NationStates Jolt Archive

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***

"Some are born mad. Some remain so."
-Waiting For Godot

“Circle of fire, my baptism of joy at an end, it seems
The seventh lamb slain, the book of life opens before me...”
-“The Evil That Men Do” by Iron Maiden

***

The time is 0200 hours, April 16th.

There was a time.

Once a mad king sat on a throne, whose mere name sent shudders through the spines of half the world, the other half of which had never heard of him. Once princes, generals, admirals, Inquisitors, Prefects, and priests curled at his feet, content to exist on the rivulets of power that dripped from the mad king’s beard as he drank the rich red wine of dominion. Once, living under his roof, eating his food, visiting his harem, were five young princelings, raised from birth to be the pillars of impossible arrogance that was the nobility, raised to be everything that foreigners hated and everything that hated foreigners.

There was a saying in the Empire: “The gods reserve their greatest surprises for those who serve them best.”

Either way you looked at it, the Succession Wars were nothing if not a surprise.

Millions of bodies paved the road to the present. Only four mattered. One tortured to death, his end demeaning the mad king and forcing him to climb that vertical cliff, revenge, from which it is so easy to fall; the first’s killer driven mad by his fall from power, and killed by his fall from an upper-story window...this war is filled with deadly falls. A third is shot to death in his own home, as irresistible armies close in around him. A fourth executed upon a field soaked with the blood of his men and his enemies, his vaunted army destroyed by a sudden reversal that all his icy logic could never have foreseen.

The past few weeks were nothing more than, as the expression goes, a death march, on a path of skulls beside a river of woes. Betrayal, slaughter, madness...a heretic had once proposed that the gods’ presence in Kregaia twists its people, sending their leaders inexorably into the hellish labyrinth of insanity. These past few weeks lent some credence to the theory.

The ground trembles violently, as if in fear of the armies marching across its surface; the walls tremble at the roar of the jets, and the shriek of the falling bombs, and the rumble of the tanks in the streets. This is the chaos that has been labeled “the Battle of Darius”. Above such a din, it is of course impossible to hear the ravings of a madman, screaming from the windows of his manor at the center of the city.

High Lord Asmodeus cracked, not so long ago. The Borman armies rumbled over the River Arcan into his lands, and the general he sent to stop them was another fool thinking with his morals instead of his brains. That one idiot sent thousands of soldiers to their deaths, and left the way open for the overwhelming Borman army to sweep towards Darius, the final redoubt of Asmodeus and his followers, as in the east his forces threw down their arms and gave up, shamed.

What few understand until it is too late is that men can hear the crisp footsteps of doom echoing behind them. A man knows when his time is up. A man knows when he has failed. And the awareness of this failure picked up Asmodeus Vasraad, gripped him tightly in jaws reinforced with the truth of his inevitable death, and ground his sanity into pieces. So now, where there once was a cold, precise nobleman who tortured Lucifer’s own son to death and dared the Sacred Emperor to seek revenge, there is now a madman, who even in his delirious state can at last appreciate how masterfully Lucifer has obtained that revenge. He shrieks from his chamber window, gazing down at the end of all he has worked for, and sees the Sacred Emperor’s hand pulling the strings.

Even madmen have moments of lucidity.

Doesn’t the rat see the trap, just before it comes down? Doesn’t the prisoner hear the rush of the guillotine blade, just before oblivion? There has always been a consensus in Kregaia that the sweetest moment of revenge is when the victim has that one moment to comprehend at last how utterly trapped they are, and how they have only themselves to blame. If Lucifer had been there to see it, he would no doubt have laughed himself to tears. For Asmodeus, the once-proud, who hurled his armies against the Cadian Gate, at last sees with clarity what he has wrought for himself. There is nothing to be done. The battle is lost; HE is lost. Why not just end it now? Why not...why not, before he can be brought to the Iron Throne and broken, to await the nonexistent mercy of the Sacred Emperor, why not just...fall.

And fall he does, tumbling from the upper-story window and smashing through a few statues on the facade of his manor, crashing at last, with a sickening sound, into a square pitted by shrapnel and stained with ash.

Of course, even mangled as he is, it’s not hard to guess who this is, lying facedown beneath the window of the High Lord’s chambers. Barely half an hour passes before a terrified envoy is begging the Borman generals to cease their assault. Another hour passes while they contact Lucifer and halfheartedly ask for permission to stand down. Finally, the shelling stops over Darius. The negotiations for the truce have taken an hour and a half.

The negotiations for the unconditional surrender that follows take around ten minutes.

***

“I have had a most rare vision; I have had a dream
Past the wit of man to say what dream it was...”
-A Midsummer Night’s Dream

The War Room was always a busy place. One way or another, the Imperium always had some conflict going; maybe a tribe in one of the Marian Islands was refusing to pay taxes. Maybe a small state near one of the provinces was objecting to the exercise of Imperial rights. Maybe, as in Borneria, preparations were underway for a full campaign of conquest. Massive screens displayed a variety of fronts, with constant video feed from satellites, equipped with a number of different filters; information flowed in constantly from the countless Loyalist command networks across the world. It was a common (and rather overused) metaphor to describe Korronis as the heart of the Imperium, but here, in the depths of the Imperial Palace, was the nerve center of a vast and well-armed military machine.

However, the proficiency of the Legions was somewhat less cheering when those same warriors were turned against their fellow Kregaians.

The glow of an independent tactical display, part of a cluster of the vast room, dedicated to observing Ishamael’s forces, illuminated the faces of the men standing over it. Grim, hard faces, the faces of men used to power, staring at an array of sheer power that, perhaps, had never been concentrated on Kregaia before. Certainly not with the intent of usurping a Sacred Emperor. But there was no denying it: a huge army, blooded on the Devil’s Dance Floor and personally led by Ishamael, had completed its landing along the Palatine Peninsula and was marching southwest to Korronis. Silence reigned; they had all heard the briefing, and they could all read the display. Roughly two million infantrymen, backed by armored columns, a vast array of artillery...quite an army.

The time on the display: 2243 hours, April 17th.

“I submit that we don’t really have to do a thing,” Imperator Vuell shrugged. “We are in an infinitely stronger tactical position. The Generians are closing in. We have the defenses of Korronis on our side...”

“I agree,” cut in General Shadows, head of Korronis’s defenses, looking around at the others. “To be honest, there’s just no way that an army of around the same size as Korronis’s garrison is going to breach the defenses. I don’t care what kind of artillery they’ve got.”

Lucifer rubbed his temples. They were all so damned ignorant, these generals of his. Squabbling, bickering, like farmers over the best way to grow crops...what fools. And the impudence of it, too! To argue over such mundane matters before a god? It smacked of blasphemy. Kill them, said one of the voices. Another hissed back, You need them still...silence them. Send them away. COMMAND THEM! And you call yourself an emperor.... Slamming his fist down on the table while pressing ruthlessly on his skull, Lucifer roared aloud, “Silence!”

The bickering lords, mistaking his command to be aimed at them, fell silent as if struck mute. The Sacred Emperor threw baleful eyes around at them all, realizing their mistake and taking advantage of it.

“We will not send our forces out. We will wait for the Generians, and then send them to attack the base camp. Only then will we dispatch an elite force to trap the rebels. There will be no argument about this,” Lucifer interjected, throwing a vicious glare at Imperator Vuell, who looked like he was about to say something. The man snapped his mouth shut and flushed with shame. “That is all.” He tried to soften his tone...a disconcerting tactic, considering the contrast it made with the hatred in his eyes. “You are all dismissed.”

He stood there, massaging his forehead, trying to silence the screaming voices within, as around him, his Inner Court filed out, heading, no doubt, for one of the Palace’s numerous lounges, a common haunt of the nobility. There was little, really, to do at the moment: to a large degree, the Imperium ran itself, giving the Inner Court the luxury of as much free time as they needed.

Bloody, bold, and resolute, whispered the voices. No enemy may destroy Lucifer, no enemy at all...Fear no enemies, fear no friends, fear nothing and no one...

You are insane, taunted another. You are a madman, Lucifer, running around like a rat in a maze, and like a fool you trust that there’s cheese at the end...what will you do when you find that there is only a mousetrap?

At one time, such words would have confused Lucifer, certainly angered him; now, months after the voices had begun, they simply amused him somewhat, like a joke that was getting less and less funny. The Sacred Emperor smiled slightly, remembering the vision he had had of his possible futures, one in which he crushed the rebels and triumphed, and another in which he died at his enemies’ hands. He cocked his head, listening. No, the voices were certainly a burden, and Lucifer knew just how to make it a little lighter.

***

The lounge was warm, the drinks were cold, and the other members of the Inner Court there wisely stayed away from their master, sensing he was in a dangerous mood. It was rather difficult to tell of late; since the beginning of the war, Lucifer had been very unpredictable indeed. They all remembered the day that the Borman army had arrived in Korronis before being sent off to attack Asmodeus: Lucifer had sat through the priests’ entire benediction while glaring at them with pure murder in his eyes, and yet apparently unaware that he had been doing any such thing. There was a common consensus in the Palace now: if there had been any doubt, it was now pure fact that Lucifer was well and truly insane.

Clutching a bottle of bourbon, Lucifer sat, heedless of the murmurs behind him, and gazed into the crackling depths of the fire. The room was dark save for the golden light that the dancing flames spread across the stones of the hearth and the area around, throwing a menacing light over the Sacred Emperor’s face as his eyes glinted. He sipped from a mug of hot tea, threw a quick glare behind his chair at the attendants who whispered in the dark, and leaned back, letting the heat of the fire wash over him.

Before he knew it the material world had slipped away, and he found himself standing before a mirror in an empty, blank white room. However, instead of his own tired face staring back at him, he saw a masked face whose burning eyes regarded him silently through the mask’s eyeholes: a little-known depiction of the Deceiver. It spoke, and when it did Lucifer felt a fiery heat radiating from the mirror, as if the masked being’s very words burned.

“O’er the dashing mountains and through the blowing winds comes treachery on a dark errand. The betrayer sits in the seat of his ancestors, watching as chaos consumes order yet again. Two stand forth, brothers as before and ever; they shall stand before the gods and be judged, and they shall know that our judgement is the truth.

“Woe to the Bloody City! For the rebel host descends upon that holy place at last, to tear out its beating heart and consume it. Woe to the Bloody City! For before the sun sets tomorrow it will have witnessed the beginning of the end; and the end, too, is a beginning. What was high shall fall, and they who were low shall rise. Yet he that is coming shall have no mercy; tremble at his displeasure, you sons of Typhon, for his wrath is sacred and swift. The mark of power is all around him, and so you shall bow before him lest his power scourge your souls. The time is coming when he that sits on the throne shall be both tyrant and advocate, scourge and comfort, and indeed, that time is coming quickly.

“Lo! He comes, and the Bloody City awaits with guns and missiles and all the terrible instruments of war! There shall be battle even to the throne itself, and once more shall blood be the libation, the city the altar, and we the blessed receivers! Ascend in flames, servants of the throne, and you shall know your ruler. The world writhes in his gaze, for all lands are under his eye; the world trembles in his arms, for all lands are in his embrace. The time is coming when the faithful shall take their place at last, every man an emperor, and they shall reign in blood forever, for blood is, blood was, and blood shall always be.”

And the god-king awoke.

A historic moment, to be sure.

High Lord Ishamael, mind and soul infused with a mixture of triumph, anticipation, and wariness, stared out over the sparse woods, wrapped in night, that lay just inland on the northern edge of the Palatine Peninsula. Miles and miles away, bathed in the glow of a multitude of lights, visible to the naked eye, lay Korronis the Great, the Seat of the Gods, and so many other epithets besides. He could not help shuddering with a sense of awareness of the path that lay before him, as well as behind. Months of war, millions of deaths, betrayals and massacres, had brought him here, on the Palatine Peninsula, at the head of an army that meant to do what few even thought possible: storm Korronis, fight through the city, and invade the Imperial Palace. History showed this cause impossible; barbarians, foreigners, and rebels had all tried and failed to enter the Sacred City, leaving their bones before its walls. Korronis laughed at invaders.

That was about to change.

Ishamael looked out over his army, merely the advance guard of a massive host deployed for miles along the Palatine, an array of firepower such as had never been seen in the Succession Wars so far. He could feel it in his bones: one way or another, things were coming to a close. The end of this operation would see Ishamael triumphant on the Iron Throne, or Lucifer laughing insanely over his mangled corpse.

Doubts nagged at him like flies at a stallion. His worse nature whispered to him words of fear, of failure, of inevitable doom; they hissed of how the bones of warriors were strewn before the walls of Korronis, how no power since Typhon himself had taken the capital. Fortifications control the paths to Korronis and all strategic points for many, many miles around, cowardice whispered, vast fields of guns, of mines, of walls that go on forever, defended by the best of warriors...no power has crossed that plain of annihilation, and none ever will. Give up, Ishamael...before the gates of Korronis, you will only find despair.

But whatever devil spoke this words into his ear was sadly mistaken. Ishamael had faced death before, had sent armies into battles that could not be won, and had slaughtered his enemy in the end. The memories were still vivid; after all, the battle with Avaru for the Devil’s Dance Floor had ended only weeks ago, in a final orgy of a destruction that had eclipsed all those before it. His mind drifted away as memories clicked into focus...

The Devil’s Dance Floor. Named thus because of the widely-held belief that the demon king Dispater the Betrayer haunted the plain. Over the millennia, countless battles had been fought here, and nameless warriors had left their bones beneath the gently rolling hills and empty plains. It had been an agricultural region, a nice place...that was until Avaru came, thundering down from the north like a barbarian chieftain at the head of his horde, eager for blood: another reminder that one must always be careful what one wishes for.

Ishamael’s brain crowded with images of the weeks-long, horrific slugfest over the plains. Two armies of similar size, training, equipment, and morale battering away at each other, with the outcome of the war hanging in the balance. The ground became pitted and scarred with craters, and the sickening stench of decay had lingered over the battlefield. On the front lines, away from the air-conditioning and relative comfort of the command centers and the base camps, it had been a nightmarish environment.

However, he had been delivered by nothing short of a godsend. The Borman armies which had crushed Asmodeus mere days before came swooping out of nowhere, marching down to the Devil’s Dance Floor at an impressive pace and tearing into Avaru’s army with the force that only an army of roughly two million could manage. Of course, Avaru had seen it coming: intelligence reports had warned him the Bormans were on the way. However, there was nothing the High Lord could do about it: two million men were not something you could just sweep away. They had explained themselves, after the crushed remnants of Avaru’s forces had fled back to their homes, saying that they acted on orders from the Borman government: Ishamael had the best chance of instilling law and order in the wayward Kregaian Imperium, they said, and so they were commanded to support him as best they could. First they had removed Asmodeus, and now Avaru.

Ishamael remembered the way the defeated noble had glared at him, as he knelt bound before his enemy. Avaru and Ishamael had been rivals for many years, and this was how it ended: one suddenly crushed and delivered alive into the hands of the other. Years of hate, resentment, and struggle, and now Avaru, the proud, the cold, the untouchable, knelt before his old enemy. There had been nothing to say, really; words would have been useless for such an occasion. And so all Ishamael needs to do is make a dismissive gesture, and the soldiers behind Avaru open fire, shattering his head in a shower of gore. And at that moment, Ishamael had looked southeast, in the direction of Korronis, and promised that he would be coming there next.

Ishamael had faith: in himself, in his cause, in his men. The law decreed that he do what he must to obtain the throne; such was the custom of Succession, and Ishamael was no man if he dared turn back now. Cowardice, he sneered to himself, is one ailment I will never suffer from!

Pulling out his walkie-talkie, he issued orders to his immediate subordinates; the engineers were to prepare his positions immediately. Railguns were to be sent up the tracks to his position, escorted by aircraft to prevent Loyalist sabotage. Supplies were to be delivered to the front immediately. He watched as his troops advanced, the city’s outer fortifications almost within reach.

Tomorrow, the action would begin.

***

It had been a long night, and a longer day. Ishamael had grabbed a few hours of sleep, napping in one of the mobile command posts, but when dawn broke, he was already up, throwing down cups of instant coffee and showered with reports. His vanguard had split into three and was advancing; they had expected to reach their assigned bombardment positions by noon. At eleven hundred hours, reports came of minefields, scattered across Ishamael’s planned routes of advance; he shouldn’t have been surprised by such a simple tactic, but there it was. Hours passed while minesweepers paved the way, and only now, several hours late, were his forward artillery units within range of the first layer of fortifications around Korronis.

Everything was green. The guns were in position, and this layer of defense, at least, didn’t have enough range to reach them. Behind the front line lurked a huge force, augmented by hidden reserves and an increasingly well-established base camp. The techs in the command center waited quietly for him to issue the order to begin bombardment...and yet it did not come.

He had to take a moment of consideration. Not that he hadn’t before...but it was like setting out to jump across a canyon, trusting that he could do what nobody else could, and then at the brink realizing just how likely he was to fail. He was committing millions of troops to an attack on the most well-defended city in the world, one which, if unsuccessful, would result in the slaughter of his army and the brutal re-conquest of the lands loyal to him. Millions of troops...

Millions of troops who had followed him this far, skating the edge of heresy by attacking Korronis itself, because they believed in him. They trusted him. All he had to do was use that trust as they expected him to. And when he thought of it that way, suddenly it was a very easy decision.

He flicked on the microphone. “All batteries, confirm firing solutions and commence bombardment.” Almost immediately the ground shook as hundreds of guns fired at once, sending a wave of shells arcing into the Loyalist fortresses.

The siege of Korronis had begun.

