Whatever your god or gods, or even the absence of a god, know this; that the world will be watching over you every step of the way! Fight for your king and union! For great justice!"

Pulling a slight grimace over her face, Arnhild remarked, "I'd rather that muscled hound keeps quiet for a moment. He's as cheesy as an old movie villain."

Looking back at the girls flying behind her, the brigadier felt a nagging guilt weighing over her. After all, this was the first major combat operation she had ever been deployed to. It was very likely half of them would not return by the end of it. And considering that both princesses were coming along with her, it only made her job far more of a burden than it should.

"Air Group, this is Alpha 1," radioed Arnhild to the formation, "when we go over, all units are to spread out and cover the armoured forces' approach. Refer to your commanders for further instructions. Don't push yourself too hard. Is that understood?"

With a unanimous 'roger', the witch closed off communications for the last stretch. They were in the shit now.

Alnus Gate, Alnus Side, Sadera
August 22, 2018 C.E.
Häuptling A13A4 Command Tank, 75. Kristalliner Panzeraufklärungsabteilung Nr. 110

Rolling through the terrain, the Chieftains of the Wolfen Imperial Army were methodically pushing forward. the combined strength of the 34. Uter-Alsteiner Panzerbattalion 'Gáe Bulg and the Life Battalion Kungliga Göta Livgarde were following in close tandem with the Karlslandic and Ostmark elements, with infantry to cover the advance. Spotting from his recon-equipped Chieftain, a sullen-looking, red-eyed wildman was keeping an eye on the formations. This was not a fair fight. This was a massacre.

"Those witches," he grumbled, spying on the Baltlandic girls through his scope as they swatted the dive bombers out of the sky, "it's hard not to grab the MG out of reflex."

"I don't think that's a bad thing, Sir," the driver said, "we'll probably be fighting dragons next."

"Dragons..." he quipped, scoffing a bit as a thought came up to him, "maybe I'll get one for that bitch."

"Sir, watch out!"

Crashing head-first into a heap in front of them, a propeller-driven monoplane had caught the commander off guard, as the tank was driven back on instinct in a delayed reaction. Falling back on his seat, he opened up the hatch as he gritted his teeth in agitation. At first, he assumed it was the witches' fault. But the luminescent, electrified aura coming down in front of him proved him wrong as a blonde, burgundy-eyed woman in a black barrier jacket descended with a bound, unconscious pilot in a skull cap and leather suit.

"Brigadier Cotter," the combat mage questioned, her black scythe exuding a sinister look with its electric aura blade, "I have a prisoner for your troops to attend to."

"Yes, I can see that, thank you very much," grunted the man, adjusting his helmet, "aren't you the MP, though?"

"Maybe," admitted the woman with a soft smile, "but MPs don't usually fight at the front. We had to be made an exception to that."

"You don't say," he went, as his guards took over to drag the PoW off. Watching her salute and ascend, he could not help but lift his helmet to brush his head. He was clearly in the wrong branch, his blood red spear tied to the back of his tank. Had he refused his promotion, he would still be in the Grenztruppen, fighting on foot. But he was now a higher officer, with all the perks that came with it. The only issue was he was now confined to his command, such was the fate of someone 'too important' to lose.

"I'm too old for this shit," grumbled the Iren, Alec Cotter, a bit overwhelmed with being accousted by the Schild combat mage Fate Harlaown. Climbing into his tank, he continued his duties to survey the field of battle, as the others proceeded with their advance.

This was going to be a long war.

[The Selkie]

