The First Brick to Fall

On the northern shore of Batoya Province, at the encampment of the 117th Myriad. The soldiers digging trenches were in low spirits, their morale having plunged straight to rock bottom. Across the sea lay Wilante Province, the homeland of both their bodies and souls. They could not understand why their guns were aimed in that direction, much less what their commanders were thinking, or what they were even guarding against. If the Alliance wanted to launch an amphibious landing, wouldn't it be far shorter to come ashore along the southwestern coastline? Taking a massive detour all the way around to this side meant exposing their logistical supply lines right beneath the Southern Legion's nose. Beyond that, what bewildered them even more was the campaign directed at the civilians. Even if the goal was to avoid civilian casualties by temporarily evacuating the elderly, women, and children north before the war engulfed their homeland, the entire evacuation effort was far too slipshod... The currents of the Whirlpool Sea did not flow directly south to north, but in a circuitous loop. If bodies were washing ashore on the northern coast, it meant bodies would inevitably wash back as well... In the defense sector held by the 117th Myriad, roughly a dozen men stood gathered on an unnamed stretch of beach. With rifles slung across their backs and entrenching shovels hanging from their waists, they looked down at a corpse swollen from seawater. The man holding the rank of decurion had a near-spent cigarette butt dangling from his lips, the lines around his eyes knitted tight like twisted hemp rope. They all thought the deceased looked familiar, as if they had seen him at the pier just two days ago, only to unexpectedly run into him here. For the body to wash ashore in this location, he had clearly tumbled into the sea not long after departing the docks. In truth, there was nothing surprising about that. After all, it had only been a raft lashed together with ropes. It was only natural for such a craft to overturn the moment it met larger waves. Looking down at the bloated corpse, no one said a word. Not a single sound broke the silence. It was not until a young soldier abruptly tore off his steel helmet that the suffocating stillness was completely shattered. "Fuck this! I'm done!" His face twisted in utter despair, he slammed the helmet violently onto the ground, then ripped the rifle from his back and hurled it onto the sand. "We aren't fighting any goddamn decisive battle against the Alliance! We're fighting a decisive battle against our fellow Wilante! In all these days, I haven't seen a single blue ground squirrel—every damn one of them has been our own people!" Seeing the young man snap so suddenly, the surrounding comrades froze in shock. A soldier beside him hurriedly seized his arm, his eyes wide as he roared, "Have you lost your mind?! Do you have any idea what you're doing?!" Throwing down a weapon meant desertion. In the Southern Legion, that was a capital offense! He could not simply stand by and watch a comrade who had braved life and death with him do something so foolish. Yet the young man showed no gratitude. Screaming hysterically, he wrenched violently against the grip on his arm and shouted back at the comrade restraining him. "The ones who don't know what they're doing are you! All of you! Open your damn eyes and look! Look at that face! Who the hell killed him?! We did!" The incoherent outburst echoed across the sand, but not a single soul could answer his fury. The decurion leading the squad walked up to him, drew the sidearm from his hip, racked the slide, and stared hard into his face. "You trying to desert?" The young man ceased his shouting, but his chest heaved violently as he glared back at his superior, entirely unyielding. The two stood locked in silent confrontation for five full minutes. Finally, the decurion holstered his pistol, took the extinguished cigarette butt from his mouth, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his boot. "Bury him." They couldn't just leave the poor bastard soaking in the sea forever. The young man uttered no reply, but he gave a nod, accepting his officer's words. The squad carried the corpse away from the beach, found a tree as thick as a man's thigh along the shore, buried the body beneath it, and hung the deceased's personal belongings from the branches. Not another word was spoken throughout the entire process. Everyone remained silent, swallowing their grievances, confusion, and outrage deep inside. *** Meanwhile, at the camp adjacent to the coastal pier, the line before the entrance stretched on like a serpentine dragon. This was the encampment overseen by the 117th Myriad. Several other myriads were tasked