It is gray. The white walls of the city of kings are strewn with soot, and beneath it an old coat of crimson. Taking a step back, one sees the rubble lying on the green fields, under the skies stained as red as the swords buried deep in the Earth. The stench is thick in the nostrils, something a mix between rotting, burning garbage and corpses. So many corpses.

Overhead, the rain begins to fall, dancing on the earth, shattering the air as it raps on the armor of ruined tanks. It is deafening, and covers the world like a shroud. The ground is turning brown, running with streaks of red. The mounds melt over the freshly buried. The faces stare up at the sky, but their eyes are gone; put out, with their tongues and genitals. Still, they speak. For a split second, one can almost hear them over the din of the rain, but it fades.

In a moment’s time, the sun sets, and rises again. Day is night, and night day. In the end, there is no difference. Out of the Earth, the citadel still rises, behind the rubble, over the burial grounds and the battlefields. A glimpse of a pair of yellow eyes, and a golden crown.

Lord Varus awoke. The sound of the rain against the window, overlooking the rough grey seas was probably the cause, but he couldn’t help looking to the door, and around the room for the sign of an interloper. He clutched the handle of a dagger under his pillow, and only released it after he was sure the pitch black concealed no human form.

He sat up in bed and turned on the small reading lamp, which sent rays of light to the far corners of the cramped cabin. He noticed that he was soaked with sweat, and wiped his brow with a handkerchief from the nightstand. Again, he turned his gaze to the small, round window which was the only means through which his mind might leave the confines of this Imperial warship.

For three weeks, he had inhabited this room, rarely leaving except to oversee the fleet’s progress towards Korronis. The last real company he had had was that of his mistress, the night before the silent crowds bid the largest warfleet ever assembled in Port Belgrade adieu. They had been sent off without fanfare or publicity. Only the dim shapes of the transports waiting in the harbor had given the people any idea of what was coming.

For weeks, the drone of marching feet had been the music of Port Belgrade. Five millions of Imperial footsoldiers, boarding the waterlogged tubs in which they would depart for Kregaia. Many didn’t know that that was their destination. Few cared. The battle scars on the Praetorians and the death-glares of the regulars let the world know that wherever they went, death would follow on their heels.

Now, they slept, or rather, they waited. Korronis was an idea with a grim portrait attached to it. Soon, it would be their reality. For Varus, he was only half sure this was the reality that he wanted to inhabit. Still, it was inevitable. Time was carrying him towards that city, and his fate.

Where are you know, King Lucifer? Are you sweating too, as the hordes of your enemies breathe down your neck?

Lucifer had beseeched him more than a year ago for aid in the tempest that he had seen coming. Varus had refused then, but now, it was he that led the army of salvation to Kregaia. (”Our most honorable Allies.”)

There was a knock at the door. Varus tried to control his heartbeat. He stood slowly, against the rolling of the floor, and walked over. Standing there in the hall was a young officer, who bowed low at the waist.

“My lord, Admiral Kesec requests your presence on the bridge.”

Varus nodded, and closed the door. He dressed quickly, and in a few minutes was face to face with the tall, slim man of middle age who commanded the great fleet.

“Your lordship, we will be reaching Korronis within the hour.”

Even through the storm, the outline of the peninsula was visible, a tooth-like silhouette on the horizon.

“Rouse the first waves. I want them in the city and ready for action as soon as possible.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Varus’s eyes were cold as he looked out over the raging sea.

Where are you, sacred Emperor. We have come.

The time is 1830 hours, April 19th.

The sky thickened and whirred to the thrum of helicopter blades: Ishamael’s army was on the move. Thousands of men kept in reserve near the base camp were being flown up behind the front line, to form an easily-available reserve. Soon the hills were dotted with company camps, lurking beneath overpasses or in the burnt-out ruins of warehouses, each quickly erected but still the best that field camps could be.

The bombardment had gone well. Many of the light fortifications were now silent, if not battered into rubble; the others were barely holding out as the artillery batteries focused all their energy on those fortresses remaining. However, this had merely been the first hurdle.

Beyond these light fortifications lay the true beginning of the massive Korronis defense network: huge walls, of concrete reinforced with steel and tungsten, structures that could withstand even one or two hits from a Colossus howitzer. Upon huge gun mounts sat the batteries, each capable of untold destruction. Any force trying to cross the ground to the outer defenses would find itself torn apart by a barrage of almost unearthly power, hence the name of the installation: Godhammer. The ground was completely dominated by these colossal weapons, which had far greater range than either Ishamael’s Colossus howitzers or railguns, and Ishamael lacked the naval power to bombard them from the sea. That left one option.

Over three hundred Behemoth heavy bombers, soaring at a height of 30,000 feet and escorted by hundreds of F/A-104 Balefires, soared toward their intended targets: the Godhammer fortresses themselves. It was still light out, and the pilots could see from a distance the massive shapes of the guns themselves, mounted on huge bases that towered above the tangle of superhighways and slums that were the outskirts of Korronis. If only the guns perched on the bastions, this would have been an easy mission; true, the targets were extremely well-fortified, but the planes were laden with MOABs and bunker-busters that could remedy this. No, the problem came from the fact that each Godhammer battery was ringed with AA flak guns and SAM launchers.

This would not be a bloodless raid.

Whispered prayers filled the channels, carrying a fierce, almost savage, undertone. This was the height of the Kregaian warrior ethos: flying into what would shortly erupt into a shrieking storm of missiles, shells, and flak, knowing that they could be among the many to die...and simply relishing the idea of destroying the enemy first. Then, just before they entered the range of the Loyalist AA systems, there was a pregnant silence, a pause in which one could practically hear the anticipation of battle echoing from the minds of hundreds of pilots...

The moment was dispelled by the thunder of hundreds of flak guns.

The precisely maintained formation broke up into hell. Structured hell, that is; Ishamael, having grown up in Korronis, knew all about Godhammer, and knew that there was no way to get bombers close enough to hit it without heavy casualties. The problem was that each destroyed bomber took tons of high-explosive out of the fight, and his solution: sacrifice the Balefires.

Each of the nimble fighter-bombers leapt around, chainguns blazing and missiles streaking out to intercept those of the Loyalists, chaff dropping from every craft; if needs be, the pilots even steered themselves into missiles, roaring prayers as they did so, knowing that such an honorable death would be well rewarded in the halls of the gods.

Smoke and fire filled the air as Balefires and even a few dozen Behemoths plummeted from the sky, raining wreckage down upon the impregnable bastions of Godhammer...and then, at last within range, the bombers let loose their full payloads.

Like a swarm of locusts, the bombs tumbled from the bays of the Behemoths, before their guidance system took over, steering them straight to the target. Point-defense systems on the Godhammer opened up, spewing a storm of fire at the oncoming bombs, but there were too many, coming in too fast, to stop. They drilled into the concrete and steel of the fortresses and detonated, again and again, shattering even the titanic guns themselves. Chunks of concrete hurtled into the sky, along with scattered body parts of the crews within the forts. Vast columns of smoke trailed from the shattered wreckage as the mauled remnants of Ishamael’s bombers lumbered back to their bases.

***

General Shadows, generally speaking, was not a busy man. The command of the Korronis defenses had traditionally been a ceremonial title: who was crazy enough to attack the city? Not that Shadows was not a capable man...but one couldn’t blame him for slacking off a bit. Humans are simply not capable of maintaining a vigorous defense when there seems to be nothing to defend against. Shadows had to fight against that instinct every minute of every day.

He figured that hadn’t been a problem later.

No longer did he sit all day in his office, drinking and smoking. The liquor cabinet had been closed for days. A flatscreen monitor on one wall of his office displayed live feeds from the outer defensive rings, where Ishamael was wreaking havoc. He glanced at the report on his desk, which had been turned in just over a half hour ago. The specifics weren’t altogether very important: what mattered was that Ishamael had succeeded in blasting a way forward past the second major line of defense, and there was now only a single major fortified perimeter standing between the heart of Korronis and Ishamael’s army.

His computer pinged; he had a new message. Pulling up his inbox, he opened the message titled Re: Generian Status. A simple report from one of the commanders on the southern coastal defenses, reminding him that the Generians were almost done unloading and were on the way to the assembly point within the southern defenses. Hardly urgent.

A tap of a remote control switched the video feed on his monitor to a report on the situation on the front. Ishamael had sent a detachment of mechanized infantry between the wreckage of some of the Godhammer emplacements; unbeknownst to them, several squads of Legionaries equipped with rocket launchers were lying in wait, ready to blast apart the APCs carrying Ishamael’s men. Shadows quickly typed in and sent out an order commanding the Twenty-Second and Eighth Legions to move into the area and entrench themselves, accompanied by mobile artillery units, attack helicopters and Special Forces. Flamethrowers, chainguns, fougasses...all the stops were being pulled out. Ishamael would probably break into the city eventually, but in doing so, it was damned certain that he’d pay for every yard with blood.

He glanced longingly at the box of cigars on his desk. Surely it wouldn’t matter if he took a break, for now. The Generians were on the way, Ishamael was still outside the walls...things were well in hand, weren’t they? As he selected, trimmed, and lit his cigar, with the last glimmers of daylight fading away outside, a glorious feeling of calm swept over him, notwithstanding the reports flooding in from the various sectors of the city.

Things were going well.

***

“Master! Master! Where’s the dreams that I’ve been after?
Master! Master! Promised only lies...”
-“Master of Puppets” by Metallica

The alcohol courses through your veins, muting the dull ache of exhaustion that plagues every inch of you. Your eyelids twitch, longing desperately to close after an eternity of sleeplessness, but forced upon by the jagged streak of madness running across your brain. Your vision slides in and out of focus, and you can hear your breath coming hard and harsh; a million fragments of thought slither through your mind, each depositing its seed and retreating Only power provides a lifeline back to lucidity; your majesty, your presence, your ruthless lust to dominate: these are things that the swirling tides of hatred, rage, and joy cannot erode away. Inside your head, a chorus of demons-or perhaps gods, though you ceased to remember the difference long ago-shrieks, whispers, laughs and jeers, as a tiny voice that you know is your own tiredly pleads for silence.

That is what it feels like to be the Sacred Emperor right now.

The lounge was long silent. The Ministers, lords, generals, Inquisitors, priests, and prefects that had spent hours here chatting politely and plotting away as they always did were all gone. In a deep, comfortable armchair, the scion of gods clutches an empty bottle of bourbon and gazes stonily into the dancing depths of a fire. His memory sparks like a downed power line, throwing into relief the days of his youth, his usurpation of the throne, and his long and tempestuous years in power.

It is a terrifying vista, this tour of the past. It is as if he is riding through the countryside with a host of hangers-on, who take every opportunity to give him advice, berate him, encourage him, undermine him, and sap away his majesty; however, he beats the voices back with his accustomed litany: I am Lucifer. I slew the Betrayer, and now there is no one who can stand before me. I am a god, I shall win this war, and you shall be silent!

But as much as he believes the first is true, the voices never obey that last command, and so here is the god-king, slumped in an armchair, spectacularly drunk, remembering his murders, betrayals, commands, and victories...pleading with the voices in his head for silence.

“A man that hasn’t lost his mind is a man that hasn’t truly lived life.”

1st Combine High Seas Fleet

On board the AMSS Rāshidūn ,Rāshidūn class SD(flagship)

Fleet Admiral Shaykh Taj ad-Din al-Hasani glaze out the window and he saw hundreds upon hundreds of warships and hundreds more on the horizon. It one of the massive fleet deployments in long time, yet it the reason for the deployment remain a secret to the public, the official press statement was to conduct war games, but in reality the real reason to help the Imperium of Dune old friends of Generic Empire. But what was the details of this mission and deployment, that remained known to most of the troops and crews of the taskforce, only the high-ranking officers knew the details..

Then the Fleet Admiral was snap out of his daze, when his second in command, a tall well build officer from KLM West Africa reported to him the following

“Sir, our fleet will be within range of the GE fleet within the next 48 hours…I believe it is time for enact our plans now, sir.” Said Commodore Jonathan Falkirk

The old Arab looks at his second in command and replied “Very well, Falkirk enact our plan now...”

The Commodore nodded and give the orders to the command staff “ Comm.Officer, send out orders for all ships to change their call signs to stranded Imperial Generian Navy signs and low the our navy ensign and replace it with a Generian naval ensign. All ships are here by ordered to maintain silent running at all cost, if necessary to break silent running, all comm.. Officers here by order to only speak in Generian naval jargon. That is all,send the orders away, Comm. Officer.”

The Turkish Comm.Officer nodded and sent out the orders to the fleet

The old Fleet Admiral remarked, “ Here we come into the abyss in sheep clothing, eh Falkirk?”

“Indeed, sir, soon we shall burn the abyss our grand army that we transporting with us….it shall be a motherfuckin firestorm of glory for our beloved Imperium, wouldn’t you agreed, Fleet Admiral?”

The old Fleet Admiral pulled out a hand rolled Cuban cigar and begun to smoke it

“Yes, Falkirk…it shall be a great day for our Imperium…we shall make the world take notice of us once and all…cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war..”

Jerked out of his reverie, Commander Mazarin hurriedly holstered his sidearm. He had been idly twirling the weapon, a behavior that was considered a childish nervous habit, and had been (most embarrassingly) seen in this agitated state by one of his subordinates. He allowed himself an irritated grimace as he returned the Legionary’s salute, ignoring the smirk that played around the soldier’s mouth.

“What have you got for me, soldier?”

“Commander, the Generian vanguard is a few miles away, with the main body somewhat behind. They request immediate passage through the defenses, in several points. I forwarded the specific locations to your handheld computer. Permission to forward the request to Defense Command, sir?”

Mazarin nodded. “Granted. Go ahead and take the liberty of shutting down the defenses. Show of trust, you see.” He caught himself explaining his actions to this soldier. What had gotten into him? Maybe it was just nervousness at having a foreign army so close to the capital. Still, he felt it was deeper than that: a simple unsettlement, as grating as fingernails across a blackboard.

Things were moving, lately, things far beyond the comprehension of a simple commander in the Legions. This was an age of great men: this very battle proved it. This was a simple but epic clash, a true battle, albeit one that strayed dangerously close to heresy on the rebels’ part; he could almost feel the gods at work in Korronis, and even watching from a distance, it was a truly momentous event. He would tell his grandchildren about this someday...if his damned daughter found a husband soon, anyway. When was she...

The Commander dismissed the idle thought. There was work to do. And as the smirking soldier saluted and hurried away, Mazarin’s only regret was that he wouldn’t come close to the action.

***

Overhead, transport helicopters dropped snipers onto rooftops. The civilians were all gone; the entire population of the district had been shunted southeast, where they'd be ferried across the straits from Eastport, out of the way. Asvadran was now empty, except for Legiones XXII and VIII. Officially, all Legions were numbered in Roman numerals and referred to in Latin; however, in these latter days, when only the highly educated spoke fluent Latin, the more simple "Twenty-Second and Eighth Legions" was by far more common.

Transport planes kept flying over, sent from Amacia Air Force Base, an airfield complex just east of Korronis Defense Command. They dropped artillery and tanks, wrapped in parachutes, into Culcassian Square, the base of operations for both Legions in their fortification of Asvadran.

The outer defenses were compromised; only minefields and the few remaining guns prevented Ishamael's forces from rushing through the gap and into the city itself, and the guns were being destroyed one by one. There was little time left, and so the Legions were being dispersed through the district, setting traps, digging trenches, laying extra mines, and in general making Asvadran an advancing army's nightmare. Immortals waited coldly, examining their weapons; Legionaries smiled in anticipation of the coming fight; War-Priests simply prayed, a light of insane fervor glimmering in every eye. As they worked, the warriors chanted battle hymns and invoked the Destroyer to give them victory. Priests walked among the troops, dispensing blessings, while steely-eyed Subalterns threw out both curses and encouragement. In every street and alley the soldiers went about their tasks with calm efficiency, as the steady flow of support personnel and equipment increased.

This is how Kregaians go to war.

The face of General Cvetko Domenov was contorted into a scowl as he hunkered down in the troop compartment of the VTOL, trying to think over the deafening noise of the engines. Staring straight ahead, he fought back the urge to vomit that usually came with these airborne insertions.

“General, sir, we’ve passed over the coastal defenses and are nearing the heart of the city,” shouted a subordinate. Domenov glanced over and nodded his acknowledgement before returning his gaze to the floor. As much as he hated the VTOLs, it was certainly an improvement over the past weeks’ confinement to the bowels of the Imperial troop ships.

Through the cockpit windshield, dozens of other craft like the one he was on crowded the sky, darting among the spires and domes of the Kregaian capital. His own aircraft made for a large courtyard, close to the command hub for the city’s defenses. As the altitude rapidly fell, Domenov got to his feet. The doors opened, and his polished black boots fell heavily onto the ground, making him the first Generian soldier to set foot in Kregaia.

Stepping out, he was met by a Kregaian officer. He couldn’t help briefly wrinkling his nose at the sight of him. They were a despicable breed, these barbarians. Similarly, the chanting of the priests, and even a glimpse of one crossing the courtyard sparked both nausea and an instinctive desire to draw his saber and stab something. He did his best not to show it.

“General Domenov, we’ve been expecting you. As you can tell, the defenses have been disabled so that your army may pass through to join the Sacred Emperor’s forces in battle with the rebels.”

Domenov nodded.

“Very well,” he growled.

Behind him, roughly 200 Praetorians from his VTOL and a second that had just landed were assembling. Armored, in urban camouflage and brandishing the heavy GIR-47 assault rifle, they were an imposing sight to say the least. It was made all the more so by the fact that not one of them spoke. They simply watched the Kregaian.

