0900 hours. 23 October 1539. Vitrosart, Northern Bulwark
Today's the day. Facing a mirror, reflecting his likeness and manifestation of the mind wrapped in blood red from the dozen hands wiping off all imperfections on his coat, the days of waiting, the evenings of mourning, and the nights of terror has come to pass with the Hero's response.
With newfound merriment from the first steps out of the dressing room and to its demise as he stood face to face with the Belosean advisor in full Salaian officer regalia, General Ianuli never as much broke character when everything in his body's natural impulses wanting to.
"Color me surprised, General. I can never tell if you're mad or a genius."
Ianuli scoffed at the pointless pleasantries as both men walked to the reception room. Still, a question continued to gnaw his mind since the General initiated the hostage crisis: Where does Gawter find the composure in all this? The Beloseans were secretive for all their warmongering. And with how the situation stood, Ianuli wondered after all those meetings, proposals, discussions, revisions, reports, and so on.
"I'm curious to know what the Hero has to say," the advisor peered through the hallway embrasure overlooking the hostage camp at the castle bailey. "Their emissary and his attendants seem to be taking their time staking out for potential gaps."
"And they will waste time to find none."
A snicker escaped. "It is the Hero, after all; One we have no solid information of."
Ianuli noted the Belosean's concern. He, too, shares it. Maybe because the Hero's direct representative came, the mere presence of an extension emanated an inexplicable tension that made his legs shudder. The majestic aura of a Hero never became the same ever since the Conclave. The mana in the air still carried the Fallen Hero's hate, leaving only fear branded as grace.
The General traced the Belosean's sight. Through the small crevice that formed the embrasure, blue-cladded men roamed the camp, speaking to the women and children. A welfare check, they said. Ianuli felt his stomach churning.
A Hero's kindness masked untold violence. Dressed in gold epaulets, bright red collars, white belts, shiny pointed helmets, and ceremonial sabers equal to nobles and aristocrats, their audacity to display such grandeur while showing benevolence was almost a disgrace to the gentle Heroes — meek and mild — possessing power and responsibility that would often qualify them into the halls of the royal courts and history's mad emperors while possessing kindred spirits to the peasantry sent a chilling warning.
'Almost' because the Hero of today was not of God's design nor the dire survival of this world, but a human possessing the same level of emotion, greed, and desire as any. Ianuli's demands must have weight but cannot be bold enough to elicit an immediate continuation. He does not expect victory, for victory is already in his hands once he halted them.
"General, everyone has arrived in the reception room. Would you like to summon the emissary now?"
"Yes."
***
Regardless of whether the Hero cared for the townsfolk, it would become a stain on his reputation if he left innocent lives to their deaths, laying the seed of animosity. However, Gawter did not share his enthusiasm to the long term effects of Ianuli's grand sacrifice as he masked himself amongst the cadre of officers, studying the blue-cladded messenger and his ten entourage.
A simple exchange of dialogue, Ianuli thought. However, the entourages' sharp eyes hid beneath relaxed brows, hands clasped on the lower abdomen — leveled to their saber hilts — and rowed in two, abreast to complete their protective formation. The emissary stepped out from between the parallel rows, his face exuding no meaning but to one's subjective interpretation, a vessel to carry out the Hero's order; His voice; His authority; His will.
Ianuli's General Staff knew that; Even with an extension of the man responsible for murdering Her Highness Emilia, they knew that. But as the man responsible for their arrival, Ianuli cleared his throat and propped a smile as though the revelation was nothing.
"Greetings, emissary. I thank Hero Erich for accepting my call for dialogue."
"And the Hero wishes to extend his thanks for ensuring the women and children's living conditions."
"Of course, it's natural," so there may be respite lest the Salaian people suffer as retaliation. "I'm sure you've traveled far, so shall we reconvene after a moment's rest? We have prepared rooms and amenities for your stay."
"We appreciate it, General."
As the servants led the group out of the room, Ianuli heaved a sigh. With that, he's brought more time.
***
Plenary Chamber, Ministry of Security, Cascadia
A massive antenna array on the cliff overlooking the capital over the sunken terrain; Cables running down the cliff, dug to the ground, resurfacing from the lake and rising to utility poles connected to the Ministry powering, transmitting, and receiving radio waves.
Upgrades, Improvements, a Level Up, nothing seemed to surprise everyone with the flexibility of the Hero's Residence.
Under the cool breeze of an HVAC system and power of solar panels à la ancient Tower Defence Hero that's begging for reverse-engineering, information from the frontline gets compiled into what became to the plenary chamber of the Federal Assembly. Wireless telegraphy and radiotelephony, staff coming in and out sporadically with thick sheets of paper off for analysis, briefing and debriefing in clockwork. Truly the nerve center of the Ministry of Security.
