"Why… must humans slaughter each other?"
Suzaku Kururugi's question had no answer. On this battlefield filled with blood and fire, no one could provide one.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—
After a violent explosion came blinding flashes, surging smoke, scorching heat waves, rubble flying everywhere.
In a small town in southwestern Estonia near the Latvian border, the pilot of a Fifth-Generation Knightmare [Sutherland] gave the order: "Fire!"
At the same time, Euro Britannian soldiers unleashed tanks, IFVs, and personal weapons into a dense fire net covering the entire street.
Puff! Puff!
Over a dozen E.U. Joint Army soldiers, too slow to evade, were torn to shreds, limbs and entrails flying.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Explosions followed. Expanding blasts of flame scattered from broken walls.
They came from misfired rocket launchers.
The Sutherland's head, crowned like an Indian eagle's feathers, opened the plates shielding its multi-function optical sensors. Three mechs raised their massive 30mm linear rifles, targeting specifically those with anti-armor weapons—the highest-threat enemies.
Shoot the horse before the rider—any unit with anti-armor capability was eliminated first.
A pilot who ignored such threats, standing still to be targeted, was unqualified—fit only to be sent back as an apprentice.
Amid wails and screams, E.U. stragglers scattered.
Explosions and gunfire echoed everywhere. In moments, bullets and shells left rubble flying, blood spraying.
Artillery was merciless, bullets blind.
Clang, clang!
Two more Sutherlands appeared, using grappling claws fired from their torsos to climb rooftops. Raising handheld recoilless rifles of near-artillery caliber, they blasted what few armored vehicles the E.U. still had.
A direct hit warped an E.U. main battle tank like broken rubber, the explosion sending thick smoke billowing skyward.
In an instant, the town inside and out blazed with fire, gunfire shaking the heavens.
Through [Lancelot]'s live sensors, Suzaku Kururugi watched it all.
A moment earlier, an E.U. veteran shouting fiercely as he wielded a heavy machine gun was struck dead by Sutherland's large-caliber fire—reduced to chunks of flesh without a cry.
The severely wounded, still breathing, were crushed beneath tank treads, their heart-rending screams fading into silence.
In narrow alleys, attackers met face-to-face, firing at point-blank range. In the brawl, a Britannian soldier, riddled with bullets, roared savagely as he overpowered an E.U. trooper, smashing his face, jamming fingers into his eyes. Beneath the shredded uniform and elbow pads gleamed metallic prosthetics in the firelight.
A young and beautiful female E.U. officer, badly wounded, mocked Britannia's tyranny and their "dogs of Area 11" in sharp Parisian French as soldiers tried to capture her alive. Then, crying "Vive la France," she shot herself.
...
Lives as fragile as grass.
War stripped bare the beast within human hearts.
And I—
"Am one of them too."
Zing!
The striking white-gold [Lancelot] swung its glowing high-frequency blade.
Driven by hydraulics and torque, the sword sliced through an E.U. mech's dual cannons as if through butter—cleaving it clean in half!
Next, under Suzaku Kururugi's control, the four-meter-tall, seven-ton prototype Guidance Weapon moved with agile, powerful motions—drifting sharply, then kicking like a soccer strike.
At lightning speed, it hurled the crippled, self-destructing E.U. frame into another crashing through a house.
Boom! Flames burst as the two collided.
"Die, Britannian scum!"
A voice blared through loudspeakers.
It was the last E.U. Knightmare in the town.
Facing the rain of 30mm armor-piercing rounds and 120mm shells, Suzaku Kururugi—derided by E.U. soldiers as Britannian scum despite being an Eleven—remained calm. He operated the [Lancelot], crossing its right arm wielding the MVS vibration sword before him.
Vmmm…
A glowing green particle energy shield appeared before the Lancelot's arm-mounted shield.
Bang, bang, bang! Boom!
Bullets and shells burst against the shield, fragments scattering. Yet after the flash and smoke cleared, only a faint wisp remained. The energy shield stood firm.
"An energy shield? Damn, Britannia's already deployed it?!"
