He is alive—bound, guarded, but standing. Relief flickers, sharp and brief.
Then Aldo's vision pulls wider.
From far sight, a regiment emerges like an iron tide. Armors glint dully. Guns line up with mechanical precision. Cannons grind into position, wheels cutting grooves through snow. Horses stamp and snort, cavalry banners snapping in the wind.
Especially the banners.
The flag of Heilop rises clearly.
A vertical tricolor of dark green, white, and golden yellow. A black band along the lower part of the yellow stripe. Centered on the white field, an oval coat of arms bordered in gold—diagonal blue and red stripes, a golden bear in heraldic pose, a stylized golden star or sunburst. At the bottom, the inscription: "Ōrdō."
Order.
Authority.
Inevitability.
The team rushes down the mountain as the sent regiment surges forward, colliding with the PPF's perimeter like a closing jaw.
Irina, leader of the PPF, reacts fast.
From Aldo's vantage, he sees her movements—sharp gestures, lines forming. The PPF scrambles into a defensive line, rifles braced, bodies pressed into trees and stone. Fire exchanges erupt, sharp cracks tearing through the cold air.
The regiment fires back.
Cannons thunder, shockwaves rolling through forest and bone. Trees splinter. Snow explodes upward. But the terrain eats the damage—forest absorbs force, angles deflect iron.
Cavalry attempts to charge but stalls, horses rearing against roots and ravines, momentum dying in tangled ground.
It is chaos—but contained chaos.
Aldo watches, calculating.
[ They're locked. Focused forward. Blind behind. ]
He signals.
The team slows. Movements become deliberate, almost ritualistic. They descend quietly, step by step, breath controlled, metal muffled with cloth. Then they break—five smaller teams peeling away, each slipping into position like shadows finding their places.
No one speaks.
They kneel. They aim. They wait.
Aldo scans the field one last time—Irina's line holding, the regiment pressing, Tyrone still alive, the banners unwavering.
[ Now. ]
They wait.
Waiting stretches.
Seconds become heavy. Muscles ache. Fingers numb around triggers. Every instinct screams to move, to act—but discipline holds.
Snow falls.
The world narrows to breath and heartbeat.
They wait… then, waiting for ripe time…
Fire detonates everywhere at once.
Not in sequence. Not in waves. It erupts simultaneously—in the walls, at the edges of the ravine, inside the forest—like the land itself has decided to tear itself open. The sound is not one sound but many layered on top of each other: the dry, snapping crack of muskets, the deeper concussive thunder of cannons, the frantic echo of shots swallowed by trees, stone, and snow. Each report overlaps, cancels, amplifies the next until the air itself feels compressed, beaten flat by noise.
Both the 204th and 205th Companies move with Regiment 113th as if pulled forward by the same invisible hand.
There is no clean signal to advance anymore. No moment of clarity. Feet move because stopping feels more dangerous than moving. Orders are shouted, repeated, half-heard, ignored, obeyed too late. Men stumble through smoke and powder haze, boots slipping on snow churned into muddy slush by hooves and bodies.
The PPF Russian revolutionaries are surrounded.
They know it.
And they resist anyway.
They wedge themselves into terrain like animals cornered by fire—fighting not for victory but for space, for breath, for one more minute of existence. From behind ravine walls, they fire upward and downward at impossible angles. In the forest, they melt between trunks, firing from behind bark and roots, retreating ten steps only to reappear twenty meters away.
A battleground emerges.
Not a line. Not a front. A living thing—expanding, contracting, collapsing in on itself. A place where no one fully understands where they are anymore, only where they are not.
Snow falls lightly at first, almost mockingly, then thickens, catching ash and smoke and turning gray before it touches the ground.
The regiment executes a tactic so reckless it borders on madness.
Artillerymen receive the order and hesitate for half a second—just long enough to understand what they are being told to do. Then they comply. Cannons tilt. Fuses are lit.
The artillery begins firing into the very zones their cavalry is charging through.
