The air in the training facility, a sprawling, isolated complex carved into the remote northern cliffs, was thick with the scent of sweat, pine needles, and desperation. The one hundred hand-picked soldiers were no longer soldiers; they were the Scorpion Paratroopers—a name whispered by the few who knew of them, denoting their lethal precision and their ability to strike from an unexpected height. Their training was brutal, a relentless, month-long grind designed not merely to hone skills, but to fundamentally reforge their minds and bodies. This wasn't military conditioning; it was a distillation of fighting instinct, establishing the foundation for the Special Operations program Maximilian envisioned.
The days began before dawn with forced marches carrying packs heavier than regulations allowed, moving across treacherous, broken terrain that simulated the rocky approach to Scofield's castle. The instructors, veterans personally selected by Maximilian for their cruelty and ingenuity, didn't focus on endurance—they focused on function under duress. A Scorpion had to be able to execute a flawless plan after forty-eight hours of forced wakefulness and physical agony.
One morning, the Paratroopers were gathered in a dimly lit hangar, the airship's massive, silent shadow looming overhead. General Kyle, though still opposed to Maximilian's personal involvement, was dedicated to ensuring the men were prepared. He watched from the shadows as Captain Sorin, the officer tasked with the ground-level instruction, addressed the exhausted men.
"You have mastered the parachute jump; that is the price of entry," Sorin's voice was a low snarl, amplified by the hanger's echo. "Now you must master the landing. Scofield's castle has a central courtyard, but it's small, riddled with obstacles, and surrounded by battlements. You won't land in neat ranks. You will land hard, likely injured, and already under fire. That is the moment the mission begins."
The training exercise that followed was simple but terrifying: a full-gear drop from a mock-up of the airship's deployment hatch onto a courtyard simulator riddled with hidden explosives designed to detonate on impact, creating blinding smoke and concussive sound. The men had to land, immediately assess their 'injuries' (marked by instructors), establish a defensive perimeter with their new, rapid-fire PPSH-41 and PPS-43 variants, and secure a flag that represented the castle's command spire—all in under forty-five seconds. Failure meant they repeated the drill immediately, sometimes ten times in a row, until they dropped from exhaustion.
The close-quarters combat training, designed specifically around the tight interiors of the castle, was even more unforgiving. They were drilled mercilessly on the use of their compact, automatic weapons. Maximilian's theory about the drawbacks of the single-shot rifles proved terrifyingly accurate in the simulation rooms; any man carrying the standard weapon quickly fell to the concentrated, unrelenting fire of the Scorpion Paratroopers equipped with the reinvented submachine guns.
"Why the drum magazines, My Lord?" Colonel Voss, the head armorer, had once asked Maximilian, holding one of the distinctive cylindrical magazines designed for the PPSH-41 variant. "The stick mags are lighter."
"Because in a breach, Colonel, you do not reload," Maximilian had responded, his eyes focused entirely on the weapon. "You either kill every man in the room in the first five seconds, or you die. The drum is the weight of sustained life. The Scorpions need to lay down an uninterrupted curtain of fire as they enter a hostile space. Speed is life; volume of fire is speed."
The final week focused intensely on teamwork and the command structure that would function without the usual chain-of-command bureaucracy. The paratroopers' plan to use the airship to secure the castle till reinforcements arrive was a thirty-six-hour operation, and every man had to know not just his job, but the jobs of the three men next to him.
During a late-night review of the aerial reconnaissance maps, General Kyle approached Maximilian, his face etched with renewed anxiety. "My Lord, the weather models for the target window are unpredictable. A heavy crosswind could scatter the jump zone, leaving small units exposed. We need to delay."
Maximilian looked up from the map, his gaze steady. "Delay means they know we are coming, General. Our economic window is closing faster than the weather window. We launch as planned." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "I know your concern, General. It is appreciated. But caution is a luxury we no longer possess."
Kyle hesitated, then finally voiced the central terror of the entire senior staff. "My Lord, your insistence on joining them... it demoralizes your staff more than it motivates them. You will be in the thickest fighting, a commander with a submachine gun. If a single round finds you—"
"Then a new Lord takes the throne, General, and continues the war," Maximilian finished for him, his voice devoid of emotion. "That is the cost of sovereignty when survival is at stake. The men need to see me land. They need to know that I believe in this mission enough to pay the ultimate price. A throne is a high desk until you prove it is a fighting position."
Later that evening, Minister Alva, along with a cadre of civilian ministers, risked the fury of their Lord by presenting a signed petition. They stood rigidly before him, a wall of suits and silks against his simple military gear.
"My Lord, we speak for the council of ministers and the trade houses," Minister Alva declared, his voice trembling but clear. "Our fear for your life is not merely emotional. We have prepared an emergency succession order, but we beg you—allow General Kyle to lead the assault force. Allow yourself to remain safely aboard the airship, in command and ready to treat with Scofield when the castle falls. If you are killed, the inevitable power struggle will destroy Valum from within."
"You ask me to be a spectator at my own future," Maximilian stated, a slow, dangerous rhythm in his voice. "I value your loyalty, gentlemen, but you misunderstand the nature of this fight. If I am not physically on the ground when that flag is planted, the Scorpion Paratroopers will see me as a hypocrite, and the victory will be hollow. You need a leader who takes risks, not a calculator who manages them. Your concern is noted, your petition is filed, and your request is denied."
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, the finality of his decision ringing in the silence they left behind. The next dawn, the Scorpion Paratroopers performed their final, flawless drill. They emerged from the hangar not as men, but as weapons—lean, hardened, and utterly devoted to the suicide mission. Maximilian watched them, feeling the heavy, cold weight of the PPS-43 slung across his own chest. He knew the cost of this gamble was everything, but he would not ask his men to pay a price he wasn't willing to meet. The time for discussion was over. The time to attack was now.