Author Notes:
Yahallo~! I hope you all have had a nice Christmas! I think I surely did with my Mom, haha. Here's to a wondeful end of the year to come though! Can't wait till the next one as, other than a new start, a new me, 2026 will be a year where games like Total War 40K and Arknights Whenfield will come out!
Now, moving on from that topic, thanks to a friend of mine, I finally have accessed to a truly robust AI model for all new character pictures! Hurray~! Unfortunately, that model is completely useless as generating any NSFW stuff, so no horny!
Lastly, and readers be warned...
THIS CHAPTER IS NOT A LIGHT READ!
Like many chapters before it, this one requires a certain degree of mental preparation and may cause you to lose appetize.
Santa Yuki: https://postimg.cc/XXkQDsZ2
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The Civil War for London resumes in earnest. Contrary to the expectations of many, the night does not offer any reprieve for the capital city of Erusea. The capitalists, either too ambitious for their own good or completely out of their minds, order a nighttime charge against the defenders of Buckingham Palace after combining their forces. Even with the cover of darkness, casualties for the capitalists' private army are expected to be high, owing to a now complete lack of tanks while the King's Royal Guards remain well-stocked with emplaced machine guns. Yet, the attacking capitalists' force remains stubbornly steadfast in their aggression. When the mercenaries and soldiers in front of them are felled by the defenders' incessant machine gun fire, those who are just right behind the fallen step forth and retaliate. The officers of the Royal Guards have no idea what gives these once motley groups such bravery despite the massive handicaps. Something it can be due to the promises of riches and glory. Others dare to say that whoever's behind this night attack has a very firm grip on his troops. Alternatively, it may be both. Regardless of the answer, however, the Royal Guards suddenly find themselves at risk of having their defense line punctured.
The night also works against the defenders, limiting their visibility. The urban terrain means that even with flares in the air, the dense urban setting of London blocks a lot of the light from shining over the Royal Guards' enemies. This creates opportunities for the more lightly armed yet experienced mercenaries and personal soldiers of the attacking force to creep as close as they can to the defense line before launching devastating raids. These raids, in particular, target the distracted machine gun nests of the Royal Guards. These deadly lead dispensers are occupied with the suppression of the expendable troops, cheap hired guns, of the capitalists. When the machine gun crews finally react to the fact that they're either being subjected to a pincer attack or a close-quarter flanking maneuver, usually, it's much too late for them to react. This results in the machine gun nests either having their operating crews killed or their guns subsequently destroyed by grenades. The more adventurous raiding parties even go as far as turning the very machine guns that have been killing them against their former owners. Some have a much brighter mind to start dismantling a couple of guns on the spot before stealing the whole getups away to a safe position. These raid parties, although lacking the staying power and easily overwhelmed by the responding Royal Guards, force the defenders to hastily reposition their defense line, creating unwanted gaps in firepower density. Subsequently, those very same expendable troops, who have been mercilessly kept suppressed, surge and threaten the integrity of Buckingham's defense even more. It has come to the point that even the few artillery pieces the Royal Guards managed to get their hands on can aim their barrel horizontally to the ground, fire, and will no doubt maim some unfortunate sods on the other sides of the sandbags and wooden barricades.
Understandably, when even your artillery is forced to pitch in directly, it means something has gone horribly wrong. Knowing that his frontline is on the brink of total collapse, Colonel William Bradshaw of the Royal Guards makes the one decision he dreads the most: relocating assets from the force guarding against the South Bank of the Thames. The hasty order soon proved to be pivotal in mending the damaged defense line... Then everything changes when the militia attacks.
Rolling up the many bridges that connect the South Bank of London to the North, the militia nearly instantly overwhelmed the now weakened fighting positions that had been giving them much trouble during the day. The presence of these militia, led by the Count of Farbanti himself, further embroiled the area around Buckingham Palace in chaos. And, unlike what one may think, the militia attacks not just the Royal Guards, but also the capitalists' force. There's no such thing as: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. In the eyes of the militia, there's only a blood debt, waiting to be exacted on the remaining two major factions. As such, the night battle for Buckingham Palace devolves into yet another three-way conflict. Yet, ironically, the militia's indiscriminate attack grants Colonel Bradshaw the breathing room he needs as the capitalists' force has to divert a significant force of its own to stave off the enraged citizens of Erusea. The Colonel's fear of a coordinated pincer attack with the Palace trapped in the middle never comes to pass. As long as the battle is dragged on, help will come soon enough.