The first blast slams into the ground ahead of galloping horses. The shockwave punches through muscle and bone alike. PPF fighters are thrown off balance, ears ringing, formation snapping apart under sheer audacity. Horses scream, rear, and surge forward through smoke and flying debris, driven by riders who have no room left for doubt.
Infantry follows.
Boots pound frozen earth already torn open by explosions. Men run hunched, rifles clutched tight, faces set in expressions that are no longer fear or courage—just necessity.
And the regiment pays for it.
Frontline soldiers fall—not all to enemy fire. Some are struck by fragments meant for someone else. Some are trampled when horses lose footing. Some vanish under smoke and never rise again. Medics scream for space that doesn't exist, hands already red, fingers numb as they drag bodies back inch by inch.
Blood stains snow into something darker, something that refuses to fade.
But the push does not stop.
The advance does not hesitate.
At the quarry edge, the 204th and 205th Companies break away from the regiment's main thrust, veering toward the underground tunnel network carved beneath Manatite-rich ground. The blue glow of exposed ore flickers faintly through smoke and falling snow, giving the land an unnatural, almost haunted cast.
The entrance explodes into chaos the moment they reach it.
Traps fire.
Arrows snap out of hidden slits with a hiss and thunk into flesh and wood. Snakes spill from shattered baskets, scales flashing briefly before disappearing into boots and shadows. Poisonous insects burst into the air in dark, buzzing clouds.
Men fall at the doorway—some screaming, some silent—before anyone even fires a shot.
Then the tunnel mouths ignite with muzzle flashes.
Gunfire ricochets through stone corridors, deafening in enclosed space. Sound rebounds, multiplies, turns indistinct. Screams echo off walls and come back warped, almost inhuman. Someone yells to fall back. Someone else yells to push forward.
Both commands are obeyed at once.
Torches flare to life.
Firelight reveals tight passageways branching at irregular angles, ceilings dripping ice-cold water, walls slick with frost and mineral dust. Shadows leap and writhe like living things, distorting every movement.
A voice mutters, half-disbelieving, "This is like Cu Chi…"
Aldo brushes it aside immediately, voice sharp, cutting through the chaos. "Too big. These tunnels are tight for the PPF. We're shorter. Smaller. We move easier."
No one argues.
They move.
They move because standing still here feels like choosing death.
Above ground, chaos fractures into something worse.
Tyrone feels it before he sees it—the moment when order gives way to opportunity. The rope biting into his wrists has already frayed from hours of subtle strain. He twists, pulls, teeth gnawing at damp fibers despite numb lips and shaking hands.
A cannon blast shakes the ground.
The guards' heads turn for half a second.
That is enough.
The rope snaps.
Tyrone runs.
Not toward safety. Not toward hiding. He runs back toward the sound of the 204th and 205th—toward the fight. Snow sprays under his boots as bullets tear past him close enough to heat the air. Someone shouts his name. Someone fires. He does not look back.
He grabs a fallen rifle, hands fumbling once before instinct takes over. He chambers a round without checking alignment, breath ragged, vision tunneling.
Then he joins the fight as if he never left.
Positions above ground collapse into one another.
The 204th. The 205th. The PPF.
Lines fuse, overlap, dissolve. Men fire at movement, only realizing too late it's the wrong uniform. Apologies are shouted mid-reload, meaningless. Commands lose authority the moment they leave someone's mouth.
Instinct rules now.
A snow breakdown roars like an avalanche.
The ground gives way.
Men slide, tumble, collide—some screaming, some too shocked to make a sound—as they plunge into the ravine's lower reaches. Rifles clatter away. Packs tear loose. Another collapse follows moments later, then another, burying shouts under thunder and snow.
For a moment, it feels like everything will fall.
Then—somehow—both sides reorganize.
Fire intensifies.
The regiment's colonel raises his voice, raw and relentless, shouting orders through runners and gestures. Artillery shifts position, barrels angling toward the ravine itself. Cannons hammer its edges, denying escape routes, turning stone into lethal debris.
