Author Notes:
Is it wrong of me to actually feel bad for the Eruseans after everything?
Regardless, happy Lunar New Year to all of you lovely readers and patrons! Looking back, this if the second or third Lunar New Year I spent with you all, huh? Time sure flies, and I hope you all have enjoyed the journey thus far. I sure did, despite its ups and lows. I sure as hell has been growing as a scribe of words, though, and my Mom... Yeah, I can safely say that my Mom is still here with my because of you all. You all are the GOAT!
Kehum! Now we move on to the obligatory self-advertisement... The Lunar New Year 35% discount is still ongoing till the 22nd of February! Time is running out, so grab it while it's hot! And for crying out loud, don't use iOS Patreon! Use Android or Web Patreon if you don't want your money to be lost to the Apple Nether Zone!
Thank you for everything, and don't forget to enjoy the stories!
Yuki Vintage:
https://postimg.cc/gnvhbWVT
https://postimg.cc/LnzPFpk4
---------------------------------------------------------------------
In a near complete disregard for the Erusean military forces and combatants in London, the Reichsmarine has sailed its vessels as far as the Greenwich borough. Had it not been for the unmaintained waterways of the Thames, Belkan destroyers would have sailed upstream as far as the Tower of London, where VTOL-borne Marines previously captured it. Still, Greenwich is close enough to the heart of London for these daring Belkan ship crews and officers.
In an ironic twist, it's the Belkans that conduct the literal gunboat diplomacy, when it should have been the Eruseans who were used to doing so. For the better part of the morning, Belkan warships have been bombarding entrenched Erusean military positions with their naval guns, with only the surrendered regions and forces escaping the undiscriminate rampage of the Reichsmarine. Yet, other than making a constant effort to soften up known enemy strongholds, the Belkans never once directly target the Buckingham Palace, even though they've shown clearly, and more than once, that they can strike locations beyond the Erusean Throne. It's a telling sign that, despite the mounting casualties that are now crippling the Erusean Loyalist and Capitalist factions, the Belkans can still be seen as holding back. And when this fact sinks in, Erusean morale plummets to a never-before-seen bottom.
Only a fool would fail to notice Belkan aircraft and shells flying overhead. Their arrivals have since made the last few days of efforts, of waging a bloody civil war, of sacrifices... Fruitless. Even the toughest man may find himself crushed by such a notion and realize that everything he has been fighting for is utterly meaningless in the coming dawn of a new era. And for most of the Erusean combatants in London, they are all but the most formidable, meanest soldiers that won't break and bend. The open secret that the Royal Family is incapacitated has worsened the soldiers' mentality, challenging their strained existences even more.
Erusean officers find it harder to react to everything around them, leading them to make more and more questionable decisions, thus breaking their soldiers even more. The grassroots combatants, stuck between a rock and a hard place, both physically and mentally, are unable to muster the full force of their patriotism and fighting power, even though they have the homefield advantage. Grounds and lives are lost even before any of them can catch a glimpse of Belkan colors, further solidifying the immense technological disparity between the Erusean Kingdom and the Belkan Reich. It's telling enough that there are Belkan warships in the River Thames, and the Erusean factions in London can't even muster anything whatsoever to counter them. Rather, they can only grit their teeth and receive their punishments.
Looking at everything ongoing now, the Count of Farbanti must be relieved that he and his people aren't subjected to the business ends of those naval guns.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The once desperate yet hardy Erusean Loyalist defense line stands battered and disrupted, with pockets of units now stranded in a ruined urban landscape with no reliable means of contacting or reaching their allies. The intense bombardments, conducted by Belkan aircraft and warships, have forced them to hide as low beneath the ground as possible, or risk having their stretch of a neighborhood utterly flattened. For one, the Belkans don't seem to be particularly worried about civilian casualties. It would seem the
Casualties were many for the Loyalists, forcing them to shrink the main defensive circle around Buckingham Palace to just the royal residence itself. The King's Palace, once a bastion of lustrious splendor and regal bearing, now lay buffeted by the flame of war. The once orderly hallways and ballrooms are now nothing but a crowded, chaotic mess of barricades and makeshift defensive positions, of bleeding men and dying soldiers,... You will be hard-pressed to find any spot that is relatively open and clean enough to lie down without finding your face meeting a leg that is cut up to its knee. One can only imagine how hard it will be to navigate the aisles of Buckingham Palace with so little room left to maneuver. And of course, the more the soldiers experience this jam, the worse their spirits will be.
