The aftermath of the dual bombing campaigns had left the Central Front in ruins. Entire towns vanished. Fields once used to feed both sides became scorched wastelands, riddled with unexploded ordnance and mutated flora twisted by lingering INN energy. The air was poisoned not by gas, but by memory.
And yet — amidst the carnage, the Kingdom of Alexandria pushed forward.
The Republican line was shattered, their cities disorganized and fractured. But no one celebrated in the capital of Alexandria. Instead, beneath the golden dome of the War Assembly Hall, fear festered behind polished armor and confident words.
The Royal Court Fractures
Prince Dutch sat at the head of the war table, his uniform clean but his eyes bloodshot.
"We've driven them into retreat," he said, voice low. "But something doesn't feel right."
His commanders remained silent. Until General Albrecht, a seasoned veteran with scars older than Herzl's lifetime, leaned forward.
"We're winning, sire, but too easily. The Republic is bleeding—but it still breathes."
Another voice interjected—one that Herzl recognized instantly. Grim had entered without sound, slipping through shadows like a phantom.
"You assume your enemy is fighting for land. They are not," Grim said, arms crossed. "They are fighting to exhaust us. Every bomb they drop isn't aimed at cities. It's aimed at our resolve."
A silence.
"Then what do you propose, Grim?" asked the prince.
Grim's answer was chilling in its precision.
"Eradication."
Herzl's Growing Doubt
Later, outside the strategy chamber, Herzl leaned against a marble pillar. He couldn't unhear Grim's words.
"Eradication."
Not liberation. Not victory.
Extermination.
Anna approached, her coat charred from the last skirmish. She handed him a cup of black tea.
"You're quieter than usual," she said. "The great 'Ghost of Merva' finally lost for words?"
Herzl took the cup without smiling.
"Tell me the truth, Anna. Do you trust Grim?"
Anna didn't answer immediately. Her gaze wandered toward the sky, still tinged orange from the Republic's fires.
"I trust what he can do. But no… I don't know who he is anymore."
That silence between them — shared, uncertain — said more than words could.
The Republic's Last Gamble
In the depths of the fractured Republic, remnants of their shattered High Command gathered. They were fewer now — burned out, scattered, and desperate.
Enter a new figure: Magister Veyra, a half-human, half-INN entity. Once a scholar of metaphysical warfare, now a weapon forged in hatred. With stitched eyes and a cracked voice, she presented a dark map — inked not in cartography, but in blood.
"The Kingdom believes it has won," she rasped. "But we still hold one bastion… the city of Serephan, buried beneath the Spine Mountains. They will come for it."
Her hand twitched as she released a box. Inside it hummed a device no one had seen before — a bomb not fueled by combustion or fusion, but cursed memory.
"If we fall," Veyra whispered, "they fall with us."