Vrrrmmm—Vrrrmmm—
Engines roared at their limits, mud and grass flying beneath tracks and wheels.
KMFs rumbled over the shattered border marker: "Latvia–Lithuania."
Shards scattered as an E.U. Joint Army tank—its armor scarred with blackened dents and melted craters—screeched to a halt by the corner of a ruined wall.
Nearby lay the smoking wreck of a destroyed wheeled IFV.
Around them were a dozen mangled corpses of E.U. and Britannian soldiers alike.
Boom! A tandem HEAT round landed a moment too late—missing because of the tank's sudden stop. It blasted the wall instead, smoke surging outward.
The tank reacted instantly. One shot blew apart the window of the ruined building where the muzzle flash had come from, while its coaxial MG laid down suppressive fire. Mechanized infantry pressed forward in support.
As the tank engine roared again, preparing to advance, its turret-top radar suddenly froze. Clang! The commander, sensing something, lifted the hatch, brushing off the dust. Raising binoculars, he peered northeast.
"Enemy aircraft inbound!"
He shouted to warn his comrades while trying to wipe the filth from the periscope. That moment of delay cost him his life.
A sniper round from an anti-materiel rifle punched through his neck.
Flesh tore. His head, with flayed skin still attached, flew sideways, splattering against the tank's external laser sensor before bouncing off—leaving a glaring streak of red.
"Britannian scum!"
E.U. soldiers fought back, hosing the approximate direction with machine-gun fire.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—
A KMF appeared at the tank's flank. Its arms—actually gun mounts where Britannians would have fitted hands—spat fire. Streams of 30mm shells shredded the air.
The tank fired back.
Explosions tore through the second floor of a ruin a hundred meters away, blood mist spraying.
Then the tank was struck. A howling anti-armor missile plunged from above, detonating inside. The turret blew open like a lid as fire consumed it.
The E.U. KMF staggered from the blast. In that instant, a Britannian [Sutherland] burst out, smashing through a crumbling wall. As they crossed paths, its recoilless rifle slammed into the KMF's head. Metal shrieked as explosions ripped outward.
An assault rifle poured fire, shredding both the KMF and the E.U. infantry at its feet. Blood mist filled the air.
Screams and groans echoed.
"Charles!!"
The shout came from another KMF thirty or forty meters away. It swung its weapon—but its foe was no Area 11 garrison conscript. From the ruins, muzzle flashes erupted, cutting down E.U. infantry supporting the machine, forcing them back.
Two Britannian grenadiers leapt from cover.
One yanked the pin on a sling-type magnetic anti-armor charge, whirled it twice, and hurled it at the KMF's weaker knee joint. The charge wrapped around, clung, and detonated—blasting the joint apart, toppling the frame.
The other raised a revolver-type grenade launcher. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three HEAT grenades slammed into the cockpit's rear, ripping through the armor—and the pilot within.
"Glory to Britannia!"
The Britannian defenders launched a counterattack, forcing the E.U. to leave seven or eight bodies behind before pulling back to cover.
"Vive l'Europe libre!"
But new vehicles and KMFs pressed forward. The offensive renewed, and now Britannia was driven back—the line retreating under fire.
All of this unfolded within a single minute of the tank commander's death.
Like many battlefields across the Baltics, this had once been just an unremarkable border town.
There were woods and waters, few people, enough peace. But now—
The town, its surrounding fields, forests, even rivers and lakes were littered with destroyed E.U. vehicles, their wrecks burning. To the east, Britannian wreckage as well—some units still falling from the skies. Both sides were interlocked, scattered across the green landscape like black dots of smoke.
The dots kept multiplying, piling, spreading.
Locally, west attacked, east defended.
Deep behind the E.U. counterattack group, inside a massive land-based command mothership—
"General Foch, Estonia and Latvia's armies are finished! The Britannian vanguard pierced into Lithuania within three days. That says everything."
"According to retreating survivors, when the Northern Army Group launched its offensive, communications with division and regimental HQs were immediately disrupted. Army HQ, ammo depots, fuel stores, and field bases were all struck. It was a targeted decapitation and blitz!"