Faolchú-Ceann.
Captain Trilseán and the two others of his crew, Liam and Celina, heard the reports of the fighting on the other side. Soon, they would be joining them, once Arán gave the signal - couldn't be much further, now.
He was in command of 78 men and women, an entire armoured company of the SDF-Army, with 26 vehicles - maintenance and logistics were outsourced to their Regimental Staff, but they would not run out of ammunition that easily. They were, after all, filled to the gills.
How many would be led home, how many would be killed?
The young Captain did not want to wonder.
Their allies had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that 14th Company would be there to provide fire support both on request and how they seemed it fit, under the Callsign Wolf Leader for Trilseán's vehicle, Wolf One to Wolf Seven for the rest of A-Platoon, Wolf Eight to Wolf Twelve for C-Platoon's Creachadoir HARVs and Cub One to Cub Five for D-Platoon's Creachadoir HARVs - B-Platoon, Cave One to Cave Eight, would stay by the Gate.
Their allies had also been informed, that the APCs would be carrying supplies for the infantry.
And then, finally, the Signal.
"Wolf-Leader, take point, we're right behind you!", came through the radio from Major Smig's Command APC, callsign Cean. "May Carman Fea be with us."
"Understood, Cean.", he replied after pressing his throat mike. "All Wolves, advance. Like we trained!"
No confirmations came in except for the revving of engines as the APCs and other vehicles began to move, the fear, nervousness, concerns, everything washed away with the diesel now entering his wheeled APCs' and HARVs' engines, as well as those of his four SPAAGs, two of which would be coming along for the ride, while two would stay behind at the Gate.
His vehicle was the first to turn into the approach to the Gate. Plan was to move in column until the chance was there to fan out on the other side, praying to Carman Fea, that all would go well.
Well for them, at least. Things were not going well for their enemy, judging by radio transmissions.
I. Squadron was moving in behind them.
The blackness of the Gate was foreboding to Captain Trilseán and his vehicle crews, but they knew, on a conceptual level, that on the other side, there was night. It would be one hell of a jetlag.
Or dimension-lag., the leading officer thought as his APC entered. "Switch to night vision.", he ordered of his crew and those of his other vehicles, the green screen now showing him... nothing, for now. That would change in a few seconds.
And then, they were through and right inside of the chaos.
The battle was going well, mostly, from what he had gathered from the radio transmissions, the witches clearing the skies and the armoured assets of their allies pushing the enemy back.
So far, so good..., the Captain thought, before speaking into his throat mike: "Allied Forces, Callsigns Wolf and Cub standing by. Where are we needed?"
He had barely finished his question as his APC shook violently, his driver, Liam, unbothered as they fanned out. They were well, a shell must have landed uncomfortably close to them.
"Wolf Six has been taken out!", one of his vehicle commanders reported calmly, in a startling chill of professionalism in her voice, "Wolf Leader, status of Wolf Six Crew unconfirmed."
"Leave that to the Squadron.", he replied to his officer - unbeknowst to all of them for now, all three men of the Cruinneachán SPAAG's crew were dead, their light aluminium armour unable to withstand the force of the artillery shell. These were the first three losses of the SDF in this war.
Many would follow.
Wolf Seven, the other SPAAG of his platoon, had been positioned 'in cover' from the shell, behind a Sio-I, which now had a shaken crew from the explosion so close to them.
Callsigns Wolf and Cub advanced to catch up.

Cave One, B-Platoon of 14th/18th. Near the Gate.
As most of the 14th/18th Maor-Regiment advanced further, aiming to catch up with allied infantry elements to provide fire support and to clean out pockets of resistance, the B-Platoon under Lieutenant Enya Glantóir of the Tribe of Cork was to stay with the Gate to protect it and the engineering elements soon coming through, not to mention the field hospital soon to be established.
The first field ambulances would be coming through soon.
She preferred the more silent Sio-I over the lighter Sio-II, mostly because of that and the 30mm autocannon, which was her favourite's main armament. She was shocked by the SPAAG being taken out this early, seeing the burning wreck not too far away as her driver eased her vehicle into another artillery crater, only their turret seeing over the rim, which gave the lightly armoured vehicle more protection, both from being spotted and from being hit.
Since ancient times, Selkie preferred light and fast warfare, examplified by their Marcach: Light Cavalry, amongst the best in the world during their times, fast enough to outrun anything heavier then them to exhaustion (for example crusading knights) and still heavily armed enough to kill anything fast enough to catch up with them. That, of course, had the disadvantage of being not too well on the defensive, for example when defending a trans-dimensional Gate, but they had their tricks for that as well. Taking position in an artillery crater overlooking much of the field around said Gate being one of them.
Three pairs, each one Sio-I and one Sio-II, were taking positions around the Gate, two in the front and one in the back, while the SPAAGs of her platoon only took position aside from the exit ramp and then...
...then their little radars were starting to spin, seeing many targets in the air, quite a few of them friendly, many not. Their 30mm autocannons, pointed skyward, began to roar and fill the sky with their shells in well-aimed salvoes of incendiary, armour-piercing and tracer rounds.
Anything caught in their path would have a very bad day.

[Minroz]

Theme

Alnus Gate, Alnus Side, Sadera
August 22, 2018 C.E.

It’s the Minrozian turn.

<<“All units, advance!”>> Yi Jiguang ordered from the radio in his command vehicle. “Shā!!!”

“Shā!!!” roared the Minrozians upon joining the fray with their allies, shouting out their iconic war-cries in every war the Celestial Army have participated in. In English, it means ‘kill’.

Following the examples of their allies, the Minrozians went all-out with their fury after popping out of the Gate. By right, they’re the forces of the Middle Kingdom – a proud, ancient civilisation of justice and enlightment. Not wishing to miss all the glory, the Great Qing will not be outdone.

In the order, the Eight-Banners lead the way! As they always been in every Minrozian military campaign since the ascension of the Qing Dynasty. The Type-47s main battle tanks and tank-witches are leading the charges, unleashing their rounds at the Saderan forces, followed by the missiles and bullets of WZ-52 attack helicopters and combat witches for support. The Minrozian Anti-air tanks have appeared to compliment the ground forces to provide anti-air support in order to try warding off Saderan aerial forces.

