Acevedo. Capital.
Aetesian Empire.
The Royal throne. Central palace.
December 1, 1773.
| 11:42 AM | 11:42:00 Hours |
The Aetesian capital of Acevedo thrummed with life, its streets bustling under the momentum of early mechanization. At the city's heart, the central palace rose proudly, encircled by the grand park where first-class nobility strolled under the sun. Stone roads now echoed with the hum of newly introduced vehicles—a luxury that only the privileged could afford. While the elite prided themselves on equality among their peers, such courtesies rarely extended beyond their class. Still, the capital exuded an open, vibrant energy. Soldiers patrolled the avenues, saluting officers and casting admiring glances at women passing by.
In the marketplace, merchants called out to customers, their stalls brimming with fresh produce and finely crafted goods. Armored vehicles rumbled steadily through the streets, a visible reminder of the Empire's growing military strength. Overhead, squadrons of medium bombers flew in tight formation, a spectacle that inspired awe and bolstered national pride. The deployment to Sakhalin Island—a region only recently discovered—filled the citizens with an intoxicating sense of purpose, heralding what many believed to be the start of a new golden age for Aetesia.
Within the fortified walls of the central palace, a storm of a different kind brewed. A magical orb, pulsing with energy, displayed the grim realities of the battlefield. Gathered around it, Aetesian generals, admirals, and representatives from the Jylon Republic watched in silence as the western front descended into chaos. The flickering images revealed frantic soldiers under siege, their cries amplified through the orb's enchantments.
"We need reinforcements! Hostiles advancing on the left flank!" a desperate voice rang out, the urgency palpable. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the chamber, drowning out the murmurs of the assembled officials. The Aetesian generals sat frozen, pale-faced, while the Jylon representative's expression shifted to one of simmering rage as he realized the scale of the disaster.
Then came the sound—a soldier's panicked scream, cutting through the cacophony. "What the hell is that?!" Onscreen, an olive-drab war machine loomed, its turret spitting fire and destruction. The beast bore a tricoloured insignia of white, blue, and red. Inside, unseen crew members barked commands in an unfamiliar tongue. One shouted, "Сдавайся!"—a word foreign to the Aetesian s but charged with menace. Above, the thunderous roar of helicopter rotors added to the soldiers' mounting dread.
Prince Gourmet stood transfixed, his composure unraveling as he took in the devastation. His gaze snapped to Colonel Ayla McStandley, whose usually stoic demeanor now betrayed unease.
"Colonel McStandley," the prince demanded, his voice strained, "what is that vehicle? How is it capable of such destruction?"
McStandley squinted at the screen, her sharp eyes studying every detail of the machine. Its reinforced armor gleamed under the haze of battle, and the colossal gun mounted on its turret was unlike anything she'd seen, even in the most advanced arsenals of the Holy Empire or the Duisland Federation.
"I've never encountered a tank like this," she admitted. "Its design and firepower surpass anything in our current knowledge."
Prince Gourmet's frustration mounted. "This 'minor offensive' has cost us ten thousand lives and counting," he fumed, turning to his aide, Draco. "What are these Japanese capable of? First, their tanks, now their navy has sunk one of our battleships. Are we entirely unprepared?"
Draco nodded grimly, spreading a reconnaissance report on the table. "Our intelligence indicates they've deployed long-range, rocket-equipped aircraft capable of striking with precision far beyond our coastal defenses. The battleship Ghanaian never saw the attack coming."
Silence gripped the room as the implications sank in. Finally, the prince spoke, his voice laced with both anger and resolve. "General Leafbard, you assured me this enemy was lightly armed and poorly organized. Explain yourself."
Leafbard paled under the prince's glare. "My Lord, the intelligence was flawed—entirely misleading. I never anticipated such advanced weaponry."
"Then you failed," the prince snapped. "We relied on your judgment, and now our men are paying the price."
Desperate to redeem himself, Leafbard stammered, "We can overwhelm them with numbers, as we did in the Hindoian campaign. Three divisions are on standby—"
"Enough!" Prince Gourmet interrupted, his voice sharp as steel. He turned to Draco, who spoke calmly but firmly.