"General, we don't yet know the enemy's full strength. Since our counterattack has been spotted by Britannian reinforcements, we should cut losses and retreat. Rebuilding the Lithuanian defense line is the urgent priority. A frontal assault without surprise is suicide—"
The staff officers' arguments were cut short by a furious bellow.
"Idiocy!!"
A man in his prime slammed the table, rising sharply.
"Frontlines lost, morale collapsing, reserves still gathering, reorganization incomplete. Intelligence, morale, command, logistics—all need time. If we retreat now, broken units will drag us down, and Britannia's blitz and decapitation strikes will tear us apart!"
His gray eyes blazed with anger, tempered by grief. His neatly groomed curled mustache evoked a hardened general, proud and unyielding.
General Foch's lips curled: "Collapse here, and Lithuania will fall for certain!"
"Behind it lies East Prussia, Königsberg! Do you understand? That was once the capital of the Hohenzollern family! The very ancestral land Princess Vela and her ilk dream of reclaiming!"
"If we lose it, the blow to the Alliance's prestige will be immeasurable!"
"Lose the Baltics, then Königsberg, then Belarus, then eastern Poland, then Ukraine. What next? Will we be fighting a defensive war in Central Europe?"
Leaning over the tactical table, he glared with sharp, predatory eyes.
"The proud United Republic of Europia, descendants of the Gallic rooster that once drove Britannia like dogs across the Atlantic—what, will we give up a third of Eastern Europe without a single pitched battle?"
"General Pétain still holds Kiev in Ukraine! Are we saying we can't even muster a counterattack?!"
"Retreat, retreat, retreat—retreat again and again. If we lose Königsberg, do we even deserve these uniforms?!"
"..."
Faced with his scathing rebuke, the command room fell silent.
"Our target: the Britannian Northern Army Group's forward field HQ. Attack."
He broke the silence, his order blunt and resolute.
"This is blood-bought intel from my best recon company. We cannot waste their sacrifice. Destroying—or even severely mauling—the enemy there is our best chance to turn this collapse."
General Foch stared at the tactical display, his eyes like dark, still water.
Death itself was not terrifying. Dying without value was.
"Twenty minutes. Tell Colonel Granmeson—I'll give him one more armored company. Take it—"
Before Foch could finish speaking—
"Report! Enemy aerial strike group approaching rapidly."
"Our air force?"
One staff officer asked.
"Engaged by enemy fighter squadrons."
"What about the air-defense brigades? They've launched so many SAMs—why so little effect?"
"According to reports… some were intercepted, some did hit, but… too fast! Faster than fighters!"
"What?"
The comms officer's report drew startled looks.
"Pull up visuals," Foch ordered gravely.
"Yes, General!"
The sensors captured figures in the eastern skies. The leading unit, unmistakably humanoid, bore blue-violet wings.
"Impossible—a Knightmare? Britannia has already deployed flight systems?!"
The speaker, judging by his armband, was a logistics general.
"Magnify the one behind it," Foch said urgently, his tone utterly changed.
The comms officer complied, enlarging the image.
A chorus of gasps followed—from technical officers well aware of how difficult it was to perfect fluid, stable Knightmare drive OSes.
The frozen frame compared: the blue-white Knightmare in the lead diving first—and behind it—
A Knightmare with wings spread like a butterfly, silver-gray with ornate golden trim. Its paint alone was battlefield-wide provocation. More shocking—the sheer scale. Nearly three times larger than any standard frame in service worldwide.
What kind of technological leap was this?
Even as a prohibitively costly prototype—Britannia had built it!
Capture it, or destroy it.
For Foch, that was the first thought, born of a soldier's duty.
The second: what impact would its presence have on the battle?
As if to answer, lances of crimson particle energy dropped from the heavens.
Two searing beams gouged through the devastated plain.
Like molten cutters, they carved through the advancing E.U. armor group, leaving black, burning trails. Rrrrmmmbbblll—!!!
Dozens—hundreds of vehicles melted and detonated in chain explosions, the thunder merging into one vast roar.
