Eastern Front – Dusk
The sun dipped low behind the hills, casting long orange streaks across the dry grass. Horses pawed at the frozen dirt, snorting impatiently, while men hurried through rows of wagons and stacked crates, tightening saddles, checking rifles, and muttering under breath.
A cold wind whipped through the camp.
"Move, move, move!" an officer barked, his voice slicing through the dusk like a blade. "The General wants every formation ready—we ride in five minutes!"
Dozens of cavalrymen tightened their gear. Infantry scrambled into lines. Cannon crews strained to lift the last barrels onto carriages, the wood groaning under the weight.
Bruno Hartmann stood tall near his horse, adjusting the straps on his gauntlet. His cloak flared slightly in the wind.
"Well, Bruno," said a younger soldier beside him, nudging his elbow, "you ready for your first real war?"
Bruno turned with a grin, his dark mustache twitching.
"Of course, Lusik. I've been riding cavalry since I was a boy. Even fought in the first rebellion when I was still a teen."
"Seriously?"
Bruno nodded once. "Cut down my first overseer with a stolen blade. Never forgot the sound he made."
Lusik muttered, impressed. "Guess I'll stick close to you then."
Another shout cracked through the air.
"Cannon divisions—load them up! Carriages move out in formation!"
Men rushed past with chains and powder crates. Gunpowder stung the air.
"That officer's got a voice like thunder," Lusik whispered, glancing toward the source of the shouting. "Yells like that all day."
Bruno gave a quiet laugh, tightening the buckle on his chestplate.
"Gotta be loud. If we mess this up, he's the one who gets the blame."
Lusik chuckled. "Ain't that the truth."
Bruno swung into his saddle, glancing toward the eastern ridgeline where the sky had turned a burning red.
"One way or another," he said, voice steady, "tonight we ride into history."
Elisabeth raised one hand, her gloved fingers tightening on the reins of her black-coated mare as she looked down upon the army forming beneath the twilight. Her voice, though not booming like the officers before her, carried with commanding clarity.
"Alright men, we've got a task to do," she called out, posture proud, her braid swaying gently in the evening wind.
Thousands of eyes turned up toward the hill.
Atop it, silhouetted by the fading sun, sat General Elisabeth Ritter. Draped in a field-gray greatcoat trimmed with a red-lined collar, she looked every part the noble officer who'd carved victories from impossible odds.
"We move in one minute," she continued, eyes scanning the rows. "I hope you told your families goodbye. And if you didn't… no worries. The chances of you dying are slim."
A low ripple of laughter broke through the formations—some nervous, others genuine. A few clutched charms or ran fingers across old scars. Others simply grinned, eager for what was to come.
"We wait for no man," Elisabeth declared, her tone sharpening. "Cavalry, stay behind the carts. Wagons and cannons behind the cavalry. Infantry in the front line. Riflemen just behind them. Mortar teams will march in the rear until needed. Engineers and medics, remain close to the supply line. We march now."
She lowered her hand.
A horn blared from the edge of the hill. Then the drums began to beat.
The army moved.
The earth trembled beneath thousands of synchronized boots.
Dust curled into the air, kicked up by the endless columns of men and horses snaking across the plains. The sun had vanished beyond the hills, leaving the world draped in a deep violet hue. Torches flickered from wagons and belt-hooks, casting long shadows that danced like spirits among the ranks. The march had begun.
Bruno Hartmann rode near the vanguard of the cavalry, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his saber, but his eyes drifted occasionally across the columns of marching infantry. Behind him rattled the wagons—wheels creaking under weight, tarps flapping in the wind. Closer to the rear, engineers trudged in teams beside long-range mortars strapped to oxen carts. Above it all, two flag bearers held tall the red banners—each emblazoned with a black swastika within a white circle—fluttering defiantly in the fading wind.
Among the marching infantry, conversations buzzed low between breaths. Not loud. Not cheerful. But present—like sparks of warmth inside men walking toward fire.