They will rather run straight into the bombs outside than hear the pained cries and disillusioned speech of war casualties for a day longer.
Colonel Bradshaw, now the de facto leader of the remaining Erusean Loyalists in Buckingham Palace, recognizes this crippling issue. He himself is understandably exhausted by the whole ordeal, with nothing but down and down, time and time again. He doesn't even remember the last time he had some shut-eye or a hot cup of tea. His staff, much like himself, is also down on its last leg, kept aloft only through sheer grit and responsibility. If the commanding officers are like this, then one can imagine how much worse their soldiers and conscripted troops fare, especially when not everyone is the enduring Scot Guards.
Still standing tall, or at least the man believed himself to be, Colonel Bradshaw instructs his men with all the grim spirit he has to offer.
"Scrap the furniture. I don't care if it's a mahogany table or a century-old sofa. If it can be torn down to clear the room, then it can also be used to reinforce the windows or the chokepoints. The wounded can be relocated to the made available positions, while those in the front can have one more layer of defense."
"... Understood, sir."
While each piece of furniture in Buckingham Palace may very well be priceless in their eyes, no price is too high to be paid, given the lives at stake. Bradshaw's orders are put into practice immediately, with the medical units being the most ardent supporters of his directive. Aside from asking a few tables to be spared to be made into surgery tables, many other prized furniture are torn apart. Of course, the palace servants are the most against Bradshaw's command. However, they are only just that, servants, not men with guns and fingers too twitchy on the triggers. And when King George VI remained utterly uncaring about the so-called barbaric actions of the Scots Guards upon his waking from his coma, most servants caved to the pressure. Still...
There may or may not have been a case of a butler being shot due to his zealous defense of a dining chair... Of course, it could have been the winds playing tricks on their minds, and the butler wasn't shot but rather fell by himself on a bayonet. Regardless of the case, Buckingham Palace is more destitute than ever before. One can even say that it's the Erusean themselves who have plundered the royal residence of its riches, not the Belkan invaders.
It is, indeed, a sad state of affairs. And despite all of that, Colonel Bradshaw doesn't think the situation will ever improve.
With only his command staff remaining now that the runners are all out of the room, Bradshaw sighs for the umpteenth time.
"We're like fish on the chopping block..." The Colonel speaks everyone's fear.
Their plan of making a breakthrough with the royal family or waiting for reinforcement was effectively scrapped when the Capitalist grunts and civilian militia attacked Buckingham Palace in a multi-way brawl, and the royal family was assaulted. Now, they don't even have the chance to even poke their heads out from this dried-up oasis of theirs without expecting a few bombs for their troubles. The Belkans, in their sudden arrival, have more than enough capability to immediately raze Buckingham Palace to the ground. The only reason they haven't done so? Bradshaw guesses it has to do with the recently awakened King.
The Belkans would want to ensure the King and his family are captured, if only to force a full capitulation and a smoother transition of power. If anything, the Belkans would have little to gain in trying to assassinate the royal family. Thinking that way, the Reich is not a prime suspect in the behind-the-scenes fiasco at all. From the bits Bradshaw knows about the current state of affairs, after sacrificing some good men's lives for words coated in blood, the Reich's slow and steady encirclement of London only further supports this hypothesis.
A sudden incessant rumbling, an artillery barrage landing damn near Buckingham Palace, nearly forces everyone in Bradshaw's command staff to stumble, yet not one person even bothers with diving for cover. They've grown too tired and drained after repeated experiences like that. They know, however, that for the shells to land that close to Buckingham, it would mean that either their troops disobey order and venture out into the streets around the palace, or that the Capitalists or militia make an overt move on their position. Paradoxically, the Belkans' bombardment zone around Buckingham Palace has set up a sort of buffer zone that protects the heavily wounded Erusean Loyalists from the remaining civil war factions. Yet, this is also why Bradshaw said that they're like fish on a chopping block.
Much like its King, Buckingham Palace is now at the complete mercy of its assailants. Bradshaw doesn't have much faith in it, not anymore, after the whole Cataclysm business, but right now, he is wishing for a miracle to happen that can save Erusea from its crumbling foundation.
But when a man bearing the rank of Captain, a man Bradshaw is proud to call a friend, barges in, all hope for a saving grace is lost.
"... What's our damage?" Colonel Bradshaw asks his Captain. The man has clearly seen better days in the line of duty.
"I lost three good men on this run, sir... The last one, while surviving, may never see the light of day again. On our way back, some Territorials couldn't contain themselves and charged out of the palace and into the streets. Not sure who they're trying to provoke, maybe it was the nobles, maybe it was the Belkans, but they got their death wish granted by the shelling you must have felt."