"We should call upon General Fehlinger. His MT-74 golem-powered armor units are built for close-quarters combat. Intelligence suggests the Japanese rely heavily on infantry—our golems could exploit that weakness."
Gourmet considered this before nodding. "Fehlinger will take command. Mobilize his forces immediately. His first priority is to stabilize the front and evacuate survivors if necessary."
With a deep salute, Fehlinger, invigorated by the prince's words, responded, "Yes, my lord! I'll make sure they pay for every life lost." Bowing, he quickly took his leave, moving to prepare his divisions for the march eastward. As Prince Gourmet and Draco exchanged a quick, unspoken look, they braced themselves for the grim discussions that lay ahead. Draco observed General Fehlinger as he left the throne room, noting his grim expression. Once the Aetesian generals had been dismissed, Draco focused his attention on the two representatives from the Jylon Republic who remained: Alexander Rustler and another delegate, both of whom looked equally tense.
Without a word, Prince Gourmet rose from his seat and gestured toward the large window overlooking the city. The scene outside was a striking view of the bustling capital, its intricate mix of old and new architecture, and the sad sight of a military parade preparing to head northward.
"Follow me," he said, and Rustler stood, nodding to the Marine colonel. "Inform us later," Rustler instructed her quietly, and she gave a brisk nod, exiting the room and leaving the two men alone at the window.
Prince Gourmet broke the silence, his voice laced with restrained frustration.
"Word from your embassy suggests that your delegate Caroline is considering a suspension of this operation due to these so-called superpowers that Alervon has managed to align with. And now... Jylon is bowing to a nation it has barely met."
Rustler took a steady breath before responding. "I assumed you'd learn about it soon enough, Prince Gourmet. Yes, we had a formal discussion with Caroline, and she's been in communication with the president. Jylon's stance has shifted due to the unprecedented power demonstrated by these two new players. Believe me, I find the situation as disconcerting as you do — it feels abrupt, even miscalculated. But we're seeing the potential threat they pose and... my advice would be to consider the feasibility of a retreat from Sakhalin, at least temporarily, and explore a formal dialogue with Japan."
Prince Gourmet's expression darkened, frustration visibly building. "And just like that, you're willing to abandon everything Jylon has committed to our cause? Only a fool would throw away that promise, Rustler. You talk about making peace, yet I see it as the greatest sin imaginable — a betrayal. Jylon claimed it would stand by us and support our military ambitions, and now, because of a few merchant ships seized by Alervon and Japan, you're kneeling. If I were your president, Rustler, those seizures alone would be seen as acts of war. And you call this 'peace' approach anything but softness? Ridiculous."
Rustler held his ground, though he sensed the fury in Prince Gourmet's words.
"We're not 'going soft,' my Lord. The Jylon Republic is moving carefully. Our goal isn't to abandon Aetesian but rather to negotiate a path forward that doesn't leave both Aetesian and Japan locked in this bloodshed indefinitely. This isn't only for your sake; it's a calculated move. The Japanese have an aircraft — the 'Blue Devil,' as some call it — that's taken a heavy toll on your fleet, even those ships that haven't left the harbour. We've heard that Japan's Prime Minister is willing to halt all further naval operations for this chance at diplomacy, and I'm here because I believe it's worth your consideration as well."
Prince Gourmet's face tightened as he absorbed the weight of Rustler's words.
"They attacked us outright, destroyed the First Fleet that attempted to secure Sollan Bay, and now, every day, more of our navy—our capital ships—fall. And now, after crippling us, they want peace talks?"
He turned to the window, his gaze distant, surveying the bustling capital bathed in daylight. The sight of the city walls and the countless homes stretching across the horizon momentarily softened his expression. Yet the frustration lingered; the thought of everything he'd worked for slipping through his fingers was almost intolerable. Rustler watched the silence settle, choosing his words carefully.
"My lord, consider this: Japan is offering a diplomatic escort. We can meet them at a midway point in the Aetesian Sea. From what our intelligence has gathered, the island forces your fleet encountered aren't Japanese but Russian — the so-called Russian Federation, a separate entity claiming Sakhalin. The Japanese see it as outside their territorial scope. This meeting could bring not only an understanding but also Japanese support in reclaiming Sakhalin in exchange for a cessation of hostilities. They're aware of our navy's losses and might be willing to provide reparation."