"Hey, Hans," whispered a soldier with dirt-streaked cheeks and a chipped bayonet fastened to his belt. "You think Anka's still waiting for me?"
Hans gave a grunt, his rifle bouncing slightly with each step. "Unless she ran off with the baker. He's got all the bread now that we're gone."
The first man laughed softly, then went quiet for a moment. "You ever think we'll get to see them again?"
"If we don't," Hans said, tightening his grip on the leather strap of his satchel, "then we'll make sure they live in a world that never has to kneel again. That's the point of all this, isn't it?"
A few rows over, another soldier rubbed his gloved thumb along the edge of a wedding ring. It had gone dull and blackened from camp soot.
"She told me not to volunteer," he muttered, barely audible. "Told me I'd get myself killed."
The man next to him, a younger recruit with fresh boots and a nervous jaw, glanced over. "So why did you come?"
"Because my brother didn't make it out of the first roundup," he said. "And my wife's brother didn't make it out of the second."
The younger soldier looked away, the weight of that sentence hanging in the cold air between them.
Farther up the column, riflemen marched in double file. Their rifles slung tight against their backs, muzzles capped with canvas. Most were quiet, but a few whispered to pass the time.
"I heard the farms we're hitting tonight used to house humans," one murmured. "Now they're all demi-run."
"Think we'll find any of our kind still there?"
"If we do," a corporal behind them grunted, "we're pulling them out. You see any human chained or caged, you break them free. Anyone who resists—"
"They die."
No one disagreed.
Not long after, the cavalry slowed to pace with the infantry. Bruno Hartmann turned to Lusik, who was now riding beside him with his reins bundled tight in his gloved hands.
"You look pale," Bruno said, voice low.
"I'm not pale. I'm just…" Lusik paused, eyes flicking to the crest of a distant hill. "Trying not to think too much."
"Good. Thinking's what gets men killed on their first charge."
Lusik forced a dry chuckle. "You're not nervous?"
Bruno glanced down the hill at the marching line—the steady, purposeful tide of humanity. "Nervous? No. Focused? Yes."
"I keep picturing my dad," Lusik admitted. "He used to swing a hammer like it was an extension of his arm. Said I'd never be cut out for war."
Bruno smirked. "Well, tonight we prove him wrong."
Behind them, the wheels of a supply wagon bumped over a frozen root, causing a sharp clank of metal-on-metal.
Engineers muttered and tightened their harnesses.
A medic carried a crate of bandages, whispering to another, "No blood till morning, I pray."
As they crested a small ridge, the wind grew stronger—colder. The farmland ahead was faintly visible now: lines of trees bordering fenced-in fields, scattered barns and smoke-blackened rooftops, their chimneys still.
Elisabeth rode alone ahead, her back straight, eyes forward, a solitary figure cast in steel and dusk.
The men behind her said little now. The march no longer felt like movement—it felt like momentum, like something much larger than themselves pulling them forward.
They were marching toward violence. Toward history. Toward whatever waited in the darkness beyond the hills.
And not one of them would return unchanged.
General Elisabeth raised a single hand into the air, halting the column. Her voice rang sharp across the plain, cutting through wind and dust.
"Cavalry teams, split into your groups! Bruno, you take your unit down into the first farmstead. The rest of you ride to the next settlement eastward—clean sweep, then regroup!"
Her horse shifted beneath her, the steel of her armor glinting in the dusk.
"No artillery unless I give the order. We don't risk hitting any human captives. Cavalry strikes first. Infantry and riflemen follow after the dust settles."
A chorus of acknowledgments followed. Bruno Hartmann saluted sharply before reining his black stallion downhill, cloak billowing behind him. Behind him thundered two hundred cavalrymen—steel-helmed, iron-clad, each gripping a lance, saber, or brutal cavalry axe.
Bruno drew his blade.
"Forward! Show no mercy!"
