The triumphant shouts of "Ura!" and thunderous cheers echoed through the forest, marking the conclusion of the daring assault. With Karad raising the severed head of Wulfrik Aesling, Supreme King of Norsca, the final 5,000 Norse warriors broke into a full rout.
Aesling's Eight-Pointed Star Guard attempted to recover their leader's body, but with the Norse morale shattered, their resistance collapsed. Chaos reigned in the camp as fleeing soldiers trampled over each other. Ultimately, the guard was overrun by the knights' iron tide.
After a brief rest, the human-dwarf coalition launched an all-out assault. Marquis Tulas personally led the Red Dragon Guard and Mousilon's Coldstream Guard to retrieve the gravely injured Karad. Surrounded on all sides, only about 1,300 Norse managed to escape. The rest were annihilated.
The coalition forces were utterly exhausted. Despite only half a day of combat, many Bretonnians—accustomed to warmer climates—collapsed from the freezing -20°C conditions. Their stamina and energy were entirely spent.
"Lord Karad? Are you alright?" Tulas supported Karad, assessing his condition. The legendary knight of Bretonnia was barely conscious, his body riddled with severe injuries. Deep sword and axe wounds scarred his chest, a piercing stab from Aesling's longsword marred his abdomen, and multiple gashes ran along his arms, shoulders, and legs, some exposing bone. His lungs were punctured in two places, five ribs were broken, and his once-pristine masterwork vibranium plate armor, forged by a dwarf runesmith, was shattered into fragments. Beneath the ruins of his armor, his bloodied garments bore silent testimony to the ferocity of the duel.
"I… won," Karad muttered hoarsely, forcing his eyes open. "Jules… did you see? I defeated the Supreme King of Norsca..."
Belia arrived on horseback, pale with dread. The thought of Karad's potential death sent shockwaves through his mind. If Karad perished, how would he explain this to King Ryan? Such a loss could end his political career.
"Thankfully, he's not in critical danger," Duke Bodric reassured the worried crowd. The Duke of Bordeleaux, champion of Manann, took out rare elven medicines to staunch Karad's bleeding.
Rokossovsky and Kuznetsov, observing the scene, exchanged astonished glances. To them, the injuries Karad sustained were enough to kill an ordinary man twice over.
Yet Karad survived.
This resilience ignited a wave of celebration across the battlefield. Cheers resounded through the snowy forest, a roaring tide of jubilation.
"Ura!"
"Ura!!"
"For the Motherland! For Ursun! For all who gave their lives today, let us shout three times: Ura!"
"Ura~ Ura~ Ura!"
"A glorious victory!"
In the aftermath, Erengrad's 200,000 citizens welcomed the human-dwarf coalition as heroes, despite their limited resources. They scraped together grain to bake small loaves of bread, pancakes, and hamburger patties, offering these meager gifts to their saviors.
The Bagration Campaign's success exceeded all expectations. What began as a desperate effort to break Erengrad's siege and open supply routes culminated in the annihilation of the Norscan Mountain Army.
In just one day, the coalition eradicated over 28,000 Norse warriors, destroyed more than 20 Chaos cannons, slew dozens of Chaos champions and tribal leaders, and eliminated Wulfrik Aesling alongside his elite retinue. The once-dominant Eight-Pointed Star Guard, which had terrorized Norsca for centuries, was no more.
Erengrad's siege was lifted. Chaos forces south of the city, upon hearing of Aesling's death, dissolved into disarray, retreating into the Shadow Forest in Ostland's north, never to threaten Erengrad again.
Karad, heavily wounded, required extensive recovery. Duke Bodric assumed command, convening a strategy meeting with Rokossovsky and other commanders to plan their next move.
The alliance agreed that their mission was complete. Erengrad had bought precious time for the Old World with its sacrifices and resilience. Now was the time to retreat.
Preparations began for a massive evacuation. Under the protection of Bretonnian fleets, Norscan Sea fleets, and Marienburg mercenary ships, Erengrad's 200,000 inhabitants would be transported south to the Empire and Bretonnia.