with hauling survivors here, while they were responsible for loading them onto vessels. Whether entering the camp or leaving it, every face was painted with trepidation and terror. Halting at the camp gate, a man clutching a suitcase confronted the sentry on duty, demanding at the top of his lungs, "Where exactly are we going?!" The rifle-cradling soldier's expression didn't shift in the slightest. Standing at full attention with chest puffed out, he repeated his superiors' orders like a broken record. "Wait here for the boat to dock, then board the vessel to Wilante Province." The man stared at the soldier with a look of utter defeat. That was the only answer he had received the entire way. "Where is the boat, then?! I haven't seen a single damn boat! And another thing—I don't want to go anymore! Can you send me back?!" Predictably, the soldier's next words were identical to before. "It will be here shortly." The minor disturbance at the gate did not impede the broader operations of the camp. The man loudly insisting on going home was quickly escorted away. At the same time, along the pier not far from the camp, General Aufrey, myriarch of the 117th Myriad, stood with furrowed brows, inspecting the rafts delivered by the Auxiliary 10th Myriad. The craftsmanship of these rafts could only be described as abysmal. Many of the logs bound by hemp rope had been freshly felled, stripped of nothing more than bark and stray twigs. Forget being soaked in waterproofing oil—even the most fundamental drying process had been skipped entirely, and some of the timber had already begun to crack. An engineer clad in waterproof boots trudged back onto the shore and shook his head repeatedly at General Aufrey, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "This batch of rafts is substandard. Before they even clear twenty nautical miles, they're guaranteed to break apart midway." Aufrey turned toward a bearded man standing nearby. The man's name was Moore, the myriarch of the Auxiliary 10th Myriad. "You heard him. This batch of rafts is defective." Faced with Aufrey's accusation, Moore wore an indifferent smirk. "Do you think these things sprout out of the ground? It takes my soldiers half a day just to chop down the timber and lash it together with rope. Handing over eight hundred seaworthy crafts every single day—why don't you bastards try it yourselves?!" Aufrey glared darkly at Moore. Ever since the frontline situation had grown increasingly unfavorable for the Southern Legion, these auxiliary forces, who had once been utterly subservient, had begun to turn restless. Seeing Aufrey at a loss for words, Moore suddenly chuckled and glanced toward the crowd queuing before the pier. "You're just throwing them into the sea to die anyway. Why bother caring about the quality of the rafts?" Aufrey fixed him with a murderous glare, while the guards flanking him tightened their grips on their weapons. "Say that again." Confronted by that lethal look, Moore sneered dismissively. Yet, perhaps intimidated by the row of dark, gaping gun barrels, the pragmatic man ultimately refrained from pushing further. Tossing out a casual "I'll send you another batch later," he turned on his heel and walked away without looking back. Watching the fury rolling off his myriarch, the adjutant stepped forward and asked hesitantly, "Are we still boarding the survivors?" "..." Aufrey did not speak, only casting his gaze toward the crowd huddled before the pier. They were all the elderly, the weak, women, and children, shivering in the freezing sea breeze. Every face was carved with sheer terror, like rats cornered into a dead end. They might have been someone's father, someone's mother, or someone's child. Their kin were shedding their blood on the front lines for the Southern Legion, expanding the Legion's territory, yet now Legion Commander Tyr demanded that they sacrifice themselves as well. So what had all this sacrifice been for? Where was the end to this war? Why had even Triumph City become their enemy by now?! Aufrey clenched his fists involuntarily, veins bulging along his forearms, before forcing words out between his teeth. "...What in the world are we doing?" The adjutant stared at him blankly, shame gradually creeping across his face. Having reached a decision in his heart, Aufrey strode forcefully toward the front of the pier and bellowed at the long queue of people, "Today's departures are canceled! There are no boats heading to the other side! Everyone, get back inside the camp!" He knew full well what this action entailed. If he failed to fulfill today's quota, Legion Commander Tyr would never let him off. Not only that, but the more than ten thousand refugees stranded in the camp would continue to occupy bunks, while fresh