"What was that sound?!"
"What's happening?!"
The nobles in the Nord banquet hall froze. Glasses tipped. Wine spilled across embroidered sleeves. Panic tightened throats as the ground shuddered beneath them.
"BANG!"
The chamber doors slammed open. A knight burst in, armor disheveled, face pale, sword half-drawn. His voice cracked with fear:
"The Ross army! They are at the gates—they are inside the city!"
The room erupted.
"Impossible!"
"They cannot be here so quickly!"
"Where are our defenses? Where are our soldiers?!"
The nobles stumbled over one another, voices climbing.
One drunken lord, red with drink, pounded the table. "We have nothing to fear! We still have thousands of men. The Ross forces are but a handful. With a thousand soldiers, we can hold these walls!"
His bravado barely filled the silence.
Then another soldier rushed in, stumbling, voice hoarse with terror. "My lords—! The serfs! The serfs have opened the city gates! The Ross army has entered!"
The room froze.
"Those… damnable untouchables…" the drunken noble sputtered. "Quick! Gather the knights. Rally the men. We will fight in the streets!"
He spun toward his peers—
"Shhhk!"
A blade flashed.
The drunken noble clutched his throat, eyes wide. Blood spilled between his fingers, staining his doublet crimson. His body toppled with a thud.
The young noble who drew the sword flicked the blood from his blade. His face was pale, but his voice steady.
"The Ross army is already here. The king, the prince, Lord Leander—all perished weeks ago. There is no hope. If you surrender with me, you may yet live."
Gasps rattled through the hall. The bloody sword clattered to the floor as the young noble walked out to greet the enemy. Behind him, the others shifted uneasily, torn between pride, fear, and survival.
---
The Army Marches In
At the gates of the city, columns of Ross soldiers marched with iron precision. 98K rifles rested on their shoulders, steel helmets gleaming in torchlight. Their boots struck the cobbles in perfect rhythm.
Citizens peered from shuttered windows, wide-eyed—half in terror, half in awe. The army's discipline was unlike anything they had seen.
The first to pour into the streets were the serfs. Long-oppressed, beaten, starved, they now ran forward shouting. For them, this was not an enemy. It was liberation.
Beside them, in stark contrast, stood the nobles of Nord. Dressed in finery, jewels clinking on fingers and necks, they bowed low, plastering false smiles on their faces as the conquering soldiers passed. They were the same men who had once crushed serfs under tax and lash.
The serfs' eyes burned with hatred.
A military truck rolled up. From it stepped a captain officer—black overcoat, armed belt, polished boots, large-brimmed cap shadowing his eyes.
The nobles rushed forward with oily smiles. "Your Excellency—welcome, welcome!"
The officer did not even acknowledge them. His gaze swept once, cold and disdainful. He gave orders crisply to his men.
"Third platoon, station in this city. The rest, continue the advance."
"Yes, sir!"
The officer climbed back into his truck without another word. The nobles' faces froze in humiliation.
---
Gavin's Strategy
This was Gavin Ward's plan. Two regiments spearheaded the campaign, splitting into battalion groups.
Four cities and nearly a hundred towns dotted the Nord Kingdom.
Each battalion of 500 men received orders: seize, secure, and move.
Towns fell in hours. Companies left platoons to garrison, while the bulk rolled forward.
The invasion met almost no resistance.
Why? Because two months earlier, the Nord Kingdom had bled itself dry.
During the defense of Rose City and the battle of the Wali Plains, Gavin's modernized forces had annihilated Nord's nobility and their private armies. Nearly 80% of the kingdom's military strength had perished. Only scattered bands of knights remained—hardly more than fish in a drying pond.
And more than that—Ross carried a new reputation.
Where other armies looted, burned, and killed, Gavin's men were under strict order: no plundering, no slaughter, no mistreatment of civilians. The serfs and common folk, long strangled under their lords, now saw the black-clad soldiers as deliverers.
In town after town, the pattern repeated:
Serfs opened the gates.
Nobles bent the knee.
A Ross platoon was left to secure order.
The columns pushed onward.
Within a week, nearly the entire Nord Kingdom lay under Ross banners.
---
The Capital of Nord
Only one city still held out.
Tino City, the Nord capital.
Outside its walls, a full regiment of Ross troops camped in neat rows. Searchlights swept the night, engines hummed, field guns stood in position.
Adjutant Tom, binoculars in hand, scanned the ramparts. "They still haven't surrendered," he reported grimly. "Our envoys were shot at twice. Arrows drove them back."
Rotis, regimental commander, joined him. His uniform bore the rank of major. "It's no surprise. This is their capital. Their best veterans are here."
He paused, weighing orders. "Try once more to persuade them. If they refuse, we bombard. His Majesty demanded every Nord city fall within seven days. Today is the seventh. We have one hour."
Tom saluted sharply. "Yes, sir!"
---
Inside Tino
Within the capital's military hall, the mood was grim. A dozen knights stood around a long table, weary eyes fixed on the man at its head: a burly, white-haired veteran in dented armor.
General Yadman.
A Nord through and through—stubborn, rigid, unyielding. One of the last men still loyal to the broken crown.
Before him knelt three captured deserters, faces pale, hands bound. They pleaded with cracked voices:
"General, it's hopeless! The Ross army cannot be stopped. Please—surrender!"
Their words echoed in the hall. The knights shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Outside the windows, the glow of Ross searchlights painted the night sky. Engines rumbled in the distance, alien and relentless.
General Yadman's hand clenched the hilt of his sword. His jaw set like iron.
The hour of decision was near.
---
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