He did not seem phased, however, and after finishing his conversation with Domenov, turned and headed back in the direction of the command hub. As he vanished, a Praetorian officer walked up beside the Generian General.

“Is that it?” he asked, gesturing towards a formidable cannon, pointed in the direction of Ishamael’s army.

“Part of it. Godhammer.”

“We’re certain it’s off?”

Domenov glanced over at the man, a violent smirk on his face.

“Why? You don’t trust our allies?”

The Praetorian returned the gaze coldly.

“Prepare your men, Captain,” said Domenov, before turning and walking back towards the VTOL. Moments later, a dozen of the craft, some with GT-101 tanks slung beneath them appeared in the sky, and descended. The formerly deserted square was soon swarming with over one thousand Imperial Praetorians.

Offshore, aboard the battleship Kreschnev, Lord Varus watched the landing craft swarming towards the city’s docks. The sky was dark with the shapes of VTOLs and modified Aquila air superiority fighters. He turned his back to the scene and lit a cigarette.

“General Liev,” he said, addressing a man in the green uniform of a Regular Army officer. “What’s our progress?”

“My lord, eneral Domenov has secured the square near the Godhammer control hub. He has roughly 1200 Praetorians with him, and several dozen tanks.”

Varus nodded.

“Very well. You may commence Operation: Overture as soon as you’re ready.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The General saluted, and vanished from the bridge. Varus turned back towards the window, and gazed out at the coast. He drew deeply on his cigarette. His heart was racing, and he did his best not to show it. A bead of sweat formed above his nose and dripped down over it. Varus wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The growing noise behind him of radio reports and hastily issued orders did little to intrude on his peace of mind. He drew again, and let the smoke flow through his nostrils and out of the corners of his mouth.

In the distance, there was a flash of light, and a thin yellow streak careened across the skyline of the distant city. With pyrotechnic beauty, it collided with the top of a fortified building, and exploded in a brilliant display of orange and red. Soon, several other flashes were visible, producing similar effect. The Overture began. The guns of the battleships offshore provided the percussion, and the missiles from the Sofia class cruisers the melody.

Kregaia was burning. Varus was holding the torch.

“We didn't know what was lying underneath
So how could we be such fools,
And to think that we thought you the answer...”
-“The Legacy” by Iron Maiden

The time is 2350 hours, April 19th.

Titus Natael was not an emotional man.

It was hard to be, in the War Room. This place routinely directed battles, whether they were massacres of natives out in the provinces, exterminations of heretics in Kregaia itself, or, in this case, battles against one’s own kind. He’d become very jaded about war, and about life in general: it could change in the blink of an eye, and there was really no point counting one’s chickens before they hatched, as the saying went. One never knew what could go wrong.

Today, he was breaking that rule.

How could anyone not be satisfied? Sure, Ishamael was at the gates, but he was a long, long way from the Palace, and he hadn’t made a move to enter the city; besides, every second he delayed gave the Twenty-Second and Eighth Legions more time to fortify Asvadran against his entry. That was besides the massive Generian army that was moving up from the south. Even now they were passing through the defenses, which Korronis Defense Command had ordered shut down as a show of trust for their Generian brothers-in-arms. Millions of infantrymen alone were pouring out onto Kregaian shores, coursing into the city. And that mighty army would tear Ishamael’s apart like a pack of wolves devouring a crippled deer. No, it was impossible not to be happy tonight. Titus stifled a yawn as he laid back, only half watching the display.

Something flickered on the display.

Puzzlement sparked in his brain. He leaned forward again, gazing intently at the readouts. The Generian fleet had opened fire! But they were on the south coast of the city, there was no way they could hit the rebels from their current position...and as reports of multiple, devastating impacts suddenly scrolled onto his screen, the truth hit Titus Natael like a mountain dropping on his head.

The Generians had opened fire on the city.

They hadn’t come to save the Imperium at all...they had come to destroy it.

Horror washed over the tech, and he pushed himself violently away from the computer. He shook as the implications slammed through him, like physical jolts. He looked around-anywhere but at the damned computer-and saw the other techs reading, horrified at what they saw, realizing like him what this meant. Officers rushed over, trying to see what the disturbance was, and went pale as death when they saw the news. Titus glanced back at his screen. The display showed hit after hit being rained down on the defenses near the Generian entry points...defenses that had barely been shut down in welcome. Smoke began to pour up, obscuring the satellite imagery somewhat, as the Praetorians in the square moved into action, mowing down those around them. He heard a commander yell, “Bring the Sacred Emperor! At once!” in a tone that said, quite plainly, that the world was crashing down around them.

It was not Titus’s place to consider the tactical consequences of this...maneuver, but he could not stop them springing to mind. And he could not stop himself mouthing silently, “We are lost.”

“We are lost.”

***

“White flags shot to ribbons
The truce is black and burned...
I’m back in the village again.”
-“Back in the Village” by Iron Maiden

The Sacred Emperor sat alone in the darkness.

The darkness welcomed him, the darkness embraced him, and best of all, the darkness did not natter on and on about things of no importance. His generals irritated him; the darkness did not. Here, maybe, he could sleep, if only a little. A little respite, surely; had he not killed the Betrayer himself? Had he not earned the right to a little rest? Snarling, smirking, and sneering, the voices told him simply, No.

The doors burst open, and in rushed a young messenger, no older than sixteen, who clearly had some momentous news. Lucifer could always tell. If they had bad news, they hesitated and were exceedingly respectful; if good, they were cheerful and obsequious. But if they only knew it was important, not specifically what it was, they were like this: agitated, ignoring protocols; in fact, downright rude. Lucifer had killed more than one young man for interrupting his time alone. Not this time, though. This time, the god-king could not help but wonder what had gone wrong...because this time, he could feel it. It was like smelling a horrible stench, but the source was wrapped up so tightly that barely a whiff could escape.

Something was wrong.

“What is it, boy?” The words hardly matched his attitude; an important aspect of being Sacred Emperor was to appear disinterested when one was fixated on the matter at hand.

“Great Lord, I come from the War Room. There’s an urgent report waiting for you there, Divine One...at least, that’s what they told me to say. I don’t know if...” Lucifer did not wait for him to finish. Standing suddenly, the older man strode from the room, face harder than steel.

It was several minutes’ journey down to the War Room, but the monorail system and the elevators in the Palace served to speed it up greatly; both necessities, as the sheer size of the Palace would otherwise prevent efficient travel. When Lucifer arrived, however, he found the place disconcertingly quiet. The normal hubbub had been replaced by a silence...which could only be described as bleak. Lucifer wondered what had happened, to strike fear into so many hearts; he did not believe that even his presence would hush so many so completely.

The officer in charge of the shift said nothing, merely handed him a slip of paper. Lucifer unfolded it and began to read...

***

OFFICIAL MILITARY COMMUNIQUE

To: General M. Shadows, Commander of the Korronis Defense Force
Fwd to: Imperator Jakran Vuell, Head of the Kregaian Imperial Armed Forces; High Lord Rahvin Ares, Commander of the Eastern Armies; General Vespasian Arrius, Commander of the Eighth Watch, Palace War Room.

Sirs, I have no time for pleasantries tonight.

At 2350 hours, the Generian fleet opened fire on the city’s fortifications near their entry points into the city. The forces already inside Korronis opened fire on the Imperial troops around them, who were taken completely by surprise by this vile betrayal. They are still bringing forces into the city, and show no sign of stopping; meanwhile, we are reactivating the defensive grid in the area, but that will take too long. I am certain the Generians will overrun or destroy the defenses in the immediate area before we can stop them. I am requesting additional troops to help hold the Generians at bay; I am doing everything I can, but we have been completely blindsided. I have no words to convey the horror and rage I feel at the Generian betrayal, but I trust in the power of the gods and the Imperium. Blood and Honor.

Commander Antonius Mazarin

***

Lucifer went numb.

For several moments it seemed the face of the Betrayer-nonsense! I killed him!-flickered on the page, grinning mockingly at him each time. Despair thundered through him, as he realized the enormity of what had just occurred. And there was one moment, one awful moment, when he realized the Betrayer had never left. The Betrayer was never dead. He had deceived himself into believing he was above it all, that he could not be defeated.

And in that blazing moment he realized he was only a man...and he had indeed been betrayed.

The voices shrieked in triumph, a cacophony which bounced unheard from the numb shell of Lucifer’s being.

***

A door slammed somewhere behind him. Lucifer didn’t know where. He didn’t care. He wanted to rip his ears out of his head, to cut into his brain and destroy it so he could never replay what he had heard and seen ever again. Blind with despair, the man who had once been a god named Lucifer of Domain Halcyon stumbled through the Hall of Confluence, praying to all the gods that something, something would silence the voices that even now shrieked in joy as the Sacred Emperor splintered...

Images flashed through his head. He imagined Generian artillery shelling the southern fortifications into smithereens. He imagined a banner that displayed the mocking message, “We Have Come At Last”, painted with the blood of his betrayed men, slaughtered dishonorably at the hands of those they had known would save them.

It was as if a million shards of glass had reached into Lucifer and were twisting, shredding him slowly. Not his heart; only a fool would suppose that Lucifer has any heart left. Not his body; the chunk of meat that sprawls now upon the cold stones of the Hall of Confluence is still the muscle-bound display of power that it was mere hours ago. This deepest of betrayals has reached into the deepest of Lucifer’s traits: his ego. For the first time in his life, the god-king, the scourge of nations, despot of a nation of billions and commander of one of the most ruthless and powerful armed forces in the world, feels despair...and there is simply no describing the agony of betrayal by the one whom you absolutely, positively knew would never, ever betray you. Varus had been one thing; Varus was a diplomat, and machinations were to be expected from one such as him. But Kazatmiru too...the entire Generian nation, to which he had given only honor and such respect as Lucifer could ever give another, they of all people had succeeded where assassins, rebels, and heretics had failed: they had broken Lucifer at last.

Something happened that had not happened to the Sacred Emperor since infancy: a tear formed in the corner of his eye and flowed across his cheek.

It was a surprising feeling. It wasn’t rage, or hatred, and soon it was not even despair anymore. It was something altogether more terrible: simple emptiness, a vortex of apathy. He could not move, could not think...there was only the numbness.

And in that moment, Lucifer admitted to himself that all was lost.

***

Outside the city, Ishamael smiled at the sight of Lord Varus on the video link.

“Ah, Lord Varus. I understand that the dance has begun.”

Varus smiled in return, if a little coldly. “Indeed, High Lord Ishamael. Things in the south here are going very well. And on that note, in accordance with the plan, I request you to begin your advance. The attack will certainly stop moving so smoothly if several hundred thousand Loyalists start taking up positions in my path.”

Ishamael’s smile never wavered. “Certainly, Lord Varus. If that’s all...Ishamael out.” The High Lord then turned to his communications officer, and the smile widened into a full grin. “You heard him, Lieutenant. Tell my commanders to advance.”

1st Combine High Seas Fleet

On board the AMSS Rāshidūn ,Rāshidūn class SD(flagship)

“Fleet Admiral Hasani, we are within range of the Kregaian coastline..shall we raise our flags and return to our call signs now?” asked Commodore Falkirk

Fleet Admiral Shaykh Taj ad-Din al-Hasani look at the Commodore and said “Yes, make it so..now all our battleships, batter cruisers within formation for our attack?”

The Commodore nodded and said” All ships report ready for battle…we are awaiting your order, sir!”

The Fleet Admiral smiled and replied “It is time for the ghost fleet to show its true colors..begin a full out attack on their fortifications at once…do we have the firing solutions?

“Yes sir, we have the firing solutions input in the targeting computers mainframes, sir!” replied the Commodore

“Then what are you waiting for…ATTACK!” said the Fleet Admiral

“Yes sir!” said the Commodore and then he yell out the go ahead for the attack

Within a few moments, the ghost Generian fleet came out of the fog and shown its true form as KLM High Seas Fleet, Within a mere matter of moments the flagship and her sisters ships begun firing at will at the Kregaian fortifications, then the battleships, battle cruisers, the missile cruisers and cruisers join in and fire their mighty guns and missiles at the fortifications with the full might of the Imperial Fleet. The fleet captains were given standing orders not to stop firing in till they see that the fortifications were reduce to nothing.

Back on the Flagship

“Commodore Falkirk send the following to our Generian friends…..KLM fleet is here and has begun its attack, we wish to conduct joint air attack runs on Kregaian frontlines…we await your replied.” Said the Fleet Admiral

“At once, sir.” Said the Commodore

Shortly after a short message was send to GE fleet commander

To: Commanding Officer of Generian Fleet
From: Fleet Admiral Shaykh Taj ad-Din al-Hasani, commander of KLM Fleet

We are here and we wish to conduct joint air attack runs on the Kregian frontlines, we awaited your replied.

General Shadows sat alone in his office, quietly sipping a coffee. He could almost smell the faint, but growing, aroma of victory. Ishamael still hadn’t moved a muscle. The Generians were on the way. It was close to midnight, and after he forwarded the Generians their instructions, he was even thinking of grabbing a few hours of sleep. The gods knew he needed it.

His computer pinged to inform him he had a new message waiting. Sighing, the General rolled his chair over to the computer and looked at the name of the sender: Cmdr. Antonius Mazarin. Leader of one of the cohorts holding the southern fortresses. Boredom replaced by idle curiosity, Shadows opened the message.

OFFICIAL MILITARY COMMUNIQUE

To: General M. Shadows, Commander of the Korronis Defense Force
Fwd to: Imperator Jakran Vuell, Head of the Kregaian Imperial Armed Forces; High Lord Rahvin Ares, Commander of the Eastern Armies; General Vespasian Arrius, Commander of the Eighth Watch, Palace War Room.

Sirs, I have no time for pleasantries tonight.

At 2350 hours, the Generian fleet opened fire on the city’s fortifications near their entry points into the city. The forces already inside Korronis opened fire on the Imperial troops around them, who were taken completely by surprise by this vile betrayal. They are still bringing forces into the city, and show no sign of stopping; meanwhile, we are reactivating the defensive grid in the area, but that will take too long. I am certain the Generians will overrun or destroy the defenses in the immediate area before we can stop them. I am requesting additional troops to help hold the Generians at bay; I am doing everything I can, but we have been completely blindsided. I have no words to convey the horror and rage I feel at the Generian betrayal, but I trust in the power of the gods and the Imperium. Blood and Honor.

Commander Antonius Mazarin

Shadows leaned back in his chair, stunned. No way. This just wasn’t possible! The Generians had been allies of Kregaia since before Shadows joined the military. The general shook his head as if to dislodge the doubts from his mind, but there was ultimately no denying the truth, not when messages began flooding in from other commanders, urgently requesting reinforcements. Shame hit him like an iron bar to the face. He, Commander of the Korronis Defense Forces, had actually been sitting here, drinking coffee, while in the south his men were being massacred! It was unbearable. But he knew what Imperator Vuell would say: “When you make a really, really big mistake, make up for it before you kill yourself.”

Throwing the coffee mug aside, General Shadows stood up and strode from the room. His handheld computer and office PC would do to send orders to his commanders, but to properly direct the battle, he was going to need a War Room, something that the command floor of Korronis Defense Command could provide.

When he reached the command floor, there was more bad news waiting for him. To start with, Ishamael was advancing on the city at last. More surprisingly, an Ottoman fleet had emerged from cover of a massive storm that was lashing the southern districts to bombard a series of targets east of the Generian landing sites. Most disturbingly of all, nobody had heard from the Sacred Emperor Lucifer since he was informed of the Generian betrayal. These, however, were merely setbacks: what was most important, regardless of how uneven the battle now was, was fighting as hard as possible. Fighting a lost battle like it could be won had turned many a defeat into victory in Kregaian history, and if Shadows had his way, this would be another one.

Looking at the tactical display, the situation in Asvadran was hopeless. Two Legions against the full might of Ishamael's vanguard? Even as well fortified as they were, the Eighth and the Twenty-Second didn't have a prayer. The trick would be to make their deaths worthwhile.

"Get me a link to the Commanders of those Legions," he growled, while typing a request to some more Legions to reinforce the crumbling southern troops. A little help would even the odds considerably, as the Legions knew the city better and had the advantages of the city's defenses themselves. A crackle from the microphone mounted on the tactical display alerted him that his channel was ready.

"Commanders, this is General Shadows. Ishamael's army is advancing on your position. I'm sending exact details as we speak," he continued, glancing at a young officer and mouthing 'Do it', "...but otherwise, I'm afraid you're on your own for now. Listen carefully. Your troops are not to sacrifice themselves needlessly. Hold Ishamael as long as you can, and make your deaths count. You know what you have to do, and you know how you have to do it. Just remember the gods are watching you; make sure they are not ashamed. Blood and Honor."

***

The time is 0250 hours, April 20th.

Commander Mazarin crouched behind a hastily erected barricade, bullets whizzing by overhead, as he desperately tried to raise KDF on his cell phone. No luck. He couldn't get through even when he entered the passcode that gave him emergency priority. Mazarin could have laughed; everything was an emergency at the moment. Apparently Ishamael was advancing in the north. Almost as bad, the storm that was now pouring rain down on the city had apparently also served to conceal an Ottoman fleet from Imperial satellites until it was too late; the fleet was now bombarding the city, east of Mazarin's location.

He looked around coldly at the few men that remained of the Ninth Legion, the rest having been hunted down and crushed by the Praetorian infidels that were spearheading the assault on the city. They were an intimidating lot, no doubt about it: Mazarin had met Immortals, the Imperium's elite shock troops, and although he couldn't say which kind of warrior was the more deadly, he could've sworn that an ant would starve to death on the difference. Mazarin risked a peek over the barrier. There they were, down at the end of the block, raining fire upon the Kregaians with their heavy assault rifles.

