The grand chamber of the Imperial Federal Palace stood in silent magnificence, illuminated by the golden glow of the chandeliers above. White and Black cross banners bearing the Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines (IFRP) insignia hung from the towering marble pillars, a symbol of dominance and unity.
At the center of the room, seated upon the throne of the empire, was Emperor Aurelio Mendez III, a man whose presence alone commanded reverence and fear. His stern, calculating eyes, sharp cheekbones, and graying slicked-back hair gave him the appearance of a ruler untouched by time.
His crimson imperial robes, embroidered with golden threads of conquest, draped over his broad shoulders as he leaned forward, awaiting the arrival of his daughter.
The great doors to the chamber swung open, their polished ebony panels groaning under the weight of history. Gabriella Aurelia Mendez, the Sword of the Empire, strode forward, her steps measured and precise.
The gleam of her black military uniform caught the light, the golden insignias of the imperial family marking her as both warrior and heir. Her long silver-white hair, flowing behind her like a silken banner, contrasted sharply with her cold, violet eyes—eyes that had witnessed empires crumble and enemies beg for mercy.
At her hip, her imperial blade rested in its sheath, the faint shimmer of teleportation magic dancing around her like embers of an unspent storm—a testament to her mastery over space and warfare.
She halted before the throne, offering a curt but respectful bow of her head. Then, she met her father's gaze, her expression unreadable.
A tense silence stretched between them. The emperor's eyes, sharp as a falcon's, assessed her as he had done countless times before—not as his daughter, but as a soldier, a weapon, a bearer of his will.
Emperor Aurelio III's gaze settled on his daughter, his expression unreadable. The scent of battle still clung to her—the faint trace of gunpowder, the iron tang of blood, the crisp bite of ozone from the magic she had wielded. He exhaled slowly, his voice a deep, measured rumble.
"You stand before me, daughter, with the scent of war still upon you. Tell me—does Vietnam kneel?"
Gabriella Aurelia Mendez met his gaze without hesitation. Her violet eyes, cold and unyielding, carried none of the exhaustion such a campaign should have left behind. She was a soldier, a weapon honed to perfection.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The battle ended at dawn. The last of their defenses crumbled under our artillery and airborne assault. Ho Chi Minh City is ours. The puppet government has signed the unconditional surrender."
Aurelio III nodded, resting his fingers against his chin, his expression thoughtful.
"The war council estimated resistance for another ten in a half weeks. You ended it in a month." A pause, then his gaze sharpened. "Was it necessary to deploy the Imperial Gate?"
Gabriella's posture straightened, unwavering, as if even the question was an insult to her judgment.
"The enemy fortified their last stronghold with foreign aid. I eliminated their reinforcements before they arrived. With one mass teleportation, our legions flanked them from all directions—there was no escape."
A deep chuckle rumbled from Aurelio III's chest, the sound rich with satisfaction.
"So, the world shall know that the Imperial Gate is unstoppable. Our enemies will tremble at the mere mention of your name."
Gabriella's expression remained impassive, her voice as cold as tempered steel.
"Fear is a weapon, Father. One I will wield until our enemies no longer exist."
The emperor stood from his throne, his robes flowing behind him like a river of blood and gold. With slow, deliberate steps, he descended toward her, the weight of his presence filling the grand chamber.
"And yet, war is never finished, my daughter," he said, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "Vietnam is but a stepping stone. Now, we turn our gaze toward Laos."
Gabriella's brow lifted, a glint of intrigue flickering in her eyes.
"Laos, Your Majesty? Have they shown defiance?"
Aurelio III smirked, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder—a rare gesture of both possession and pride.
"Not yet." His fingers tightened slightly. "But they will. And when they do, I will need my sword to carve open their future."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of destiny. Then, Gabriella knelt, lowering her head in absolute obedience.
"As you command, Father. The rest of Indochina shall fall."
Aurelio III's smile deepened, the fire of ambition burning in his eyes.