At the more secluded side on the second floor lies a transmitter and receiver, the latter buzzing in amplitude modulation waves until a great distortion of its endless static began.
"Demands are one thing, but supplying them food for the winter is another," came the Minister's voice.
There's not an ounce of doubt in Goldstein's mind that the Minister would permit coating the town with phosgene and reverse the roles if he got his way. Even if he did, he wouldn't sound remorseful enough with the Duke of Estrier listening as the Kingdom representative next to her.
"Contingencies around the Northern Bulwark involve poisoning their food supplies in case of a successful breach. However, the massive information leak coupled with testimonies and evidence in Ainsob suggests they've brought their own. The General did not specify for whom his demand was for, but we can consider the amount may be for the residents."
A pause followed. "They're stalling us."
"Most likely."
Finch pressed on his microphone. "We can pull the 1st Special Warfare Company and have them at Vitrosart in two days."
"I'll have the 2nd Special Warfare Company and the Medical Service ride in half a day. I want the incident compartmentalized to a miracle. Everyone, Your Grace."
Goldstein's eyes seemingly drooped as she caught a word so simple yet so definitive before the Minister's voice fizzled out into radio garble.
"Will do, Minister. Please take care."
With the communications over, the Duke of Estrier recapitulated. "I understand we will still proceed with the same framework and procedure, but I'm afraid we're ill-informed of this miracle the Minister mentioned, Vice Minister, Director."
Finch balanced his stack of folders. "That is the point, Your Grace. A miracle is often exaggerated, sudden, it becomes hard to discover the truth amongst all tavern stories."
"I don't see the scope. What's the Minister's aim?"
Finch looked at Goldstein, and she began, "There exists a law on Earth that serves to limit the destruction wars cause called the Geneva Conventions."
As the Minister's executor, Goldstein took over. Prying information from the CIS director is taboo of what will happen if someone makes a FOIA(Freedom of Information Act) request concerning black operations in the future.
"As his Minister's generation stands now, it is only a joke to children because governments know the ramifications when you show the public a baby getting thrown into a furnace and hear that one teensy little whimper and the relative silence of its flesh getting cooked for the sake of the greater good."
Goldstein was a professional, so it may seem her tone was too professional when the Duke of Estrier clasped his hands tighter.
Feelings and solidarity over something barbaric is a child's tantrum. The manipulation of thought, shifting individual focus through domestic issues like employment, inequality, and oil prices, and the linguistic formulation of sentences to cultivating the mass into framing the context of a manageable level of justification and continuity of the grander operation where the war crimes exist is an art.
"I extend my empathy. It seems both worlds have their fair share of immature children."
"I believe you're missing the point, Your Grace. We need more of these children; That's why we're reducing the daring rescue mission reputation into a miracle."
Duke John raised a brow. "How come?"
"Twenty school children are slashed by a fifteen-year-old cadet officer, and it's called a noble right. Farmers and laborers protest for reforms and better wages, and it's called treason. Why is the Miracle of Vitrosart any different? We're only acting because the Hero was singled out in an attempt to frame him as a virtuous man."
"Are you implying your Minister is not a virtuous man?"
Goldstein almost shot a scowl to his face. The Duke grew complacent because things between his daughter and the Minister got official. Altar diplomacy or love, official or unofficial, a secret or a rumor, the Continuity of Government remains absolute.
"Pragmatism is beyond the realm of ethics. And sometimes, even treaties."
A reminder was akin to a puncture wound, unnecessary unless utilized to draw blood. That's why, in fairness to their relationship with Cascadia, Goldstein administered a placebo after the fact. It's not like a child taken to a hospital with a three-day-old fever can differentiate a blood test from a cure because the nurse tells you to look away.
"I'm sure Cascadia understood that once you've approved of us applying Special Warfare. Frankly, Your Grace, I am a woman who will bear the Ministry's impudence once the court hears of the trilateral Mandate Buffer Zone Agreement. Virtuous Heroes are only precedents given their circumstances. It only hurts more because the precedent that most often ignores the upper nobility is now affecting them equally."
The Duke froze. "I see. Then I believe we must stand firm than before as we proceed with the next assembly."
"We appreciate that, Your Grace. If there's nothing left to discuss, then we shall return to our stations."
"Very well. I wish your soldiers good luck," the Duke rose, looking at the girl further back. "Anna, I'm done here. Are you sure you don't want to speak with Sir Erich and Princess Aurelia?"