Any moment now death would come for Commander Mazarin. He knew that, and so did his men. But the Ninth Legion was the last thing standing between the Generian army and the Industrial Quarter. They would get in there eventually...but they would not do so while he or his men drew breath.

A true Kregaian only truly begins to fight when he is doomed.

A savage grin peeled his lips from his teeth, and Mazarin unclipped a grenade from his belt. Hurling it up over his barrier, he leaned out to his right and opened fire, spraying bullets back at the Praetorians. Unruffled, they themselves remained behind cover, returning fire coolly and accurately. Motioning to his men, Mazarin retrieved and primed another grenade. Smiling even wider, the Commander hurled it at the Generians, joining the ones thrown by his remaining subordinates, and screaming defiance, the Legionaries jumped up and sprinted at the Praetorians, guns blazing.

Honorable deaths indeed.

Captain Afanasii Dmitriev coolly leveled the barrel of his rifle, taking aim at the leading group of legionnaires. “Pitiful fools,” he thought before he pressed the trigger, sending a rain of 6.7mm ammunition in their direction. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, worthless, lifeless heaps of dead flesh and bone. His men finished off the last of the charging legionnaires with carefully placed bursts of fire.

“If they keep doing that, it won’t be much of a battle,” said one of his subordinates, his voice distorted by an armored visor.

“This is no battle,” replied the Captain distastefully, looking at the carcasses. Their blood was pooling and running into the storm drains on the edge of the wide avenue. “It’s a massacre.”

A lieutenant standing nearby cracked an invisible smirk. The Praetorians broke cover and moved down the street. Overhead, shells from the fleet offshore screamed through the air, thick with dust and the screams of the mangled. As Captain Dmitriev reached the abandoned barricade, behind which the Kregaians had cowered until their desperate suicide, he watched a GT-101 tank burst through a low wall. The turret rotated to face the second floor of an apartment across the street, and unleashed a wide jet of burning napalm from its coaxial flamethrower. Screams were barely audible over the sounds of the neighboring chaos. A creature, once a man, skin black, melting under a thick coat of fire, burst through the gaping black hole that was the door of the incinerated building, and rushed flailing towards the Generian officer. Dmitriev raised his rifle and put a round in the man’s blackened skull. The creature collapsed, dead.

Dmitriev lowered his rifle and sniffed the air.

“Stinks,” he muttered as his men moved for closer cover. He remained standing as a pair of tanks moved in front of him, and on down the street. Overhead, a VTOL soared, 20mm cannons blazing, unleashing hell on Kregaians in the neighboring blocks. Dmitriev activated his radio.

“General Domenov, my men have secured an opening past the southern fortifications. The path is open to the Defense Command hub. Shall I order my men to proceed?”

“Negative,” crackled the General’s reply. “Additional regular army forces are currently making landfall near the breach in the coastal defenses. They will provide the muscle to spearhead an assault into the city. Your orders are to secure the local defense command hubs and turn them against the Kregaians. Do you copy?”

Dmitriev scowled. The General’s hesitance was not befitting of him. The Praetorians could and should lead the strike into the city. They had no need for reinforcements when the enemy was already defeated. Reluctantly, he complied.

“Yes, sir.”

Dmitriev growled and switched his radio to his command’s channel.

“Praetorians, our orders are not to proceed into the heart of Korronis, but to secure local defense hubs in the industrial quarter. Our comrades elsewhere will do the same to secure the advance by the regular army.”

A thousand warcries were raised in acknowledgement, adding to the din of war. Dmitriev could not help by smile, despite his disappointment and tarnished pride.

-----

On the bridge of the Kreschnev, Lord Varus watched the displays providing live feeds from the warzone. He nodded, satisfied at the progress the elite troops of the Empire were making. Korronis would be his within a matter of hours at this rate. He turned to a naval officer standing at attention to his right.

“Prepare an air transport.”

The officer looked a little surprised.

“Milord?”

“Do it,” Varus snapped, obviously annoyed at the man’s hesitation. The officer, shaken, rapidly bowed and hurried off the bridge. Varus looked out once more at the city, the skyline ablaze. Today he had business there, in that scorched capital.

Beauty had never been a word to truly describe Korronis; any one who said otherwise was a liar. The closest thing, and one of the most frequently used, was grandeur. The twin pyramids of the Palace and the Sanctum of the Hierarchs, the black mass of Inquisitorial Headquarters, the spires of the countless temples; even a sunrise on one of Korronis’s rare clear days failed to inspire a sense of beauty from the sight of such monuments. But looking at over the vast expanse, one could almost hear power thrumming in the air, and one saw the massive edifices and knew that this was the definition of grandeur.

The night is a harsh one.

Rain pours from the sky and lightning tears through the heavens, leaving vast claps of thunder in its wake. The downpour mixes with the blood of the slaughtered and turns the dust of shattered buildings into inches of mud. Visibility is almost zero; the night is an abyssal black, broken only by the fires of the burning city...which casts some light, but mainly serves to completely obscure heat vision in their immediate vicinity. Overhead, Generian and Ottoman shells pummel the southern coast, breaking huge holes in the city’s defenses; return fire has been reduced to practically nothing.

If the din of fighter engines, helicopter rotors, roaring fires, and chattering guns had allowed, one could almost have heard the sound of the Imperium crumbling.

***

The time is 0430 hours, April 20th.

Subaltern Septimius ducked back behind his barricade as a squad of Praetorians down the street, the last few of the fifty or so that had initially attacked, continued to lay down suppressing fire. Cursing to himself, the officer slammed a new clip into his SG-655 and loaded another grenade into the launcher mounted on it. Leaning out, he fired the grenade down at the Praetorians and was rewarded by a muffled scream over the explosion of the grenade...a victory offset by the sight of a stray Generian shell arcing into the square which his men were defending, killing six. Including, Septimius noticed with a grimace, Captain Numidius, the last officer left alive in VII Cohort of the Eleventh Legion who outranked Septimius himself. That made him the boss.

Grabbing at his microphone, he flicked the channel to Gamma Team’s frequency and roared, “Where the fuck is our support?! Get on the fuckin’ rooftops or so help me gods, I will shove a flamethrower up your ass and fuckin’ let it burn! MOVE!” These kids had to get it together and get in position, or VII Cohort was gonna be history. There was really no stopping those Praetorians in an even battle, not when they had support from their fleet and helicopter transports. Septimius gritted his teeth. It was just disgusting that KDF hadn’t gotten its shit together enough to send over reinforcements. If things kept going this way, they were going to get a rude awakening when the Generians started knocking on the Palace doors.

A sudden blaze of gunfire drew his attention. Peeking over the barricade, rain pouring down his helmet’s faceplate, he saw the Legionaries of Gamma Team on the rooftop on his right, gunning down the Praetorian squad, who even with all their training hadn’t foreseen the flanking maneuver. Septimius grinned. They had it together after all. And when he stood and walked back into the square to help set up a field command post, he did so knowing that he had a fighting chance.

***

A factory standing on the square was their choice of location: the sign above its door identified it as the Ragusa Chemical Plant. The reason they had chosen this and not any of the other factories in the Industrial Quarter? Well, for one, this one was where they were. But more importantly, this plant had produced explosive chemicals back in the 90's, and for safety reasons, the walls were all reinforced, making it the closest to a bunker as there was in the area. Maps of the area were taped to those walls, the radio systems were set up, and a few officers linked their laptops together and tapped them into the BattleNet system to receive live feeds from the Imperial command network that stretched across the city. The square outside was fortified with sandbags and autocannon emplacements manned by one of the occasional citizens who had turned up proclaiming they were ready to fight for their city.

This was a bit of a mixed blessing. For example, news flooded in that IV and V Cohorts had been attacked by too many Praetorians to stop; it made Septimius reflect on how lucky VII Cohort had been to encounter a mere fifty. Even vastly outnumbered, those damned infidels were accurate, cohesive, tenacious, and all in all able to defeat forces several times their size. However, the bad news was outweighed by a few massive chunks of good news.

“Firstly, sir, a group of helicopter gunships has been sent over to us,” a young corporal reported. “They’re on the way now; I told them that since we moved all our things out of the square, some of them’d have room to land there for the time being. The rest will be waiting on us a couple miles away, at VI Cohort’s HQ. They’re well defended there, and out of the Generians’ way.” Septimius chuckled a little, then asked, “And what’s the second bit, Corporal?”

“Well, sir,” he replied, “KDF has decided that you personally stand the best chance of holding the Generians off; in general, they’ve finally sent over the support we needed. So we have a couple squadrons of armor, now, and some artillery. As well as supplies, of course.” Septimius removed his helmet and smiled at the young man. “Thank you, Corporal. Grab a ration bar and then meet back up with your squad. We’re spreading out through this neighborhood, and soon enough the Generians will try to go through us.” The corporal snapped off a stiff salute and hurried away.

Septimius looked around. They had what they needed now. The Generians had lost the element of surprise, and now the Legionaries were prepared. They knew Korronis, and they would use that knowledge to their advantage, with deadly effect. They had air support, armored support, and artillery support, as well as a fortified home base. Septimius would set the tone of the whole battle right here: the Generians might have stolen a march on them, but he would burn before he allowed them to pass without them paying for it ten times over in blood.

1st Combine High Seas Fleet

On board the AMSS Rāshidūn ,Rāshidūn class SD(flagship)

Fleet Admiral Shaykh Taj ad-Din al-Hasani read latest reports from his fleet commanders; so far the results were going in his forces favored. It was now time for phase two to begin.

“Commodore Falkirk, call General Rusçuklu Cezayirli Hasan Serif Pasha, its time to start phase two and I want him here to see it happen.” Ordered the Fleet Admiral

“At once, sir!” replied Commodore Falkirk, Then Falkirk send a officer to get summed the General to the Bridge. Within moments, General Serif, who was wearing a green army uniform, General Serif was known for his tactical genius and his cold way of dealing with anything that stood in his path. General Serif was a class of his own; he was true thinker and also spoke his mind on matters in a frank way.

The Fleet Admiral smiled as General Serif the commander of the ground forces sit foot on his bridge

“Well General its time for your troops to partake in the actions wouldn’t you agreed?” said the Fleet Admiral

The General smiled and said “But of course…what fun would it be if my soldiers just sit around in your ships, Fleet Admiral..”

The Fleet Admiral nodded his head and said” By all means, General issue your orders..”

The General nodded and issued his orders over at the Comm.Station

“This is General Serif to all ground commanders, phase two in progress deploy the first wave.” Said the General and then he turned to the Fleet Admiral

“ I’ll be in the tactical command center…if you need me.” And just he left the bridge

With the general orders in effect, waves upon waves of KLM marines made their way in amphibious assault transports to the bleach areas of the defense lines of the city. They were covered with heavy air support and the fire support from the entire fleet..it was just matter of time before the KLM forces would be being hell to their foes and link up with GE forces. Waves upon waves of MI-28A/N HAVOC ATTACK Helicopters and Ka-52 HOKUM B / Alligator Attack Helicopters made their impression on the beach heads as they shot up anything that moved and fire their hellfire missiles at their foes, they were being deployed from the amphibious assault carriers of the fleet. Just the land battle had begun….oh fun indeed.

Captain Dmitriev hit the pavement as a burst of fire from the nearby rooftop laid waste to a squad of soldiers up the street. Rolling beneath a parked car, he scanned the rooftop through his night sight scope and squeezed off a few rounds, killing a pair of Kregaian soldiers who plummeted to the street below. Checking the satellite thermal imaging pouring through the Imperial Battlenet, he could see that his men in the square were outnumbered, and at risk of being surrounded. The nearest armor had moved on. He wisely gave the order to withdraw from the square, to a captured defense hub a few blocks away.

He arrived with the remainders of the first squads, giving the order for additional troops to rally on his location. In the skies overhead, three VTOLs appeared, bringing their numbers on the location up to around 800 Praetorians. The factory district itself was swarming with their comrades; already close to 10,000 of the Empire’s elite shock troops with reinforcements on the way.

“Captain Dmitriev,” said a Lieutenant, saluting. “Detachments throughout this sector of the city are reporting stiff resistance. Losses are mounting. The armored detachments have even lost a few units.”

Dmitriev cursed his luck. The Kregaians were rallying. They’d remembered how to fight. He looked up at the factory skyline, lit here and there with flames that licked hungrily at the hazy night sky.

Water, water everywhere and not a fucking drop…

He looked back at the lieutenant.

“Get in touch with the fleet. We’re going to need fire support all night long if they expect us to take the industrial district.”

“Yes sir,” the man said, saluting. Dmitriev scowled. Overhead, more VTOLs were appearing, sending yellow streams of gun and rocket fire into the nearby quarters, raining hell on Kregaians who had taken shelter. The Generian officer looked around at his men, awaiting orders having finished fortifying the neighboring area. The defenses here would keep the neighborhood a secure base of operations for the time being. It wasn’t the best location, but it would suffice with air cover.

“Praetorians! Prepare to move out,” he said loudly, before adjusting his radio. His voice came clearly into the helmets of his subordinates.

“The Kregaians have retaken the square a few blocks north of here. Satellite imagery is also showing a great number of them congregating around an old factory close to that position. I can imagine that’s where they’ll place their command post. We have to prevent them from digging in throughout the quarter, however.”

His lieutenants began issuing their orders. The Praetorians moved out into the surrounding neighborhoods. As if on command, an armored unit consisting of nearly 100 GT-101 and GT-100 tanks rolled into the makeshift base of operations. Assigned to spearhead the various squads’ assaults, they rolled out into the black, burning city. Dmitriev watched and nodded. The advance had been blunted, but all was certainly not lost with the territory.

To further lift his spirits, as he turned his head skyward, the sound of screaming jet engines met his eardrums. A squadron of Imperial GIAB-1 strike aircraft streaked overhead, followed shortly by GIF-1 interceptors and GIF-2 air superiority fighters cruising higher and faster.

The strike fighters unleashed a punishing attack on Kregaian troop concentrations and light fortifications, while meanwhile the air-superiority aircraft engaged helicopters in the neighboring area. Meanwhile, the Imperial fleet locked onto the coordinates of the fortified factory and nearby structures that seemed like they could be easily fortified and fired off twenty high explosive cruise missiles.

“Incoming!” a Legionary roared as the two AA guns in the square opened up, spewing flak at the missiles cruising toward them. The troops on the ground scattered, as twelve of the missiles exploded in midair...leaving eight still on course for the makeshift base.

They slammed into their targets with deadly force. Three tore into the pavement, hurling stones into the air; another three blasted pits in the reinforced roof of the factory. The remaining two struck the factory as well, but instead of harming the sensitive command post, they wrecked a portion of the processing plant itself, which the Kregaians had not yet used.

Septimius was with the medics who rushed out of the command post to help the wounded. Eight Legionaries lay dead across the square, one of them having had his head completely smashed by a foot-thick chunk of concrete. The subaltern shook his head angrily. These were pointless deaths. Deaths in battle were one thing, but being killed by an anonymous missile...there was no honor in it.

Waving over a lieutenant, Septimius issued a stream of orders while scanning the skies. “New order: have all the troops put their helmets on if they’ve taken them off. These missiles will be bad enough without shrapnel deaths as well. Also, we’re gonna need a lot more air support. Send two squads to find the roof guns in the area, power them up, and use them when the Generians...”

Three fighters shrieked overhead, dropping a volley of missiles into the square. Chunks were blasted from the factory, and three more dead bodies were scattered across the square like chunks of meat, but otherwise, the damage was minimal. Septimius continued like nothing had happened. “...when the Generians send another wave of missiles or planes. Sooner or later they’re going to destroy these two AA guns here, so I want more for when that happens. Next: Arm six squads for tank-hunting and send them out. There are armored patrols in the area and I want them gone. Finally, get on the horn to KDF: I want some Balefires over here to shoot down these fucking planes, and I want them now. Dismissed!”

***

The workers’ barracks in the Industrial Quarter were not pleasant places to live. Of late, the condition of life had been much improved for the Imperial laborer: Lucifer had spent billions on that after his predecessor had let the working class languish. However, short of tearing down most of the Quarter, there wasn’t really much anyone could do to truly make things better. So the barracks had been whitewashed, given new appliances and decent furnishings, fumigated, and other improvements; but the fact was, the plumbing was still leaky, the electricity wasn’t any more reliable...and most important to the Kregaian cause, the walls were very, very thin.

Private Azimir took a running start, aimed his shoulder at the basement’s wall, and rammed straight through it. After a few dozen of those, it started to hurt like a bitch, but this way they could travel through the Quarter without having to march up and down the streets like the Generians were doing. At least this part of the quarter was abandoned; it would’ve been worse to batter into dozens of families’ basements one by one. Turning to his squadmate, Private Vitellius, he growled, “It’s your turn. I’ve done the last twenty-nine.” Vitellius was probably smiling behind his faceplate, but his tone was perfectly serious. “I’m sorry, Private, but Subaltern Kesh ordered you to break down these walls, and until we receive new orders, we must follow the old ones.” Azimir scowled. He could’ve sworn he’d heard a bit of laughter at the end.

Cursing to himself, Azimir sprinted forward and rammed through into the next apartment, clenching his teeth at the impact. He turned to Subaltern Kesh, the squad leader, intending to ask for a replacement, but before he could speak, the officer gestured for the men to be silent and use the helmet-mounted radios.