Embroiled in the thick of it as he is, however, has made the Colonel of the Royal Guards unable to discern what lies beneath the veneer of this chaotic mess. Similarly, he does not precisely know the movement of his troops, nor their condition, having moved his command post closer to the frontline earlier in the day, which puts him in tunnel vision regarding the most immediate threats. As of now, he is completely unaware of the sudden fall back of a not small number of his supposed Royal Guard soldiers to the inside of the Palace.
This will go on to be his most disgraceful failing in his eventful career.
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With the Royal Guards redeploying most of its troops to combat the encroaching forces, only a token force remains to protect the VIPs and the injured inside Buckingham Palace. These soldiers, some acting as patrolling sentries in the yards, while others set up snipers' nests up in the roof and upper floors of the Palace, act as the final perimeter defense for the royal residence. Inside the structure's proper, additional guards are employed as the last line of defense, with a majority of them being those lightly injured from the ongoing conflict. Being entrusted with the heavy task of keeping the royal family safe, these soldiers stomach the pain of their injuries and fatigue, maintaining their alertness to the utmost extreme. As such, when suspicious individuals are detected approaching the fortified palace, the Royal Guards are swift to spot and respond, training their weapons and searchlights on the spotted unknowns.
What stops these alerted Royal Guards from pulling their triggers is the fact that these unknown figures are compatriots, Royal Guards just like them, and they're all bleeding and battered, while supporting each other to reach the only safe place, which is Buckingham Palace. The defending soldiers even recognize some familiar faces among those injured, which assuages their suspicion a lot.
"Open the gate!" The words are given by the Watch Captain, who is responsible for the Royal Guard retinue remaining in Buckingham Palace. A brief identity check has been made on the retreating soldiers, and it comes out clean.
With the squeaky sound of the iron gate opening being drowned out by distant gunfire, the group of injured soldiers is ushered inside the palace to where a triage center is set up. Soon after the injured are accepted for treatment by a group of medics and palace servants, the Royal Guards resume their guard duty, as stalwart as ever to any threat coming from outside. However, this won't be the last time they receive similar groups of injured soldiers. More arrives as the battle around the defense line of Buckingham Palace grows increasingly heavy. The Royal Guard unit stationed in Buckingham Palace soon finds itself getting overwhelmed by the influx of incapacitated soldiers.
The situation culminates in an impasse when, per protocol, the Royal Guards have to conduct identity checks on those who want to come inside, injured or not, friends or otherwise. Those who are injured, however, don't have time to waste on a stopover. Some are already one foot into their graves, and an identity check will only seal their fate for good. Worst, they are all fellow Royal Guards or servicemembers who have been fighting to protect the Crown for the better part of the day. They bleed and sacrifice themselves not to lie out and perish in a ditch outside the royal residence when the medics behind the pearly gate can save them.
The stress, the chaos, the pain, nearly made a brawl between friends and comrades of the same side occur by the gate of Buckingham Palace if not for an express order from the grieving King George VI himself, arriving just in time.
"The King decreed these are all loyal sons of Erusea, let them through, Watch Captain!"
With an order from the King himself, how can the Watch Captain refuse to open the gate? Fighting against his better judgment, the Watch Captain loosens the admission protocols and lets the injured soldiers in after only a cursory identity check: a vouch from an accompanying superior or someone familiar with the person involved, or their uniforms and dogtags seem legit. Soon enough after the change, the Watch Captain and his sentries lost track of the number of people coming inside the palace. With their manpower already stretched thin as is, the Watch Captain can't call on more men to heighten internal security. His only hope is that his security preparation is enough for any unforeseen development.
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The door to the kitchen's storage area is pushed open by one of the palace servants. Stepping inside, the staff is swift to locate a stack of crates, used to contain fresh food ingredients, that were imported earlier in the morning.
"The goods are hidden in there." The servant whispers to the people behind him. "They never got a chance to inspect these before all the ruckus."
Turning around, the servant's gaze lands on a group of bloody Royal Guards, although he knows well that none fit the part in its entirety.
"I've done my task... Don't fuck this up." The servant warns in an aged voice.
"You won't need to worry about that." Speaks the leader of this group of supposedly injured Royal Guards.
Well, their identities are a coin toss and a half, but their injuries are very real in the sense that they cut and shoot themselves to gain access to Buckingham Palace. Quite hardcore of a role-playing game they have, huh? Strangely specific ways of going undercover aside, their camouflage does work in getting them all securely behind the guarded outer perimeter of the royal residence, where they come to meet their inside personnel and ultimately arrive at this point.
As the old servant briskly walks past the group of faux Royal Guards, the leader of the latter orders.
"Well, what are you all waiting for? Arm yourself."