Gourmet's gaze lingered on Rustler, his expression unreadable before his lips curled into a faint grin.
"Very well, Rustler," he replied, his voice edged with reluctant resolve. "Inform your president that I accept these terms. I will brief my parliament and consult my chief of staff to prepare for this diplomatic escort."
Rustler let out a small sigh of relief, nodding deeply.
"Thank you for considering this course, my Lord. With this, we may finally work toward a future where peace, rather than bloodshed, defines our world."
Gourmet turned back to the window, his grin fading into a hardened look as he considered the long road ahead. For now, an alliance — though fragile — could hold, sparing his country from further devastation. Yet from the true tensions, he had a far different thinking about what he planned for the fullest.
As Rustler walked off alongside Colonel Ayla McStandley, Draco stepped closer to Prince Gourmet, lowering his voice.
"My lord, the bombers Jylon provided us — they're prepared, fully armed with the heaviest payloads we can manage. But if we are to strike, it should be when our enemy is at their weakest."
Gourmet nodded, his gaze hardening.
"Indeed. This offensive must be decisive. They expect peace talks, assuming our position is weak with our ships scattered and wounded. It's absurd, but I hope this will only be the beginning."
Draco nodded thoughtfully, watching Rustler and Ayla disappear into the hall. "Spies from the Hindoe Kingdom have given us intelligence reports suggesting Alervon and the Aetesians are planning a significant attack on the naval base at Eagle's Reach if peace talks fall through. Should we inform the colonel?"
Gourmet smirked, a cold glint in his eye. "No. Let them taste blood if they dare. She would understand why we don't bet our trust on beastmen or foreigners. They'll have to learn that trust here is earned, not given freely."
Draco observed Gourmet's reaction, his face impassive but understanding the underlying resentment. He knew that the prince's mistrust of Jylon's influence ran deep, and this conference with Jylon's diplomats had done little to ease those tensions. As forces stirred and alliances grew precarious, Draco could see Gourmet's belief: if the world around them was set to crumble, it was best to ensure that all shared the same taste of ruin.
Watching Draco disappear down the hallway, Prince Gourmet clenched his fists, his expression hardening. As he turned back to the parliament room doors, his gaze locked onto Colonel Ayla McStandley and Alexander Rustler — their backs turned, walking side-by-side, unaware of the prince's simmering resentment.
He felt the weight of betrayal pressing down, knowing that Jylon's commitment was faltering at a critical moment. They had offered assurances of unwavering support, yet now the reality was stark: when push came to shove, Jylon chose diplomacy over loyalty. Gourmet's mind churned with plans, each building his resolve to fortify Aetesia's defences, free from reliance on outsiders who might abandon them at any time.
Quietly, he muttered under his breath,
"So be it. We'll stand on our terms if they won't stand by us." With one final, penetrating look at the departing representatives, Gourmet turned, his steps echoing in the marble halls, a silent vow to never let Aetesia be held hostage by false promises again.
..
As they walked down the grand corridors of the central palace, Rustler and Colonel McStandley shared quiet laughs and stories, momentarily leaving behind the high-stakes diplomacy they'd been consumed by.
"Got back in touch with an old friend from Svetlana," Rustler said, smiling. "Funny, the kid I knew in school — who I'd have bet wouldn't amount to much — is now one of Svetlana's top delegates. He's even pushing for a partnership between Jylon and Svetlana."
"Really?" McStandley replied, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. "This is the same kid you used to call hopeless? Guess he's finally proving you wrong."
Rustler laughed. "Yeah, sometimes judging a book by its cover doesn't quite hold up. I never thought he'd change, but somehow he did."
McStandley shakes her head, chuckling. "Life's strange that way. Sometimes I wish things were simpler, without politics. Just people, equal and united."
They paused at the main entrance, where a convoy of Jylonian Marine vehicles waited to take McStandley back to Eagle's Reach. The weight of their duties seemed to settle on them again, bringing them back to reality.
"I got word from Regional Command," McStandley said, her tone more serious. "We're likely to pull out soon. A transport's already scheduled."