Hooves pounded into the dry earth as the cavalry bore down toward the farmhouse below. The structure—timber-walled with a crumbling stone well—stood quiet under the fading sky. A few figures scrambled at the sight of the riders, demi-human farmers dropping tools and bolting toward the main barn.
Too late.
Bruno's saber split a fox-eared man through the shoulder as he ran. Blood sprayed against the packed dirt. Another soldier swung his axe into the back of an older demi-human woman, collapsing her with a scream. Horses trampled bodies without pause.
A child—no older than ten—ran from the back of the barn.
"Don't stop," Bruno growled. One rider lowered his spear and impaled the child mid-sprint, the tiny frame folding around the iron tip.
Screams echoed from inside the farmhouse.
Bruno dismounted and kicked in the front door. A pair of elders—horned, trembling, unarmed—stood in prayer near the hearth. He gave no pause. His pistol barked twice. Two bodies collapsed.
Outside, the rest of the cavalry fanned through pens and fields. Demi-humans of all ages were dragged out from cellars, stabbed through ribs, shot in the back, or simply left to bleed out. One soldier grabbed a shrieking girl by her braids and slammed her head into a trough until her skull split.
"Clear this one!" Bruno shouted. "Next team, mount up!"
Just as the blood cooled, the heavy footfalls of infantry approached. Swords drawn, they moved with precision and steel nerves. Behind them marched the riflemen—silent, scanning the shadows.
"Move in! Sweep every structure!"
A door was kicked in.
Three infantry burst into a small wooden home. A demi-human woman threw a stool at the first man. He dodged and slashed across her stomach, opening her midsection. Her son—a teen—screamed and tried to run. A rifle shot rang. He collapsed.
Another barn. Another horror.
Riflemen shoved open a creaking wooden door and found a family huddled together—two teens, a mother, and a child. No hesitation.
"Fire."
A crackling volley shredded them. Blood painted the hay-covered walls.
Inside a home near the well, a soldier swept through a kitchen.
"Clear—"
He stopped mid-sentence as a dagger drove into his stomach.
A demi-human teen, face twisted with rage, had lunged from a cupboard. The boy's hand shook as he twisted the blade deeper.
"Bastard!" the soldier gasped, falling to his knees.
The boy turned to flee—only to be gunned down in a flurry of shots. Three riflemen rushed in, dragging the wounded man back, blood pouring from his wound.
"Medic! We need a medic—now!"
The injured man whimpered, clutching his gut as the teen's body lay sprawled behind him, still twitching.
Further down, screams echoed as heavy boots stomped into cellars, rifles discharging like thunder. Some demi-humans tried to play dead, only to be stabbed in the throat or shot point-blank.
"Make sure they're all gone," an officer ordered coldly. "No survivors. No mistakes."
One soldier bayoneted a still-breathing elder. Another rifleman executed a crawling mother trying to shield her infant—then stomped the infant under his boot.
When the smoke settled, the farm was soaked in blood. Fires licked the sky from one barn already burning.
Bruno stood on the hill, breathing deep.
"One farm down," he muttered. "Nine to go."
Eastern Farmlands – Later That Day/Night
One by one, the remaining nine farms fell.
The cavalry stormed through each settlement with brutal precision—sweeping in from the flanks, crushing resistance before it could form. Most of the farms held no more than a few dozen demi-humans: old goat-herders, rabbit-folk families, or leopard-furred guards scrambling to load crossbows. Few stood their ground; none survived the charge.
The pattern repeated like clockwork.
Cavalry charged in first—hooves pounding through dry fields. Blades flashed under moonlight. Doors shattered. Blood spilled.
Then came the infantry—swords in hand, torches blazing. Riflemen followed at a steady pace, checking corners, clearing basements, dragging bodies into piles, and confirming every kill.
