FOB Doors, Command Center
Inside the command center, officers crowded around the main monitor as the spy-plane feed sharpened into focus. From high above, the battlefield looked less like an army and more like an abstract painting of ants swarm.
General Hanz folded his arms, the glow of the screen reflecting off his tired eyes.
"Hm," he muttered. "If only we had this sixty years ago. Would've saved us a lot of time."
"Sir," an officer reported, pressing a headset tighter to his ear, "Elfis has left the building."
Hanz didn't look away from the screen.
"Very well," he said calmly. "Send the fireworks."
---
Vandoria Army, Vanguard Line
Dust rolled across the field as the Ravendawn forces pulled away, their banners shrinking into the distance.
"H-Hey! Look!" a mercenary shouted, pointing wildly. "The Ravendawn are leaving us!"
"Tch! Cowards!" another mercenary spat. "They must be scared after seeing our wyverns exploding!"
"…I mean," a third mercenary hesitated, "I can't really blame them. Everything's been really weird today."
"We're fighting demons," the second mercenary snapped. "Of course it's weird. That's why we're getting pa—"
SHRIIILL—
BOOOM
The explosion erased the mercenaries mid-sentence, shredding bodies and armor alike. Before the dust could even settle, another sharp whistle sliced through the air—
SHRIIILL—
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
Five explosions tore across the plain in rapid succession, each blast opening up the ground and swallowing dozens of mercenaries like hungry mouths.
"DEMON ATTACKS!" a mercenary captain screamed, voice cracking. "KEEP MOVING IF YOU WANT TO LIVE—MOVE!"
The soldiers ran.
Not in formation. Not in ranks.
Just panic.
Boots pounded the dirt as men screamed, prayed, and shoved one another aside, prayers to the goddess spilling from their lips between gasps for breath.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
The battlefield answered none of them.
---
Vandoria Army, Center
Duke Pierre went pale as he watched the vanguard disappear beneath overlapping fireballs, the front line erased in seconds.
"What…" His voice came out thin. "…What creates those explosions?"
His avian lookout hovered above, wings straining as he squinted upward.
"S-something is falling from the sky, sir," the avian said. "Like cannonballs. But… far too fast."
Pierre's jaw tightened. "Then there must be cannons firing them. Find them."
The avian nodded and climbed higher, wings beating harder as he scanned the horizon. Left. Right. Forward.
Nothing.
Then his gaze drifted past the battlefield, over the mountain ridge.
He froze.
Terror hit him all at once.
"S-sir!" he shouted. "The shots are coming… from the mountains!"
Pierre snapped his head up. "The mountains? They placed cannons that high?"
"No, sir!" the avian cried. "They're launched from behind the mountains—then they fall directly onto our vanguard. And… there are no stray shots. E-every single one hits the vanguard."
Pierre stood still, the realization settling heavily onto his shoulders.
"…Signal the center and both flanks," he said at last. "Halt the advance. Stay behind the craters."
Flags snapped upward. Horns blared, the commands echoing down the line.
"What about our vanguard, sir?" another officer asked quietly.
Pierre didn't look away from the battlefield.
"Let them draw the demons out," he said. "We've lost too much already without even seeing the enemy's ground forces."
He exhaled slowly.
"Send more avian lookouts. Watch what happens next."
---
Vandoria Army, Vanguard Line
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
Cluster shells rained down like steel rain gods answering a prayer no one had made. Seven thousand vanguard soldiers were reduced to fewer than half in minutes.
Men fumbled for stamina potions with shaking hands. Others triggered speed skills, fueled less by mana and more by raw terror. For ten minutes they ran—lungs burning, legs screaming, minds empty.
Then—
Silence.
No more explosions.
A horrible, impossible silence, broken only by ragged breathing.
When they finally dared to look back, they saw it.
A trail of corpses. Thousands of them. Craters layered over the field like scales on a dragon's back. Before, they had been seven thousand strong.
Now, fewer than two thousand remained standing.
"This…" whispered a veteran who had survived three campaigns and now looked like a frightened child. "…this is madness."
The battlefield did not respond.
A new sound rolled in from the sky.
The soldiers looked up.
The same flying demons that had slaughtered their wyverns returned. This time, they flew lower. Slower.
Almost leisurely.
"ARCHERS! LONG-RANGE MAGES!" a captain screamed, exhaustion and desperation shredding his voice. "SHOOT—NOW!"