Due to their injured status, not everyone could carry their weapons past the guarded gate. As such, the inside men, like the old servant, had to smuggle their armament inside this kitchen storage for these infiltrators to pick up. After uncovering boxes of fruits, vegetables, and even some dried fish, the faux Royal Guards soon return bearing specially designed weapons for the upcoming stretch. Once the condition of these weapons is ascertained to be serviceable, the soldiers report.
"Commander, we're ready to proceed."
The Commander, now sporting a vastly different disguise compared to the one he used at the old cemetery, nods. "Good. You know the drill: the pointmen with silenced weapons and blades go first. We only go loud when there's no other choice. Our target is the chamber where the royal family is no doubt residing. After we accomplish what we're here for, proceed to exfiltration as planned. Let's move!"
At once, the infiltrators led by the Commander set out from the kitchen area, with those carrying the specially designed weapons going in the front. These special weapons are sanitized, meaning they have no markings indicating their manufacturer or country of origin; they are marked only with a serial number and some inscrutable symbols and letters that only those in the know can recognize. The infiltrators can be seen wielding two types of these special weapons: One for up close and personal contacts, and one with a bit of a reach, both integrally suppressed. The first is a bolt-action, magazine-fed pistol and chambered in 9 mm Parabellum. The other is a bolt-action .45 caliber carbine, fed using modified American-made M1911 magazines. Both designs are slim and compact, with the carbines being wielded having folding stocks instead of complete buttstocks. These features alone are enough to designate the firearms as special operations or assassination weapons, which is quite apt considering their wielders.
Armed with suppressed weapons, the pointmen in the front clear the way for the Commander and other more heavily armed infiltrators behind. Upon coming across stationed sentries or unwanted witnesses, the pointmen are to swiftly eliminate them all. Unarmed servants and isolated sentries are taken out by the tried and true method of throat slitting. Others who are patrolling in pairs are taken out by contact shots, shots in which the muzzles of the pointmen's suppressed pistols are in direct contact with the guards' bodies at the moment of discharge. To lessen the chance of detection, corpses are hidden in less frequented corners of the royal residence.
Ultimately, the pointmen guide the Commander to a long, straight corridor that will lead straight to the King of Erusea himself. The only issue is the group of Royal Guards standing watch in the corridor. The pointmen's suppressed pistols, while inaudible to targets beyond 5 meters, are unable to hit anything reliably past 18 meters during the night. On a long stretch like this one, the more fitting suppressed carbines are brought to bear. After silently communicating with hand signals on the number of targets down the corridors, the pointmen then pick their targets carefully before stepping out of their covers, weapons raised. The first row of pointmen crouches down while the second row towers over them from behind.
The Royal Guards, surprised by the sudden appearance of armed soldiers, are quick to level their rifles at the pointmen on instinct. Yet, before they can even let out as much as a scream, the first subsonic .45 ACP volley from the crouching pointmen turns their bodies into sieves. As they come falling into the ground in droves, the second volley from the standing row finishes them all in a double-tap manner. It is saying something when the sound of falling bodies is even louder than the two volleys of gunshots. After making sure that no one is the wiser of the slaughter that has just taken place, the carbine-wielding pointment slowly chambers new rounds, being very careful in that they take a hold of spent cartridges before they can clatter onto the floor. Then, as one singular group, they advance till their final destination.
Upon their arrival at the royal family's chamber, and after eliminating two more guards outside the big doors with a couple of contact shots, the Commander gives his neck a couple of cracks before working his deceitful persona, speaking to the people behind the door.
"My King, I've come bearing hopeful news!" Granted, the specifics are much longer than that one sentence.
King George VI is swift to order the sole guard in the chamber to open the door, thus inviting the tigers into the den. When the guard opens the pair of wooden doors, the Commander personally ends the dutiful man's life with a contact shot to beneath the chin, sending his brain scattering inside the chamber. As the body falls lifelessly to the ground, stunning the entire royal family, the Commander and some of his men step inside, swiftly sealing the doorways and windows shut. By the time the King and his daughters react by shouting...
"GUARDS!"
"AHHHHH!"
... It's already too late for them all.
With but a look, the Commander's men swing their hands, swiftly and unceremoniously silencing the two screaming princesses by virtue of blunt-force trauma.
"No!" King George VI screams at the top of his lungs. From his position by the bedside of his comatose Queen, the King jumps for the discarded weapon that falls off the dead guard's body. Something the Commander intentionally left unsecured.
The moment the King gets a hold of the rifle, the Commander points his suppressed pistol at the King and pulls the trigger. Aimed well, the 9mm bullet takes a good chunk out of the Erusean King's shoulder, forcing the man to stumble onto his back. Yet, perhaps out of stubbornness, kingly pride, fear, or desperation, King George VI still clutched the rifle with his injured right arm. The Commander slowly operates the bolt of his pistol as the King scampers to a sitting position, enraged and all other negative emotions flashing, morphing his face.
