An Answer to the Ultimatum

Falcon City. Streets that once bustled with prosperity were now desolate and quiet. Aside from a few main thoroughfares leading to the royal palace and the military barracks that were kept clear, every other avenue and alley was littered with barricades and bunkers. A few laborers were hard at work riveting scrap iron bars into tetrahedral hedgehogs. This was already their eleventh one today. The officer in charge of the labor corps had told them these obstacles could stop Alliance tanks. Yet almost everyone felt it was a complete waste of effort. If even the river embankment couldn't hold back the tracks of Alliance tanks, what good was a pile of makeshift anti-tank hedgehogs? The enemy could simply smash through the houses lining both sides of the street and bypass them entirely. "I heard Bister Town fell." A bare-chested man wiped the sweat from his brow, resting his sun-darkened arm against the newly assembled hedgehog. Hearing this, the nearby laborers turned to look at him. An older man in his forties or fifties muttered skeptically, "Is that for real?" The bare-chested man spoke with absolute certainty. "God's honest truth! I was working outside the city yesterday, and I saw a unit retreating from the direction of Bister Town with my own two eyes..." Whether they followed the progress of the war or not, none of Falcon City's residents were strangers to that fortress-like settlement. Before the Wilantes arrived, their economically impoverished nation had never even attempted to construct a fortress in the desert. Because of that, the Falcon royal family constantly boasted about the fortress standing proudly in the sands, citing it as proof that aligning with the Legion had been an exceptionally wise decision, proof of the Legion's superior construction engineering, and proof of the friendship between the Falcon Kingdom and the Legion... And it was indeed true that, up until half a month ago, Bister Town had served as the frontline logistics hub. No one could believe that such an invincible bastion could fall so easily... "Bister... even that place fell?" "Are the Alliance troops coming to slaughter us?" "I heard the entire Alliance is made of bloodthirsty wastelanders who were born in barbaric, impoverished, forsaken lands... Spirit of the Sand Sea above, who knows what those savages will do to His Majesty's palace once they get here." The men whispered among themselves. A boy whose cheeks were sunburned a waxy red asked nervously, "What... what about the Legion?" Those towering Wilantes had always given him a sense of security. The radio broadcasts said reinforcements from the west would arrive soon. As long as they held out just a little longer, the Alliance would quickly be drowned beneath tens of thousands of tanks. However, the adults clearly put no faith in those words. The dark-skinned man shook his head. "The Wilantes are setting up three new defensive lines, but I doubt it'll do any good... Less than half of the troops pulled back from Oasis 3 made it. If you ask me, this war's about to end." Terrified by his words, the older man beside him rushed forward to slap a hand over his mouth. "Shh! Shut your damn mouth! What if the patrol guards hear you?!" A resident wrapped in a turban glared at him furiously. "Rumors! Nothing but rumors!" Others immediately chimed in. "That's right! His Majesty is the warrior chosen by heaven—how could he possibly lose!" Realizing his slip of the tongue, the dark-skinned man quickly amended, "I said it's ending, not that we lost... I meant the Alliance is finished, and of course our wise and mighty King will win in the end." Yet even the most devout believers didn't buy that explanation. Just then, patrol guards approached in the distance. The men abruptly fell silent and hurried back to their stations to resume working. "...Is there really any point to patrolling? Feels like there's barely anyone left in this city," a guard with a slung rifle muttered, yawning as he glanced at the obediently working laborers. These recent days were undoubtedly the most peaceful Falcon City had ever seen. No thieves. No robbers. Not even pedestrians. From twelve-year-old boys to forty-six-year-old men, anyone capable of holding a rifle had been sent to the barracks or the labor corps. Aside from His Majesty's royal court, one could hardly find a single idle soul in the entire city. "Patrols aren't meant for catching criminals; they're for catching draft dodgers," the older guard said, scanning an alley at the corner of the street before moving to check inside. Right then, a shrill siren suddenly wailed in the distance. "Fuck! An air raid?!" His face wasn't the only one to drain of color. The laborers building barricades on the street dropped their tools and bolted frantically into the side alleys to find cover. Word was that Alliance aircraft were exceptionally elusive, darting like sparrows that the Wilante radars couldn't lock onto at all. More often than not, bombs would come raining down right after the siren began to wail. This time, however, was unusual. They waited for a long time, but no explosions followed. Not a single airplane was in sight. Sensing something strange, the older guard frowned. A dud? Just as the thought crossed his mind, fluttering white sheets of paper began to drift down from the sky. "What's