Arrows filled the air. Spells followed.
None of it mattered.
The four F-16s tore overhead far too fast, ripping through the sky before anyone could even track them.
Other soldiers fell to their knees, whispering prayers to the goddess.
Then they saw objects falling from the aircraft.
Smooth capsules. No smoke. No fire. No trail.
Different from before.
Just falling.
Then—
BOOOOOOOOOMMM
Dozens of napalm canisters struck like falling suns.
Where they landed, the world turned molten.
Columns of fire erupted, swallowing the remaining vanguard whole. The explosions were worse than anything before—not sharper, not louder.
Just final.
"AAAARGH! AAAAAAAAH!"
Those unlucky enough to survive the initial blast were coated in liquid fire that clung to skin, armor, bone.
There was no way to put it out.
No water.
No spell.
No hope.
Only burning.
The screams echoed across the valley.
One by one, they faded.
Until there were none left.
Orange ribbons dripped from blackened bodies.
Not a single vanguard remained.
---
FOB Doors, Command Center
"Whoooaah!"
"H-holy hell…"
The command center collectively exhaled, stunned. It was their first time watching napalm work against real enemies, in real time.
General Hanz remained quiet, hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the screen.
"…Sir?" a lieutenant ventured carefully. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Hanz nodded slowly.
"…Yes. A barbecue party sounds like a good excuse to get my granddaughter to visit."
---
4 Kilometers From the Battlefield
Prince Luxius and his officers watched the inferno from a rocky hill.
What had once been the vanguard was now dissolving into fire and smoke, the field burning as if the land itself had been condemned.
"That…" one officer whispered, throat dry. "…could've been us."
Luxius didn't answer.
He turned his horse slowly, reins steady in his grip.
"Let's go," he said. "We've seen enough."
---
Vandoria Army, Center
"It's over," the avian lookout reported, voice shaking. "None of our vanguards survived the demons' hellfire…"
"Rrrgh…" Duke Pierre clenched his jaw, nails digging into his palm.
He still had half his army.
But retreat meant political ruin—countless golds wasted, patrons enraged, punishment waiting. Advance, however, meant death. Certain, immediate death.
Before he could choose, the lookouts dove back toward the command post, screaming as they landed.
"THE DEMONS ARE COMING! THEIR HELL DRAGONFLIES AND DEMON ELEPHANTS ARE APPROACHING!"
Pierre's eyes widened as realization struck.
"They won't fire cannons or hellfire like that with their own forces nearby…" he said sharply. "Signal Archmage Durac and the avian warriors. Prepare for engagement!"
Comm officers snapped into motion. Flags rose. Horns blared, carrying the order down the line.
---
Vandoria Army, Heavy Magic Division
Moments later, hundreds of ballista crews and two thousand mages rushed into position, forming a dense line to receive the enemy.
Archmage Durac steadied his telescope, watching the shapes approaching from afar.
"Finally…" he breathed. "Enemies we can see."
He lowered the lens slightly.
"Their magic is terrifying," he admitted. "But we still have the numbers."
The so-called Hell Dragonflies were not mindless insects.
They were eight Apache helicopters, sliding into range with deliberate precision.
They descended slowly.
Patiently.
Like executioners who knew there was nowhere left to run.
"They're coming! Five kilometers!" a lookout shouted.
Inside the Apaches, demon pilots flipped switches in practiced silence.
"This is Ugly Leader to all Ugly units," a voice crackled calmly. "Light 'em up."
FWOOOOOOSH
Three hundred rockets surged forward in a single, beautiful, terrible wave.
"MAGES! SHIELDS!" Durac roared.
Green barrier walls rose—too thin.
Too late.
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOOM
Rockets tore across the entire center line. The earth convulsed. Barriers shattered like glass struck by sledgehammers. Mages vanished mid-scream. Ballistae exploded into flying splinters.
Those who survived tasted metal in the air, ears ringing, vision swimming.
The battlefield did not pause.
Slowly, their hearing returned—just in time to catch the second barrage.
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOOM
"IT'S TOO STRONG! I CAN'T HOLD O—"
The mage vanished the instant his shield collapsed, words cut off mid-syllable.
"...…"
Then the battlefield fell eerily quiet.
Inside the lead Apache, the squadron leader calmly assessed the results of the salvo before issuing the next order.
"Ugly Leader to all Ugly squadron," his voice crackled over the comms. "We're heading in now. Weapons free."