She smiled, her eyes cooperating. Lady Annalise could never hide years of abuse without a thorough understanding of body language. The girl just had to tag along with her father for the sake of education and experience.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to worry them."
"Nonsense. You must never neglect your concern because of the luxuries of immediate communication. But if you insist, then I won't stop you."
"Oh, I almost forgot," she rummaged through folders until Finch found it in his stack. "The Minister sent a letter for Miss Annalise."
"For me?" her voice almost fell silent.
"Yes," she slid it across the table.
"Go ahead and read it," the Duke turned to the Vice Minister. "I believe she has permission to give a reply using your instruments?"
"Of course."
The Duke nodded. "Then I shall head first."
The girl never lost her access level. Everything continued as though nothing had happened. With Duke John out of the room, Goldstein's face relaxed. Her brows drooped to their natural neutral expression. And so too her voice.
"You should really read that, Miss Annalise. It's an official correspondence from the Ministry of Security."
The girl held a glare from forming. "Official?"
"You'll know once you read it," she waved, grabbing her coffee mug.
The girl opened the folder, eyes glued to the bold font on the cover page as she slowly pulled it out.
Goldstein felt a pang of pity, though that's maybe because it's easy to visualize the scene in the mind. And more often than not, the self tends to insert itself, because, unlike the girl, Julia Goldstein and every soul in the Ministry will follow the Minister to the depths of hell.
***
0129 hours. 24 October 1539. Vitrosart
The dark and cold almost make you think the cabin was broken. But Clements knew he was in the royal wyvern carriage, and it was just the coach's viewport on the roof gushing in downwash from the four pricey cold-resistant wyverns to render magic heating pointless.
The Angriffskorp never had to shine, and the CIS and the corps liked that, though that might just be the negativity talking. All their training never prepared them for this. Direct action to kickstart a coordinated ground operation, sure, but a hostage rescue?
The coachman patterned his knocks on the roof, then came his muffled voice.
"We're almost there. Get ready."
The operatives and paladins wore their gas masks, and the carriage came to a swaying halt. Agent Clements reached for and opened the rear door. The town's battlements were just ten meters below, give or take. As far as the coachman's concerned, he's an ex-paladin wyvern knight tasked with ferrying the most powerful family in the kingdom.
"Rope."
Tied to one of the wyvern hooks and into the coach's viewport, they tossed the other end of the enchanted reinforced rope off the carriage. Donning layers of gloves, four operatives descended. With the last one off, Clements motioned the rope back in. The agent knocked beside the coach's viewport, and a gas mask looked down.
"First descent's complete — get to the last one."
The coachman nodded, and the carriage lurched back to the guiding wires connected to the four wyverns' harness, spurring them to move.
***
One drawback to gates in the fantasy world is size. With a variety of sumpters with strengths beyond a pack mule or horse, gates had to be bigger and wider for efficiency's excess baggage. Beastmen and height were no different.
The four operatives walked down the steps, weaving through the jovial Salaians posted around the gate until one latched onto one. The operative inserted a trench knife into the neck, and the man shuddered to his collapse.
"Why'd you kill him? He's the only guy who ever loved you. And not even a goodbye kiss?"
"Go suck a gorilla's."
The operative smirked. "It's not gay if it existed for a millennium. It's the classics."
"Oh yeah, I bet you love your boys, too."
"Fuck off."
The three laughed their way, pushing the bulwark and to the gate. With a simple removal of the lock, the small door opened. An operative dazzled the outside with a flashlight, and patches of grass rose and approached the town gate.
***
After an uneventful flight that saw houses turning into stone structures, the wyverns hovered into position. Agent Clements, four paladins, and seven operatives fast-roped down the battlements near the gate. So far, so good, he thought.
He made landfall facing a tipsy sentry, stuck along with dozens in delirious laughter without any punchlines. Other than that, Clements can only hear his breath underneath his mask as he inject a trench knife into the man's carotid artery and setting him on the floor.
He raised his head, looking down on the castle bailey brimming with an almost haunting festive giggling on a refugee camp during Christmas before cutting their way down to the gate with resistance only coming from bad stab placement and those that just don't want to go down.
The paladins followed behind so the operatives won't have to deal with magic bullshit later on. Whoever noticed the change of atmosphere must've holed themselves somewhere sealed; Whoever gave them a funny look, they swiftly expunged with a suppressed C96 in a direct course to the spine.
Be it a zombie or a man drunk in nitrous oxide they're not moving.