that?" The younger guard reached out curiously, catching one of the falling papers and unfolding it to take a look. One glance was all it took. The lines of print nearly stole the breath from his lungs. [Official Notice to the Royal Family of the Falcon Kingdom! Our forces will carry out a strategic bombardment of Falcon City's royal palace, military barracks, and related facilities on the final day of this week. Surrender is your only way out; stubborn resistance will only result in your total destruction!] [Addendum 1: Residents of the city are advised to evacuate combat zones. If unable to leave, please remain inside your homes to avoid stray bullets and shrapnel.] [Addendum 2: All combat personnel of the Legion and Falcon Kingdom, including soldiers and officers, who present this leaflet at Alliance positions to surrender will be spared from prisoner status.] [Addendum 3: (Air Raid Emergency Shelter Guide), (Designated Safe Zone Locations)] The Alliance... They had already advanced this far? Why had the radio never mentioned a word about it? Panic surged in his eyes. He looked up at his senior officer, only to find the man staring straight at the leaflet in his hands. Like touching a live wire, the young guard instantly tossed it aside. "R-Report, sir! I definitely didn't have any, any—" "Shut up." The older guard glanced left and right. Seeing no one watching, he walked over and picked up the leaflet the young man had discarded. "We need to collect these and destroy them... You handle that side," he said, pointing to the adjacent alley. "Go." Heaving a sigh of relief, the young guard nodded tremblingly and trotted off toward the alley. The older guard looked down at the leaflet, his eyes resting upon the map marking the designated safe zones. After committing the locations to memory, he folded the paper down to the size of a thumb and slid it into his boot. Hoarding enemy propaganda was a capital offense. Yet, as if possessed, he did it anyway. Even though their superiors repeatedly brainwashed them with claims that the Falcon Kingdom's army was sweeping across the desert under Prince William's brilliant command, crushing all resistance and conquering the lands of the Lion and Camel Hump Kingdoms, hardly anyone believed that nonsense anymore. Every soldier who returned from the east arrived with terror-stricken faces and hollow, vacant eyes... That was never how victors looked. Not far away, the dark-skinned laborer and the older man in his forties or fifties also carefully hid leaflets of their own. The two exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Even if not for themselves... They had to do it for their defenseless families. Amid the screeching wail of the air raid sirens, similar scenes unfolded across the entire city... *** At the same time, inside the Falcon royal palace. Unlike the chaos and turmoil in the streets, it was eerily silent here. Seated upon a magnificent throne, the aged King Menggote stared blankly at a neatly written roster in his hand. It was a list sent over by the special tribunal, recording the next batch of people to be executed. When the war had been going well, there were rarely more than one or two names on it. But once the front lines took a disastrous turn for the worse, there were times when a single sheet of paper wasn't enough to fit them all. Among the condemned, some were spies, some were deserters, and others were traitors who had dared question the royal family's decisions—or simply political dissidents framed by rivals in the chaos. King Menggote knew full well that many on the list were innocent, but he no longer had the patience to concern himself with such trivial matters. Signing his name without a second thought, he tossed the roster irritably to the commander of the royal guard standing beside him. "Deliver this to Count Cromwell." Count Cromwell was the presiding judge he had appointed to the special tribunal. His authority superseded both military and civil courts, tasked solely with purging traitors. "Yes, Your Majesty." The guard commander bowed solemnly and accepted the document with both hands. Menggote suddenly noticed that the hands outstretched before him were trembling slightly. Looking up at the commander, his dry, cracked lips moved slowly as he called out the man's name. "Midal." The commander's shoulders flinched. He answered in a low voice, "What is it... Your Majesty?" "You are afraid." "I... I am not." Watching his confidant drop to his knees with a thud, Menggote's murky eyes softened with sudden benevolence. He placed a hand on Midal's shoulder, patting it gently. "Do not worry. The Wilantes have given me their word... General Griffin himself promised that he will deliver victory to us." It wasn't just General Griffin's promise. His son, William, was likewise a brilliant marshal. Menggote had prepared for this war for over a decade, all for the future of his people, to fulfill the long-cherished dream of his ancestors... He held a full hand of cards. There was no reason he could possibly lose. Midal kept his head lowered, his Adam's apple bobbing. He wanted to say something, but didn't dare. A bitter smile crept across his face, hidden in the shadows. He knew very well. The King before him had lost his mind. In fact, it wasn't just the King... Everyone here had gone mad. Including