When King George VI shakily raises the unfamiliar weapon once more, the Commander levels his pistol and pulls the trigger. Instead of his right shoulder, the bullet now punctured the King's elbow, causing his lower left arm to go limp. Surprisingly, the King lets out only muffled huffs of barely contained pain instead of shouting. Defiant, the King turns to look at his nemesis, who maintains an infuriating smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. As the King, it won't do for him to be underneath someone, no matter the situation, no matter the pain. So, despite having no strength in his arms, King George VI tries to stand with nothing but his legs, letting the now impossible-to-wield rifle clatter to the floor. Halfway in doing so, the Commander chambers a new round before shooting out the King's left knee unceremoniously, forcing the man to fall onto his face uncontrollably.
This time, due to the force King George VI put into his now-injured leg, the King finally growls in pain and burning fury. Yet, he doesn't give up. With his right leg splayed to the side, the King brings his left leg forward, ignoring all of his pain to direct his gaze of hatred to the Commander as he slowly rises through sheer will. The look on King George VI's face now is not something one would think a reluctant and unlucky King would have. The Commander, once again, calmly puts another round into the chamber. Only this time, he lets the King stand nearly to full of his height before...
Pssht
... The trigger is pulled once more, and King George VI's left knee is pulverized. This time, the King falls sideways, slamming heavily on his injured left arm, groaning in pain despite his burning will. Huffing with choked breaths, the King of Erusea and all of her colonies struggle one more time to get to a kneeling position. The pain is intense, but it's nothing when compared to the fear of losing his wife, his daughters, and being held hostage behind him. The King could have negotiated, sure, but with how deliberately the Commander is torturing him and handling his daughters, it's clear that the royal family won't be coming out alive.
"Who are you!?" King George VI shouts with all the hatred in his heart. At least, by knowing his adversary, perhaps the King can haunt him on the other side of life.
Yet, as if toying with the disgraced man, the Commander smiles mysteriously and maintains his donned disguise. While it would have been so cathartic to reveal his true identity as the Erusean wayward son right now, it's more exhilarating to know that King George VI will be dying without ever knowing the bringer of his misery, thus letting all that rage burn, torturing him without an outlet. So, rather than answering, the Commander uses his pistol as a baton and whacks the King of Erusea, knocking him down a peg once more.
"Bring out the injections; it's time we finish this."
Per the Commander's words, one of the infiltrators came out of a small container. Opening it, the container reveals three small injectors, each containing a transparent liquid inside. Taking the container and holding it to King George VI, the Commander says in an introductory tone.
"Ever heard of a Rusviet roulette? A game where life and death are decided by one cartridge in a spinning revolver cylinder... Well, this is pretty much the same, only in the form of three poison injectors with varying dosages that even I don't know which one is which. Now, guess who here will be taking one each?"
The devious words cause King George VI's eyebrows to shoot up in visible fear; he screams. "No! No, you mad bastard! Stop right this instance!"
"Eh, too late, mate." The Commander leans down to pat the King's injured shoulder on purpose, causing him to struggle even more on the floor. "This ship's already sailed years ago."
Rising to full height, the Commander personally administered the three poison injectors to King George VI's two daughters and comatose wife, muttering. "Now, it's up to luck to see who will survive, if there's any at all... At least, you still have a chance, dear King."
The Commander tunes out King George VI's struggle as the clear liquid disappears into the veins of his victims. Finally, when King George VI becomes quiet and falls unconscious due to excessive blood loss, the three injectors are emptied, and the Commander finally remembers. "Oh, patch the King up just a tad, won't you? We can't do without him for the curtain's call."
After making sure the King won't just keel over and perish due to the traumatic experience, the Commander is just about to order a retreat when something happens on the far side of London. Shockwaves, flashes, the rumbles of the ground... The Commander lets out a grin at the ever-familiar feeling of a city being bombed.
"Ah, the Belkans have decided to join us... Quite earlier than expected, but nothing unforeseen." The Commander turns to his men before taking one last look at the four royal family members made into victims of his vendetta. "Let's go, boys. We got someone to pick up the pieces for us."
And with that, the infiltrators disappeared from Buckingham Palace, using a set of unknown escape tunnels that even the current royal family isn't privy to. The infiltrators then split up into small groups, donning new disguises, before fading into the wartorn London, now that it's being bombed by Belkan aircraft. It's not until fifteen minutes after they disappear from the palace that the ill-fated royal family is discovered; their fate remains unknown with the onset of the Belkan invasion.