"This is the current status of the operational theater."
"Hmph. A disaster, indeed. It is worse than I anticipated."
"Yes. We have been defeated."
The International Brigades, deployed in haste, possessed an abysmal level of combat efficiency, save for a few exceptional units.
The vast majority of the ranks were composed of university students with zero combat experience, fueled only by hot-blooded fervor, and elderly men who had re-enlisted to recapture the vanished heat of their youth.
They were the 'intelligentsia'—writers, artists, accountants, lawyers, civil servants, teachers, and doctors.
Consequently, the majority of their clashes with the Military Council ended in the ignominious rout of the International Brigades.
"If there is any mercy, it is that despite the defeat, casualties have been relatively light."
It was true.
The majority would succumb to panic the moment combat commenced, initiating a retreat either by the orders of the field commanders or the resolution of the Soldiers' Soviet. Despite nearly eight thousand troops participating in the offensive, the death toll stood at a mere twenty-three.
The severely wounded were evacuated promptly, ensuring their survival. The lightly wounded were treated with such clinical efficiency by the military doctors—of whom there were more than actual combat medics—that almost all were fit for immediate return to the front, barring the truly unfortunate.
However, a singular problem remained.
"And what was the objective of our offensive?"
"To secure a corridor to Route 1, which is under Babel's jurisdiction, correct?"
"And you say we lost?"
"Yes. Therefore, we cannot reach Babel, Comrade."
The Commander buried his face in his hands.
He found himself wondering what the Central Committee—or perhaps the Executive Committee—would have to say about this.
The expected disciplinary measures ranged from dismissal at minimum to a full suspension of party membership at worst.
Given the low casualty count, he suspected it wouldn't escalate to the suspension of membership, but the disgrace was monumental nonetheless.
Steeling his resolve, the Commander turned to his adjutant.
"The units still in the field... can we not try to contact them one more time? We need to know their status."
"Hmph... I shall attempt to establish a connection. Though I suggest you do not hold your breath...."
The radio crackled into life.
Static hissed, a rhythmic tapping of signals echoing through the silence of the command post.
Two minutes of agonizing silence passed until a signalman suddenly shouted.
"Comrade! Come quickly! They've won!"
Abandoning all pretense of professional dignity, the Commander dashed toward the radio and seized the receiver.
A voice filtered through the distorted frequency.
— "Acknowledge. This is the Red Bear Regiment. I repeat, this is the Red Bear Regiment. We have secured Sector Gamma-2. Damage is minimal. Requesting orders, over."
It was the International Brigades' first tidings of victory.
********************
"Bah, compared to the civil war, this is child's play!"
Sergeant Ivan ignored the rain of arrows, his body half-pressed against the barricade as he unleashed a frantic volley with his crossbow.
While half his bolts landed wide of the mark, the other half seemed to find purchase in the meat of the enemy.
"You said it, Sergeant! Compared to the Sarkaz mercenaries who chased us during the Long March, these fools are nothing!"
"Feels just like the old days when we were cracking heads against the Armed Police."
The majority of the Red Bear Regiment were battle-hardened veterans.
Though their uniforms, weaponry, and even the brassards upon their sleeves were inconsistent, they struck at the enemy with an array of captured tools and revolutionary fervor.
"Gah—?!"
"That's another one down! I'm going to take his head and keep it as a trophy in my room—"
"Watch yourself, old man! We did that during the civil war, but try it now and I'll ship you back to your hometown myself."
A few lunatics tried to revert to the brutal habits of the civil war era, but their impulses were swiftly suppressed by the political commissars.
And among them, the one who shone brightest was undoubtedly 'Sergey.'
"Aaargh!"
An enemy soldier's head collapsed under the strike of Sergey's halberd, his skull buckling inside his helmet. The soldier slumped, lifeless.
Blood sprayed.
In that instant, the Military Council's archers shifted their aim in unison.
"It's him! Aim for that monster!"
Arrows descended like a deluge.
Thick, wicked arrowheads launched from Kazdelian composite bows cut through the air toward Sergey.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Arrows slammed into his cuirass.
This armor was not a standard issue from the Red Bear Regiment.
It was a reinforced, double-iron breastplate he had looted after beheading an enemy general during his days in the Ursus Revolutionary Army. It was old, but it was remarkably thick.
Sergey did not stop.
"Sergey! Get to cover!"
Someone screamed, but he was deaf to the warning.
Originium Arts streaked across the sky.
A flash of cerulean light struck his left shoulder.
Thermal energy ignited. The surface of his armor glowed a dull, hellish red.
Pain flared through his nerves.
Yet, he did not halt.
Two more steps.
Three more steps.
An arrow grazed his neck, bypassing the armor's protection.
Blood began to flow.
He grinned.
"Is that all you've got?"
Then, he charged.
The enemy commander was shouting orders from the rear.
"Encircle him! Take him down first—!"
Before the command could be completed, Sergey vaulted over the cover.
His halberd swung in a massive arc.
The sound of steel clashing against steel was deafening.
The commander's shield was cleaved in two.