<<“Firing!”>>

<<”Take down those planes! Watch out for dragons!”>>

<<”Reloading!”>>

Once it’s safe enough not to get hit by enemy mortars and artillery, the bannermen in their armoured-personnel carriers and transport trucks were right behind the tanks and tank-witches.

<<“Weapons free, witches! Keep the enemy bogeys off the ground troops! Double-time!”>> Hei Xiangyin radioed.

<<“Roger!”>> The Minrozian witches have split-up into several squads as if they knew what they're doing without saying a word. Their focus will be enemy air-power, whether be planes or dragons. They’ll be taking them out with their bullets, guided missiles and varied magical spells.

Naturally, the damage unleashed on the Saderan forces is a massacre.

When the Eight-Banner infantries have finally reached the key positions in defences of the Gate, they quickly disembarked, spread out and swiftly took positions behind covers they could find.

<<“Take defensive positions, weapons free, bannermen! Give the Saderans hell!”>>

<<“GO! GO! GO!”>>

<<“Hell yeah!”>>

<<“Come get some!>>

At the front of the Minrozian positions, Crown Prince Wonggu armed with his microgun and ammo backpack strapped to his back, he leads his bannermen into the charge.

“RAAARGH!” He roared, his line of fire in the open have gun down several Saderan infantries in one go.

“You! On me!” Wonggu rallies his men with wave of his hand, urging them to move forward.

“Yes sir!” The bannermen followed their prince and commanding-officer. A squad of nearby Qing tank-witches chose to accompany him out of their own volition.

The Eight-Banners have a reputation of being one of the highly-disciplined and battle-hardened units in the Minrozian Empire as “the few, the proud” - the Middle Kingdom’s elite marine strike force. Men and women, they comprised of mages, muggles and witches, all in service to the Dragon Throne and the Middle Kingdom. However, the Eight-Banners also known for being a rowdy bunch off-duty. Above all else, they hold the fierce martial spirit as a warrior-brotherhood, regardless of their origins, like the United States Marine Corps - a band of brothers.

The Eight-Banners aren’t the only Qing troops who took part in the battle. The Minrozians have brought some of the Iclamia’s finest yet exotic soldiers in service to the Dragon Throne, the fearsome Gansu soldiers, the fearless Gorkhas and the courageous Pathan warriors, all of them are renowned for their military prowess.

The Gansus were Minrozian Muslims recruited from the north-western province of Gansu (to which their unit named after) and loyal to the Qing, they have their origins as a local militia four hundred years ago into the effective fighting force in modern-day for Minroz. The Pathans hailed from the mountainous nation of Pathanistan, an extremely harsh land colloquially known as the ‘Graveyard of Empires’ by Iclamian historians. Known for being tough warriors, the Pathans ancestors’ frustrated many conquerors and have fought many empires, who invaded their lands in the past. The Minrozian Qing Empire is no different. On other note, Pathanistan is the main source of top-quality mercenary troops for the Minrozian military. This arrangements have arises after series of stalemates between Minrozian-Pathan clashes in 18th century until both sides have realised they could benefit more from cooperation than continuing conflicts. The Gorkhas, were Newari recruits serving in the Celestial Army, in other words Iclamian Gurkhas.

These exotic fighters finally entered the battlefield alongside their alliance comrades, supporting them whenever they can. Firing their weapons and casting magic spells, the Muslim troops shouted their war-cries of ‘Allahu Akbar!’ while the Gorkhas shouted ‘Ayo gorkhali!’ with jovial enthusiasm as if they don’t fear death. However, they’re more than happy to exact justice against the dishonourable Saderans.

At any rate, the Minrozian Expeditionary Forces will certainly play an important role in the Trans-Barrier Alliance in their war against Sadera. However, the Saderans will soon find out how terrifying the Qing troops are in the art of war, there’s a good reason Minroz is the most powerful superpower in its homeworld, carving out an empire larger than USSR.

[United Islands of Polis]

Berlin, Karlsland
August 22, 2018
Field Marshal Joseph Niels Karfit, 5th Constitutional Expeditionary Force

As the speeches and time for inquiries had died down, Field Marshal Karfit had disappeared into the crowd as he went to get ready for the battle ahead. True enough with a person of his ranking it was dangerous to be on the frontlines, but Karfit was one of the rare commanders who believed that commanding on the frontlines would prove to be effective for the opening theatre moments, such as the new Saderan Theatre, which was such a big deal that the Citadel had to ready a new map board once Cartographers could map out the entire area.

Much Later

In hopes of not getting shot instantly or becoming a high priority target, Field Marshal Karfit had dressed himself in the standard Battle Dress Uniform of his unit, no special insignias, no rank, nothing. A far as the enemy was concerned he was just another regular foot soldier. the Field Marshal got on his tank, an M328 Scorpion MBT, which was essentially a T-90MS with missile tubes attatched onto the top, hence the nickname "Scorpion" due to its capability of executing overhead attacks.