Suzaku gave no reply. Instead, he drew the handheld Variable Ammunition Repulsor Impact Spitfire (VARIS), developed by Lloyd of the Special Dispatch. With a iai-style draw, he fired three shots. The green projectiles shredded the enemy's armor and detonated the heavy KMF.
A fiery blast erupted, scattering debris, flames and smoke spreading.
"For Her Highness the Princess, charge!"
As reinforcements from the Special Dispatch and more of the Eleven Expeditionary Corps arrived, the intensity of battle in this border town—marked as Mõisaküla on the map—shifted drastically.
The diehards were wiped out, the remaining stragglers' morale utterly collapsing.
Meanwhile, divisions of the Northern Army Group continued marching through, an unstoppable tide.
"Well done, Warrant Officer Suzaku Kururugi."
A Sutherland pilot, overseeing the mopping-up operations, opened a video feed and thanked him warmly.
This unit was not the spearhead of the "Trident" offensive, nor the Princess's Royal Guard or one of the Four Knights of Order. It was an ordinary army combined-arms armored regiment. Their role: coordinate with main forces, using armored mobility to scatter and divide the E.U. Joint Army.
Blitzkrieg-style tactics—keep the enemy from regrouping, split major encirclements into smaller pockets, then, with mechanized infantry divisions, leverage superior coordination to annihilate each pocket in turn. The Eleven Expeditionary Corps also fell under this structure.
This was why the Seventh-Generation [Lancelot] often transferred by its high-mobility landspinners rather than dedicated transport carriers—frequent skirmishes, ambushes, and sweep battles demanded it.
Hearing this, Suzaku glanced at the gleaming white-gold mech before him, far more advanced than the Sutherlands produced in Area 11, its cockpit far less visible.
"Um, sir, I'm only a sergeant…"
"Soon enough."
The Sutherland pilot spoke with certainty.
"Such complex, high-speed horizontal maneuvers aren't something just any Knightmare pilot can pull off."
He had carefully observed the white-gold frame in battle. Its flamboyant paint, the fact that an Eleven was piloting a Seventh-Generation prototype—this was no ordinary conscripted cannon fodder.
Besides, the Special Dispatch Technical Corps had the backing of Prince Schneizel. And with some digging in public databases—well, Suzaku Kururugi, the only son of the last Prime Minister of Area 11.
Perhaps the Imperial high command, faced with the E.U.'s dishonorable suicide tactics, wanted a positive counter-symbol?
"In Britannia, ability leads to greatness. Her Highness Princess Vela rewards and punishes with fairness."
He admonished gently: "Even if you are an Eleven, even if the Clovis assassination continues to stain the reputation of Honorary Britannians from your land—this is Euro Britannia."
"Prove your loyalty. Earn glory. Warrant Officer is only the beginning."
"I will prove myself," Suzaku said firmly.
"First you must survive."
The Sutherland pilot gave a noncommittal reply: "I hope to see you in the Royal Guard selection by year's end."
With that, he departed.
Suzaku fell into thought.
The Royal Guard selection of the Third Princess, Vela…
Selection—choosing the best of the best, forging them into an elite army.
If it was the Third Princess, then yes—she was indeed the kind of sovereign many deemed worthy of loyalty and of betting everything upon.
But he had once received the kindness of another gentle princess.
Perhaps her power and influence were far less than those of the Third Princess, but her golden, pure ideals had moved him more deeply, making him willing to strive with all he had—for a world where no one would ever lose those most precious to them.
Not to become the heir of Emperor Charles, gazing down upon the world.
He had never met the Third Princess. But from her reputation alone, he could glimpse the truth—an all-around enhanced version of Governor Cornelia.
Except without a younger sister.
Suzaku Kururugi's wandering thoughts did not last long. Beep beep.
"Miss Cecile."
Answering the comms, he looked at the intelligent woman who appeared on the console screen.
"Good work, Suzaku-kun. I believe you'll soon earn both the military's and Her Highness' recognition. Europe is not Area 11's battlefield—never let down your guard."
"Understood."
His expression turning solemn, Suzaku said earnestly: "Thank you, Miss Cecile."