Even on a battlefield deafened by constant fire, this blast was deafeningly distinct.
For an instant, the world froze. Silence descended.
Eyes turned toward the twin blackened scars on the earth.
Touch meant death.
Wreckage burst apart, soldiers' bodies hurled by shockwaves lay in pieces. Survivors groaned in agony, some fused into the scorched soil itself, sparks flickering. Ash choked the air.
The atmosphere turned burning hot, heavy with the stench of iron and charred flesh.
...
Meanwhile—
"The focused mode extends the hadron cannon's effective range, but its narrow blast radius is a flaw. Horizontal sweeps maximize its destructive output."
At several thousand meters altitude, Vela studied the holo-trajectory data, analyzing live combat results. Tilting the controls, she ceased fire, guiding [Excalibur] into descent.
"Enough."
Overall, she was satisfied.
Ample frame volume, the new sakuradite engine's surging output, improved conduits and energy lines—all together forged [Excalibur]'s devastating cannon performance.
Compared to her cheaper brother Schneizel's "Gawain Project," her machine had already surpassed it.
Beep-beep, beep-beep.
[Missile lock detected—]
Vela did not even glance at the incoming missiles.
Emerald light shimmered across [Excalibur]'s crystalline barrier. A moment later, the missiles struck—exploding into fireballs that dissipated into thin trails of smoke.
She smirked, eyes on a certain Ninth Knight plunging headlong into the enemy lines. "Nonette, I've already won."
"Hadron cannon, huh."
Inside the diving [Bedivere Club], the Ninth Knight pulled her gaze back, curling her lip.
"Unfair. Fell right into your trap. I should have set a condition. In raw kill count and wide-area damage, a heavy artillery platform has the edge over a close-combat decapitation unit…"
Boom! Air screamed as a blue-white unicorn-type Knightmare plunged downwards.
Only then did the E.U. troops recognize the vanguard.
"The Ninth Knight of the Round!"
The [Alexandre] squad of advanced mass-production mechs—moments ago close to breaking the Britannian line—barely had time to process the chain explosions and crimson beams that had gutted their rear. Their vision was fixed on the "boss enemy unit" now upon them. The squad leader's loudspeaker bellowed: "Caution!"
Veterans knew: identifying enemy units, especially Knights of the Round, was basic survival.
"Come—dance with me!"
Though bantering with Vela, Nonette's hands never slowed. Multitasking was second nature to an ace.
Repeating Vela's old catchphrase from academy duels, she launched with a knight's thrust. [Bedivere Club] leveled its massive anti-armor lance.
The dual-jet flight pack roared with a second-stage boost.
Crunch!
Metal screamed as a rooftop [Alexandre], hammering fire down with its heavy MG, was skewered before it could shift from insect form to humanoid. Its capsule cockpit burst apart in midair.
Thus began the Ninth Knight's charge.
"Even a Knight of the Round doesn't scare us!"
The remaining [Alexandre]s shifted into humanoid mode, brandishing spiked anti-armor maces.
"Crush [Bedivere]! Add more glory to WZERO! If Elevens can defeat the Raphael Knights, we Frenchmen won't falter!"
"Heh."
Nonette flicked aside the wreck on her lance, smashing it into a support unit and flattening another mech in her path. Her grin widened. "So you're WZERO? Veterans, or fresh recruits? Let's see your worth!"
Charge!
Clang, clang, clang—
Vela watched it all, unsurprised at the WZERO expansion.
Enemy forces were stronger than intel suggested.
A desperate, all-or-nothing assault.
If not for her outer perimeter units rushing in to reinforce, the enemy might have broken through.
The Riga encirclement was still unstable, with many E.U. forces trapped but fighting. This fresh wave was trouble wherever it struck.
These white-painted, dual-form mechs were the E.U.'s new mass-production model.
At first issued only to Japanese suicide squads, now even the French deployed them. Likely their data was complete—or perhaps, in response to her conscription of Elevens, the E.U. pushed production for propaganda and necessity.
But—
"Too late."
[Excalibur] descended slowly in gleaming silver, sunlight flashing off its armor as it hovered before the E.U. counterattack force.