Amid these discussions, Belia, the Northern Front's political commissar, made a bold proposal:
"On behalf of the King of Bretonnia, I extend an invitation to Erengrad's entire Silavik Group and all Kislevite forces involved in this war—be they bear riders, winged lancers, or militia hardened by battle. As true friends of Kislev, Bretonnia offers to house and protect these heroes who defended the Old World."
Rokossovsky froze. The implications of such an offer were staggering.
"No," he replied firmly. "Our priority remains retreating to the Empire."
"Of course," Belia agreed smoothly, though a sly smile lingered. "Perhaps you'd prefer to take refuge in Beccafen with Queen Katarin? Surely she would be delighted by your loyalty, Marshal Konstantin Konstantinovich. Or… would you reconsider Bretonnia's sincerity?"
Rokossovsky's face turned grim. In his moment of triumph, he had overlooked a critical reality: their status. Were they local warlords? Secessionists? Or worse, traitors?
The Queen of Ice would never tolerate any deviation from her rule, especially from Kislev's last remaining functional army. Rokossovsky, a convicted fugitive, knew Katarin's wrath could be merciless.
"The Empire will not recognize you," Belia continued, his tone coaxing yet firm. "Neither Emperor Karl Franz nor King Gelt of Nordland would accept you. One decree from Katarin, and you'll be forced back under her command. What do you think she'll do with your forces then?"
"This was your plan all along, wasn't it?" Rokossovsky accused, his voice strained. "I can die; I don't matter. But the people of Erengrad and these brave soldiers deserve to be protected!"
"You needn't die," Belia replied with a devilish smile. "Bretonnia will provide homes, protection, bread, vodka, and beef stew for all. Consider it, my dear marshal. You have half a day to decide—I have other matters to attend to."
"And those would be?"
"I need to arrange the relocation of the Kirov Factory," Belia said ominously.
"What?" Rokossovsky's eyes widened in disbelief.
"I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse," Belia replied, his grin as enigmatic as ever.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Rokossovsky finally relented.
"Fine. We'll relocate to Bretonnia. But you must promise to care for these soldiers who gave everything for Kislev!"
"Consider it done."
The evacuation began. Everything of value was taken, leaving only an empty city for the Chaos forces.
---The Offer They Couldn't Refuse---
A few days later, in late January 2515 of the Imperial Calendar, King Ryan's Bretonnian army encountered a massive force of over 50,000 Beastmen near Burgonne Castle.
Although the Beastmen rarely engaged in pitched battles, Supreme Beastlord Graktar knew he had no choice. If the Bretonnians linked up with Middenland forces, they would threaten his stronghold in the Drakwald Forest.
Despite opposition from Kazrak One-Eye, Graktar decided to strike first, relying on his numerical superiority.
But as the armies formed ranks, King Ryan, astride his griffon Imperius, observed the Beastmen horde with disdain.
"Many foes, at least 50,000," observed Regent Louen. "They outnumber us significantly, Your Majesty."
"Hah! I see only sheep for the slaughter," Ryan replied with a smirk.
As the knights prepared to charge, Morgiana raised the Chalice of Potions, summoning a holy barrier that nullified the Beastmen shamans' magic. Veronica's mage corps unleashed meteors and fiery skulls, incinerating entire ranks. Meanwhile, Theresa's frost magic slowed the Beastmen, leaving them vulnerable to cannon fire and volleys.
Ryan led the charge himself, with 30 Grail Knights forming an arrowhead, followed by thousands of eager knights. He raised Mjolnir, unleashing a psychic shockwave that obliterated dozens of Bestigors. Lightning storms erupted across the battlefield as the knights crushed the Beastmen ranks.
Recognizing the futility, Graktar ordered a retreat, leaving 3,000 sacrificial troops to cover their escape.
The Battle of Burgonne ended with a decisive Bretonnian victory. Ryan's army suffered fewer than 300 casualties while annihilating over 5,000 Beastmen.
Two days later, encamped near a watchtower, Ryan received an urgent message.
Reading the dispatch, he frowned in confusion.
"12,000 human soldiers defeated 45,000 Beastmen near Middenland?"
"Supreme Beastlord Graktar slain? The Beastmen routed?"
"...What?"
He reread the report.
It seemed impossible.
_________________________
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