Once the siren signifying the turn of the Polisians to charge, the Field Marshal got on the radio. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the 5th, I will be blunt, some of you will not make it back alive, but one thing for certain is that we are here to kick ass, take names and bring these disgusting things to justice. Remember your training and watch each others backs, maybe we'll all come back from this. ALL UNITS ADVANCE! BRING ME THE HEADS OF THESE BASTARDS ON A SILVER PLATTER!"

After his speech, even while inside his command tank he could here the shouts of URA from inside, he was proud of his men, they will fight and decimate the enemy with their bullets, with their knives, with their bare hands if need be.

Alnus Hill, Sadera
August 22, 2018
Field Marshal Joseph Niels Karfit, 5th Constitutional Expeditionary Force

As they emerged from the gate, the scene was like every major front from the Second World War, thanks everywhere, infantry scattering for whatever cover there is and planes in the sky, the only thing different were these witches, whatever they are. The tanks were the forst to ome out, their guns rang out as they began to cut down both infantry and Saderan armor, a few planes were shot down when they got too close to the ground. The first tanks formed a spearhead of sorts to protect the MRAPs carrying the infantry, allowing them to dismount and increase their survivability.

"All infantry units dismount and engage the enemy. Happy hunting." as the message came out the doors of the MRAPs, transport trucksand APCs flung open as infantry poured out. Enemy attack aircraft were attracted to this and they began to take casualties as transports and infantry began to go up up flames as bombs were dropped on their locations.

The Field Marshal anticipated this and as such he had the missile tubes of his M328s (T-90s) loaded mostly with AA missiles. In moments each M328 had locked onto their targets and in seconds, the spearhead lit up as rocket exhaust illuminated the formation. The Saderans took the lives of Karfit's own men, so his men took away a lot of theirs.

"Sir we've lost Hyperion 2-1"

"Mammoth 4-2 is a goner sir"

"APS is inefective against GPBs, I repeat APS is useless against GPBs."

Karfit needed that SPAAG unit now, but the distance between his spearhead unit and the SPAAGs and SPGs were large, so it called for desperate times. Unhooking the radio from his left he gave out the orders. "All AA capable units, reach for the sky and bring 'em down our SPAAGs aren't here yet and we're loosing to many of our brothers and sisters."

Soldiers began to point their AUG A3 Mk.IIIs (Chambers 7.62x39mm) in an attempt to bring any planes down that got too close, shoulder fired rocket launchers also went loud as APC autocannons and vehicle mounted HMGs let loose. M328s still continued to hunt for enemy armor, occasionally switching shells to Canister rounds when infantry or enemy aircraft got too close.

When cries over the BattleComms seemed to overpower the Marshal's thoughts, a stream of tracers lit up the sky, the first of the SPAAG units began to emerge from the Gate, followed by the SPG units. The formation had changed as the Field Marshal finally felt a slight sensation of relief. The formation of tanks, and infantry slowly crept up at a steady pace as they began to push the enemy back with the rest of the coalition.

To any and all coalition callsigns, the 38th Artillery Regiment's mobile guns have arrived, feel free to call out any fore missions for them."

[Allanea]

"Company! Listen to my order!" – Captain Maslov shouted, his sword lifted in his outstretched hand. Several hundred yards away, he could see them – the Sanderan troops, in their dark-green uniforms. At this range, he could not count them – they were certainly many of them, many more than his company even had it been full-strength.

Captain Maslov's paratrooper company was no longer full-strength. Of the seventy-five men who crossed over through the portal, fifty remained uninjured. Six more, with bandages on heads, arms, or chests, stood along with their comrades. The rest were either dead now, or too injured to fight. In front of them, hundreds of the Sanderans approached.

"Company!" – the Captain repeated, gesticulating with his officer's sword. It was a straight, broad blade of black steel, a somewhat more modern version of the sword that Sanderan officers carried. "Prepare! For combat!"

The men near him prepared – each in his foxhole, some with rifles, others with machineguns or other weapons.

"Machinegunners! AGLs! At the advancing infantry! FIRE!" – he swung his sword, and heard some of the sounds most pleasant to every infantryman's ear – the thumping of the company's automatic grenade launchers. Out ahead, grey clouds of smoke and soil rose around the enemy infantry. The machinegun fire scythed through them, but they did not slow down – they were brave, Maslov saw. They moved forward – some dashing forward, others staying behind to protect their friends.

The grenade launchers continued thumping away, the grenades arcing towards the Sanderans. For a moment, Maslov thought of the grenadiers in their foxholes, of the light-green metal boxes with the grenade-belts inside them. His brain began to tick away at the calculations, trying to figure out – how much time will it take? Will it be enough?

"They're at two furlongs!" – one of his lieutenants shouted. "Riflemen! Make ready!"

An RPG ground sailed overhead, leaving behind a grey trail, and impacted a few yards away from a clump of Sanderan infantrymen. The rocketeer had missed – not that it mattered, no doubt the shrapnel would have gotten someone at least.

They were closer now – much closer.

