Vrrrmmm…
Ripples spread across the stagnant water pooling in a shell crater.
Not far away, half-buried in mud, the wreck of an armored vehicle lay overturned. From its twisted escape hatch, a corpse in E.U. gray-blue uniform hung halfway out—its waist and belly dark red and brown, where the fatal wound had struck.
An Eastern European field mouse squeaked as it tore into a bloodstained plastic packet near the body, gnawing eagerly.
It was a half-eaten E.U. combat ration.
Just as it feasted on this heaven-sent gift, heavier tremors suddenly struck.
Sensing danger, the rodent stuffed food into its cheek pouch and tried to flee. But the colossal machines, gleaming coldly in the light, descended too swiftly, too massive.
Splurt. Blood spattered like dew, flesh reduced to paste, mingled into the soil.
Rows of landspinners rolled without pause, wheels flinging up clouds of dirt as they thundered past.
On the muddy water's surface, ripples reflected the iron tide racing westward.
East advancing, west retreating.
So went the Northern Front of Eastern Europe.
Whoosh—
A black-red cape flapped sharply in the wind. A squad of [Gloucester]-type Knightmares, crests raised in Roman style and ornate shoulder guards glinting, swept through a shattered Latvian border town. Their armor-piercing incendiary rounds ripped apart E.U. stragglers, exploding them into clouds of blood.
A sharp drift—dodging an RPG shot from retreating E.U. troops—the lead Knightmare hurled its lance in a textbook throw.
A specialized anti-armor melee weapon, self-sharpening by design. Driven by the surging power of its Sakuradite engine, electronic muscles and actuators hurled it deep, piercing straight through a tank. Ammunition detonated instantly.
Illuminated by the fireball, the squad pressed on. Ten-ton giants danced across the battlefield with the agility of gymnasts, movements forceful and precise.
Upgraded sensors, comms systems, and combat-network integration allowed these steel giants to flush enemies hiding inside civilian buildings with ease.
Crash! From over five meters up, one dropped into the street. Stabilizers and shock absorbers held steady. Raising a massive 35mm linear assault rifle—exclusive to Knightmares—it fired in bursts.
Tat-tat-tat! The heavy rounds tore through walls, shattered windows, shredded flesh, ripping the insides apart. Stones and debris scattered across the street.
When the dust cleared, blood lay everywhere.
Before long, the E.U. remnants in the town, led by surviving officers, surrendered in formation.
To surrender only now—what fine service to the Parisian parliament lords.
"Damn it! This is Latvian soil, isn't it? How did Britannia's main forces already push here? Are the border troops pigs? Two days—just two days—and Estonia's front collapsed?!"
The Baltic coast had become utter chaos.
Defeated, almost without knowing why.
How did Britannia know their troop deployments, their armories and depots? When had the forward command post been wiped out by enemy infiltrators? Why was the internal military network so easily cracked by codebreakers and viruses?
Was the enemy in Warsaw, in Paris?
Cука! (Russian curse.)
It wasn't that our troops didn't fight—it was our allies' incompetence that lost us cities and lands!
"Yours to handle."
The leading Knightmare, its loudspeaker crackling, addressed a Britannian infantry officer saluting as they approached. It had been his signals that had guided their strikes.
"We've no time to guard prisoners."
With that, the Knightmare squad rolled out of the town.
Swift to arrive, swifter to depart.
At the handover with the surrendering E.U. officer, a Britannian officer accepted his sidearm while ordering subordinates to disarm prisoners and treat the wounded. His gaze, however, followed the swiftly departing Knightmares.
The shield-shaped insignia on their capes—Her Highness' Royal Guard…
"No wonder. The Royal Guard's Knightmares were all upgraded under Her Highness' military reforms for the new strategic direction. Bigger, heavier, more firepower."
He murmured to his men.
"They say this is only a preliminary refinement…"
If the Royal Guard was present, then the Third Princess herself had left the Caesar Grand Palace in St. Petersburg—come personally to the front?!
The officer's breath grew heavier at the thought.
All knew: with the great leader near, merit was remembered more readily. Advancement, titles, rewards followed.
If not now, when should he prove himself?
A fiercer flame of ambition rose in his heart. He turned northeastward, as if already hearing the iron thunder of Knightmare formations advancing.
...
Command Sequence G-1, Elizabeth.
Now.
Explosions echoed across the scarred plain.