All Apaches advanced, tightening the distance. Rockets streaked out again, followed by sustained fire from M230 chain guns, the helicopters maintaining a cautious one-kilometer range.
Their objective was simple.
Inflict as much damage as possible.
"THE DRAGONFLIES ARE WITHIN OUR RANGE NOW!" Archmage Durac roared. "MAGIC BALLISTA! FUSE IT TO SEVEN SECONDS!"
The surviving ballista crews snapped into motion, cranking their frames upward as artillery mages rushed to enchant the crystal-tipped bolts with timed explosion magic.
"FIRE!"
WHIIZZZ
Dozens of enchanted bolts tore into the sky, arcing toward the Apache helicopters.
"BREAK FORMATION!" Ugly Leader shouted. "EVADE! EVADE!"
The Apaches scattered, splitting apart and weaving through the air with practiced precision.
The Vandorian weapons detonated too slow.
Too wide.
Too late.
"Holy shit!" one pilot blurted. "They have AA guns!"
"Ugly Leader to all Ugly squadrons," the comm replied evenly. "Be advised: enemy has anti-air capabilities. Remember—any scratch on the heli will be charged to your paychecks."
This was a real regulation since demons tended to went crazy when handed expensive toys.
"ALL MISSED!" an artillery crew shouted.
"FUSE IT TO FIVE SECONDS!" Durac barked. "FIRE!"
WHIIIZZZ
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
Another wave of bolts detonated in the air—but the Apaches never stopped moving. The explosions blossomed harmlessly behind them.
"Curses…" Durac muttered, gripping his staff tighter. "Those things are just like flies."
One of the Apaches decided to return the favor, loosing a rocket straight toward Archmage Durac's position.
BOOOM
Durac survived—barely—his own golden barrier flaring just in time to absorb the blast.
"YEAAAAAHH!!" nearby mages cheered as they saw their leader still standing.
"NO TIME TO CELEBRATE!" Durac roared. "SEND THE AVIAN WARRIORS!"
As the order relayed, the sky began to darken.
Three thousand avian warriors rose at once, a living cloud blotting out the light. All humanoid, brown-feathered wings beating in unison. All armed with bows and swords.
All grinning as they spotted their prey.
"Fuuuuuck…" an Apache pilot muttered. "Those things look like the locust swarm on my nana's farm…"
"Ugly squadron," the leader said calmly, "rip 'em apart with chain guns. Keep your distance."
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The Apaches opened fire, chain guns roaring as they flew backward, maintaining space while chewing into the swarm.
Feathers and blood filled the sky. Avians fell by the dozens—yet the mass kept coming. These were sky-warriors bred for madness, trained to overwhelm wyverns through sheer numbers. Wings beat harder as they surged forward, trying to envelop the helicopters.
CLANK CLANK CLANK
Arrows pinged uselessly off the Apache armor.
"EY! STOP SCRATCHING MY PAINT JOB!" a pilot shouted.
Two Apaches drifted dangerously close.
"Ugly 4! Ugly 7!" the leader barked. "Pull back! You get tangled in the rotors and you're done!"
The two helicopters veered away immediately.
"Ugly 5 to Ugly leader—I'm running low on ammo! These bastards are everywhere!"
"Ugly 2, assist Ugly 5!"
"Negative, Ugly leader," the reply came. "I'm dry too…"
The squadron leader glanced at his own readouts.
Red.
They were nearly overwhelmed—
Then suddenly—
BRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
Dozens of avian warriors around Ugly 5 disintegrated mid-air, shredded by streams of fire rising from below.
"This is Bison 1-1 to Ugly leader," a gravelly voice came over the comms. "You guys having enough fun?"
Below, twelve Abrams tanks and four M163 VADS rolled into view, barrels glowing hot as they advanced like steel gods across the battlefield.
"Heheh," Ugly leader grinned. "Ugly leader to Bison 1-1. You guys are late."
"Heheh," the reply came. "Go home, Ugly leader. Let the big boys handle it from here."
"Yeah, yeah. We're RTB."
The Apaches peeled away as the fresh Murican armor column surged forward.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
Meanwhile, in the skies over the right flank, a lone Chinook drifted in, rotors beating slow and heavy.
On the open ramp stood Stan, cigar clenched between his teeth, coat snapping in the wind as he looked out over the burning valley.
"Hello, boys," he called—to no one and everyone.
"Daddy's home."