Maslov's orders were not needed now. The last orders were now being shouted out by lieutenants and sergeants. At three hundred yards, the Allaneans opened fire.

The mathematics were now hardly on the Sanderans' side. Their enemies were elite marksmen, lying flat on their stomach in foxholes, with scoped automatic rifles.

Maslov saw the world now only through a scope, his carbine's reticle centered on a nearly-indistinguishable greyish-green figure. He pulled the trigger. And missed. The figure continued approaching, and Maslov pulled the trigger one more time. There was a familiar snapping sound as the rifle fired.

In an action movie, Maslov would be cutting down hundreds of the slavers single-handedly. Here, Maslov was merely human.

He was, however, also an officer in an elite unit. The rifle produced a third crack, and the green-clad figure fell onto its back. He shifted his aim, and fired two more shots at another one of the green-clad figures. This time he hit easily.

"One furlong!" – he heard someone shout.

The Sanderans were just over two hundred yards away now, and now they outnumbered the Allaneans perhaps three to one. At two hundred yards it was almost easy. The rifles continued cracking, bowling over the enemy soldiers like pins at a pin-shooting match. Soon it would be over. Soon –

An unseen force ripped Maslov out of his foxhole, tossed him several yards and onto his back. There was no pain – not at first, that is. He just seemed to move through the air, and then he was… somewhere else. His ears rang, and something hot, sticky, seemed to cover his left cheek. He didn't need to guess what it was.

He looked around himself. Yards away from his foxhole, where he had felt so safe and confident but seconds ago, there now was an unappetizing-looking crater. Craters are less appetizing when they're on your positions, Maslov thought for a moment as he looked towards the Sanderans. "Right, that was a bomb… now… where…"

He saw them then – and they were a lot closer now. Behind them, several armored vehicles were pulling up – three tanks. They looked nothing like tanks on the other side of the portal, but they were tanks nonetheless – enormous, oversized, festooned with turrets – three turrets? Four? What's wrong with you people? – and with a strange, crown-like ring around the main turret..

Half a furlong.

They were going to have to fight them in close combat.

The tanks rounds boiled up the soil around the Allaneans. Dulled, as if through a pillow, he could hear the screams of his own men.

With some satisfaction, Maslov saw an RPG round catch one of the tanks into its front, and blazes of fire coming up as the machine's ammunition blew up inside it.

Fifty meters!

Allanean rifle fire scythed through the ranks of the Sanderans. Dozens of slaver troops gave their lives for these last fifty meters. But at this distance, their numbers began to count.

Maslov saw one of his men – he recognized him, even – slump over a heavy machinegun. "Adebiy!" – the assistant gunner shouted. "Adebiy!"

It was pointless, of course. The man wouldn't move. Next to him, the assistant gunner pushed the body off the gun. Adebiy rolled away, his eyes open to the skies, unmoving, glassy. The gun clattered again, and for brief seconds, the Sanderans seemed to slow their advance.

In moments, they would be here.

Something had to be done.

Maslov had one final weapon.

He reached into his pants pocket.

He pulled the secret weapon free and cast off his helmet.

The weapon was ready now – a light blue, round beret. He fitted it on his head and cocked it slightly.

"Airborne Infantry!" – he shouted. "Prepare to fight! Fix bayonets, swords unsheathe!"

The Sanderans were but fifteen yards away from the line of Allanean foxholes when it happened.

Two dozen grenades, sailing through the air, fell among the attackers' ranks. A storm of explosions boiled around the Sanderans, and then the roar came – perhaps three dozen survivors, roaring at the top of their lungs.

"Hurraaaaaaah!"

Then, the Allaneans rose from their trenches. Some were injured. It did not matter. They would be dead soon if they did not fight.

Thirty-odd men and women, a long row of bayonets, three officers with swords and pistols, threw themselves at the Sanderans. Blue berets instead of helmets seemed somewhat incongruous, perhaps, to the enemy, as the Allaneans threw themselves at their attackers.

* * *

Lieutenant Sandra Matrennikova was the sabre champion at her high school. Even now, she wore not the short sword favored by most Airborne officers, but the Mark 6 shashka favored by mechanized infantrymen. Now it came in useful.

The shashka sliced downwards, the tip of it only just grazing the side of a Saderan officer's neck, bright-red arterial blood splashing from the wound. For a second the man stood, staring perplexed as blood began to soak his shirt, and then fell.

A Saderan soldier stabbed forward, his rifle's bayonet stopped by her ballistic plate – before he could realize what had happened, she slashed ferociously, the man's head tilting back, revealing a terrible, gaping wound where Matrennikova had cut through his neck almost down to the spine.

"Death to the slaver!" – she shouted, her voice like the cracking of a whip, the smell of blood on her nostrils intoxicating to her. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" – the call was like a gong ringing.