The Baltic campaign was likely the first large-scale battle he had participated in since joining the Britannian military.
In fact, the entire Eleven Expeditionary Corps could say the same.
In Japan—Area 11—Suzaku had faced sizable armed conflicts, suppression of rebels, and peacekeeping. But compared to the formal, large-scale operations on the Eastern European front—with forces numbering in the hundreds of thousands, with insane concentrations of firepower, with tens of thousands of advanced technologies and weapons being applied and innovated—
The United Republic of Europia was no mere remnant of a fallen island nation.
The two could not be compared.
Even the [Lancelot], without allied support and the broader framework of Britannia's military systems, could not repeat the heroic, lone feats of cutting through enemy lines as in Area 11.
Unless Dr. Lloyd upgraded the [Lancelot] again, enhancing its performance.
Or unless some breakthrough came in critical technology.
Vmmm—
Engines hummed above as a VTOL transport approached. Suzaku looked up, and the live feed sensors locked onto the Special Dispatch's transport.
At the edge of the open side hatch stood Earl Lloyd, carefree as ever, smiling and waving at him.
"You fought swiftly, Suzaku."
His trademark flippant tone carried as he shouted: "I just received orders. Part of the Eleven Expeditionary Corps is to move to G-1's outer perimeter for standby. Sergeant Suzaku, time to show your worth!"
Suzaku blinked, then nodded firmly.
Just as he started the Lancelot's unique Sakuradite core engine, preparing to dash ahead with its mobility, Cecile's slow, thoughtful voice reminded him:
"Suzaku-kun, intelligence mentions the [Alexander]—the model of the so-called 'Hannibal's Ghost.' Even if not the very WZERO Unit that crushed the Raphael Knights, you've seen the news: the E.U. continues conscripting Japanese emigrants in Europe."
"If you encounter your own people here in Europe—what will you do?"
Suzaku hesitated, his tone uncertain: "I will obey orders. And… try to persuade them."
"And if they won't listen, even act with more extreme hostility?"
Cecile pressed further: "If the generals and staff of G-1, or even Princess Vela herself, order you to execute them—what then?"
Gentle voice, piercing question.
Suzaku paused.
He knew well this was Cecile's kindness.
For he could not escape such questions. If he faltered in front of Her Highness, all he had built would collapse…
He moved his lips: "Of course… I would carry it out."
On the screen, Cecile's brows furrowed ever so slightly.
But only for an instant.
"You have my sympathy, Suzaku-kun."
She smiled softly again, though with a hint of quiet warning in her eyes. Beep beep. The call ended, the screen returning to normal.
"…"
Suzaku sat silently in the cockpit for a long time.
He stared at the screen, now gone completely dark.
At last—
Suzaku Kururugi let out a deep sigh.
That interruption had stilled his earlier urgency. Instead of rushing off alone to reach the G-1 Elizabeth first, he set out together with his comrades of the Eleven Expeditionary Corps.
Leaving the border town behind, the column passed through several encirclement pockets formed by friendly forces, driving southwest for some distance.
"Suzaku-san."
A standard [Sutherland] accelerated quietly to match pace with the [Lancelot].
"Uehara, Furukawa, and Kikuchi… they've all fallen."
The man's accent was strange.
"Those French bastards used our own people as human bombs. Worse than the Purists, if you ask me. But one thing's for sure—their gear is leagues beyond any resistance group back home."
"Ah… may they rest in peace."
Hearing this, Suzaku's eyes dimmed. He rubbed his forehead, for once the muscle-bound fool showing signs of fatigue.
Those dead had been from the first batch of qualified recruits in the Eleven Expeditionary Corps.
All former Honorary Britannians of the Area 11 Army.
Veterans of a sort—trained for years, with decent infantry skills.
Politically, most shared views close to Suzaku's. When the Third Princess's "Conscription Order for Countering the E.U. WZERO Unit" was issued in Area 11, many, moved by the promised benefits, had decided to risk it.
Upon arrival in Euro Britannia, a week and a half of adaptation training had indeed delivered as promised. Unlike the E.U.'s WZERO cannon fodder, they were not used as disposable suicide troops.