himself. "Yes..." Midal responded respectfully. Just then, hurried footsteps echoed outside the hall. An officer jogged in, dropped to one knee, and reported in rapid succession: "Report, Your Majesty! The Alliance has dropped leaflets over our city! They claim they will launch an air raid on the final day of this week—" "How could Alliance aircraft possibly reach this far!" King Menggote cut him off in an unquestionable tone, then added offhandedly, "Bring it here and let me see." "Yes!" The officer rose in trepidation, stepped forward two paces, and handed the crumpled leaflet to the royal guard commander, who then presented it to King Menggote. Menggote merely skimmed the paper. With a faint snort from his nose, a sneer curled on his lips. "...Utterly arrogant." With that, he crumpled the leaflet into a ball and threw it aside. Two months ago, in the letter William had sent him, the Lion Kingdom's City of Abundance was still under their siege. Even if there had been minor setbacks on the front lines, the flames of war could never have spread all the way to the capital. "The city defense commander suggests that Your Majesty retreat to the underground palace for safety..." Seeing the King completely unmoved, the officer broke into a cold sweat, desperate to convince him to seek shelter in an air raid bunker. Yet before he could finish, he was mercilessly cut off. "This King is going nowhere." Looking down at the kneeling officer, Menggote clenched his fists, a flash of madness flickering in his murky pupils. "I want to see how the Alliance's planes manage to bypass the thousands upon thousands of soldiers under my command!" *** Bister Fortress. Looking at the row of corpses hanging beneath the utility poles, Elven King Fugui wore a complicated expression. After a long pause, he managed an emotional sigh. "These guys certainly don't pull any punches against their own people." Elaina remarked with a subtle grimace, "That's entirely normal." Even fellow Wilantes weren't necessarily considered Griffin's 'own people,' let alone these auxiliaries who held a status barely above that of cannon fodder. Fleeting victories had masked a myriad of inequalities. Conquering the Honey Badger Kingdom and the Lion Kingdom had briefly restored a sense of superiority to those former slaves. Yet once victories could no longer be sustained, all the buried contradictions surged forth like pus from a festering ulcer. This kingdom had gone mad... From the king down to the commoners. Fortunately, this was merely their final madness. At the eastern gate of Bister Fortress, convoys of trucks were driving in, transporting vast amounts of building materials and supplies through Oasis 3. By order of the Administrator, they were to fortify Bister Town, transforming this logistics hub into a forward offensive stronghold, and deploy at least a hundred 155mm artillery pieces along a five-kilometer front to bring the Falcon Kingdom's border well within firing range. Beyond that, engineering equipment of all sizes imported from Ideal City had arrived as well, including excavators and road rollers. According to the plans, the Alliance would not only build a paved highway connecting Oasis 3 to Bister Town, but also construct an airfield to the east of the stronghold. Near the barracks entrance. With a fawning smile on his face, Widlier walked up beside Brother Mole and respectfully offered a notebook. "Sir, this is the information you requested." The notebook detailed the movements of every military unit that had passed through, including unit designations, personnel, supplies, destinations, and more. It had taken him an entire morning of wracking his brain to compile it. Brother Mole gave it a cursory review, running a quick comparison against the intel extracted from Widlier's adjutant. Confirming there were no discrepancies, he nodded. "Good work. You're free." Widlier remained standing where he was. Brother Mole raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Widlier hurriedly explained, "No, no, sir... This humble one merely wishes to stay and serve you." "Serve me?" Brother Mole looked at the fellow with curiosity, wondering what kind of game he was playing now. Seeing the corps commander's questioning gaze, Widlier nodded eagerly and declared with righteous indignation, "Yes, sir! The Wilantes held our King hostage, seized control of our country, and committed unforgivable atrocities across this desert... Though I possess little talent, I wish to stand on the side of justice and conscience to contribute my strength to the Alliance!" He was no fool. The Falcon Kingdom was finished. A minor baron like him had no influential kin in neighboring kingdoms to lean on; striking out on his own would be suicide. Following the Alliance to earn his keep was by far the best option. Brother Mole didn't particularly care for this opportunist and had initially intended to decline. But on second thought, keeping an obedient local guide around wouldn't hurt. Although the Skeleton Corps' upcoming assignments would focus on pinning actions and feints, and strategic considerations meant the Alliance wouldn't occupy Oasis 2, Bister Fort would remain planted like a thorn deep in the belly of Oasis 2. Once the fighting ended, quite a few refugees from Oasis 2 would likely pass through here... With that in mind, he