Subtle jolts trembled through the deck. Outside the windows, the landscape rolled past steadily.
Tracks crushed roads firm, grinding embers into dust.
Five Britannian ground motherships crossed Estonia's war zone, under the layered guard of the Royal Guard's inner, middle, and outer cordons, pressing westward.
Fully armed humanoid and non-humanoid combat vehicles spread their formations around the Elizabeth.
"AWACS reports: enemy air wing has entered the sector, launching guided missiles and glide bombs."
"Order the fighter wings to intercept!"
"Ground air-defense brigade—activate Aegis system, intercept those missiles."
"They're not from the Eastern Front. These must be from Poland. Info-Warfare units, track their comms. Feed coordinates to bombers and rocket artillery. Jamming units, shroud G-1."
At once—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—
Dozens of short-range SAMs streaked from launchers, trailing fire.
Guided by the integrated battle command system, they rose skyward, silver lances piercing the stratosphere, breaking toward supersonic targets.
But seated in the throne hall of the specially modified, shield-equipped mothership, Vela had no time to admire the spectacle.
She and her staff maneuvered the Northern Army Group as if with one body.
Her vassal and military adviser, Major General Hoffman, bowed. "Your Highness. Phase Two's Trident Offensive proceeds smoothly."
Logistics Chief Ludendorff need not always stay at her side.
Vela set down her papers and nodded lightly.
The so-called Trident Offensive meant this: thrusts at Narva in Estonia, Võru in Estonia, and Ķekava in Latvia, where composite Knightmare groups broke the line in pincer thrusts, allowing conventional tanks and mechanized infantry to pour through, cut off, and annihilate.
Now, the spearheads were nearing Riga, Latvia's capital, with the furthest thrust already at Lithuania's border.
Of course, Vela would not put herself at the tip. As command hub, her forward presence was but bait—confusing the E.U.
Estonia was pierced. Tallinn, Tapa, and other fortress-cities garrisoned by E.U. troops were trapped. For now, she would surround but not assault—cutting water, power, and food, wearing them down.
There was no better testing ground for combat robots than bloody urban sieges.
She didn't mind burning through them; it cleared stockpiles and gave real-time feedback for improvements.
"Lord Alexei has reached Tallinn. The encirclement is underway… Hm?"
Her eyes shifted back to the display.
Suddenly—
Something new.
On the flank of her advancing formations, red lights flickered at a distance.
"Bearing 30 degrees southwest—outer-ring patrol units report contact. Drone reconnaissance detects an E.U. armored combined brigade advancing toward our forces."
The intelligence officer's fingers clattered across the console keys.
"Additional data: 174 KMFs identified. Sharing visual feed. Preliminary breakdown: 67 Garmede heavy-fire types, 11… Alexanders? Wait—that's the model, isn't it? The one fielded by Hannibal's Ghost when they crushed the Raphael Knights?"
Major General Hoffman asked, "Is it the WZERO Unit?"
"Doesn't match their table of organization. But the possibility of the E.U. forming a new suicide unit can't be ruled out."
"Charging into an encirclement with that strength? It's suicide. Another self-destruct tactic?"
Hoffman glanced at Vela, whose expression had turned subtly intriguing. He stepped forward: "Remind the outer patrols—keep safe engagement distance."
After a pause, Vela asked, "Where is the Eleven Expeditionary Corps now? What are their losses?"
"Pärnu, Your Highness."
A staff officer responded promptly: "Working with the Imperial Marines, they've seized that seaside resort. Heavy casualties, but they continue advancing into Latvia."
"Good. Then they're close. Hoffman, issue orders: have the Special Guidance Unit and the Eleven Expeditionary Corps intercept immediately."
Her next words caught him: "Have the Royal Guard prepare to sortie."
Hoffman nodded to the first half, but at the second he froze. Then he saw Vela rise, unclasping her cloak—and knew persuasion was pointless.
She had switched frames but hadn't yet tested herself in the field. The itch to fight was unbearable.
As Supreme Commander, she could not seek duels—but if the enemy came to her door, there was no issue.
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Hoffman pressed his hand to his chest in salute.
Even as Vela gave her orders, the central display dimmed. A high-priority line cut in.
Her eyes narrowed. "So, you've finally come."
The screen shifted—replaced by the sharp figure of a woman in the purple armor of a current Knight of the Round, Ninth Seat.
"Yo, long time no see, Princess Vela."
"Long time no see, Senior Nonette."