crowds behind them kept pouring forward, compounding his troubles by the hour. Yet no matter what, he could not bring himself to push these compatriots into the sea and watch them drown. Hearing the myriarch's reprieve, collective sighs of immense relief rippled through the crowd queued before the pier. Some began to applaud, while others called out "Thank you!" and "Well done!" Watching color return to those pale faces, a faint smile touched the corner of General Aufrey's mouth. Turning back toward his adjutant, he gave an order that brooked no argument. "Burn every raft on the beach!" Filled with profound respect, the adjutant snapped a solemn military salute. "Yes, sir!" With General Aufrey's command issued, the civilians assembled before the beach were swiftly ushered back into the camp. Soldiers poured gasoline over the rafts piled along the shore and set them ablaze. The roaring flames swept across the beach, becoming the first bright light before the break of dawn. *** On the deck of a destroyer, Captain Malok held binoculars to his eyes, watching everything unfold on the beach from start to finish. The fury burning in his pupils gave way to rekindled hope. When he saw the soldiers ashore refrain from forcing the civilians aboard, burning the rafts and sending them back instead, he slammed his fist excitedly against the ship's railing. "Well done!" Everything that had transpired over these past few days had weighed heavily on him, filling him with anxious rage. Though he had wished more than once to order his guns to blast those sons of bitches to pieces, Triumph City had not formally declared war on the Southern Legion, and initiating hostilities on his own would resolve nothing. Those civilians would still die. And far more would perish. Fortunately, the soldiers on the opposite shore had come to their senses in time, taking the initiative to put a stop to this farce! It seemed their compatriots in Batoya Province were not all raving lunatics like Tyr! Some had awakened— There was still hope! *** Yet even as Captain Malok thought this, General Aufrey's circumstances far away on shore were anything but optimistic. His unilateral decision meant ten thousand fewer "cannon fodder" had been dispatched toward Wilante Province today. Not only did this disrupt Tyr's plans, but it also saddled the northern "front line" of Batoya Province with ten thousand additional mouths to feed. That very evening, a hundred soldiers equipped with exoskeletons arrived at the camp managed by the 117th Myriad. Seeing this detachment of elite troops and the crossbow-shaped insignias on their arms, grave expressions settled over the faces of nearly every soldier and officer in the camp. The "Iron Crossbow" Quick Reaction Force! The Southern Legion's premier airborne unit! More than that— These men were all Legion Commander Tyr's personal praetorians! Rumor had it that every single soldier among them was an Awakened injected with evolutionary stimulants! Looking at General Aufrey standing before the barracks entrance, Heinz did not remove his mask, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "General Aufrey, I need an explanation as to why not a single boat was dispatched from the camp under your administration today." General Aufrey met his gaze impassively, tilting his chin upward without an ounce of concession. "Because we didn't see a single boat." "That contradicts the intelligence I received." Captain Heinz retrieved a tablet from his waist, tapped the screen twice with his index finger, and several photographs appeared. "These are the photos submitted by the Auxiliary 10th Myriad. They claim to have delivered eight hundred and twelve vessels to you." Staring at the images on the screen, Aufrey felt a wave of incandescent rage surge into his chest. He wanted nothing more than to crumple the damn thing into pieces and smash it into the man's face. "You call a row of logs tied together a vessel?! Why don't you get on one yourself and see if you can cross the Whirlpool Sea on that trash?!" He roared in boundless fury, glaring fixedly at Heinz before jabbing a finger at the gas mask covering his face. "And what's with that getup of yours? CBRN combat gear? Don't tell me you forgot to take it off after a drill!" "That is classified." Heinz had no intention of offering an explanation, simply staring back with dead eyes. "Furthermore, I am the one questioning you, General Aufrey. You are the one who owes me an explanation." General Aufrey let out a cold chuckle. "I have nothing to explain. Until I see seaworthy vessels, don't even dream of getting me to drive a single soul into the sea!" Heinz's eyes narrowed slightly. A lethal gaze pierced through his tactical visor, sending a sudden chill through General