At only five of the ten farms, the soldiers found human slaves—malnourished, chained in barns, or locked in filthy sheds. The moment they were discovered, medics and engineers rushed in to cut restraints and escort them to wagons. The survivors were wrapped in spare cloaks, given bread, and placed carefully in the supply convoy to be taken back to the base camp for treatment.
Most of them were children and women. One was a gray-bearded man too weak to speak, who simply held the wrist of the soldier who rescued him and wept silently.
At one farm, a young girl whispered, "Thank you," as riflemen kicked in the door and cut her free. A moment later, a gunshot rang out behind her—the last demi-human overseer slumped over the fence, blood spraying the turnips.
Not a single demi-human was left breathing across all ten farmlands.
Two riflemen, one engineer, and three infantry died during the day and night raids—most by ambushes or hidden blades. Their names were recorded. Their bodies were wrapped. Their weapons polished and carried back by comrades.
Larrak Farmland Ridge – Just Before Dawn
General Elisabeth Ritter sat tall in her saddle on the grassy ridge, overlooking the smoldering remains of the last farmstead. Behind her, the freed humans had already begun their slow journey westward under guard, protected by ten riflemen and two wagons full of supplies.
Bruno Hartmann rode up beside her, blood on his cheek, the edge of his saber still slick.
"All ten farms accounted for, General," he reported. "Fifty-six humans freed. The rest... cleansed."
Elisabeth gave a sharp nod. "Good. The Führer will be pleased."
She turned to face the assembled troops below. Over 4,500 men—cavalry, infantry, riflemen—stood silent in loose formation, their faces dirtied by smoke and ash, but their eyes sharp and alert.
She took a breath, then raised her voice.
"Soldiers of the Eastern Front!"
Heads lifted. Spears rose.
"You've cleansed the fields. You've freed your kin. But our work is not done!"
She stood in her stirrups now, her voice echoing down the slopes.
"The village ahead may resist. Some of you may fall before night. Some may never return. But if you die today, you will die remembered—as liberators, as warriors, as the steel of our new order!"
A pause.
Then she roared:
"We march to take the village!"
A thunderous cheer answered her—howls, chants, fists in the air. Cavalry raised lances. Infantry slammed sword hilts against shields. Riflemen raised barrels to the sky.
Bruno gave a grim grin. "They're ready."
Elisabeth nodded once.
"Then let's finish this."
And with that, the army began to march—torches raised high, boots striking rhythm into the frozen earth—as they descended toward the village on the edge of the eastern horizon.
Eastern Front – Siege of Harsvale
The village loomed in the valley basin like a scar in the earth. Stone walls circled the perimeter, five meters high and two thick, reinforced with crude demi-human steelwork. Towers jutted from the corners, their rusted bells silent in the wind. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys—an illusion of peace, soon to be shattered.
"Cannoneers!" shouted a commander from atop a supply wagon. "Line up!"
Five cannon crews moved into position across a flattened ridge facing the town. Wheels creaked and dug into frozen soil as the barrels were locked into place. Behind them, engineers unpacked crates of shells, shoving fuses into cast-iron mouths with practiced hands.
"We will blow that wall down!" barked a gunner, slapping the cold side of his cannon.
Down the line, mortar teams from the 20-piece battery fanned out like claws, each crew setting up on an angled slope behind the artillery. They began stacking black powder, aligning tubes skyward, and checking coordinates scribbled by Otto's engineers.
Elisabeth Ritter watched from her horse beside a collapsed windmill, arms folded under her cloak.
One of the riflemen climbed up beside her.
"General," he asked, voice taut, "aren't we going to kill any humans inside the village?"
She didn't glance at him.
"Possibly," she said. "But we have a spy network in every surrounding town. The Führer thought of this. The humans will be underground. That's where they're told to hide. This is a purge—not a gamble."
The soldier nodded slowly and returned to his position.
Elisabeth raised her right hand.
"Commence barrage."
A moment of silence passed. Then thunder split the sky.
