The vast, cavernous belly of The Deliverance hummed with the steady vibration of its mana-boosted, ethanol-hydrogen engines. Below the deck, the men of the Tier 1 Scorpia Vanguards stood in tight formation, their faces etched with discipline under the harsh, utilitarian glow of the airship's electric lights. Maximilian watched them, a profound sense of pride mingling with the cold necessity of the mission. In just one year, he had taken farmers and artisans and forged them into the most potent fighting force this world had ever known. A second airship, The Swift, was already fully operational, waiting its turn at Valum's hangar, a symbol of their accelerating industrial supremacy.
It was barely three in the morning. At their top speed, the airship would reach Baron Scofield's castle two hours before the sun even considered rising over the Duchy. The flight was eerily quiet, the only sounds the soft clack of metal gear and the rhythmic rush of the wind against the canvas skin of the rigid hull. A deep sense of anticipation, bordering on nervousness, settled over the men. They had just defeated a five-thousand-man force, but that had been a defensive masterpiece behind the safety of primitive defenses. Now, they were the aggressors, attacking a fortified noble house, plunging into the darkness on a mission of conquest. But their training, the intense crucible designed by Max, held them steady; fear would not be permitted to affect the execution.
Maximilian, clutching his PPS-43, was less outwardly worried. His objective was surgical: seize the castle, the seat of command, not the entire mining territory. DEA reports indicated approximately five hundred soldiers garrisoned within the castle walls, with the rest—the bulk of Scofield's crippled military—scattered across the mines and villages. The ratio was manageable, provided the shock and speed of the Tier 1 doctrine held true.
It seemed like a mere flash of time before the airship's internal lights flickered, signaling their approach. The huge, silent vessel hovered close to the northern wall of Scofield's fortress, dropping low enough that the Vanguards could quickly rappel down ropes. Max led the insertion. Landing with the practiced grace of a cat, he immediately secured the landing zone as the others dropped around him, their movements fluid and coordinated. They quickly secured their ropes and ammo packs, dispersing into the shadows along the ramparts.
The hour was still early, the cold air biting at the flesh, and the castle guards were almost half-asleep, relying on routine and the centuries of tradition that said a fortified castle was impenetrable. The first stages of the infiltration were a textbook execution of stealth: four sentries were neutralized along the outer walls without a sound.
The point team, led by Lieutenant Voss, moved toward the inner bailey, where the main guard barracks were located. Rounding a shadowed corner of the keep, they came face-to-face with a huge, heavily armored knight—a personal retainer of the Baron. The knight was momentarily stunned, his mind struggling to process the presence of these silent, strangely-outfitted men. There was a brief, tense pause that stretched into an eternity. Before the knight could raise his massive, two-handed sword or utter a challenging cry, Voss's weapon barked once—a deafening, heavy thud—as a twelve-gauge slug from his pump action shotgun introduced itself to the knight's helmeted skull.
The noise, a sharp and violent punctuation in the midnight stillness, woke the sleepy garrison with a terrifying jolt. Guards poured out of the barracks, grabbing spears, swords, and primitive crossbows. They knew they were under attack and rushed out to defend the keep, charging toward the source of the unexpected commotion in a ragged, disorganized wave.
The Tier 1 Vanguards were waiting.
The first wave of twenty guards, relying on their courage and the thickness of their leather tunics, advanced into the dark bailey. Then, the Scorpia Vanguards, positioned at key chokepoints and corners, leveled their weapons.
The sound was not that of a battle; it was the sound of a slaughter. The submachine guns, the PPSh-41s and PPS-43s, opened up in a simultaneous, synchronized mechanical scream. The combined rate of fire—a terrifying cascade of lead at nearly 900 rounds per minute per weapon—was utterly unprecedented. It wasn't warfare; it was annihilation. The wave of guards dissolved, vaporized by the sheer, overwhelming firepower. Men were thrown back by the kinetic force, their antiquated shields exploding into splinters, their courage replaced by instant, screaming terror. The stone walls echoed with a sound that signaled the end of the feudal age.