Aufrey's heart. Sensing the murderous intent, the guards standing behind General Aufrey instinctively placed their hands at their waists, gripping the submachine guns slung there. The atmosphere between the two sides instantly turned taut and hostile, as if a firefight might erupt at any second! "General Aufrey," Heinz lifted his chin slightly, "since you refuse to carry out Legion Commander Tyr's orders, I have no choice but to bring you back to Avent City to await judgment." Pausing, he swept his gaze across the surrounding officers and continued in a measured, deliberate tone, "As for the 117th Myriad, I will arrange for a new commander to take charge." General Aufrey narrowed his eyes at him. "And what if I say no?" Heinz gave a cold sneer. "It seems you intend to disobey orders." "I have no obligation to obey orders of dubious origin," General Aufrey sneered right back. "If you want to command me, follow proper procedure and send someone who outranks me!" He was not in the least bit afraid of this man. The Iron Crossbow Quick Reaction Force sounded formidable, but they were special forces; in an actual battle, it was anyone's guess who would prevail. Besides, he had over ten thousand men under his command. If each of them spat once, they could drown these hundred-odd grasshoppers. "It seems there is no further need for discussion." Heinz chuckled softly, suddenly appearing to back down. With a wave of his hand toward his rear, he led the exoskeleton-clad soldiers out of the camp without looking back, as if they had never come at all. Watching the figures vanish past the gate, the adjutant standing beside General Aufrey slowly breathed a sigh of relief. While he was not afraid of them either, casualties would have been inevitable if a firefight had broken out. Yet looking at General Aufrey, a bitter smile crept across his face. "You've truly offended Legion Commander Tyr to the point of no return this time..." General Aufrey let out a quiet laugh. "If I were afraid of offending him, I wouldn't have defied his orders in the first place." At worst, he would face a court-martial once the war concluded. He had already prepared himself to give up his post as myriarch. With that thought, he turned to walk back inside, only for a sharp, whistling crack to tear through the air above his head. Before General Aufrey could process what was happening, boiling flames and a deafening roar slammed into his face. In an instant, his entire body was hurled through the air, crashing into a pool of blood like a shredded rag. Judging by the catastrophic blood loss, he was unquestionably dead. Whether the weapon that killed him was a fragmentation missile or a guided mortar shell was impossible to tell. The equipment of the Iron Crossbow Quick Reaction Force matched Enterprise standards. Just as Aufrey had thought, their prowess in conventional front-line engagements was limited, but their decapitation capabilities were world-class. What he had never anticipated was that his revered Legion Commander Tyr would strike him down without so much as a warning. Under normal circumstances, such an act would have been utterly unimaginable... The ear-splitting blast threw the entire camp into chaos. The sentries on duty dashed to their combat stations, working simultaneously to evacuate the survivors huddled near the southern gate of the compound. Unarmed civilians screamed as they fled from the southern edge toward the shoreline, desperate to put distance between themselves and the fighting. At the same time, a chilled voice cut through the cries of infants and screams of adults, drifting in from the south of the camp. "Attention, 117th Myriad. Your myriarch refused to execute orders and attempted armed mutiny. He has been executed under military law." "You now have only two paths before you—" "Lay down your arms, march out of the camp, surrender, and submit to reorganization under the 10th Myriad." "Or persist in your obstinacy, and carry the humiliation of traitors into your graves." The frigid broadcast echoed relentlessly across the south side of the camp, grating against the ears of every soldier in the 117th Myriad. Their eyes stretched wide in disbelief, initial shock gradually warping into volcanic fury. General Aufrey was dead. Legion Commander Tyr had discarded their general like a soiled rag, and now he intended to appoint someone else to direct them in slaughtering their own kin. Crouched behind a breastwork, the decurion cursed, "Damn it!" He tore his half-smoked cigarette from his mouth, slammed it into the dirt, and ground it out, as if venting his rage into the earth itself. The young soldier beside him had eyes completely bloodshot. His hands shook violently around his rifle, only a single vow hissing through his clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill you bastards..." On the other side of the compound, the adjutant caught in the blast finally clawed his way out of the rubble. Staggering toward General Aufrey, he found his revered myriarch already reduced to a corpse. Rage and sorrow struck straight to his skull in an overwhelming surge. His vision turned crimson as he glared out at the pitch-black night beyond the perimeter. Traitors? Who the hell was the real traitor here?! Without waiting for the broadcast to repeat, he snatched up the communicator that had fallen to the ground and unleashed a hysterical roar. "All units, attention!" "The 117th Myriad headquarters has come under enemy bombardment! We will never surrender!" "All personnel, take up your arms and prepare for combat! Fight them to the bitter end!" *** At the very moment the adjutant took over command of the 117th Myriad, Heinz, standing roughly a kilometer outside the camp, lowered his communicator and signaled to the soldiers holding the loudspeakers to cease. The call for surrender was over. Judging by the enemy's response, they had zero intention of cooperating. Hearing gunfire erupt in the distance, Heinz turned toward General Moore—myriarch of the Auxiliary 10th Myriad—and spoke in an utterly detached voice. "These people are in your hands." Afterward, this conflict would be framed as internal infighting between the 117th Myriad and the auxiliaries. Settlement of scores with the auxiliary forces could wait until later, since Legion Commander Tyr still had use for them. Regardless of what happened, the plan to funnel refugees north could not be interrupted. They lacked both the time and the ability to persuade those "striking" soldiers to resume work. The moral endurance of the soldiers engaged in this "terminal task" was already nearing its breaking point; mutiny was bound to happen sooner or later, so it was better to clean them up now. Besides— Perhaps the traitors in the north would see this as an opportunity and launch an assault. The Death Agent was already fermenting inside the Southern Legion; the longer this war dragged out, the worse it would be for them. Since fighting was inevitable, they might as well fight now. Oblivious to the fact that he was being used as a pawn, a bloodthirsty sneer hung on Myriarch Moore's face. He was eager to show off his capabilities to Legion Commander Tyr, his knuckles popping loudly as he clenched his fists. "Leave it to me, no problem." "I certainly won't disappoint his Excellency!" *** At the same time, in Triumph City's Court of Honor. A Praetorian strode briskly into the newly inaugurated Consul's office, snapped a crisp military salute, and reported to Pangolin, who was busy reviewing documents. "A military conflict has broken out on the northern coast of Batoya Province!" Seated behind the desk, Battlefield Atmosphere Group froze, instantly sitting bolt upright in his chair. "What's the situation? Didn't I order the frontline forces not to engage the Southern Legion?!" The Praetorian hurriedly explained, "It isn't our forces clashing with the Southern Legion; it's infighting among their own ranks. Intelligence indicates that the 117th Myriad stationed on Batoya Province's northern coast has mutinied and engaged in a firefight with the Auxiliary 10th Myriad. As for the trigger, it appears Tyr's praetorians carried out a decapitation strike against their general, Myriarch Aufrey." Battlefield Atmosphere Group's brow furrowed slightly. "A decapitation strike? At a juncture like this..." The Praetorian continued, "Reportedly, it was because Myriarch Aufrey refused to carry out Legion Commander Tyr's orders. Our forward units observed them burning the rafts meant for crossing the sea today." Standing before the desk, Legion Commander Raizer said in a low voice, "It seems not everyone is willing to play along with that madman's delusions. If we launch an offensive right now, it would be an opportune moment. Some might rally to our banner, but events could also spiral in unforeseen directions. After all, we cannot rule out the possibility that this is a deliberate vulnerability exposed by Tyr... What do you intend to do?" Battlefield Atmosphere Group closed his eyes, contemplating for a long while before opening them once more. "The New Federation fleet has already reached the Whirlpool Sea, haven't they?" Legion Commander Raizer nodded. "They should arrive around daybreak tomorrow." "Transmit a dispatch to the 117th Myriad: instruct them that they must hold out until dawn!" Battlefield Atmosphere Group declared resolutely. "Furthermore, notify the New Federation forces to equip their CBRN gear, clear their warships' decks, and prepare to bring our compatriots across the sea!"