* * *

Months ago, in another universe, it seemed funny to Christopher Clines that the Airborne Infantry trained him on anti-tank grenades. What's the purpose, anyway? We have rockets and missiles. Now, as the tank was drawing near, the greenish weapon, about two pounds in weight, seemed reassuring in his hand.

The tank – that silly contraption with the three turrets – didn't seem funny, either, as it drew near. This thing could kill a man, Clines realized. Like Adebiy.

Maybe it was the one that killed Adebiy.

The pull ring flew free.

Christopher twisted his entire torso, throwing his arm back so far that he felt a slight pain in the wrist that held the grenade, and then twisted forward with his body, letting go of the grenade. He remembered, momentarily, how he was still a boy of ten, trying to win a game of gorodki with his cousins.

"FOR ADEBIY!" – he shouted. He tasted his own tears. He thought, strangely, that it would be humiliating if those men in that tank saw him crying.

A small piece of white cloth, looking like a toy parachute, opened behind the hand-grenade, and it smacked into the front of the tank.

There was a flash – Christopher did not hear the explosion – and then there was a bigger flash, as the tank's hatches seemed to break open from the inside.

"HA!" – Christopher breathed out as the machine ground to a halt.

Maybe some of these people had seen him crying, somehow.

Now they themselves were crying, screaming, as they clambered to try and get out from the burning machine, their hands bashing against the inside of the hatches as the fumes filled their lungs. Around them, shells and machinegun rounds detonated in the confined space.

One of the men crawled free and tossed himself onto the ground, rolling about, trying to shake the flames off his coveralls. After a while, he stopped.

Christopher was no longer paying attention to him, or any of the others in the tank.

* * *

Maslov's uniform was soaked in blood. His sword was bloodied, his face was bloodied, the pistol in his hand was bloodied. Around him, his company – all twenty-five men of it – fought.

He shouted – oaths, mottos, simple roars of rage – to encourage himself and the others around him. Had someone recorded him, it would have perhaps sounded hilarious.

For Mother Liberty! For the Airborne Infantry! Death to the slaver! – Maslov stabbed an attacker, and, as the man fell, stomped down on his head, driving the Saderan's face into the dirt. The man was still struggling, so Maslov stomped again and again, shifting directly from the uplifting mottos to horrible oaths – Govno hodyachee, huesos parshivy, cockmongler! - the man gurgled, and twitched for one final time underfoot.

He saw the last of the enemy tanks crawl, ponderously, through the line of Allanean foxholes, and then an RPG rocket catch its main turret from the side. For several long seconds, the tank crawled forward, even as smoke and flames boiled up from within the turret, and then there was a grumbling explosion within it. The machine continued to move – no doubt most its crew now dead or at least injured – then a second rocket hit its stern, and it was motionless.

Around them, the surviving Saderans were retreating. There were cracks of machinegun and rifle fire as the Allaneans fired on the fleeing men. And, at last, it was over.

It was not quiet, not like in the films and novels where the heroes repel their attackers and a near-supernatural calm falls upon them. There was still the explosions and fire around them, the shouts of the injured – those things that poets call 'the din of battle' – the odor of smoldering fuels, of sweat, blood, even feces. There was also pain, crawling into Maslov's consciousness – in his ear, in his muscles, in the skin on his cheek where it had been cut in his fall, in his ribs. Around him, the company stood – Matrennikova, Clines, others. All twenty-three men and women that could, somehow, still remain standing.

His Fifth Company.

[Sadera]

The battle was, in a word, not going all that well. For either side, but mostly for Sadera. The artillery, as damaging as it was to even the tanks of these xenos, was not capable of holding the line on its own, and counterartillery operations from what few aircraft had made it in (mostly Karlslandic and Austrian Witches) had thinned even that out. Compounding matters was the situation of their air cover. To put it simply, the Saderan Air Force was getting dominated, utterly and completely. While the xeno's land forces were at least marginally hampered by the darkness of the night, their air assets suffered no such hindrances, and were handily handing the Saderan airmen their asses in paper bags.

For the first time in centuries, the Saderans were being pushed back.

Still, they held the line. To retreat without orders was tantamount to desertion, and their commanding officer had not ordered them to retreat yet.

Come to think of it, he hadn't ordered much of anything in a while. Still, they held the line.

As the number of Saderans assaulting the Gate began to dwindle, their tactics changed. Instead of the artillery and aircraft focusing on destroying what was already there, they instead began to focus on simply obliterating the area around the Gate, hoping to either make it impassable or to pile up a mountain of xeno metal tall enough to prevent anything else from getting through before reinforcements could be called.

[Allanea]

There's no telling, no describing
What it feels like when you hear
Your own guns above the enemy's,
Thundering, booming in the rear.

~Alexandr Tvardovsky

Even the bravest man cannot help but fear enemy artillery.

There has been research – the human body and mind are hardwired to fear noises over a certain threshold.

The cutoff – that sound level to be universally frightening if heard without warning – is approximated at about the sound of a motorcycle passing suddenly near a person. The sound of an artillery shell's explosion is incomprehensibly louder – loud enough to make a man's teeth rattle, loud enough to make men lose their hearing. A sustained artillery bombardment is known to drive men mad.