"I see..." And that's the best thing Bradshaw could have offered to this veteran Captain who has braved the dangerous duty of leading a recon detachment, time and time again, into the dangerous London urban landscape.
A few seconds of silence followed afterward, but the Captain soon picked himself up and reported what he gathered in the field.
"We crawled our way to Northolt, sir, ain't nothing we can call upon from over there now that the place is flying Belkan colors. And I heard and saw a lot of heavy equipment being ferried over to the location by some big, big planes."
Bradshaw and his staff nod, having already hypothesized that the Belkans, with their infinite capability, would have no doubt target such a key strategic area. With Northolt's fall, pretty much the entire Western flank of London can be considered lost, as there's no telling how much stuff the Belkans have already ferried over in the hours since the airbase's seizure. Bradshaw now knows for sure that all of those aircraft constantly flying over Buckingham isn't just for show and bombing alone. They must also exist as a means of logistics to fuel the Belkan attack on London, or else they can't explain how the Belkans can keep launching all those munitions into the air or be anywhere they want to be.
"And our reinforcements, have you managed to make contact with any of them?" One of Bradshaw's staff asks the Captain.
The man sighs.
"Yes, and no. Our unit managed to reach out to some of the reinforcement groups from outside London. They're but remnants now, and are arguably at a state worse than us, isolated in buildings and houses right next to the rebel nobles' forces. The main bodies of our reinforcement have long since succumbed to Belkan heavy ordinances. The remnants from that don't see much of a hope at mounting a continued fighting now that they have almost no men, no heavy equipment, and next to no supplies other than what they carried on their bodies. Many of these remnant units don't even have a Lieutenant or above to command them. They are all scattered all over London in large and small holdouts alike, but I highly doubt they can be reorganized into a proper cohesive force."
"Unfortunately, your fear is correct. We have neither the supply nor the officers and runners that are required to form a connection to these holdouts. They're on their own as much as we are." Bradshaw dryly says, too exhausted after one bad development after another. "I have a feeling it won't be any better, but let me ask this... Have you seen the Canadians?"
With his left arm, the Captain reaches into his combat webbing and pulls out a roughly bundled-up piece of cloth. Unfurling it, the Captain reveals that the cloth is actually a torn Canadian flag. "This is what I could salvage from their camp, sir."
They all take a good look at the torn, and even slightly burned flag in the Captain's hand. One officer comments with a tired smirk.
"Well, at least we Scots are still standing. I'll take that as an absolute win." Exhausted chuckles are the only thing they can offer at that.
"And the rebelling nobles, have they come to their senses?" Another question is posed by the staff.
"Just enough to be more than content at hiding in a wine cellar or a coffee shop, sir. I don't think they will be brave enough to shake hands with us, even with our common enemies at the gate. I think they're more afraid of the unseen bombs and shells than anything else. And before you ask, it was a foolish endeavor to approach the part of London under the Count of Farbanti. That place is teeming with bad news, and I hazard that they will or have already capitulated to the Belkans." The Captain answers with yet more bad news.
"And there goes our chance at forming a united front." Bradshaw sighs, mustering enough force in his paled fist to slam lightly on the ornate table in front of him. "Damn it, it's always them nobles that rotten the whole pot these last few days..."
The staff is wise enough to allow the Colonel a few deep breaths before asking.
"What now, sir? Regardless of what's next, we're with you."
"Well..." Bradshaw drawls out with eyes that desperately want some sleep, not explosions. "We can't run. We can't hide. We can't fight... Unironically, staying put is our best bet, although we can never get the King to leave his bedridden family after what happened previously. The man is still grieving, and I don't think I envy his position."
"So, we're staying till the end, then..."
"Only until a reasonable conclusion is reached. We have already failed the King, once... For better or for worse, we won't fail him a second time." Although Bradshaw has been a bit cryptic, the unspoken meaning is clear for all to hear.
"I will request an audience with the King. If he is lucid enough, then I will try to convince him of the alternatives. If not, then we will play it by ear. I have had too many people dying on my watch that I don't think I will ever sleep without a nightmare in the future." Bradshaw reaffixes his cap before turning away to walk out of the room.
Before stepping out of the door, however, he turns to give the Captain a salute, to which the man returns with his left hand.
The Colonel advises.
"Go to the doctor, and see what he can render for what's remain of your right arm... And thank you for your service, Captain."