Rustler nodded grimly. "War's on the horizon, and Jylon's keen on keeping a distance. If things heat up, we'll be ensuring a full evacuation. We've been told to protect all Jylonian personnel and civilians. If Japan and its allies rain down fire, we're making sure our people get out unscathed."
McStandley frowned, the decision unsettling her. "It feels wrong, though. Just after Alervon hinted they've got powerful allies, suddenly we're bowing to a country that's been seizing our ships and targeting the Aetesians? It's… strange."
"It's not easy, but it's in everyone's interest," Rustler said carefully. "Yes, we're aligned with Arsha and Duisland, but we have a multitude of reasons to be wary. Duisland's been arming Cyax rebels and getting cosy with the Imperium Valeria. They're allies, but not ones we fully trust."
"Maybe Japan and the United States are our best shot," he continued. "We could build something stronger, something... dependable. These aren't fair-weather allies like the Holy Empire or the State of Bastan."
"But from where the Aetesians are standing, it looks like a betrayal," McStandley replied. "If Arsha hears of this, they might just lean into Duisland's arms. That could weaken our entire position in the Second Civilisation."
Rustler sighed, looking out over the city. "Then we'll have to act before they do."
McStandley couldn't hide her worry. To her, Jylon seemed to be walking a tightrope. She hoped they weren't overestimating their balance.
Just as she was about to step into her Jeep, Rustler called after her, "Japan has already stopped its attacks on Aetesian forces. Orders are in from the embassy—we're organising an evacuation for all Jylonian citizens."
McStandley shook her head, already feeling the burden of her post. "That's going to be hard for me. I'm needed at Eagle's Reach. The Aetesians are retreating from the Hindoeian Kingdom, and they're using our airbase to bring their forces back from the Hybridians."
"Do you think it's odd that the Aetesians are being pushed back from such a small island nation? What do you think is going on there?" Rustler asked, his curiosity tinged with suspicion.
McStandley shrugged a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Rebellion, most likely. Honestly, if it were me, I'd have crushed that revolt before they even got started. But I suppose they're lucky I'm here, babysitting an airbase instead."
Rustler nodded in understanding, watching as she finally climbed into the vehicle. The convoy pulled away, heading out on the five-hour journey back to the naval station. As he watched her disappear down the road, Rustler felt a deep unease settle over him. Jylon was making choices that could define its future—he just hoped they wouldn't be left walking into a trap.
Pogibi, Sakhalin Oblast.
Five kilometres from the landing sight.
312th Separate Rocket Artillery Battalion,
68th Army Corps
December 1, 1773
| 2:21 PM | 13:21:00 Hours |
The position was fortified with rows of soldiers, the air thick with tension. Even five kilometres away, the relentless noise of battle carried over, a grim reminder of the chaos unfolding. Trucks arrived in steady succession, unloading boxes—many of them filled with 9M522 rockets for the BM-21 "Grad" launchers now pointed toward the beachhead. Despite the recent assault, the Aetesians had managed to hold their ground, though the Russians were steadily ramping up their counteroffensive.
Tubes covered with black smut of the constant rocket barrage.
"PREPARE SECOND VOLLEY!"
Men carrying rockets moved swiftly, loading fresh rounds into the tubes. The biting cold of the first day of December gnawed at their exposed skin as they worked, their breath visible in the frigid air. Nearby, officers and infantrymen stood watch, the steady arrival of supply trucks reinforcing the fleeting but undeniable sense of progress—perhaps the closest they had come to tasting victory in weeks.
With all the tubes armed and ready, the firing commanders stood in tense anticipation. The static crackle of the radio broke the silence until, at last, the awaited command came: "Proceed with the second barrage." Orders were relayed without hesitation, and the soldiers sprang into action, unleashing another volley.
The sky came alive in a dazzling display as muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness and rockets streaked upward, leaving fiery trails behind them. Each projectile roared through the frozen air, its destination marked by distant, thunderous explosions. The invaders, battered yet unyielding, fought tooth and nail for their hold on the beach—a bitter contest over what was once the proud frontier of the Russian Federation.
Amid the chaos, a soldier glanced skyward and saw a massive machine tearing through the clouds. The Kamov Ka-52, its twin contra-rotating rotors slicing the air with precision, descended over the battlefield. It unleashed a devastating volley of rockets, the explosions rumbling like distant earthquakes, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.
