The teleportation device aboard the merchant vessel transported Creed and his companions to the location of the Eighth Regiment. Kale, who had just organized a thousand-man suicide squad to lead the rescue, immediately dissolved the group upon seeing Creed arrive, directing those soldiers back to the defensive line.
Creed gave no explanation as to how he'd escaped the command vehicle; instead, he moved swiftly across the line, surveying the situation. Here, no distinction existed between frontlines and the rear; everyone fought at the vanguard.
With each step behind hastily erected barricades, Creed called out to his soldiers, paused to peer through binoculars, taking in the advancing lines of the Vascanite Iron Cavalry as they pressed against the Eighth Regiment's makeshift defenses. Soldiers sheltered behind cover, unleashing every weapon available to repel the relentless assault. Joined by artillerymen and armored divisions, hastily collected remnants of friendly forces joined the fray with little time to strategize, grasping any available position to fire back.
Beyond his immediate vicinity, Creed's view of the field remained limited, though reports from scattered communications and reconnaissance units painted a fragmented picture. The Tuyoke Plain had devolved into a battlefield—a merciless site where the Vascanite Iron Cavalry slaughtered any friendly forces within range. Caught unprepared during the ceremonial display, nearby divisions suffered brutal casualties.
The closer a unit lay to the Vascanites' entry point, the harsher its fate. Units farther away managed a swift defense, yet the Iron Cavalry's main forces methodically fortified positions across the northern plain, diverting units to secure key supply points.
Though the Eighth Regiment's defensive line lay at the greatest distance, it had already caught the enemy's eye, now sustaining both direct assault and artillery bombardment. Loyal forces across the plain remained too fragmented to form a unified front, allowing the Vascanites to slip through gaps, strike at the Eighth Regiment, and flank with armored units.
Creed's analysis, constrained by chaotic, sometimes contradictory reports, formed only a vague picture of the greater battle. But in minutes, he had crafted a plan: first, to hold this line and rally any nearby forces. If this front held and expanded, it could offer shattered units a chance to regroup and resist.
The second goal was to establish contact with any remaining organized forces across the plain, to reassemble a command and draw a cohesive line against the Vascanite onslaught.
And finally, a desperate plan to reclaim the command vehicle.
Creed relayed each part of his plan to Kale, who immediately spread the orders. A company was dispatched from the front to connect with other friendly units, while Commissar Kaldred roused the Eighth Regiment and others on the defensive line to assemble volunteers for the suicide squad.
Throughout it all, Klein observed in silence, wishing he could assist. But his merchant vessel lacked the scanning capabilities to assess the Tuyoke Plain directly, and the ship's communications remained incompatible with the military's system. His only tangible offer was an orbital bombardment—a proposal Creed dismissed outright. Creed had no authority to unleash non-imperial firepower upon Cardia's territory; he was, after all, merely a general of the Eighth Regiment.
The sole request Creed made of Klein was a question about the orbital situation. Klein conferred with his crew and reported, "The ships that delivered the Vascanites have already retreated; only the defense platform and my vessel remain in orbit."
Creed nodded and then quietly issued his next command, "Inform the Lord of Talon about Cardia's plight."
"Are you asking for reinforcements?" Klein asked.
"No, not yet," Creed said, shaking his head slowly.
Klein cast a worried glance toward the battlefield. Despite the relentless onslaught, Creed insisted it was not yet time to call for help. So, Klein waited, deferring to his judgment.
Time inched forward, the battle intensifying with every passing second.
Unmoved by the turmoil, Creed continued moving along the line, unprotected, one hand behind his back, a cigar in the other. He remained expressionless, unaffected by the bombardment around him. Shells fell in chaotic intervals, one landing so close that dirt sprayed over him, shrapnel embedding itself at his feet.
Intent on persuading him to withdraw, Klein approached, his words drowned by the thunder of artillery. Still, Creed strode through the smoke and flame, focused, stoic, his face marred only by a scar where shrapnel had left its mark. His sergeant-at-arms, Jaran Kale, stood close, holding the Eighth Regiment's banner high to proclaim the general's presence to friend and foe alike.
This bold display invited peril, and occasional attempts from enemy infiltrators tested the line, even taking aim at Creed. His soldiers thwarted each attempt, but the risk was high. Yet, Creed's presence here bolstered morale immeasurably, even inspiring reluctant conscripts to rally as if defending their own general.
As the battle raged, generals from the northernmost point of Tuyoke joined Creed, requesting orders. Not long after, an artillery shell exploded within three hundred meters, its blast extinguishing Creed's cigar as a fragment carved a line across his face.
"You're courting death!" Klein crouched near, shouting over the gunfire.
"I am but a general," Creed replied calmly. "Should I fall, another will take my place. My death might even raise morale. In a moment like this, such sacrifice has value."