***
Stabbing through the tenth sentry around the bailey, securing the route to the keep, and a whole lot of repeat, the castle gate creaked open. Several silhouettes appeared trotting in, the stahlhelm and gas filter Clements noted. Stormtroopers flooded in, and the air rumbled with gas-masked centaurs and beastmen hauling large carts lagging behind.
The agent shot one last look to the company packing the women and children into the carts before a group of stormtroopers approached.
"Agent Clements?"
"Major," both men clasped hands.
"We got most of the men out. Anyone in uniform, we're currently dealing with. I'll leave ten to you."
He had only need to say the last part. Consolation? An encouragement? Nevertheless, the Major walked away to supervise the rescue. Now the CIS' mission begins.
"Alright, Gentlemen, we are here to collect high-valued individuals and intelligence. Anyone outside that is expendable or a civilian, so identify before engaging," Clements turned to the paladin. "Sir Prokt, grace us."
Leg bent, back facing the door, the paladin sent the door flying inside. The three others rushed the room with the agent and his men following.
***
As they went deep into the keep, paladins' light magic illuminated Salaian uniforms and lower faces wrapped in cloth. With the jerking motion, the furrowing brows, and then the scream of "Intruders!" Clements squeezed the trigger of his unsuppressed M1911 Parabellum.
The blast rippled through the keep.
"Expedite and escalate aggression."
Or, in English — compromised.
Footsteps and a head popping from the bend told the team to reconsider.
"Grenade."
A stormtrooper tossed a stick grenade on the turn, and the rest opened their mouth ajar. The high explosive shook the hallway with a concussion wave, the submachine gunners taking the chance with a dash to the bend and blaring their MP-18s. Earplugs were a godsend.
The agent approached the bodies and noticed something odd when the paladins illuminated them. He touched the cloth covering their mouth and nose, noticed a distinct heaviness, a rigid feeling, and deduced from the squelching noise it made.
***
With another door kicked down and paladins tanking possible ambushes from the other side, a "clear" came, and another, "There are people waiting for you at the main exit. Go!" with dozens of servants and maids running out.
"Double doors."
Clements remembered the smell when he passed by days ago. "Probably the mess hall."
Whatever it was, the paladin kicked the door, sending it flying towards a Salaian. Two grenades went in, and the concussive blasts ripped through the room, stunning everyone inside long enough for Clements to check the uniforms before dashing for a surgical incision to the closest man's carotid. Practice makes perfect.
Meanwhile, the rest scattered across the room. One operative lit a dazed Salaian. "This guy has a sash!"
"Sash!"
"Sash, clear!"
Clements finished wiping the blood off his knife and checked the gold in a room of fool's gold. "Bag and drag him."
***
Rinse and repeat. The longer they do this, the better the after-action report becomes. The nerds will then develop a proper door breach procedure and the equipment. But for now, they're hoping lady luck hasn't left them for the grand finale.
"How did they manage to sneak in?! We were watching their every step the moment the emissary came!"
An argument behind closed doors. Clements knew the voice.
"General, I understand you are troubled. However, you must accept the lengths the Hero has gone to."
"By inflicting the town with cursed air?!"
"Sure, a curse. One that only requires covering your face with a damp cloth. However, with my Belosean crest, I can, at least, guarantee your safety."
Clements shared a look with the paladin squad leader. Masked they might be, but both can sense a scowl forming. He nodded to the other paladin to kick it open. A yelp came as the other paladin dazzled the room with a blinding light.
"Paladins! Surrender yourselves!"
"Security Forces! Hands in the air!"
"Wh– That voice–!"
Operatives surrounded General Ianuli; guns pointed, limbs held. An operative put the General in a chokehold until his eyes rolled up and his body relaxed.
"Wait–!"
The suspected Belosean raised his arm holding a crest of some sort, but a stormtrooper flicked his arm away by reflex to a possible weapon.
"Restrain him!"
The man struggled. "Let go of me! I'm Belosean! I'm an advisor!"
"An advisor?" Clements started with a curious tone.
"Yes! I know who you are. You're the emissary, aren't you? I can serve as a bridge to the Empire if you release me."
Clements paused to consider and let out a pained groan loud enough to echo through two corridors.
"Get him!"
An operative hosed the advisor with his MP-18.
The agent grasped his throat. He'll never get used to making a convincing shout of pain.
The paladin squad leader gasped. "What have you done?"
"Sir Hupter, there is no Belosean advisor. We fought our way here, discovering the Salaians adapting to our gas, and breached the General's study to find the man in question and a tenacious bodyguard that broke loose."
The paladins stood listless.
"An order will come from Her Highness through our communication devices and an additional order from His Majesty later, so it would be in your best interests to stay quiet until receiving them. We're done here."