This was the hell into which Allanean soldiers crossing the Gate were now entering. A single step – from the peaceful calm of central Berlin, into a veritable Hell.

With a shriek, an artillery shell impacted next to one of the armored vehicles of the Airborne division, fifty yards after it crossed the gate. Shrapnel peppered the machine's roof, and within a few seconds it was on fire, its armored walls now a trap for the men inside. Within ten more seconds, no member of the crew was alive, ammunition explosions bouncing more and more shrapnel inside the once-mighty machine. Within thirty, temperatures inside reached thousands of degrees, melting steel, turning flesh to dust.

Yet there were things about technology beyond the Gate that the Saderans did not know about. They did not, for instance, know about counter-artillery radar. Even now, two dozen towed guns were unfolding near the gate. Their barrels were elevating – even now, the very shells that were arcing out towards the Saderans' foes would be the unseen traitors that would give away the very location of the Saderan batteries.

"Fire!" – an Allanean officer waved his sword in a slashing motion, and the guns fired, responding to Saderan fire with their own, 155mm shells.

Smaller guns, too, began to respond where a lighter Saderan weapon happened to be in range – mortars, and, of course, the guns on the Allaneans' fighting vehicles, which had just now transited the gate.

Suddenly the advantage of having an IFV that could lob a shell across seven kilometers became clear, as 100mm shells began to drop down on the Saderan mortar positions.

In the foxholes, a man in a blue beret smiles at the low, thumping sound of the short-barreled, low-pressure guns, the whistling of outgoing artillery shells from the larger cannon.

–"Now that is different!" – he laughs.

[The Selkie]

The battle was, in a word, not going all that well. For either side, but mostly for Sadera. The artillery, as damaging as it was to even the tanks of these xenos, was not capable of holding the line on its own, and counterartillery operations from what few aircraft had made it in (mostly Karlslandic and Austrian Witches) had thinned even that out. Compounding matters was the situation of their air cover. To put it simply, the Saderan Air Force was getting dominated, utterly and completely. While the xeno's land forces were at least marginally hampered by the darkness of the night, their air assets suffered no such hindrances, and were handily handing the Saderan airmen their asses in paper bags.

For the first time in centuries, the Saderans were being pushed back.

Still, they held the line. To retreat without orders was tantamount to desertion, and their commanding officer had not ordered them to retreat yet.

Come to think of it, he hadn't ordered much of anything in a while. Still, they held the line.

As the number of Saderans assaulting the Gate began to dwindle, their tactics changed. Instead of the artillery and aircraft focusing on destroying what was already there, they instead began to focus on simply obliterating the area around the Gate, hoping to either make it impassable or to pile up a mountain of xeno metal tall enough to prevent anything else from getting through before reinforcements could be called.

Berlin.
Colonel Arán was listening. Each and every call through the radio came through to them, on the Berlin-side of the Gate, integrated into the combat and battlescape networks, from high tech to a bunch of figurines on a map. Sometimes, simple technology trumped over high technology.
The plan was clear: Break and rout the enemy, then they would start digging in at the Gate.
Problem was, the enemy was not breaking. Sure, they were pushed back, not exactly retreating, but it was a start, but that was far too orderly for Arán's liking.
At least the sky was clearing.
Artillery began to thump away on the other side, from Allanean to Polisean and even I. Squadrons Heavy Mortar Section. Instead of turret and troops, these low and silent artillery vehicles carried Mortar, Heavy, Model 1961 for heavy and quick fire support where the Regimental Artillery had not yet been sent through.
There were enough fire missions from I. Squadron alone and the Colonel was happy to have two Sio-I Ammunition Carriers with the five mortar carriers, each with a heavy 81mm mortar happily sending shells towards the enemy at an effective range of a little more then four kilometres.
Lieutenant Moirtéal, commander of the Mortar Section from his own Sio-I Command Vehicle, much akin to the one Arán had, was doing good work, but that work depended on the cooperation between Alliance Forces.
And that was, currently, in many parts a bit of a problem.
Then, new radio messages came in...