nodded. "Fine, you can stay." Widlier beamed with joy. If he hadn't already figured out that this eccentric commander disliked seeing people kneel, he would have dropped to the floor on the spot to thank him for saving his life. The adjutant beside him didn't possess quite the same sharp intuition; without hesitation, he dropped to his knees with a loud thud. "This humble one also wishes to follow the Alliance's banner, ready to serve as a beast of burden for the Alliance and the Administrator—" "Get up," Brother Mole said, his forehead lined with exasperation. "Stop dropping to your knees every five seconds. We don't buy into that shit." Before the adjutant could process what had happened, Widlier swiftly planted a kick square on his rear. "Did you hear him?! He told you to stand up!" That kick was driven in no small part by personal vengeance. He hadn't forgotten that these scoundrels had stripped off his clothes to use as a white flag. "Yes! Right away!" The adjutant looked thoroughly aggrieved, thinking to himself that he was only mimicking what his superior had done. But in the end, he didn't dare voice his thoughts and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. Having fully stepped into his new role, Widlier wasted no time acting like part of the crew, leaning in close to Brother Mole to ask eagerly: "Sir, when do we set out to teach those big-nosed bastards a lesson? I've been sick of the sight of them for ages!" Brother Mole answered impatiently, "We have our own timetable. If you can't wait, go grab a rifle and charge them yourself." Hearing that, Widlier's burning enthusiasm was instantly doused with ice water. Chuckling awkwardly, he clamped his mouth shut and didn't dare say another word... *** Even though Widlier would have gladly licked his boots clean, Brother Mole didn't fully trust the flamboyant sycophant. After reporting the situation to the Administrator, he assigned the flatterer the role of labor foreman and packed him off to work at the construction site east of Bister Town. There was no helping it. Looking at that face every day was sickening. While one couldn't wish for anything better than spineless enemies, men of honor like Rachel were still far more deserving of respect. Unlike Brother Mole's disdain, Widlier was thoroughly pleased with his new post—touched to the point of tears, even. Being a labor foreman was miles better than serving as cannon fodder on the front lines. It seemed the Alliance truly did treat captives well, just as the rumors claimed. What a shame he wasn't Marshal William. Otherwise, he would have led the entire Falcon army to surrender long ago, putting a swift end to this foolish war that offered no future whatsoever. *** On the third day with the construction crew. Watching yet another convoy of trucks roll past a checkpoint not far away, the adjutant standing beside Widlier grumbled under his breath: "Does the Alliance plan on living here forever?" Over the past few days, trucks had been arriving nonstop, and airplanes had been landing in steady succession. The sheer volume of unloaded supplies was enough to outfit several divisions. Yet the Alliance army showed no sign of pressing forward. The men in the labor corps had previously speculated that the Alliance intended to catch the Legion off guard, but reality proved completely different. Widlier was just as baffled. However, he knew his place well enough to know that prying into things above his pay grade was a terrible idea. Planting another kick on the adjutant's backside, he hissed a curse, "Stop fucking rubbernecking and get back to work!" The adjutant shut his mouth at once, glaring murderously at Widlier, but dared not say a word as he dutifully returned to digging holes. *** Widlier and his 'coworkers' were far from the only ones bewildered by the Alliance's moves. General Griffin, supreme commander of the Legion in Sunset Province, was equally mystified. Staring at the map on his desk with furrowed brows, his face betrayed obvious confusion. Just as he had anticipated, the Alliance had seized Bister Fortress. What eluded his grasp, however, was why the Alliance's armored forces—having already battered down the gates to Oasis 2—had ground to a dead halt instead of advancing as he had envisioned. Furthermore, according to reports from frontline reconnaissance units, vast convoys of trucks and heavy engineering equipment were flooding into Bister Town, seemingly focused on reinforcing the local infrastructure. This puzzled Griffin even more. Having regrouped his forces, he had prepared himself for a fight to the death with the Alliance; he had even steeled himself to meet a glorious end. Yet the Alliance, which only days earlier had projected the ferocious momentum of a blitzkrieg, had abruptly halted its offensive. It left him with the suffocating sensation of throwing a full-force punch into thin air. What on earth were those people trying to accomplish??? "...According to frontline reconnaissance, aircraft have been landing near Bister Town with increasing frequency," a staff officer standing beside the command table spoke in a low voice, completely unaware of Griffin's secret agenda. "Orcas?" "Not just them... Quite a few propeller planes as well." Griffin's brow furrowed deeper. "Does Bister Town have an airfield?" Could they have built one recently? Propeller