Behind it, Britannian units regrouping after their encirclement clash.
And reinforcements, arriving in waves.
Without hesitation, Vela pressed the stud on her throttle.
The shoulder armor split open, revealing the black muzzles of hadron cannons. Energy surged. Crimson beams scythed across the battlefield, harvesting life like the Reaper's blade. Once again, lethal red light engulfed scores of vehicles.
Entire companies of E.U. troops vanished into the torrent.
This time, the cannons did not merely slice briefly through ground ranks, but maintained a sweeping, plowing barrage. Under Vela's control, the beams shifted angles, carving heaven and earth apart. A searing band of explosions warped the air, shredding helicopters and airships that could not evade, sending them burning down as fire meteors.
Vela opened the area comms to all channels.
"This is Vela vi Britannia. Follow the Ninth Knight. Attack. Crush them."
Descending like an angel of judgment, raining death, saving a faltering line—her blunt order brooked no argument.
"Yes, Your Highness!" ×N.
The Britannian troops, rallying, shouted as one and surged forward.
With the Ninth Knight rampaging at the spearhead, the counterattack began.
...
On the E.U. command ship bridge, General Foch stood before the tactical table, fists behind his back. For the first time, tension shadowed his severe face.
His staff looked pale.
"General, it's the Third Princess. She's on the front herself."
Which meant—her Royal Guard was close.
The new [Alexandre]s that had beaten the Raphael Knights still faltered against a Knight of the Round. Outnumbered or not, faced with custom machines, MVS swords slicing like butter, energy shields holding firm, no E.U. machine—new or old—lasted more than a few exchanges.
Against the silver-gray giant, it was worse.
Not only a gulf in machines, but in pilots.
Must they resort to suicide charges by Elevens?
Bang!
Foch slammed a fist onto the table, growling: "Destroy it!"
"At all costs!!"
Teeth clenched, jaw trembling.
"Even if you can't destroy it, probe its limits, its weaknesses! Signal the follow-up forces—halt advance. Withdraw immediately."
The words left him sagging, hands braced on the console, his body shaking.
He had admitted it—the counteroffensive had failed.
"You should go too," he said tiredly.
"And you, General?"
"Me? Consider it my last gift to the Alliance. France's creed is ideals in the heart, sword in the hand—victory through desperate assault. But desperate does not mean futile. Let this old man buy the young their chance to live."
...
Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
Fireballs fell as Vela wielded [Excalibur] like a floating gun platform, firing beam after beam, tearing E.U. formations apart, isolating units for Britannian forces to smash.
And then—from somewhere on the field—song.
At first, a rough, lone voice.
Then more, gathering, uneven but strong:
"Arise, children of Europe! The day of glory has arrived!"
"See the tyrant's bloody banner raised against us! Raise your arms, citizens!"
"Let impure blood water our fields!"
...
"The Gauls are going all out," Vela said.
"Clearly," Nonette replied.
"Your Highness, your orders?" asked the commander of her Royal Guard knights.
On Vela's radiant, stern face bloomed a cruel smile. "Such an invitation—I cannot refuse."
She lowered her headset. Beep-beep. Her voice seized command of the local net.
"Raise the banner, swear the oath!"
The Princess led the chorus. Britannian voices rose, louder, prouder.
"One by one, Britannians march forward!"
"No power on earth can take our victory! Long live Britannia! Britannia forever!"
...
War was this.
Calculation and hesitation—
And also, tragic song.
You have the Marseillaise. I have the Rule Britannia. I have more voices, more loudspeakers, stronger resonance. How can you compare?
You march to die in passion? I too will march in passion—to crush you openly, utterly.
Since this battle has begun, let it proclaim to France: Remember Napoleon's wars? You think you can win again? No. Europe—your sovereign—has returned!
Vela knew well: much of the E.U. Lithuanian field army was here. Destroy them, and one ancestral prize—Königsberg—lay open before her.
An unexpected gift.
Heaven spurns those who fail to seize it.
As the war songs ceased, Vela's indigo eyes, cruel and gleaming, opened.
"Kill them all."