"Wha—How can this be—?!"
The enemy general, a veteran Sarkaz warrior, scrambled to draw his sword.
But he was far too late.
The second swing followed instantly.
The blade bit deep into the juncture between neck and shoulder.
A dull, sickening sound of shattering bone followed.
The commander's head was severed cleanly from his torso.
The eyes of the surrounding soldiers trembled with primal terror.
Sergey ripped his halberd free.
Blood geysered into the air.
Then, he roared.
"The enemy general is slain!"
Hearing the cry, the men of the Red Bear Regiment surged forward as one.
"Charge!"
The war cry erupted from every throat.
The Military Council's line faltered. In the ensuing chaos, Kazdelian throats were impaled by Ursus spears, and Sarkaz blades turned against Sarkaz necks.
— Tooot.
Someone sounded the signal to retreat.
The front lines shattered. The enemy forces collapsed into a frantic rout.
Thus, the International Brigades finally secured a bridgehead to Babel.
When the battle finally quieted, four arrows were still embedded in Sergey's armor.
One was snapped, dangling by a splinter. Smoke still drifted from his scorched shoulder.
Ektorff approached him, whistling low.
"You madman. I knew you were unhinged back in the Great March, but seeing you today... did you get hit on purpose?"
Sergey yanked an arrow from his chest and grunted in response.
"Exactly."
He paused to catch his breath.
"If I don't stand at the front and look like a monster, how else are they going to learn to be afraid?"
The members of the regiment laughed at his grim logic.
Just then, the radio crackled.
"This is the Red Bear Regiment. Gamma-2 secured. I repeat, Gamma-2 secured."
He could sense the bated breath at headquarters.
"Casualties?"
"Many lightly wounded. Zero fatalities."
There was a brief moment of stunned silence.
"Well done, Comrades."
Only after hearing those words, followed by the distant sound of applause through the receiver, did Sergey feel the strength leave his legs.
He wrenched out the final arrow and slumped onto a crate as if his strings had been cut.
Along the main highway, a convoy of jeeps was approaching.
*********************
"We should not be focusing on an offensive! We must focus on defense! Without the International Brigades, these militia dregs can't accomplish anything!"
"Have you forgotten the tactics of the People's Militia?! we must sweep through and liberate the countryside in a continuous offensive!"
"Workers reside in the cities, not the rural plains! The cities must be our priority!"
The Babel high command was a theater of chaos.
With most of the Royal Army either watching from the sidelines or defecting to Theresis, the Military Council's head, Babel's current strength consisted only of the units led by generals who remained fanatically loyal to the Lord of Fiends, the Royalist militias, and the communists of the People's Committee.
And currently, it was the communists of the People's Committee who were the loudest in the command center.
Because Theresia's loyalist generals had to be pinned to the front lines to hold back Theresis's elite forces, only the communists possessed the mobile reserves to strike at other local warlords.
Yet, the communists were a fractured lot.
Pro-Federationists, Autonomists, Internationalists, Agrarianists, Urbanists, Loyal-Revolutionists—and even radical Republicans who were fundamentally hostile to Theresia but were forced into this alliance by the orders of the International Communist Party.
However, their clamor was cut short.
"Enough. Shall we settle this?"
Theresia spoke.
While a few hardliners fidgeted, the majority of the Sarkaz communists were well-disposed toward her. Consequently, every eye in the room focused entirely on her.
"The National Revolutionary Army will advance toward Hebron. The Socialist Peasant Corps will march to Mevaseret Zion. The Labor Council Army is to head to Beit Shemesh to support our allies holding against the Military Council, and the Workers' and Peasants' Democratic Army will move to Route 1 to support the International Brigades."
Her strategy was textbook perfection.
Dispatch peasant-based units to the countryside and urban-based units to the cities. Suppress and annihilate local warlords and bandits, then secure public favor through civil assistance operations.
Since legitimacy rested with her—the Lord of Fiends chosen for the survival of civilization—if she could secure even a string of minor victories, the neutral armies currently watching the situation would eventually flock to her banner.
She had chosen the most orthodox, predictable, but generally effective strategy available.
But the cost was steep.
"The National Revolutionary Army has been completely annihilated! General Rosewill Lansen, leader of the Kazdel National Revolutionary Communist Party, has fallen in battle!"
"This is Beit Shemesh! Our forces have prevailed! However, there is no sign of the enemy's elite units!"
Theresis had seen a move ahead.
By employing a strategy of sending his elites to the countryside while throwing conscripts into the major battlegrounds, Theresis had effectively shredded Theresia's strategic cards one by one.
In some sectors, Theresis himself had taken the field to lead the assault.
Of course, this did not necessarily imply Theresia's incompetence. There were tangible results.
Since both the bureaucracy and public sentiment were on her side, she could immediately draw volunteers from occupied territories to replace her losses. The issue was simply that the sacrifices were heavy.
Amidst this, a singular piece of good news arrived.
"The vanguard of the International Brigades is approaching along Route 1!"
They had finally arrived.
Theresia let out a long, quiet sigh of relief.