planes didn't require much of a runway, but hadn't the Alliance already converted the Heart of Steel into a carrier deck? Why go through the trouble of building another airfield right on the front lines... This sudden bout of caution gave him a lingering sense of foreboding, and the reports of numerous aircraft touching down near Bister Town weighed heavily on his mind. Although he didn't care what tricks the Alliance had up their sleeves so long as he completed 'that plan' before the end of the month, the ominous intuition refused to fade. Right then, a messenger jogged in from outside. "Report! A message from the royal capital: the Alliance has dropped leaflets over the city, declaring that they will carry out a strategic bombardment of Falcon City on the final day of this week!" The final day of the week. Meaning the day after tomorrow? A thought struck Griffin. His pupils contracted slightly as his eyes snapped to the map, before turning sharply to the staff officer beside him. "Which unit is closest to Falcon City?" The staff officer froze for a second, then answered immediately, "The Falcon Kingdom's 2nd Division, which pulled back to rest and refit... They are approximately two days' march from the capital." To prepare for the decisive battle against the Alliance, they had massed all their forces along the border of Oasis 2. The only units left in the rear were those battered auxiliary remnants. A knot tightened in Griffin's chest. He barked an urgent order: "Order them to proceed to Falcon City immediately! They must arrive within two days!" To Falcon City? The officers standing around exchanged stunned glances. From the front lines to Falcon City was easily three to four hundred kilometers. They knew the Alliance's paratroopers were formidable—General Soft of the 4th Division had fallen at the hands of the 'Burning Corps.' But surely they wouldn't use paratroopers to storm a walled city? The city defense garrison and the royal guard stationed inside Falcon City numbered five to six thousand men combined, not to mention the protection afforded by the river embankment. To capture a fortified city like that... How many transport planes would they have to commit? Besides, given the limited logistical endurance of airborne troops, fighting hundreds of kilometers away from friendly lines and supply depots was practically suicide. Yet, seeing the dark expression on Griffin's face, the staff officer dared not ask any questions. Snapping to attention, he saluted crisply. "Yes, sir!" Pulling his gaze back from the staff officer, Griffin looked at the map once more. His fists clenched and unclenched slowly, his expression shifting through dark uncertainty. The Alliance was building an improvised airfield on the front lines and massing large numbers of aircraft from their rear... That was clearly not intended for striking targets within twenty kilometers. They were practically playing with their cards face up! He couldn't fathom why the Alliance had abandoned their best course of action to pursue such a wildly risky gambit. But decades of military experience told him that whenever an opponent acted completely against standard doctrine, one had to beware the possibility that they possessed intelligence they were never supposed to have. "...The royal capital." Chewing over the words, Griffin murmured softly under his breath as he stared at the map. "What in the world are you trying to do?" *** At the same time. In the desert southeast of Oasis 2. After cruising through hundreds of kilometers of no-man's-land, the Heart of Steel finally emerged from the howling winds and yellow sands. Inside the bridge. General Macklen stared with an ashen face at the man in power armor. Burning hatred flickered in his eyes, yet he didn't dare make a sound. He had never imagined that he would one day return to this airship under such circumstances. It dragged him back to that humiliating memory... Standing in the corner, Finode didn't dare look in his direction, choosing instead to stare at a crack on the floor to distract himself. Fortunately, General Macklen paid him no attention at all, his gaze locked entirely onto the figure before him. "Why did you bring me here?" Unable to suppress his venom any longer, Macklen ground his teeth. Completely unfazed by the glare of hatred, Chu Guang answered in a lighthearted tone, "To invite you to watch the grand finale." "The finale?" Macklen froze for a second, then scoffed, "Isn't it a bit too early to talk so big?" Observing his forced composure, Chu Guang teased with a grin, "Cheer up. You'll be reunited with your old friend soon." "The Legion will never surrender," Macklen spat, glaring daggers at him. "Never." "Is that so?" Chu Guang smiled faintly, offering no reply to his feeble defiance, and turned his gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. A lush green silhouette was gradually taking shape behind the hazy curtain of yellow sand, etching itself onto the distant horizon. From the Bone Chewer rebellion that had swept the River Valley, to the fires burning across Sunset... The day of reckoning had finally arrived. After this battle, the Alliance would usher in enduring peace. As a dedicated game designer, he would need to spend some time brainstorming the next version update. But before that— "It is time to end this war."