A wave of exhilaration swept through the Russian forces. Cheers erupted as soldiers watched their air support devastate the enemy positions. Amid the heat of battle and the bone-chilling cold, a sense of pride surged in the defenders. They were holding the line, defending their homeland with everything they had.
Elsewhere, high-ranking officials of the Russian Federation monitored the campaign's progress with cautious optimism. After years of tension and uncertainty, exacerbated by the Ukraine conflict and global political shifts under Thompson's aggressive foreign policies, this newfound commitment to the defense of their land brought a grim satisfaction. For the first time in years, there was a sense that they could push forward.
Far to the east, at a forward operating base, activity was relentless. Trucks from the 68th Army Corps moved in and out, delivering supplies and reinforcements. Soldiers worked tirelessly to erect barricades, watchtowers, and fortifications, transforming the once-barren site into a functional headquarters. Operational for only a few hours, the base buzzed with urgency.
Outside, the distant roar of rocket artillery punctuated the frigid air. The steady noise was suddenly joined by the sharp whir of a helicopter. Snow and dirt swirled as a Japanese UH-60JA descended, its bright red circular insignia stark against the white expanse. The rotors slowed, their mechanical scream fading to a rhythmic hum as an assist pilot swung open the side door, ready to offload its passengers.
Lieutenant General Fujimoto Hiroshi of the Japanese Northern Army stepped out of the helicopter, his smile a little stiff. Colonel Romanov Sergei Vladimirovich, commander of the 312th Separate Rocket Artillery Battalion, stood on the snowy Russian soil. Romanov strode through the icy air in his heavy coat, the snow falling from it. He grasped Fujimoto's hand in a firm handshake.
"Welcome to Sakhalin, General," Colonel Romanov greeted him in a deep voice. "It is… unforgivingly cold here."
Lt. Gen. Fujimoto chuckled softly.
"It seems you're managing to thrive despite it," he replied, his gaze drifting toward the array of BM-21 rocket artillery systems. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Not every campaign can be picturesque. At least here, free from the grip of Moscow, there is some semblance of independence."
The two officers turned and started walking toward HQ, their boots crunching on the snow-packed ground. All around, the place was desolate and lacking military efficiency. Soldiers huddled over makeshift fires in metal drums, rubbing their hands for warmth. Trucks stood idle, their exteriors thick with ice, while armored vehicles waited, half-buried in snowbanks, to be deployed.
As they approached the headquarters, Lt. Gen. Fujimoto looked around, furrowing his brow slightly. There was something peculiar about the position. He turned to Colonel Romanov and, with a hint of curiosity, asked his question.
"How's the situation? Your country is being cut off from the rest of the Russian Federation. Got me wondering how your island has maintained resources for the past couple of weeks."
"Not great," Colonel Romanov replied with a grim tone.
"People are starving. The lack of weapons and equipment is becoming a serious issue as we burn through our limited supply of ammunition. It won't be long before we're left with nothing but sticks and stones to defend ourselves. Worse still, we can't reach the rest of the forces on the mainland, and it seems Sakhalin is the only transport we've received. It's ridiculous…"
He paused, the frustration clear in his expression. Across from him, Lt. Gen. Fujimoto assessed the dire situation. Despite the Russians being more technologically advanced than the Aetesian Empire, their position was precarious. The shortage of ammunition and equipment was a direct result of prior conflicts, such as the Sino-American War and the Ukraine War. These events had drained their resources, leaving little to defend with. Most soldiers were equipped with outdated AK-74 rifles—far from the modern variants they needed. It was a disheartening sight, to say the least.
"Being left behind is one thing," Lt. Gen. Fujimoto began.
"But maybe, once this conflict ends, Japan can supply your forces with our equipment to ensure a consistent supply chain. Those Soviet-era weapons won't hold out forever; sooner or later, you'll need replacements and proper logistics to sustain them."
Colonel Romanov offered a faint smile, appreciating Fujimoto's thoughtfulness. The idea of operating NATO-based weapons for survival resonated with pragmatic logic. It would enable them to maintain a semblance of self-defense in these desperate times. Yet, Romanov couldn't help but imagine the uproar among other Russian officials if they were in his position. The thought of relying on equipment from their former adversaries would be unthinkable to the prideful Russian leadership. Many would sooner face annihilation than compromise their ideals, clinging stubbornly to the image of the bear.