The remaining guards of the initial defense, witnessing the immediate and brutal destruction of their comrades by this invisible, unstoppable force of fire, immediately discarded their weapons, dropped their shields, and knelt down in utter surrender.
"Well, that was fast," a soldier commented, his voice flat with a mix of awe and adrenaline as the metallic echo faded.
The castle doors were thrown open, secured by a Vanguard squad. Maximilian found himself walking into the great hall of Scofield, his boots clicking loudly on the polished stone floor. Baron Scofield sat on his chair of power, his wife standing rigidly beside him. But the Baron Max saw was not the arrogant noble who had publicly challenged him in Caligula's court a year ago; this was a broken, defeated man who knew his world had ended the moment the airship appeared.
"I am ready to die, Lord Scorpia," Baron Scofield pleaded, his voice shaking, devoid of its former haughtiness. "But please, spare my wife. She is a pure soul."
"No one is killing you today, Lord Scofield," Max replied, his voice calm, bringing a piece of prepared paperwork from an oilskin pouch in his pocket. The air was thick with the faint smell of gunpowder and the clean, cold scent of mana-oil. "You see, my goal was never vengeance. It was resource security. You are the victim of Imperial overreach, not my malice."
Max slid the paper across the table. "You will sign this paper, handing over all your mines and associated assets—surface rights, subterranean claims, and all transportation equipment—to the Sovereign State of Valum. You will then, and only then, be granted free passage out of this area, along with your family and any personal effects you can carry."
Baron Scofield wanted to shout back at Max, calling him a thief and a common brigand, but the memory of the mechanical scream of the submachine guns just minutes earlier stifled the protest in his throat. He saw the grim, armed young men who stood behind Max, carrying weapons that defied all reason. Ultimately, he snatched the quill and, with a trembling hand, signed the paperwork, legally surrendering the iron that Valum desperately needed.
"Good. My men will provide you with horses and a few supplies for your immediate journey," Max said, collecting the signed document—the legal basis for Valum's annexation. His voice then suddenly turned Grimm, cutting through the vast hall like a shard of ice. "If by any chance you think of returning, or communicating with Duke Alexander or the Imperial authorities with ill intent, I promise you, Baron: you will be dead before you even lift a finger. Consider this a permanent, and very personal, retirement."
When the citizens of Scofield woke up that cold morning, they noticed immediately that something had profoundly changed: the familiar banner of Baron Scofield had been replaced with the striking, black-and-gold Scorpia banners flying defiantly from the highest tower. Before they could even fully process the quiet military coup, huge shadows were cast upon them. The Deliverance and the newly arrived second airship, The Swift, flew low over the town, their massive shapes blotting out the morning light as they entered the area.
The airships finally landed in a field not too far from the castle. A mixture of two hundred Paratroopers and ISB (Internal Security Bureau) officers—the reinforcements and support staff—deplaned, along with supplies, radio equipment, and steam-powered earth-moving gear.
Lieutenant Voss, his hands still carrying the faint metallic scent of gunpowder, met them at the field. The men immediately stood at attention, a full battalion ready for deployment.
"Lord Scorpia has declared martial law in these lands," Voss began, his voice ringing with the newly acquired authority of a conqueror. "That means no one moves in or out of this region without direct military authorization. I want immediate patrols established on all roads leading in and out of the mines and the town. I also want regular patrols on the walls and in the streets, and I also want a strict curfew by sundown. This is a territory under military control. Is that clear?"
"SIR YES SIR!" The two hundred men shouted in unified acknowledgment and immediately broke formation to spread out and complete their tasks, securing the mines and establishing communication posts.
Most of them gazed in naked envy at the paratrooper lieutenant and the other Vanguards, still carrying their strange, high-capacity submachine guns. They were not just soldiers; they were the veterans of the first, decisive strike—the men who had witnessed the birth of a new military age. The metal that Valum needed was now secure, conquered not by armies, but by shock and speed. The political consequences for the rest of the Duchy would be cataclysmic.