Cave One, B-Platoon of 14th/18th. Near the Gate.
Lieutenant Glantóir was not a happy camper.
B-Platoon was under fire, heavy one at that as the enemy artillery began to focus on the Gate. Much like Wolf Six (a total loss) before, the two only lightly armoured SPAAGs of B-Platoon were obliterated within seconds, their guns silent. They had been placed on open field for maximum effectiveness, cover to be erected soon enough, while the APCs hid in already existing artillery craters.
Glantóir was assuming, that they were total losses, too, especially since one shell had apparently hit one of the vehicles directly. Time to grief would come later.
5th Company, the Squadron Engineers from I. Squadron, was retreating to their own artillery craters after one shell had flipped one of their AEV onto it's head.
It was interesting, mathematically speaking, the Lieutenant thought as she reported the artillery fire to the higher-ups and requested counter-battery fire, that artillery shells rarely landed in the craters of previous shots, not even the best calculated shots could always guarantee that. Granted, the enemy seemed more intent on making more craters and not hitting already existing ones, but that was another story.
Her message was confirmed and handed further down the road.
Then a yell pierced the Platoon Channel: "Cave Four, we're going down!"
"What?", the Lieutenant called back, incredulity in her voice, "Cave Four, repeat please!"
"Cave Three, Cave Four just went downhill.", another one of her APCs reported, "Shell hit the hill the wrong way, produced a small landslide, took Four with it. I can see their rear, seems like they're alive, but can't radio."
"Of course, antennas broken...", the Lieutenant groaned, well aware, that Cave Four was currently most likely sending in morse code using their blinkers, as usual for such situations with the SDF-Army (the roads back home were simply terrible). "Let the Squadron Engineers take care of that as soon as those nice people stop the shelling."
"Understood.", came Cave Three's reply.
Two SPAAGs total losses, one Sio-I a mission kill, one AEV a mission kill, the engineers currently unable to work and the hill getting more and more craters, it only being a question of time how long it took for the enemy to hit something important.
A wonderful night so far.

[Wolfenium]

Alnus Gate, Alnus Side, Sadera
August 22, 2018 C.E.
Royal Baltlandic Air Force

Artillery, the king of the battlefield. No amount of superior technology in armoured or infantry warfare could match the destructive power of a high explosive shell lobbed at them. With their artillery content with saturating the area with shells rather than trying to aim, the advance was starting to peter. It was thus a grave shame for the Saderans that their air assets were nowhere near as successful.

"Valkyrie-1 to Flight Group. Hostile down," a violet-haired Baltland witch radioed, her aurora-like butterly wings shimmering in the night as she watched another plane plummeting to the ground from a splay of Ksp 58 (MAG 58) rounds, "I think that's an ace for me. Over."

"Valkyrie-2 to Valkyrie-1, ease back on the excitement there. Job's not done, over," a brunette girl cautioned her commander, punching a Carl Gustaf round into the side of a bomber.

"Valkyrie-4 to Flight Group," a third with neon-green hair and headphone-like magic antennae radioed, spotting a cluster of artillery firing in the distance, "Tally (enemy positions), 8'o clock from our position, 3 clicks (three kilometers). They're putting some hurt on the men. Over."

Surveying the field below her, Weiss responded, "roger that. Queen-1 to Mirage Squad, silence those guns. Over."

"Roger, Queen-1," responded the squadron commander over the chatter, "keep those hostiles off my back, alright? Out."

The squadron assigned the role, the 332nd RAF Squadron, was not named after the Britannian Royal Air Force for nothing. Once, the team made up of Baltlandic exiles held the skies over the island against the Neuroi during the Second Neuroi War, as Europe itself was subsumed by the ominous alien threat. With their victory over the extraterrestrials, the 332nd were handed over to the command of the Baltlandic Royal Air Force. But the insignia was a testament to their achievements in Britannia, and the dark-brown-haired lancer Paula Iversen was not about to let that down.

Switching her frequency to her squad, she radioed, "Mirage-2 and 4, this is Mirage-1. Tally spotted 3 clicks ahead, 6'o clock from our position, cleared to engage. Do you copy?"

"Mirage-2 to Mirage-1," she heard the answer, "copy that. Out."

Flying a distance below, a burgundy-haired girl with magic, dragonfly-like wings was reloading her C8SFW carbine for the run. While paling in comparison to the stellar aesthetics of her fellow witch's butterfly wings, Major Inanna's wings were functional. But the Gripen striker pack she uses only highlighted its deficiencies more. In an earlier time, this would have made riding brooms redundant. But not even the magic of a dragonfly familiar could match the technological prowess of a jet engine's speed. Hauling a Tksp 12,7 mm (M2 Browning) behind her wingwoman, the blonde, doe-eyed Hedvig was getting ready too. This was her first time in actual combat, and she appeared understandably nervous.

"You ok there, shrimp," Inanna called out to her, dropping the radio chatter for a moment.

"Ready as always, Madam," Hedvig declared, "I'll watch your back!"

Giving a light, awkward smile, she told the junior, "no need to push yourself. This is a combat situation, so don't dump your life for this. We're just getting started."

Racing towards the target battery, the girls could see a flurry of AA-fire spraying their positions, flak shells exploding all around. Weaving around the fire, the duo began shooting apart the encampment in quick succession. As the Saderan cannons fell silent one after another, the pixie-like witch made sure to roll a grenade down each barrel. In case the enemy somehow regains their positions, they could at least be denied their artillery again.

"Mirage-2 to Flight Group, Tally down," Inanna radioed back, pulling back to regroup with her squadron, "requesting new targets, over."

Hopefully, this would ease the ground troops' burden by a little bit more.