Some were even granted slots as Knightmare pilots.
Second-class citizens or not, being treated as people was progress.
Thus morale was high—bold, eager to fight. In less than three days, they had already suffered a quarter casualties. If Britannian instructors hadn't restrained them, they'd have launched full-on charges already.
As for the second, third, and fourth batches… Suzaku didn't know their losses.
"Sekiya-san. Please, live on."
After a long pause, Suzaku spoke.
"Ah, let's both endure. For Her Highness the Third Princess."
...
"Oh my, Suzaku-kun seems to have become the backbone of the Eleven Expeditionary Corps?"
Inside the Special Dispatch VTOL transport, Cecile, standing at the console, sounded surprised.
"Quite natural."
Arms folded, Lloyd replied: "The influence of being the son of a fallen Prime Minister."
"Two sides to every coin. Resistance factions may call him a traitor, but the compromisers who wish to become Honorary Britannians support him strongly. I suspect that's why the Third Princess took note of him."
"Eh?"
Cecile tilted her head adorably.
"If it helps rule, then… if Japan's so-called eternal imperial family still had an heir, wouldn't that work even better?"
"The Imperial House? Impossible."
Lloyd shook his head flatly, grinning with amusement.
"With Her Highness Vela's temperament, she would never allow a separatist dynasty like that under her rule."
Behind his rimless glasses, Lloyd narrowed his eyes.
The Britannian royals always fought one another for the throne—just like Charles now. And the Third Princess Vela had clearly inherited his thirst for power, eager and even passionate about struggle and conquest.
Not that it mattered to him.
Lloyd had no interest in such tedious politics.
The Britannian dynasty could fight forever for all he cared.
He only cared for technology, for research.
And rumor had it—Princess Vela's private research institute held no small number of treasures…
As these thoughts passed, the roar of engines grew once more, this time far fiercer. Lloyd raised his head toward the northeastern skies.
"So, they've come."
A drone swarm buzzed as formations of transport craft, gunships, and armed helicopters emerged from the clouds in dense clusters, sweeping southwest.
"That royal crest… Her Highness Vela's personal unit. My, how enormous!"
Drawn to the largest and most imposing machine among them, Cecile's pupils narrowed slightly.
At her side, even Lloyd's eyes widened behind his lenses.
"As expected of a princess said to have the temper of a dragon—she still prefers things massive."
...
G-1 Elizabeth.
Not long ago.
The Knightmare standby platform was crowded with researchers in white lab coats.
But in the maintenance chamber—meant to service an entire squadron of frames—there stood only a single steel giant.
Tap, tap.
Vela leisurely raised a cup of steaming black tea, sipping lightly.
With some pride, she asked: "Well?"
"Awe-inspiring."
From behind Vela stepped a cold, sharp woman.
The purple cloak with gold trim spoke her identity clearly: Ninth Knight of the Round—Nonette Enneagram.
She had been Vela's senior at the officer academy, and Cornelia's classmate. Her fierce style had given Cornelia no shortage of hardship.
Blonde-haired, gray-eyed, she appeared around twenty-five, clad in the black-and-white uniform of the Knights of the Round. Her graceful figure was sharply outlined, a holstered pistol at her hip. Her strong, beautiful face was full of keen interest.
"[Excalibur]."
Nonette murmured the codename Vela had given the frame, her eyes roaming the silver-gray mech with its cold metallic sheen.
Nearly 12 meters tall—two and a half [Sutherlands] in height—its shoulders were clad in overlapping armor like eaves, thick plating covering it head to toe. Its back was straight, lacking the hunched cockpit common to most Knightmares, while its legs, bearing its weight, carried a strange elegance.
Its proportions were strikingly close to human.
"That name… Your Highness Vela, you truly are ambitious."
"Perhaps."
Setting the gold-trimmed cup onto the tray held by her attendant, Vela smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her ear, one hand on her hip. With the other, she twirled the ID-key at her fingertip, then turned slightly and asked: "An E.U. armored brigade—lucky prey. Care to test it?"
"Test it, then."