The subaltern’s voice crackled into their speakers, muttering, “All right, men. There’s a Generian patrol coming up the street. I want Azimir and Vitellius to get on the third floor ASAP and get into the apartment on the right. Gaius and Kun-Dra, on the left. Galba, Screed, and Quoreal, come with me, and the rest of you stay here. When I tell you, Azimir and Kun-Dra are gonna open up with their launchers on the tanks, my group is gonna fire from the second-floor windows, and the rest of you are gonna hurl your grenades up through these basement windows onto the street. Watch out for grenades coming back down.”

The squad sprinted away to their various positions. Azimir loaded and readied his missile launcher, and across the third-floor landing he could see Kun-Dra doing the same in the other room. Beneath them, he knew, the Subaltern and his men were getting ready to open fire, and in the basement, the four other men in the squad were readying their grenades. Subaltern Kesh’s voice crackled over their speakers again: “All right, men, we’ve got two heavy tanks and twenty-four Praetorians, by my count. Get ready...now.”

Abruptly Azimir popped up into the shattered window, took aim at the nearest tank, and launched a missile, as the other, fired by Private Kun-Dra, streaked toward the same one. Ducking back down, Azimir snatched a reload and begin putting it into the launcher. Below, the Subaltern and the three others in his group each fired a grenade from their assault rifle’s launcher and then opened fire in a blazing series of short bursts, and from the basement, four frag grenades bounced into the middle of the street. Azimir smiled grimly. Time to see what these infidel traitors were made of.

***

Meanwhile, back at the factory, three more anti-aircraft guns mounted on rooftops (a common sight in Korronis) had been brought online and were doing a fine job of shooing the odd Generian interceptor away from VII Cohort’s headquarters. Armored squads were circulating, as well as tank-hunter squads to wipe out the Generian patrols infiltrating the Quarter. Every now and then, report would come of the Generians occupying a specific factory or office, no doubt in an attempt to establish a local base as VII Cohort had, only to be immediately subjected to similar bombardments to those the Kregaians had endured. The rain continued to pour down, even as pre-dawn light began to dawn over the burning southern districts. In the skies, hundreds of Balefires fought GIF-2 air superiority fighters, exchanging volleys of AAMs and chaingun fire. This battle in the skies, luckily, provided ample chaos for transport helicopters on both sides to slip by unnoticed.

One such helicopter, a Lawgiver VTOL transport, landed in VII Cohort’s square, its rotors whirling to a halt as the doors opened. Septimius strode forward to greet them, calling, “Legionaries! Welcome to VII Cohort! That building over there is HQ. Go ahead and...” Septimius’s voice trailed off as he saw just what, exactly, he had spoken to.

Sixty men in urban fatigues with armor mounted on the chest, arms, and thighs, turned toward him with an air of cold, complete control, having been interrupted from retrieving their cargo from the Lawgiver. He could sense that although they weren’t technically in charge here, they were here for the Imperium, not a mere Legionary such as himself. Even such a man as Septimius swallowed slightly when he saw those deathmasks, wrought into the shape of some demonic skull, obscuring these warriors’ faces and identifying who they were.

The Immortals were in town.

On the beachhead,

The regmients of the KLM 30th Marine Corp were making landfall via their amphibious assault transports or Helicopter transports, these men were the first to land and last to leave in any combat situation. The Marines of the 12th, 34th, 59th and 70th regiments made their way thought the beachhead with guns blazing and with the support of their armor divisions. They had one objective, to clear the area of foes and make the path ready for the army corps to move in. The Commander officers were constantly calling for more air support and fire support against enemy strongholds, yet the marines were slowly be surely pressing forward into the streets of the city, these men were trained for urban combat and battle tested from pass conflicts. They fire their mortar and artillery rounds at any would choke points in the streets that lay ahead for minutes on end.

Captain Yunnis of the 12th Marine regiment, watch has his troops enraged in street to street fighting against the Kregians soliders. The Captain called for more air strikes and just in general more air support, after making the called, he muttered to himself

“Damn those bloody lazy air force fuckers…always taking their sweet time..in doing air stikes” Then he watches a artillery round hit of one his troop transport and destroy it. He yell out to his men “Allahu Akbar, long live the fighters!” and just his troops continue to press forward with him leading the way and firing his AK-108 at Kregians soilders.

More troops are making land fall and the army corps were also beginning to take part in the combat, about fuckin time say some of the marines as they saw their counterparts join in the action..

Asvadran, just a few hours before, had been a quiet place. The fortifications had been erected and the Legions had settled down to wait. Now, it was a shrieking hell of a place, a deathtrap for those caught within: namely, the Eighth and Twenty-Second Legions, Ishamael’s forces, and even the hundreds of thousands of civilians still in the district.

Vicious struggles raged inside of apartment buildings; as in the south, squads broke through adjacent houses to move quickly across the district, only this time using small rams to break through the tougher walls. Massive shells slammed into target after target, fired from the colossal railguns Ishamael was moving into the city; they had already turned three of the Legio VIII’s Cohort bases into dust, and were pounding away at any building that had an anti-air battery or mortar mounted on it. In the skies, helicopters whizzed back and forth, slaughtering any unsupported squads they came across and delivering additional troops to the rooftops of contested buildings, if not dropping them in the muddy streets. Farther up, amongst the forks of lightning that speared down from the clouds, Balefire fighters dueled each other for supremacy, while below, Ishamael enjoyed the colossal advantage of having several squadrons of A-10 Thunderbolts flying low over the area, blasting apart any Loyalist tanks they found and using their massive 30mm Avenger cannons to literally disintegrate Loyalist squads.

The Loyalists’ defeat was, unfortunately for them, a foregone conclusion. With the advantages of fortification they had kept it even, at first, but Ishamael’s superior numbers soon began to tell. He had superior artillery, more fighters, better air support, and above all, better tactics. Back at Korronis Defense Command, General Shadows had run out of options. Using the sewers, Ishamael’s men had surrounded the tattered remnants of the Eighth Legion, and the Twenty-Second’s command post had been taken out by a crashing Balefire. With the battle in the skies turning inevitably to Ishamael’s advantage, the High Lord sent in waves of bombers to obliterate what was left of the Twenty-Second: a cold decision, and one which condemned to death countless thousands of his own people. But this was Korronis, and no matter how well he might be doing, if he passed up the slightest advantage, General Shadows and Imperator Vuell and all the rest of High Command would turn it on him like lightning.

It became increasingly obvious that High Command had given Asvadran up for lost. Reserves were filling the districts to the southwest, such as Raesia, Damocles, and Venn Cartago, accompanied by Immortals, heavy armor, artillery, and even War-Priests; the Korronis Defense Command facility itself was being evacuated, as the area was no longer secure. Rumor came that High Lord Ishamael himself was among the attackers, directing the assault from a single M146 Despoiler tank, an act of supreme bravery and risk. One well-placed missile would kill the High Lord and end the Succession: that meant the Loyalists had won, no matter how desperate their situation. That was the good news: there was always a chance that a single stray missile might end the war then and there.

The bad news for those within was that Ishamael’s armies were moving too quickly to stop.

***

The lights of the War Room flickered and died as the power was cut. Shadows gritted his teeth in frustration; he’d elected to stay behind to the last, and much good it had done those who left: the faint sound of gunfire told of their fate. The screens and lights came back on again as the secondary generator came on-line, but all this did was illuminate the shameful scene before the general’s eyes.

Techs held handguns loosely at their sides, possessing only the barest knowledge in how to use them properly. A few Imperial Guardsmen had served as military police for the KDC facility, but only six were in the room, and they would be no match for whatever Ishamael sent at them through the locked security door.

Outside the tramp of heavy footsteps was clearly audible. A few moments of silence...and abruptly the door blew open, showering the techs and Guardsmen with shrapnel. Before they could respond, flashbang grenades poured in, along with short bursts that tore through the Guardsmen’s armor and sent them tumbling lifelessly to the floor. As the flashbangs went off, the entire room stumbled around dazedly, as Ishamael’s Legionaries rushed in with handcuffs, restraining the techs. Shadows, kneeling and rubbing his eyes, looked up as a shadow fell over him. For a moment, he stared into the Legionary’s blank faceplate, then fast as lightning, the man clubbed him with the butt of his sidearm, knocking him unconscious.

The time is 0543 hours, April 20th.

***

It might have been dawn. It could have been, but it was difficult to tell. To begin with, black stormclouds still covered the city, and the rain showed no sign whatsoever of stopping. A second tropical storm was forming in the southeast and was expected to hit Korronis early the next morning, meaning those stormclouds would be a permanent fixture for the next few days. To the north, the fires of Asvadran could be seen from a tall building, and in the south, the Industrial Quarter shook with the rumor of war. But the number-one reason why nobody knew whether or not it was dawn is that even if the clouds were gone and the sun were shining, not a soul would be paying attention.

The streets of Verreum are packed: the last of the civilians in the area are fleeing north, to Damocles and Bracada; going the opposite direction are APCs, trucks, and VTOLs carrying infantry, followed by squads of tanks rolling down the wide streets. The Ottoman armies had landed in a peculiar region of Korronis: the southern coast of Verreum was a gap in between the two great networks of fortifications on the Palatine Peninsula’s southern tip. If the Ottomans kept to the center of that gap, they would evade the fire from both; however, too far to either east or west, and Godhammer and all the other defense systems would blast them apart. That gave the outnumbered Loyalists a sizable advantage: the Ottomans all had to move through a fairly narrow bottleneck, which could be firebombed or bombarded at will. To that end, plans were set in motion.

White moves first.

Cohort after Cohort of the Forty-First Legion bulldozed a row of apartments and used the empty space to establish a base. Minelayer vehicles roved throughout Verreum, broadcasting the mines’ locations to the Forty-First’s headquarters, farther north. Mobile artillery drove from street to street, pausing to launch a shot at the oncoming Ottoman troops, while AA guns took up positions to unleash hellish fire on any Ottoman aircraft that dared come near. In the skies, High Command had had the sense to send hundreds of Balefires, AWACS craft, and bombers. Buildings are occupied, snipers are positioned, fireteams with missile launchers are stationed across Verreum.

The Imperium is ready. It is KLM’s move.

The KLM field commanders knew better to not do a full out charge on a well-entrenched foe. Also they knew had to go though this bottleneck in order to avoid the major defense networks of the city. Just they decide it would be best to hammer out the entrenched troops and then assault it with the field commanders issued orders for their troops to stop the advance for now at least.

The commanders called in for air support and sure enough four air wings of ACI-73Fs were deployed to gain air superior and four air wings of SuFB-8 Strike Phoenix Fighter-Bomber/Medium Bomber to conduct bomb raids on the chokeholds and to knock out the mobile artillery units, all these air wings were deployed from the fleet carriers, did they take some casualties but that is to be expected in war.

Soon the fleet commanders issued the release orders to fire a large amount of cruise missiles at the entrenched positions, soon over 400 high yield cruise missiles were fired at the enemy lines, hopefully blasting away at the strongholds and opening the way for a full out assault. The Field commanders deployed their Ariel drones to perform recon before they give the go ahead for a full out assault, it would be foolish to attack blind.

Black advances the Knights to disrupt from range.

The KLM air fleet moves closer, fighters deployed around the bombers to protect them from Imperial counterattack. Dozens of the enemy aircraft move closer...closer...closer...

Into the range of the Imperial defenses.

White, in turn, unleashes the Bishops to pin down and attack the Knights.

One by one, 155mm flak guns mounted atop skyscrapers spewed shrapnel into the enemy flights. In the streets below, similar guns roved about, pausing occasionally to open fire as well. Volley after volley of twisted metal lethality hurtled up at the Ottoman aircraft...but even this served mostly as a distraction, for the true blow of the hammer, coming in from the north.

Thunderbird AWACS planes calculated ranges, vectors, and received and sent targeting data to the flights of Imperial Balefires and MiGs that stood ready to intercept the oncoming KLM air fleet. A-10 Thunderbolts waited in the wings, but they had little place in air-to-air combat. And so, they waited, as the Thunderbirds calculated and confirmed locks, as the KLM forces draw nearer and nearer.

They poke a toe within range of the AAMs.

At once, hundreds of missiles streak out towards the enemy. The insanely fast and maneuverable Balefires and MiG-45s streak into action, moving faster than the eye can follow, flickering like lightning towards the Ottoman forces, chainguns blazing and chaff at the ready. Soon the battle will be joined.

The White Knights hurtle outward to counter the Blacks, and the dogfight begins.

Below, in the streets of Verreum, cruise missiles hurtle down from above on the Loyalist troop formations. There is little to be done about such threats, save for infantry to scatter and those who are equipped to do so firing back; for example, the 12.7mm machine guns on every Imperial tank are turned towards the incoming missiles, stitching bullets across the sky; however, there is only so much that such a tactic can accomplish. Even with help from the SAM batteries positioned in the district, several dozen cruise missiles make it through, each blasting a hole in the Kregaian defenses, and in total killing roughly two hundred men. The first volley has been exchanged; the ranks close, the holes are filled, more defenses are readied, and the waiting resumes.

OOC: Really sorry for the crappy post; kinda pressed for time at the moment.

Thundering and howling, channeling the fury of the elements, as below four armies channeled the fury of their disparate masters, the storm gripped Korronis still. Lightning tore the sky apart as, on the ground, the warring hordes tore the city apart. A sky of black clouds overlooked the devastation, consuming the light of the sun above and the smoke of the fires below both, and rumbled as if in anger. And yet, even with the savage beauty of the fires, and the explosions, and the spears of lightning, above it all looms the greater majesty of the Imperial Palace, the citadel and the core of Korronis, old as the Imperium itself.

It is a massive thing, the Palace. There is no other building on earth that is so vast and yet so efficient. Below the ground are buried its vaults, its primary armories, the War Room, the guards' barracks, and the storerooms. Above the ground, a thick base, twice the height of a tall man, rises and gives way to the colonnaded peristyles, grand windows, magnificent friezes and sculptures, and looming statues that adorn the Palace exterior. It rises, and rises, a man-made mountain, roofs and terraces marked by massive weapon emplacement, themselves serving as a part of the Palace's towering splendor, until all that is left between oneself and the sky is the black, obsidian pyramid that is the core of the entire complex, reaching and diminishing to a single point, a reminder that the Imperium has only one ruler and only one faith.

Inside, the grandeur is different. The exterior is stone and metal and glass, a thing of such mass that even though there are much taller buildings elsewhere in the city, the Palace draws all eyes. The interior retains the size-how could it not?-but within the walls, the splendor is as much of wealth as of size. Gilded mirrors, silver fountains, huge portraits of kings and heroes, landscapes of seas, mountains, battlefields, and the city itself; every room has been refined and perfected over centuries, every one resonating in a different way. There are rooms of soft golden light, illuminated by torches and heavily gilt; there are rooms of brooding darkness, vortexes for thought and meditation. There are long and vaulted halls, there are hundreds of meeting rooms, there are sleeping quarters of varying opulence for diplomats, generals, workers, intendants, doctors, and all the assorted hangers-on one would expect to find around a building that regularly plays host to the greatest men in the Imperium. A significant portion of the Palace's population consists of the retinues of the Inner Court. The Palace is a city, one that in itself is a masterpiece of sculpture, architecture, fortification engineering, and political showmanship.

***

"Life's but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth

They betrayed me.

He has declared it a thousand times already, but every time seems to help; every time is an injection of liquid hate, numbing the pain better than morphine. What better cure for despair than hate?

Hate gives a man meaning. Hate, and revenge, and fury...it gives me purpose.

But despair is powerful. Despair has coiled, serpentlike, around the Sacred Emperor's heart. Years of madness, of tyranny, of absolute dominion, and the Most Imperial Highness, His Divine Majesty Lucifer I sits in the Hall of Confluence upon his throne, the weight of the Iron Crown bowing his head, his eyes staring hollowly at the floor: all because of despair.

A second serpent has arisen, and that serpent is hate. Hate coils up and displays its fangs in a challenge to despair; despair, in turn, unwraps its icy length from around Lucifer's heart and turns to face hate. There is a pause as the two combatants for the Sacred Emperor's soul eye each other menacingly, and then the beasts clash. Wrapping upper bodies around each other, they snap with venomless fangs, each relying instead on their powerful muscles to strangle the other. They duel in blind fury, locked in an embrace that neither may win...and a third serpent slithers quietly onto the scene.

Honor.

This serpent is the bleeding, broken remnant of Lucifer once was. What majesty, justice, elan, and spirit is left in the Lord of Kregaia is bound within this small beast, which even now rears up to strike at his the unprotected heart while hate and despair still struggle for dominance. Fangs flash down, and poison trickles in.

And Lucifer begins to remember who he is.

He looks down to see the sword of Typhon the Warmaster, buckled to that same man's armor, reminding him of those who came before him. His hands caress the armrests of the Iron Throne familiarly, and he remembers what the holy book, Twilight of the Gods, says of despair:

"And there shall be times when thou shalt taste of defeat and sorrow; but even then, I charge thee, remember with what honor we have invested thee. For when there is still hope, it serves thee well to fight another day; but when clouds darken the sky and there is no deliverance, trust to thy gods and fight as would a caged wolf. Thus might thou learn truly to embrace Death at last."

The lesson is clear.

Lucifer raises his head, the weight of the crown bearable once more. And he stands, and as he does so, hate and despair crumble to dust in the midst of their struggle. Perhaps Korronis is doomed and perhaps not; but a true Kregaian accepts fate and chooses to fight on nonetheless. He was the hunted, now, after so long as the hunter; but he would bleed his foes regardless. The voices in his head screamed and railed, but they seemed suddenly easier to endure, now. Lucifer smiled a wolf's smile and strode towards the exit, intending to return to the War Room.

There was work to be done.

"I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked."
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth

***

The time is 0630 hours, April 20th.