The five cannons fired in perfect sync, their recoil thudding into the earth. Mortar tubes followed seconds later, launching shells in rising arcs. Explosions rippled across the village wall, chunks of stone flying into the air like shattered teeth. Towers cracked under pressure, wood and stone collapsing into rubble.
"Fire again!" a cannoneer shouted. "Reload! Keep the pressure up!"
Mortars fired again.
For two hours, the bombardment continued. Explosions echoed across the field like war drums. Walls buckled, rooftops collapsed, and plumes of fire rolled through the alleyways. Columns of smoke rose higher than the watchtowers once stood. The ground trembled beneath the rhythm of violence.
By hour three, the entire western wall lay in ruin. Gaps the size of barns opened across the stone. Screaming could be heard from inside—high, shrill, panicked.
Elisabeth turned her horse toward the front.
"Infantry—advance!"
A chorus of boots answered. Thousands of infantry surged forward through the craters and flattened roads, rifles loaded, bayonets fixed. Behind them, 250 riflemen moved in squads, scanning every window and rooftop.
The first clash happened at the village's southern edge.
A squad of demi-human defenders, mostly wolf-kin and pig-kin, charged from a gatehouse with pikes and swords. They barely reached the halfway point before a rifle volley tore them down. Blood sprayed across their own gate as bodies crumpled, twitching and still.
"Don't stop!" shouted an infantry sergeant. "No mercy!"
Dozens of soldiers stormed the streets.
They broke through doors and shattered windows. Barns were lit ablaze. Homes were cleared one by one. Riflemen shot through walls when voices were heard inside. Teenagers holding makeshift weapons were gunned down without hesitation. Elderly demi-humans were dragged from hiding places and executed against cellar walls.
One squad kicked open a wooden door and found a teenage demi-human crouched over his dead father, a rusted knife in his hand.
He lunged.
The blade pierced a soldier's stomach. He fell, gasping.
"MEDIC!" a soldier screamed.
Three riflemen fired instantly. The teen's chest erupted in blood and he collapsed, convulsing.
"Drag them both out!" an officer ordered. "Sweep the next house!"
Screams echoed from every corner of the village. A group of human children, freed from chains in a goat shed, ran barefoot across the frost-bitten field toward the soldiers. A medic grabbed one, checked for injuries, and waved for transport.
"Get these ones back to camp!"
The operation stretched across the next three hours. Any resistance that formed—a barricade of hay bales, a rushed spear line, a rooftop ambush—was destroyed within minutes. The humans pushed forward like a tide, ruthless and exact.
A young rifleman leaned against a broken cart, gasping.
"They just keep dying," he whispered.
Beside him, his squadmate checked the bolt on his rifle and nodded.
"They deserve worse."
By hour six, the town had fallen.
Elisabeth stood in the town square, the air thick with ash. Fires crackled in broken homes. She dismounted slowly.
"Search every basement, every cellar, every pit."
The search began.
It didn't take long.
Hidden beneath trapdoors, behind crates, under church pews—they found them.
Humans.
Hundreds.
Then thousands.
First, seven thousand by sundown. The next morning, eight thousand more. By midday, over 15,000 people had been uncovered, starved, frightened, but alive.
Children wrapped in burlap sacks. Elderly women with bruised wrists. Men with shattered fingers and missing eyes.
They were pulled into the light by gentle hands, given water and food, and placed into transport wagons by engineers and medics.
"We're taking you home," one soldier said softly. "You're safe now."
Elisabeth stood atop a broken wall and looked back at the blackened sky.
"Send word to the Führer," she said. "The village is ours."
Then she raised her voice.
"Form up! We march back to camp. Tonight—we rest. Tomorrow—we plan."
The army, bloodied but victorious, formed ranks once more. Wagons loaded with rescued humans creaked behind them. Flags fluttered in the rising wind. Boots stamped in rhythm across the ruins of the liberated town.
It was over.
And the world would remember.