Infantry advance deeper into forest cover, rifles up, moving tree to tree. Cavalry splits—some charge again where terrain allows, others peel away to haul injured slave-soldiers and soldiers toward improvised field hospitals forming in clearings and barns.
Stretchers move constantly now.
So do prisoners.
Platoons of PPF fighters are surrounded, pinned, forced to drop weapons. Some fight to the last round, eyes empty. Some surrender shaking, hands raised high. Others break and run, fleeing not with ideology but with raw terror clawing at their heels.
The advance is undeniable.
Gunfire crackles in violent bursts, then fades, then bursts again—like sparks dying one by one. Eventually, the forest grows quieter.
Not peaceful.
Empty.
The revolutionaries scatter, vanishing between trees, leaving behind equipment, wounded, and silence.
Meanwhile, underground, Aldo and the 204th Company are trapped in a different kind of war.
The tunnels are not sophisticated like Cu Chi—but they do not need to be. They are narrow, crooked, barely reinforced. The air grows stale quickly. Smoke clings to lungs. Breathing becomes conscious effort.
Darkness presses close.
Torchlight is everything.
Teams spread out with brutal efficiency. They adapt fast.
Torches are thrown around corners before bodies follow. Flares arc forward, hissing as they bounce, revealing hidden shafts and unstable ceilings. Rifles fire into suspicious openings without hesitation. Wooden planks are ripped from supports and raised as shields, blocking arrows and falling snakes.
Insects swarm. Some are dodged. Some crushed. Some burned until the smell turns sharp and unbearable.
Someone swears in a language no one recognizes.
Someone laughs hysterically, then stops when Aldo's fist snaps up.
They keep moving.
Above ground, the 205th Company—with Tyrone among them—slams into the PPF headmaster bunker.
It is a nightmare.
The bunker is reinforced stone and timber, angles designed to deflect shots, kill zones layered on kill zones. The defenders know every inch. They fire from murder holes, toss crude explosives down choke points, retreat through interior passages invisible from outside.
Men fall back bleeding.
Men push forward anyway.
Irina is there.
Her voice carries—clear, commanding—cutting through chaos like a blade. She drags wounded fighters out of fire lanes, shouts repositioning orders without hesitation. Her movements are precise, efficient, almost calm.
She fights like someone who knows this is the end and refuses to bow to it.
The regiment's artillery cannot reach her.
Shells slam into reinforced stone and glance off uselessly. The bunker holds.
Inside the tunnels, Aldo slows.
He raises a fist.
Everyone freezes.
He stops making sound.
He listens.
Outside, the rhythm of battle changes. Fire exchanges fade—not gone, but thinning. Yet distant shots continue—steady, methodical.
[That means…]
His eyes narrow.
[Either they're pulling back… or they're out of ammunition.]
Hours pass underground without anyone realizing it.
Time loses shape. Sweat chills under coats. Torches burn low, are replaced, burn again. Knees ache. Fingers cramp around rifle stocks.
Finally, the 204th emerges.
They carry more than weapons.
Documents—maps, coded notes, manifests stuffed into satchels. Guns. Melee weapons. Equipment abandoned in haste.
Personal items.
A damaged camera with cracked glass. Smartphones long dead, screens black. Two violins wrapped carefully in cloth, carried as if fragile beyond measure. A hand-drawn portrait of a girl, lines soft, eyes careful.
Someone pauses too long looking at it.
Aldo closes the folder gently and moves on.
Diaries. Letters. Family photos from Earth—creases worn from being unfolded too many times.
Memories.
Above ground, snow continues to fall.
But at the headmaster bunker, the fight turns worse.
The 205th bleeds.
Irina holds.
The bunker refuses to break.
Artillery cannot crack it. Infantry cannot flank it without unacceptable losses. Every minute costs more men.
Aldo steps back into open air, breath steaming, eyes scanning smoke, fire, and movement.
He understands.
[This doesn't end unless someone makes it end.]
He looks toward the bunker.
Maybe someone needs to do something.
Something decisive.