A rain of flaming metal fragments fell on the helmet of Sergeant Mikhail Leonev as a rocket struck the tank a few dozen yards in front of him. He rapidly hit the pavement as the tank’s rear compartment opened and 8 more troops rushed out. Almost as suddenly, two more rockets struck the front and side of the tank. The G-100 was of hardy material, however, and as the projectiles struck, explosive reactive armor dampened their force while the other layers of armor kept the vehicle’s vitals in working order. Despite the best efforts of the enemy, it remained for the moment operational, and now the crew was looking for vengeance.

As the Praetorians took cover against the new wave of machine gun fire from buildings on either side of the street (a hail which claimed 3 of them instantly), the tank’s turret whirled on the nearest enemy makeshift garrison and blew it away with its 120mm smoothbore cannon. The coaxial flamethrower meanwhile flooded the smoking hulk of the structure with napalm before whirling on the structure the opposite end.

Leonev dived behind a chunk of fallen concrete and thanked god and his dragon skin armor as a bullet rammed harmlessly into his arm. His thermal vision useless, he scanned the buildings the old fashioned way, seeking muzzle flashes and silhouettes, and squeezed off the occasional shot.

Speaking into his radio, he order his men to seize the building on the far right. As they broke cover, two more fell as the victims as lucky shots, but meanwhile a second tank had brought up the rear and fired its cannon into a building up the street. Both sets of flamethrowers and 20mm cannon were now firing at full force, attempting to silence the enemy’s ambush. 2 Imperial IFVs meanwhile made their way to the scene of the fight to replace the fallen Praetorians.

Meanwhile, realizing the ineffectiveness of the first volley of cruise missiles, Captain Dmitriev called in a second, with the same primary target: the enemy’s main center of operations in addition to the anti-aircraft and ballistic countermeasure emplacements throughout the district. The aerial flights, still half-armed, unloaded the rest of their short and medium range air to ground missiles while a new flight of 20 Sariel strategic bombers prepared to place high explosive bombs on the fixed emplacements and fortified troop bunkers providing an obstacle to the Praetorians.

Azimir hurled himself backwards as he saw the tank cannon begin to move, and with good reason; a second later, the wall was blasted apart, and the heat and pressure of the explosion washed over him, dampened significantly by the helmet and armor. In the next room, 20mm cannon fire tore Gaius, who had been firing from the window, into pieces, and a spray of blood misted Kun-Dra's helmet. Wiping it off with the back of an armored gauntlet, Kun-Dra sprinted upstairs to the third floor, as Azimir glanced at the body of his comrade Vitellius, burnt brutally by the flamethrowers on the Generian tanks. He popped his head up, for an instant, peering out through the smoking ruin of the wall; two IFVs were moving in to cover the Generian squad, and the tanks were still functional.

Cursing violently, he sprinted into the next room, over the bloody stains Gaius had left behind, and waited for the cannonfire into the room to cease. The second it did, he leapt up, aimed at the damaged tank, and let fly another missile, then dived away to evade the fire he knew would be coming at him. As he did, a bullet lodged in his side, forcing a grunt from between his gritted teeth. Above, he heard the whoosh of another launching missile, courtesy of Kun-Dra on the third floor; Azimir heard a detonation, and then a whumpf as another Generian shell tore into the window and tore Kun-Dra apart.

Below, Subaltern Kesh and his men continued to hurl frag grenades onto the street, hopefully helping to mow down more of the Praetorians. However, they were running out of grenades, and Kesh gestured for his men to follow him. They moved through the hole that Azimir had left in the basement wall, two apartments over, and then climbed to the second floor, taking great care to stay out of sight. Spreading out through that floor, they loaded 40mm grenades into their assault rifle-mounted launchers, and waited for the Subaltern's slight nod.

Standing up, they punched through the glass, and four launchers belched messengers of death at their targets: one pocket of Praetorians was visible behind a tank, and a grenade shrieked towards them. Another two hurtled towards an IFV rolling up the street, and the fourth, towards the gun on a Generian tank, guns being one of the most vulnerable areas of a tank, save for the treads. They hustled away from the windows, wary of the Generian counterpunch, and looked to Subaltern Kesh, who was growling over the command frequency: "We need air support, right the fuck now. We're on Deviast Street, under fire from a Praetorian squad with armor. Repeat, we need air support now!" The reply crackled back: "Roger that, Subaltern. We have gunships on patrol near you; they should be there momentarily. Sit tight till then."

***

Back at VII Cohort's base, the sky was raining bombs. Missile after missile streaked towards the factory complex, some few of them destroyed by the chainguns mounted on the AA emplacements, but most of them flying true. Explosion after explosion rocked the factory, as three of the manufacturing areas came apart completely under the barrage. The command center did not escape the damage, this time; the walls shook and rattled with the force of the Generian strike, and had the computer systems there been plugged into the local power grid instead of run from a mobile generator, they would have suffered a catastrophic system crash. Outside, chunks of rubble bounced across the square as troops dived for cover. Subaltern Septimius, with a chunk of glass lodged in his arm and a long gash across his face from a flying sliver of concrete, roared orders to the men, prompting them to scramble to their feet and resume work as soon as the barrage ended.

There was a terrific roar as one of the nearby workers' barracks was suddenly blasted into dust, courtesy of a series of planted charges. Through the rising cloud of dust, one could see the huge silhouettes of two Baal mobile SAM batteries, mounted with rack upon rack of short-range interception missiles, long-range anti-aircraft missiles, and chainguns. Septimius smiled as he saw them: they were powerful weapons, the Baals, each a mobile fortress in itself. However, he was going to need more if his men were to survive the day: word was that General Shadows was MIA, and the remainder of High Command were directing the battle from the Palace. Their strategy, as they had told him in no uncertain terms, relied upon his Cohort and a few others serving as a target for as much Generian fire as possible, entangling and reducing as much of the Generian force as could be accomplished. It was an impossible task, to put it bluntly, but Septimius intended to ensure his men fulfilled it nonetheless. But if High Command was going to send them into the teeth of hell in the name of their battle plan, then they'd better get the support they needed. He looked up at the skies and gritted his teeth. If they didn't get more air support soon, it'd be a matter of minutes before the base collapsed into rubble, VII Cohort would crumble, and the Generians would push deeper into the Industrial Quarter.

A number of fighters and fighter’s bomber were shot down from the AA fire and the missiles, yet enough of the fighter and bomber wings manger to deploy their decoys and avoid getting shot down.

Yet the ACI-73Fs fighter pilots show no fear as the attack progress, and they quickly begin to engage in dog fighters with their opponents. The ACI-73Fs fighter pilots use the tactic of tag team in order to nail their opponents. The lead pilot and his wingman launch two different attacks on the same target and close in for the kill. As the fighting progress, two more air wings of ACI-73Fs were deployed to help win the skies and crush their opponents.

As the fighters unit engage their counterparts, the bomber wings begun to conduct their attack runs on the defense lines of their opponents by dropping cluster bombs and MOAB were dropped on troops lines to insure they are effectively killed.

After the results of the cruise missile strike came to the field commanders decide it was now time for all out assault. All the infantry units begun to advance behind the armor units and the minesweeper units were in the frontlines to clear the minefields. The MI-28A/N HAVOC ATTACK Helicopters and Ka-52 HOKUM B / Alligator Attack Helicopters squadrons give air cover and rain down their hellfire missile at their opponents frontlines. Just the ground war has begun.

Bombs hurtle from the skies, blasting through stone and brick and asphalt and flesh; and still the Legionaries stand firm, closing ranks around the wounded and dying, their helmets hiding clenched jaws and cold stares. "Hold!" roar the Subalterns, as another band of men is torn to pieces by the falling bombs.

As the harrying bombers fly overhead, new targets are obtained. Since the fighters above have dissolved into dogfighting, firing into them would be worse than useless; however, this leaves the AA guns free to concentrate all fire on the bombers, who, being slower, heavier, and less armed, will likely have much less chance to protect themselves. Roar after roar signals the rush of countless thousands of shrapnel fragments towards the bombers, joined by 12.7mm fire from the tanks below.

***

Higher in the skies, fighters duel to the death amid puffs of smoke, explosions, and gunfire. Twisting their planes through insane maneuvers until the rivets threaten to pop, the Kregaian pilots dance with death at every turn, some grimly silent, some laughing madly at the chaotic hunt through the skies. Death claims one, and another destroys an Ottoman plane; all just part of the game. Short-range missiles streak from their launchers, and spent rounds hurtle to the ground as the planes' 30mm Avenger cannons stream bullets towards the foe. Wrecks plummet from the sky in flames, and the dance continues.

***

Far away, in the War Room of the Palace, a breathless young officer ran up to Imperator Vuell and saluted.

"Sir, the Ottoman ground forces have begun their advance in Verreum. Still out of artillery range at the moment, sir, but they have minesweepers advancing in front of their position."

"Excellent," Vuell smiled. "I'm coming back with you. I want to know the second they put a toe into the real minefield."

The Captain of the leading squadron of Sariel bombers groaned as he saw the first fast-moving red blips on his radar signaling enemy anti-air ordinance. Breaking course, he ordered his flight to do likewise as fast moving GIF-1 interceptors and GIF-101 air superiority fighters overtook the Sariels at a much lower altitude. Dropping flares and electronic decoys while moving at high speeds, the squadrons saved the bombers and the majority of their own numbers from the new threats. Still, several conspicuous fireballs appeared in the lightening sky and a rain of red hot shrapnel fell to the ground and sea below.

On the Kreschnev, Admiral Kesec slammed his fist onto the table, watching the same developments that his pilots were experiencing firsthand.

“Baals. I’ve read about them,” said an officer of lower rank and similar age. “Extraordinarily effective, very dangerous.”

“Make them a priority, Captain. I want our missile frigates to turn those machines into craters before they shoot down any more of my pilots.”

“Aye, sir,” the officer said calmly.

With that, the “Sofia” and “Sofia 2” class missile cruisers currently pummeling the industrial quarter received the targeting information, and began launching cruise missiles at the formidable Kregaian AA defense, in addition to other fixed defenses and their former target: the command center of the VII cohort. The Kreschnev and other heavy battleships and vessels mounting significant naval guns also opened fire with shells on the Baals and the command center.

“Excellent, Captain,” said Kesec, watching the white streaks streaming from the decks of his ships towards the distant shore, and the city over which a red sun would soon rise.

“Sir, should we direct our fire against the palace? Intelligence is indicating that a sizeable portion of the high command has taken refuge there.”

“Negative. Lord Varus has specified that we refrain from bombarding the palace itself save for direct strikes against military targets. He has personal business there.”

“Aye sir,” replied the officer, somewhat puzzled but not wanting to question a direct order.

---------

Sergeant Leonev wiped a stream of grease from his visor just in time to see another missile streak from a nearby window. As it collided with the tank, he had barely enough time to be thrown from his feet before another struck true. Looking up, he observed through the smoke and to his dismay that one of the explosions had damaged the side skirt, knocking the tread from its moorings and effectively stranding the tank until a maintenance crew could arrive.

His curses were drowned out by the tank’s retaliatory fire of 20mm rounds and the cannon shot from the second that destroyed the building from whence the missiles had come. Meanwhile, the two IFVs had joined the battle with 37mm ETC guns and 7.8x63mm machineguns. As a series of rifle-launched grenades originated from the windows of a building, the second tank’s close-in countermeasure systems engaged them with a beam of shrapnel, causing them to detonate without harming the vehicles’ armor.

The Praetorians, meanwhile, struggled to take cover and return fire while the armored units provided cover and a magnet for the ordinance the Kregaians were throwing at them. Sergeant Leonov, tired of simply waiting under fire, grabbed the nearest dozen men and made for the door of a building whose top floors had been gutted by 20mm cannon fire. Instantly, he took a hit to his chest armor, and returned fire as he fell back against the wall. His men rained bullets on every corner of the bare room, and as he recovered, he drove them forward, up the steps.

As they reached and cleared the second floor, Leonov took a position at the window, and opened up on a machine gunner trying to wreak havoc on the men in the street. The Praetorians below meanwhile struggled to advance under cover of the tank and gunfire.

In the Skies, the KLM fighter pilots have done this dance of death many times before and it was nothing new to them. They continue to hunt their opponents and make their kill without second thought. As the battle of the skies intensify, the KLM fighter pilots step up the game and begun deploying their heat seeker missiles and air-to-air missiles at their targets. For fighter that their opponents shot done another one will replace for now. The KLM Naval Air Wing Corps was enjoying this chance to show the world it was as good as the KLM Air Force in every aspect.

A moderate number of fighter-bombers were shot down by the Kregaian A.A guns, which to be expected. Another wave of bombers being send to conduct another attack on the frontlines in order to weaken the Kregaian defenses.

The KLM naval commanders give the go ahead yet another cruise missile strike on the A.A. gun platforms. This threat to the air wings must be taken out at all cost. Just the remaining cruise missile reserves on board the battles cruisers, battleships, missile cruisers were deployed, while the Fleet commanders kept the SSBN and SSGN units in reserve for now. Over 800 cruise missiles were fired at their targets at all cost the A.A. guns must be take out of action…at all cost.

On the Ground, the Imperial Army, Black Legion and Marine regiments continue to advance forward with heavy artillery support fire raining on constantly on the Kregaian lines, a dearly mixed of artillery shells, rockets, and mortar rounds. The Minesweeper units continue to press ahead with the Attack Helicopters squadron firing at anything that pose a threat to the minesweeper units.

Subaltern Kesh swore violently as practically the entire side of the building facing the street crumbled under the sustained fire. 20mm cannonfire ripped holes through what was left, and the building would collapse in seconds under the tank fire. Gesturing his men to follow him, Kesh sprinted from the room and down a flight of stairs, switching to the squad frequency and yelling, "Fall back! All troops, fall back!" Static filled the channel for a moment, before the voice of Private Azimir could be heard.

"Negative, sir...I can't walk..." he said, followed by a wet cough. Kesh winced. From the sound of it, Azimir had taken fire to the guts and was coughing up blood. "Gods be with you, sir." Somewhere in the crumbling apartment complex, Kesh heard one of the Spiculums launching, answered by a convergence of machinegun and tank fire that blasted that area of the apartments into dust. Kesh offered a quick prayer to the Destroyer; Azimir might or might not have taken out one of the tanks with that suicidal last missile, but at the very least he'd given his life honorably.

They hurried back into the basement, and paused only to arm a satchel charge from Galba's demolitions pack, fastening it to the ceiling in front of one of the holes Azimir had smashed through the adjoining walls. Setting it for ten seconds, Kesh and his men sprinted away, through the holes, back to base. Behind him, the charge exploded, bringing down what was left of the apartment into the basement, sealing off the passageways. Short of a bulldozer-and there's no fucking way a bulldozer's getting into the basements of the fucking workers' barracks-the Generians wouldn't get through, Kesh reflected with satisfaction. Around half his squad lay dead, but in his judgement they'd done enough damage, and to stay would've meant the death of the rest. Besides, the Imperium wasn't done with this particular band of infidels yet.

***

Two AH-116 Twilight gunships, bristling with cannons and racks of missiles, angled in from the northwest, moving at near 180 miles per hour, already locking onto the Generian armor. They were taking no chances with the tanks; three AGM-115 Grendel missiles streaked from each gunship, one trio hurtling towards each Generian tank. The gunships followed this up with a burst of 30mm AP ammunition to each tank before streaking off again; the pilots had no intention of sitting still to let the Praetorians spray them with small-arms fire. Wheeling around, they let fly another pair of Grendels each, this time targeting the APCs, followed by similar chaingun bursts. Tight smiles spread across the pilots' faces. After almost an hour of aimless patrolling, finally they got their chance to spill some blood.

***

Back at VII Cohort base, Subaltern Septimius was snarling with rage. Missile after missile was streaking in from the Generian fleet, each targeting the Baals, and as powerful as the machines were, they only had so long before each was a flaming ruin. Additional volleys slammed into the factory, making its collapse a foregone conclusion within minutes. All he could do was order the place evacuated; if he stayed, VII Cohort, the Baals, and everyone with him would be destroyed before the sun rose.

As men filed out of the crumbling factory, carrying laptops, generators, maps, arms, and other supplies, loading them into trucks, Septimius watched bitterly as one of the overworked Baals was hit by two missiles at once, killing the crew and twisting the launching racks into scrap metal. The other continued to fire off interception missiles for its own survival, until Septimius roared at the only Baal crewman he could see, "Give it up! Fire everything you have left at the planes!" Nodding grimly, the crewman relayed the message to his superiors, and a second later, the massive mobile platorm turned and unloaded all its remaining ordnance at the Sariel bombers and the interceptors guarding them.

Suddenly, a flight of almost a hundred Balefires streaked in from the north, firing their AAMs as soon as they entered range, hurtling toward the Generian interceptors at speeds of over Mach 2.6. Some were promptly blasted apart by the predictable Generian response, but the rest snaprolled and abruptly changed direction randomly to shake off pursuers; one of the Balefire's best features. Cannons blazing, they flickered through the Generian flight of aircraft, letting fly with missiles whenever they got a lock.

***

Meanwhile, through the rest of the Industrial Quarter, the battle was raging in earnest. Rows and rows of Dragon's Teeth were set up behind mine screens, and fireteams dispersed throughout the city. Some consisted of a single "normal" Legionary, and two armed with Spiculum anti-tank missile launchers; others of a sniper and his spotters. Gunships operated in close support with infantry squads, attacking Generian patrols nearby; even armored patrols, infantry squads working with MBTs, filled the war-torn streets of the Industrial Quarter. And above it all, the skies raged with dogfights and missiles streaking towards their targets.