As he trudged through the snow, his boots crunching with each step, bitter memories of five grueling years of conflict pressed heavily on his mind. From the bloody trenches of Ukraine to the chaos of the Sino-American War, the relentless onslaught of drones and the devastation wrought by rocket artillery had left indelible scars.
The echoes of past battles still haunted him — the roar of explosions, the cries of the wounded, and the faces of soldiers he had led, many of whom would never return home.
"A bastard of a leader," he muttered bitterly, recalling the decisions that had cost so many lives and wasted precious resources. Yet, amidst the sea of loss, there was a faint glimmer of solace: some of his men had survived, carrying their stories forward. That, at least, was something.
Rising from the rank of junior officer to colonel in just four years, Romanov had witnessed the harsh evolution of war firsthand. The grinding losses, the desperate defenses, and the sheer will to survive had defined his journey. Now, standing amidst the endless expanse of snow, he felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders once more.
Inside the dimly lit command tent, the air was heavy with the scent of damp canvas and machine oil. Lieutenant General Fujimoto sat across from Romanov, both men weary from the unending demands of war. The faint hum of a generator provided a constant backdrop to their conversation.
"Thank you, Lieutenant General Fujimoto," Romanov began, setting aside a report he'd just read. "I'll ensure your intelligence is relayed to our General. Your findings have been clear to us all — we're losing ammunition at a rate unsustainable by our forces. We're planning something larger, but I must ask: what of your government's negotiations on Sakhalin? Are there any developments with the Aetesian representatives?"
"There are ongoing discussions," Fujimoto replied with a measured tone. "Ambassador Tenjo has been speaking with Aetesian envoys in the Alervon Kingdom. Meanwhile, the Republicans of Jylon are urging for peace between Japan and the United States. We're optimistic the Aetesians might follow their lead."
Romanov raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The Republic of Jylon? Who are they?"
"A relatively new ally of the Aetesians," Fujimoto explained. "They possess airbases and equipment in abundance. Surely you've encountered their weaponry by now?"
Romanov scoffed. "If you can call it that. Mostly outdated rifles and relics. It's hard to determine if we're fighting a nation stuck in the past or one simply too poor to modernize. What exactly are we dealing with here?"
Fujimoto shook his head. "The situation is complicated. The Alervon Kingdom, our newest trading partner, is just now experimenting with basic technologies like automobiles. This world is, by and large, centuries behind us. While that offers certain advantages, it also creates unique challenges."
Romanov nodded grimly. "Supporting nations this primitive will drain our resources. At least Sakhalin has electricity and infrastructure. Imagine relying on candles to survive the winter—it's unthinkable."
"Our prime minister is aware of the risks and moving swiftly," Fujimoto said. "The Aetesian's may be hostile, but American intelligence suggests North America has fragmented into dozens of smaller nations. The global balance of power is more fractured than we imagined."
Romanov leaned back in his chair, the flickering lamp light casting shadows on his weathered face. "Our governments must act decisively. If we can learn from our past mistakes, the remnants of the Russian Federation and Japan might forge something new — a partnership strong enough to thrive in this fractured world."
Despite their differing political ideologies, Romanov and Fujimoto shared a common goal: to secure their nations' futures. Both understood the necessity of establishing reliable supply chains and maintaining exports to ensure survival and economic growth.
As Fujimoto contemplated Japan's postwar legacy as a global economic power, he wondered if his nation could rise to such heights again. The United States remained Japan's most critical trade partner, but the current conflict presented opportunities that might reshape the balance of power.
Outside the tent, weapons lay scattered in the snow, their steel frames glinting faintly in the dim light. The distant rumble of artillery served as a reminder of the battles yet to come. Yet, amidst the chaos, a fragile hope persisted — that peace, though distant, was still within reach.
For now, survival meant endurance, strategy, and a willingness to seize opportunities as they arose. As the two officers stepped out into the icy wind, they both silently resolved to do whatever it took to secure their nations' futures.