***

In Verreum, amidst the Ottoman advance, things were getting increasingly deadly. The skies dance and flicker with explosions; as the Ottoman fighters deploy heat-seeking missiles, the nimble Balefires and MiGs activate infrared countermeasures, launching flares to distract the missiles, mixing with the chaff to throw off "normal" AAMs, and activating jammer packages to further confuse the enemy's systems. Nonetheless, several planes are destroyed by sheer numbers, and as more Ottoman craft join the fight, the Kregaians become more desperate, calling for reinforcements.

Below, missiles and shells rain down on the Kregaians, who by remaining still are staring death in the face; nevertheless, not a single man breaks and runs. Behind them, however, mobile artillery units are fed triangulation data from the Kregaian BattleNet; this enables them to detect the location of the enemy's own artillery, and as soon as the locations are confirmed, the Loyalist artillery units launch a blistering salvo at the Ottoman artillery, intending to overwhelm them with the volume of fire.

The AA gunners, meanwhile, are forced to fight with their life. For every missile that the point-defense systems take down, it seems that three more come hurtling through at the Loyalist artillery. The barrage is brutal and long, and when it is over, almost half the Kregaian AA units are merely twisted wreckage, if there is anything left at all. Nonetheless, the survivors continue to fire on the Ottoman bombers, and at any enemy helicopters that come within range.

***

Miles away, in the depths of the War Room, Imperator Vuell gazes over the shoulder of a technician, whose eyes are just as intently fixed on the screen. It displays the satellite imagery of Verreum, showing the locations of the Ottoman minesweepers, overlaid with the images of each and every mine in the area displayed on the screen. The tech types in a few more commands, then holds his finger above the ENTER button, waiting only Vuell's command. Straightening and glancing to his left, the Imperator receives a nod from another tech.

"Sir, they are all in position."

Smiling, Vuell turns back to the first technician and claps him on the shoulder.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant. Bombs away."

The young man's finger drops, sending the command.

***

Instantly, as the minesweepers work to clear the minefields, preset charges detonate as they receive the signal relayed from the Palace. The explosion sets off the other mines in the area, and they do so; while any minesweeping vehicle has to be built to withstand the mines it clears, no machine is built to withstand the force of dozens of surrounding mines exploding at once. With any luck at all, the Ottoman minesweeping force will have been completely put out of commission by the blasts...and the vast majority of the minefields will remain intact.

The battle for the skies continue to get more intense, the KLM Naval Fighter pilots begun to catch on to how their opponents fought and behave. The KLM Fighter pilots didn’t allow their rivals to rest. They kept up the heat and let loose more air-to-air missiles and when close enough, they use their 30mm Cannons to take them out at all cost. The battle for skies was becoming a true test of wits for some of the KLM pilots.

As for the bomber wings, the losses to Anti air fire dropped after the missile strike, yet they still took some light losses. The Bomber Squadron leaders were given new order to take out the artillery emplacements at all cost. With that the bombers made their attack runs and drop their bombs over the mobile artillery units and other emplacements.

On the ground, the KLM field commanders were somewhat shocked at first to the their rivals ingenious use of the mines against the minesweeper units. The commanders order the advance to stop for now, since they have lost two whole battalions of minesweepers units. It was going to take some time before new units can be deploying from the landing zone. It went for the artillery regiments that took some heavy losses from counter artillery assault. Yet more regiments were on their way from the beachhead. The attack helio squadrons were taking some losses from the A.A fire yet they continue to give fire support to the land units as the battle raged on.

The ground commander radio to the fleet commanders requesting for fire suppression support on their foes frontlines, in order to finally make them crack. The fleet commanders order the four SDNs that were apart of the fleet to give fire support, the massive 27.1 inch cannons of these mighty warships lock on to their targets with the use of the advance targeting and fire input system and begun to rain large shells that had over a ton worth of explosives to their targets. At the same time, the Ground commanders decide to use a new tactic, they decide to send out waves upon waves of drones load with explosives to clash land on the mines area and set them by blowing up on them. They send drones repeat at a certain to clear a path for the ground units.

Imperator Vuell laughed uproariously as the Ottoman troops halted. Such a simple gesture it had been, and yet, completely unexpected. It was a shame High Lord Rahvin wasn't here; Rahvin had always been one to appreciate the unexpected.

Of course, that laughter was cut off rather abruptly at the Ottoman response. Were those-

"Drones, sir."

Vuell clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly. No point getting angry. He had to be thinking clearly. This wasn't unexpected, but it was going to be annoyingly effective. There simply wasn't a good way to take down a drone. They were too small to target effectively, small enough that using flak on them would be downright wasteful. "There's nothing," he growled to himself. "We'll just have to-"

"Shut them down," cut in a new voice...and yet quite a familiar one.

The Imperator turned to see, with surprise, the looming figure of the Sacred Emperor. Still clad in his black-and-gold ceremonial armor, Lucifer's eyes still flickered with insanity, but there was a set to his face, a determination, that had not been there before...and if the Sacred Emperor wanted to assume personal command of the battle, who was Vuell to stop him?

"Shut all the mines down. The Ottomans won't waste their time after that." Lucifer turned to regard the Imperator, raising an eyebrow at his surprised expression. "Not expecting to see me, Jakran?" Vuell, wary of giving the wrong answer, simply smiled and bowed. A tap on his shoulder raised him up, as Lucifer stated "Continue to do your job, Imperator. But as of now, I am assuming overall strategic command of this battle, and when I give an order, it will be obeyed."

***

The signal was relayed to the minefields, and suddenly the flurry of explosions caused by the drones stopped. They were no longer capable of being activated normally; the only way to set them off now would be igniting the charge accidentally, and since they were buried beneath the streets, that would be impossible without first unearthing them, or launching a firebombing strike of unheard-of size. The Loyalists doubted it would take long before the Ottoman commanders called off the waves of suicidal drones; no point in wasting good materiel.

***

Meanwhile, the duel in the sky was getting more and more chaotic, with seemingly no end in sight, despite the flaming wrecks of aircraft that plummeted down occasionally to the ground. However, increasingly the Ottoman fighters' superior numbers was having an impact, and if the Kregaians did not secure reinforcements soon, the Balefires would be wiped out.

However, there was one group that had been kept in reserve for some time now: the A-10 Thunderbolts. And with the Ottoman fighters kept occupied by the Loyalist aircraft, there was no better time to begin their own assault.

Dozens and dozens of them screamed into action, moving at a good 438 mph towards the Ottoman ground forces. When they began to enter extreme range, they slowed to around 200 mph, and soon began to unleash their weaponry. AGM missiles streaked ahead, targeting Ottoman tanks, followed by bursts from the 30mm Avenger cannons mounted on the nose; a mere six bullets from the frighteningly powerful gun could destroy even the heaviest MBT. Sidewinder AAMs hurtled from their launchers towards the enemy helicopters. When the pilots got within range, they dropped cluster bombs on infantry in the area, and then started away, hoping to evade losses as much as possible as they again accelerated to their maximum speed.

On the ground, the rain of Ottoman shells was becoming unbearable, especially with the added complication of the massive shells from the super-dreadnaughts. There was no question that the Legions could stand firm and endure the barrage...the question was whether that was still a wise move. The volume of enemy fire was intensifying, and for the troops to remain meant being caught in a meat-grinder of epic proportions. There seemed to be no way out...until a single order trickled down the chain of command.

Disperse.

To stay would mean getting torn apart amidst a hellish bombardment. And so the mobile artillery, which had suffered significant losses from the Ottoman bombers, spread out. The AA guns spread out. The infantry squads and the tanks and the APCs all spread out...until there was no longer any sort of unified target to bombard.

***

In response to Black's increasing pressure on all fronts, White stages a strategic withdrawal, to avoid presenting a single unified target.

It is Black's move.

The KLM field commander stop the done attack after realizing the their foes were adapting to their new tactics. Just was the ever-changing face of war.

The KLM fighter pilots continue to attack their prey without reserve, they showed no mercy while they hunted their prey they could smell blood in air. Also a number of the KLM fighters begun to engaged the A-10s while they are making their attack runs…a prefect target for the pilots to try their laser guided air to air missiles on.

The KLM ground units did take quiet a beating from the A-10 attack run, number of battalions took moderates losses and some of the armor divisions lost a good number of tanks. Yet the KLM units didn’t take this laying down they begun to fire their A.A. mobile units and Mobile SAM units at the A-10s…showing no mercy to their opponents.

On board the On board the AMSS Rāshidūn( flagship)

Fleet Admiral Shaykh Taj ad-Din al-Hasani, Commodore Jonathan Falkirk and General Rusçuklu Cezayirli Hasan Serif Pasha watched the latest results in the command center.

General Serif smiled and remarked” These opponents of ours are up to our own level..very resourceful fighters wouldn’t you say Fleet Admiral?”

The Fleet Admiral smiled and nodded” In odd way..they remind me of ourselves in a odd way to say the least…Commodore Falkirk..I believe its time for us use our arsenal ships in order to help our land forces friends and be finally rid of those minds and our opponents shock troops.”

The Commodore smiled and said” Indeed Fleet Admiral…..our two arsenal ships have been loaded with a special kind of warhead for their cruise missiles which should do the job..”

The Fleet Admiral turns to the General and ask “ You don’t mind another missile strike on their frontlines do you?”

The General smiled and said” Not at all…missile strike is always good in war..”

The Fleet Admiral nodded to Commodore to issue the attack orders


Surely enough the Arsenal ships that were held in reserve, fire up to 800 cruise missiles that were loaded with tungsten spikes, it was design to explode like a cluster bomb upon impact and damage everything within its target radius. All these missiles were fired at the mine field and the frontlines to insure that KLM foes were crushed or weaken enough fall apart upon a full out assault.

Captain Vitrius, commanding officer of Amon Wing, which continued to clash brutally with the KLM fighter squadrons, gritted his teeth in frustration as another member of his own squadron was hit by two missiles at once, blasting his plane into tiny fragments which rained down on the streets below. Twisting his Balefire through an elaborate roll to shake off an enemy pursuer, he was momentarily presented with a target, and squeezed the trigger on his joystick. Immediately the Balefire trembled as the 30mm chaingun unleashed a flurry of deadly, depleted-uranium rounds at the plane in front of him.

Another Kregaian pilot died screaming, though, and another was forced to eject; Amon Wing was shrinking rapidly, as was Bastet Wing, the supporting group of MiGs. Vitrius growled in fury, before tapping the radio control, switching to the command frequency.

"This is Captain Vitrius, Amon Wing; we need reinforcements ASAP! Over." For a second there was no response. Then came the familiar voice of one of Vitrius's few personal friends, Captain Tivron, CO of Thoth Wing: "We're right here."

Suddenly, several hundred AAMs streaked into the fray, each targeting a KLM fighter, and seconds later, the six dozen Balefires of Thoth Wing streaked into the battle, ready to kill. Vitrius smiled; the odds had just gotten a lot better.

***

However, thousands of feet below, the A-10s had not escaped unscathed from their bombing run by any means. Although they had inflicted fairly significant losses on the KLM troops, the Ottoman fighters had decided to target them as well; besides which, the infidels' ground forces had responded with a volley of SAMs and flak shells. While the ECM packages mounted under each wing of the A-10s did an excellent job of spoofing the SAMs and AAMs, unguided flak had no such easy remedy, and a few missiles did still make it through. By the time the A-10s streaked out of range, roughly a quarter of their numbers had perished. Unfazed, the pilots turned around and began another pass, unleashing, in total, hundreds of tons of high explosive in addition to the laser-guided cluster bombs, 30mm cannon fire, and AGMs.

***

On the ground, the volley of missiles fired by the arsenal ships inflicted hellish damage on the city. In a matter of seconds, the bomblets contained within the missiles had depleted practically the entire minefield, with only a few of the mines still intact. The missiles did heavy damage to any buildings they hit, as well; however, what with practically all of the Loyalist forces having dispersed through the underground, very few actual casualties were inflicted. On the other hand, the minefield was now effectively out of the way; the KLM forces were liable to advance at any time.

Meanwhile, further into Verreum, a vast network of defenses was being prepared while the fighters battled in the air. Word had come down from High Command that the Sacred Emperor was personally overseeing the defense of the city, and Lucifer was known to be perhaps the best military mind in the Imperium. True, men such as Ishamael and Rahvin were known to be on a level with him, but Lucifer had an alarming tendency to do the unexpected...a tendency which inspired the Legionaries and military engineers to complete his strange instructions quickly and willingly, rather than confusedly.

Anti-tank ditches were dug, or Dragon's Teeth were erected behind them. Alleys were cleared, to provide a tempting method of quick transportation...and then mined. Explosives were set on the underside of manhole covers; snipers were positioned on rooftops, anti-tank fireteams spread out through the district, and heavily armed squads of Legionaries tramped through the sewers. Many key buildings were wired with explosives; deadly shrapnel-scattering flechette mines were inserted in streetlamps; 25mm rapid-fire grenade launcher emplacements were set up behind sandbags at key locations.

As the Ottoman army marched north, Verreum prepared to meet its onslaught.

***

Miles to the north, the Loyalists scrambled to hold back Ishamael's relentless advance. A little beyond that, Ishamael's rebels smiled grimly as they pressed deeper into the city, despite having encountered very stiff resistance of late; rumor held that the Sacred Emperor was in charge of the defense, a thing which certainly explained the better Loyalist performance. But some distance beyond that still, inside the Temple of the Ascendant Dragon, Ishamael lounged on a heavy ebony chair and chuckled, as the chained figure of General M. Shadows was led into the temple's sanctum.

"General Shadows!" he called, smiling. "Have a seat. It's been too long. Would you like a cigar?" The imprisoned general cast a murderous look at the servant who offered a cigar box, then turned the same gaze on Ishamael. The High Lord's smile never faltered, however. "I see you'd rather dispense with courtesy. Very well, General. Now, I'd like to discuss a few matters with you. As you're well aware, my armies have penetrated deep into Korronis and are on their way to the Sacred Precinct. I expect them to reach the Palace within forty-eight hours at the absolute most. That doesn't take into account the millions of Generians fighting their way through the Industrial Quarter, or the Ottoman army in Verreum. The Loyalists can't fight a three-front battle forever, General. It's a race to the Palace, and whoever gets there first will dictate the end of the battle.

"Now, General Shadows, I'm assuming the stability of the Imperium is important to you; please correct me if I'm wrong. No? Fair enough. You see, the war ends when I sit on the Iron Throne, wearing the Iron Crown, as you know well, and only then will I be able to tell the Generians and the Ottomans to back off. Until that happens, every Loyalist is still fair game. And so, if you'd like to preserve as much Kregaian life as possible, I strongly suggest that you assist in getting me into the Palace as soon as you can. And the best way for you to do that is to tell me what everything you can about the Loyalist defenses. So."

Ishamael paused invitingly, waiting for Shadows to begin talking, but when the general remained silent, glaring contemptuously at him, the smile slipped from Ishamael's face, and he spoke once more, in a much colder and deadlier tone.

"General Shadows, I am not going to torture you. I will have your information, or I will not; I am not going to waste time on you. I have asked you politely; if you remain silent, I will kill you, brutally and publicly. I have no mercy for fools, and no desire to watch my men extract what I need from you forcibly. Besides," he said, chuckling suddenly, "this is better just from the intimidation. Now, what is your choice?"

The general refused to speak.

The KLM fighter pilots smiled as the battle just enter another level of intensely as more of their opponent’s fighter air battle. The KLM fighters continue to press forward, despite taking losses, they still manger to fight on, they deploy their decoys and manger for the most part avoid a good number of AAM, yet still a number of fighters were shot. Soon reinforcements were send in by ways of four air wings of F-20B Enforcers to support their comrades in arms and not to allow the their opponents gain a upper hand in their air battle.

On the grounds the regiments continue to take a beating from A-10 attack runs…but they continue to fire back with flak and more SAMs…they will not allow their opponents to have it easy at all…let them hurt was the thinking of the most of the anti air regiment commanders.

“Why brother to run into a hornet nest while you can blew the fuck out of it and be rid of the problem without even risking your life at the same time?” That was the thinking of the KLM ground commander, before they even issue the go head orders for their regiments to push forward. They called for yet another massive artillery shelling from all the mobile artillery regiment, and the battleships of the fleet. For nearly 20 minutes nonstop a massive artillery assault happen a combinations of rockets, massive SDN shells and numerous artillery shell were used during this 20 minute assault..which was design to destroyed as many building as they can and to weaken their foes defenses. After the shelling, waves upon waves of recon drones and larger versions of those drones that were armed with hellfire missiles were send in to perform recon and to attack targets they come across. They were design to fell out their opponent’s defenses.

Then finally the go ahead was given for all 20 army, marine and black legion regiments to go forward and slowly advance into the area, they were given standing orders to kill anything that was remotely a threat. They had the support of tanks and BMPs, which given the Inf. Platoons plenty of fire support and cover. Also flamethrower units were also deployed in order to clear out of buildings and bunkers of troops.Just the ground assault begin…

In the air, the battle was becoming more and more fast-paced and deadly. Plane after plane burst into flaming fragments that rained to the ground below; the Balefires and MiGs twisted and writhed through the melee, chainguns blazing and missiles streaking from their launchers. Below them, the A-10s never flinched as they flew back into the firestorm of flak; by the time they escaped and headed back to an airbase to replenish their cargo of bombs and missiles, more than half of them were gone. However, to replace them, three squadrons of Behemoth strategic bombers, escorted by almost two hundred Balefires, lumbered through the sky, thousands of feet above the battling fighter wings. When the Behemoths reached the appropriate point, each released a pair of MOABs, dozens of laser-guided cluster bombs, and a cloud of AGMs, before turning around, escort and all, to reload, just as the A-10s had done...and in their wake, enough firepower to level a city tumbled to the ground over the Ottoman army.

On the other hand, the Kregaian-held areas of Verreum were taking a similarly massive pounding, from both land artillery and the KLM fleet. The Legionaries, wherever possible, simply hunkered down as buildings crumbled over their heads; the tall apartment buildings absorbed most of the fire, preventing it from reaching the streets. However, many of the buildings collapsed completely under the barrage, killing any who were inside them. There was little else to do, though, but wait for the KLM forces to enter the fortified zones; the only thing the Legionaries had to shoot at was the drones. Whenever a drone passed by a Legionary, or a gun emplacement, a storm of fire would be directed its way. Orders had been put in for the ECM pods from planes to be removed, hooked up to generators, and spread out through Verreum; these would jam the drones, preventing them from receiving commands and making them sitting ducks.

Soon, however, the KLM army was beginning to march into Verreum...and then the fun began.

Dragon's Teeth prevented armored patrols from passing by them, and any infantry who tried to climb or jump over them ran into mines planted on the other sides. Hidden machine-gun emplacements opened fire suddenly on squads that wandered off from the main body of enemy troops. While the fighters clashed in the skies, helicopter gunships moved unmolested at low altitudes, using their missiles and chainguns to annihilate enemy squads, or moving around Legionaries to achieve local superiority. When an enemy patrol walked over a manhole cover, the explosives on the bottom side detonated with lethal force, wreaking havoc on those above it. Spotters concealed themselves and watched as the Ottoman troops moved down streets, using remotes to detonate the flechette mines hidden in the streetlights. Using the sewers and the subway to move around, fireteams of Legionaries, equipped with Spiculum anti-tank missile launchers, popped up in the most unlikely places, launching a volley at the enemy armor, then retreating again. Sometimes a KLM patrol would round a street corner, only to find themselves facing a rapid-firing grenade launcher emplacements, hurling grenade after grenade into their midst. Deeper into the city, M146 Despoiler MBTs and T-120 Ravager tanks roved, attacking any enemy patrols they encountered. Kregaian losses mounted, true, but as much of the fighting as possible was conducted without encountering the enemy, and if one did encounter them, one launched a sudden and powerful attack then fled. Stealth, speed, and misdirection...followed by a sudden, brutal assault.

Black sends the pawns toward White, and the true fight begins.

The battle for the air was intensifying, yet the KLM air wings continue to their combine assault on their opponents. Four more naval air wings of F-20B Enforcers were deployed to help secure the skies and were assign to hunter killer missions to strike down any bomber units that their opponents deployed in order to prevent them from reaching their targets. 4 air wings of SuFB-8 Strike Phoenix Fighter-Bomber/Medium Bomber were deployed arm with cluster bombs and napalm begun another attack run on their foes frontlines, they quickly dropped their payloads and return to reload and do it attack.

The KLM Recon drones and their hellfire counterparts switch to AI mode after losing contact with their command centers, which was failsafe designed into their systems if they jammed, they continue their missions and attack runs on the foes.

The KLM ground forces did take a beating from the bombing and the tough fighting from their opponents a number of regiments were force to withdraw do their heavy losses. Yet the KLM forces continue to press forward. The Black Legion deployed their` GRI-37 Corvus Attack Helicopter and MI-28A/N HAVOC ATTACK HELICOPTER squadrons to shot down their opponents attack squadrons and to provide air support to the ground units. The more seasonal regiments avoid the manholes or anything that could pose a danger. They use their MAD.V Imperator-II for the Black Legions and MAD.IVM Imperator Main Battle Tank for the regular army and marines to fight against their foes armor divsions…these tanks were design to take a beating and return the favor, they didn’t allow their foes to enjoy the moment, they keep on fighting…attacking the tanks and emplacements. They shelled any that could be used against them,they use their machine guns to gun down the their pops as they pop out of the manholes or other locations. More units were being deployed and their fighting back showing no fear.

Ground commanders decide it was time to raze what lay ahead of their advancing units. All the artillery regiments composing of The PzH 2000 155mm self propelled howitzer, TOS-1 Buratino 220mm Multiple Rocket Launcher and G5: 155mm towed gun Howitzer which number in the 100s for each regiment, begun massive artillery shelling and rocket attack on right behind the frontlines of the foes in order to insure chaos and destroy any kill zones and formations. At the same time of this artillery assault, the Fleet Commanders decide to deployed their reserved cruises missiles from the SSGN, SSN, and SSBN and was left on their Torrent-class arsenal ships. It was largest deployed of cruises missiles for this battle so far over 2400 missiles were fired their targets were to burn anything right behind the frontlines, destroy their underground networks and other emplacements. Following that all the battleships begun to once again begun to shell those same exact targets again and again to their standing orders were to raze the fucking city once and for all.

The Empire’s GIF-101 air superiority fighters already in the air immediately targeted the Kregaiain gunships heading for the battlefield and instantly engaged with medium range and short range missiles, depending on their distance from them. Hundreds of the things streaked towards their targets. GIF-1 interceptors and the rest of the intimidating presence of air superiority fighters continued to engage Kregaiain loyalist air units. As the tanks and APCs on the particular street in question were engaged and destroyed by the units that penetrated Generian air cover, more moved to take their places, along with the Imperial mobile anti-air artillery and SAM missile platforms known as GADM-2 Bloodhounds.

As the wave of Balefires streaked into range, Imperial fighters entered evasive maneuvers before turning to pursue and engage. The GIF-1 interceptors, having kept their distance fired long range intercept missiles while, with the aid of their own sensors and AWACS aircraft, the Imperial fleet fired its own surface to air missiles. A number of Imperial fighters succumbed to the retaliation, but gave back as good as they got.

Meanwhile, the Sariels, detecting the Baals last ditch wave of ordinance, engaged the missiles with anti-IR microwave laser jamming systems as well as through releasing directed chaff and flares. The other passive jamming systems came online, jamming Kregaian radar and radar jamming devices. The measures were formidable, and only 2 of the bombers were struck by the Kregaian retaliatory attack. The Imperial fleet continued its cruise missile barrage of the kregaiain positions, infantry and armor in the streets, and the remaining Baal.

On the ground, Sergeant Leonev fell back as his squad succumbed to the aerial assault, seconds before the Imperial airforce retaliated. Cursing, he fell in behind the cover of an approaching GT-101, joining another detachment of Praetorians. The fight was getting down and dirty, the Kregaian soldiers bringing their Spiculum launchers to bear on the Empire’s troops. However, they were not the only ones who employed the weapon, and with devastating effect an Imperial Praetorian to the Sergeant’s left fired a fuel-air rocket at a building down the street, collapsing it instantly as the explosion engulfed the structure.

The Empire’s forces were pressing forward, despite growing casualties and stiffer resistance. The Imperial fleet coverage, including the formidable heavy guns of the battleships and the deadly accurate cruise missile and the growing amount of air superiority paved the way for the armor and infantry below. Having landed, the first divisions of Imperial regulars were moving into the industrial quarter to back up the beleaguered but still bloodthirsty Praetorian contingents spearheading the attack. In an hour, there would be over 100,000 Imperial troops on the ground.

As the Behemoths crossed back into the loosely-delinated Kregaian airspace, headed for a military airbase to refuel and rearm before another bombing run, their escort was suddenly no longer necessary, and were commanded to attack the KLM bombers attacking the Kregaian-held areas of the city. This they did, letting fly clouds of missiles, before engaging them as Balefires were meant to do: in dogfights. True, the Balefires were outnumbered, but there was no such thing as a good bomber capable of fighting off interceptors. Technology was on the Balefires' side. Meanwhile, above them, the original air battle still raged, with the casualties mounting on either side.

On the ground, air defense vehicles fired madly as the rain of missiles and bombs continued. The bombardment from the ships hollowed out whole blocks, but the Legions stood firm under the attack as the battle continued. Ottoman met Kregaian, MAD.V Imperator-II met M146 Despoiler, MI/28A-N HAVOC met AH-166 Twilight; it was a duel to the death, and both combatants were armed with equally lethal weapons.

Suddenly, an unprecedented storm of fire erupted from the KLM fleet. The wreckage of the taller buildings absorbed some of it, but much of it tore through and wreaked havoc in the streets. Casualties were particularly heavy, and although few of the missiles managed to do serious damage to the subway system, in several places the sewer pipes were exposed by the detonation of a succession of missiles. Teams were sent in to demolish the areas just beyond, to prevent KLM troops from using the sewers to move around, but it was a clear indicator of the KLM superiority in terms of artillery, as tanks and infantry murdered each other relentlessly in the war-torn streets.

The KLM Fighter Air Wing soon jump at the chance to strike the their opponents are they attempt to attack the bomber wings. They will not permit their foe to get an easy target…they will make them pay in blood for every plane they shot down. Just the air war continues to intensify as both sides continue to take losses from A-A fire or from getting shot down by missiles or machine fire.

The KLM ground units continue to press forward they slug back whatever their opponents fired back at them. Both sides continue to take losses as the battle rage, and KLM tank and inf commanders continue to order their units to go forward and destroy their opponents. The MAD.V Imperator-II continue to fire rain down their shells on their rivals tanks and repeat shell them as they pressed forward. Then the KLM field commanders decide to release a new toy on to the battlefield, Tank killer drones, that were armed with anti tank missiles and their A.I. were program to attack the opponent’s tanks whenever they saw them. Yet these units didn’t go to far ahead of the main KLM ground units they usually were flying close to them in order to give fire support.

The KLM battle fleet and artillery units continue to give fire support to the ground forces and just the rain of fire continue to occur.

The gunships, caught off-guard, desperately deployed flares and engaged in what limited evasive maneuvers they could; however, dozens of them were shattered by the sudden assault, and fled disorganizedly back to where more established air defense systems could cover them.

Higher in the air, however, the Kregaians had only begun to fight. Hundreds of planes were already in the air, but the Balefire was designed to be deployed in swarms of thousands...and Korronis did not lack for military airfields. Squadron after squadron took off, launched their missiles, attacked the Generian air superiority fighters, and returned to reload, forming a sort of Cantabrian circle of fighters. From afar, the occasional volley of Generian long-range AAMs streaked through, taking down Kregaian planes; however, Balefires were nimble for a reason. Their insane maneuverability, and their impressive ECM capabilities, guaranteed an acceptable survival rating as the battle raged on. Furthermore, more and more mobile SAM platforms were being deployed in the Industrial Quarter.

However, they were being deployed some distance back from the front line. All over the Quarter, the Kregaian Legions were being forced to pull back. They were fighting viciously against the Generians, but there was no denying the enemy was effective; besides which, there were a great deal of them. Destroy one squad, and another replaced it. Waves of A-10 light bombers, escorted by flights of Balefires, streaked over the Generian lines, bombing the larger task forces, but there was a limit to what the Imperium could drum up. The Legions began to pull back, fighting every step of the way, grinding away at the Praetonians and the increasing numbers of Generian Army regulars in the Quarter.

Meanwhile, deep in the Quarter, beyond the reach of the Generian incursions, a host of military engineers were at work on the Imperium's surprise.

Imperator Vuell gritted his teeth as the latest status report from Verreum arrived. More losses on all fronts; the KLM bombardments had failed to compromise the subway system, but the sewers were exposed in several places. Despite all the preparation by the Imperium, the battle was no better than even; 25mm rapid-fire grenade-launcher emplacements and roving anti-tank fireteams were countered by the sheer power of the Doomani-designed KLM tanks and the drones that drifted through the district.

He turned to the Sacred Emperor, who was studying a display of the battle with the Generians. "Great Lord?" Sighing, Lucifer strode over to Vuell's station and inquired patiently, "Imperator?"

"Divine One, the KLM incursions are becoming more and more wearing, and if anything the bombardment is intensifying. I submit that the situation is untenable. What are your orders, Great Lord?" Lucifer, for a moment, seemed to ignore the question, studying the readouts and gazing at the tactical display. Vuell was about to take the dangerous risk of asking again, when Lucifer abruptly straightened. "Pull back," he said calmly. "Not a retreat; simply move backwards. I want more Dragon's Teeth, by the way. Lots of them. The Doomani tanks are too good; so we take them out of the equation. It'll free up our tank-killers and allow us to use the Sidewinders. And prep another two fighter wings. Carry on, Imperator." Vuell nodded curtly and issued the necessary orders as the Sacred Emperor walked away.

***

Immediately the orders were carried out. The withdrawal was not a retreat, per se; 'retreat' implies a degree of disorganization, which certainly was not present as the Kregaians moved backwards. While individual fireteams remained where they were, the main body of the Legions in Verreum simply moved north, quickly but calmly, laying anti-tank mines and walls of Dragon's Teeth as they went; the fewer enemy tanks that followed them, the better. On the other hand, the Legionaries mostly abandoned the sewer; what with the craters caused by the bombardment, the KLM troops could infiltrate the sewer pipes anytime they wanted to. Behind the newly established front line, delineated by the patches of mines and the rows of Dragon's Teeth, Sidewinder IFVs roved along with M146 Despoilers, transporting patrol squads from place to place. Attack gunships provided close air support, occasionally engaging the KLM gunships as well. The battle had not truly changed; it had simply shifted north.

Meanwhile, in the air, basically the same was happening. The Balefires were not truly disengaging, but dancing slightly out of the immediate reach of the KLM fighters, forcing the enemy to chase them north in order to continue the fight. Meanwhile, the two hundred Balefires that had attacked the enemy bombers screamed away as soon as the Ottoman fighters made a move to intercept them, pushing the engines to almost Mach 3. And then, as soon as the Imperial fighters had retreated far enough that the enemy aircraft were in range of the ground-based air defense systems, the battle began again; all the Balefires turned and rocketed back at the enemies that had been chasing them, chainguns blazing and missiles tearing from launchers.

On the ground, the field commanders issued a set of new orders for their ground units to stop their offensive and take stock of their looses. Soon tired units were replaced with fresh regiments and more anti air units were deployed. But the field commander did not give the go ahead yet..they order the units to wait for now.

Yet all the artillery regiments with new sat data begun massive artillery shelling of their rivals new front lines non stop shelling and rocket fire and Plus the fire support of the battlefleet to help in the shelling of the new lines. Their goal was not to allow their opponents to feel safe.

As the battle in the sky the KLM pilots laugh at the face of death..they welcome it, they deploy their decoy systems and manger to avoid most of the missiles that were fired at them..yet a number of fighters still got shot down. They return the favor and fire back with no holding back. Two more fighter wings of F-20B Enforcers were deployed to joint the battle of the skies and another 6 fighter squadrons of F-20B Enforcers were deployed to protect the skies around the ground units and attack any bomber formation that could come after them.

The Financial District. The gleaming, glass-and-steel sluice through which the wealth of Korronis, the Empire, and the whole world flows. A shining example of the influence of the Kregaian rulers; a pristine network of skyscrapers and banks with elaborate marble facades. The entire island, although shrouded in the same near-constant cloud all of Korronis was, caught what light there was on its myriad windows, reflecting it amongst themselves and turning the District into a fair semblance of a glowing city of diamond, despite the iron-gray skies.

Today things were different. The bankers and financiers, statisticians and analysts, clerks and tellers, executives and economists had all been evacuated across the straits some time ago. The island was reduced to a ghost down, roamed by Loyalist patrols, who held the District in a loose grip.

When the signatures of hundreds of transport aircraft showed up on the radars, it was already too late.

Ishamael’s men, parachutes strapped on above their armor, hurled themselves from transport planes as the High Lord’s fighters flew cover above. Lawgiver helicopter transports landed on the larger rooftops, disgorging a full five squads of infantry. The Loyalists fought bravely and well, but there were simply too many of Ishamael’s men, in too little time. The substantial air support and the sheer speed of the assault overwhelmed the small Loyalist garrison...and soon, long before Ishamael’s second-in-command Anton Malustar arrived to oversee the fortification of the Financial District, it was totally in rebel hands.

***

“Are we on?”

“Yes, Lord. Live in five, four three...”

High Lord Ishamael, in a spotless and tasteful dinner jacket and grey tie, hands clasped behind his back and face smiling, looked towards the camera and spoke. “Viewers, I trust you know who I am. I am High Lord Ishamael Sadow, currently engaged in the Succession in Korronis. I’m coming before you today briefly, just to make public the solution to a small problem of mine.

“You may not all be acquainted with this man,” Ishamael proclaimed, throwing aside the black curtain behind him to reveal the rigid form of General M. Shadows, chained to a high-backed chair and jaw clenched tight, refusing to say a word. “This is General M. Shadows, Commander of the Korronis Defense Force. In my advance on the city, I captured the general, and he refused to reveal information that would have hastened my accession to the throne and thus the end of the war. From this, I can only conclude that General Shadows has lost his honor and his regard for Kregaian integrity. And, of course, there can only be one punishment.”

With brutal speed, Ishamael took his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bodkin firmly gripped in a leather glove. He rammed the cruel weapon into Shadows’s throat, pinning it to the back of the chair, then turned away from the corpse, facing the camera again.

“An untidy matter. Well, I have a battle to fight; I’ll be seeing you all in a few days.”

“Cut!” yelled the cameraman. “That’s it. Thanks, Lord. I’ll have it sent to the Palace as soon as I can.”

OOC: As you both know, I'm gonna be away for around a month; I may have computer access, but I won't have time to write long posts even so. I get back the 29th, I believe, and we'll try to finish this by mid-August. Good luck and godspeed to all.

OOC: I'm back now. I'm not 100% on this, but GE: I think it's your move.