---
The Path to Laos – Preparing for the Invasion
With Vietnam fully conquered, IFRP forces now turn their attention westward. The Laotian border stretches before them, a rugged barrier of misty mountains and dense jungle—a natural fortress, yet one the Imperial High Command deems a mere stepping stone to greater conquests.
Though Laos lacks the military strength to resist a full-scale invasion, its geography presents a formidable challenge. Narrow mountain passes, winding rivers, and thick forests create a battlefield where terrain, not firepower, may decide the outcome. Still, the High Command is confident; after all, no nation in Southeast Asia has withstood IFRP's relentless advance.
In the shadows, IFRP spies and intelligence officers have already begun their work. Sabotage cripples Laotian military outposts, bridges mysteriously collapse, and supply depots go up in flames. Chaos seeps into the ranks of the Laotian defense, spreading doubt and fear.
Yet, despite their grim circumstances, the Lao government refuses to surrender. They fortify their capital and rally what remains of their forces, clinging to the hope that remnants of ASEAN resistance fighters—scattered and hiding within the jungles—will come to their aid. The stage is set, and the first moves of the coming war have already begun.
The night sky blazed with fire as IFRP warships rained destruction upon the Laotian defenses along the Mekong. Streaks of molten light carved across the heavens before slamming into their targets, each impact a deafening roar that shook the riverbanks. The Mekong, once a lifeline of trade and sustenance, now ran thick with debris and the broken remains of shattered fortifications.
Explosions ripped through sandbag emplacements, sending soldiers sprawling as fire and shrapnel tore through their ranks. The concussive force of each blast flattened makeshift barricades, throwing up clouds of dirt and smoke that rolled over the battlefield like a creeping fog. The air reeked of burning fuel, scorched flesh, and gunpowder.
From the warships, searchlights sliced through the smoke, sweeping across the carnage. Where the beams fell, they illuminated scenes of desperation—bodies scrambling for cover, officers barking frantic orders, and medics dragging the wounded from the rubble. The Laotian defensive lines, once stubborn and defiant, now crumbled under the relentless assault, their resistance flickering like a candle in a storm.
___
Beyond the raging inferno, deep within the jungle, the rhythmic stomp of Tamaraw heavy cavalry echoed—low, deliberate, and menacing—before fading into the night. Silence followed, thick and expectant. Then, without warning, the strike came.
Blades of wind magic sliced through an enemy patrol, their forms barely visible in the darkness. Soldiers gasped, their cries of agony cut short as unseen forces tore through flesh and armor. A burst of gunfire followed, wild and panicked, but the bullets found nothing—only empty air and shifting shadows.
Through the tangled undergrowth, the Tamaraw magicians moved like whispers of the wind, their female riders seamlessly adjusting positions before striking again. They were phantoms in the trees, striking and vanishing before their enemies could react. The jungle itself seemed to conspire with them, swallowing their presence as they prepared for the next ambush.
Above, the silhouettes of Imperial airships drifted like specters through the star-strewn void, their hulking forms barely distinguishable against the night sky. Then, without warning, the heavens split open.
Bombs tore through the clouds, shrieking as they plummeted toward the earth. The first explosion erupted in a blinding flash, obliterating a command post in an instant. The shockwave rippled outward, flattening everything in its path—tents, fortifications, even soldiers caught too close to the blast.
Then came the rest. A relentless barrage of fire and steel carved deep craters into military installations, sending debris hurtling through the air like shrapnel. Fuel depots ignited in towering infernos, their flames painting the night in shades of orange and crimson. Airfields crumbled into smoldering ruin, warplanes reduced to twisted wreckage before they could ever take flight.
The attack was swift. Merciless. And above it all, the airships continued their silent advance, drifting forward like harbingers of annihilation.
The Laotian defenders, battered and broken, fled into the jungle, their retreat marked by the distant wails of wounded comrades left behind. Those who remained to fight were swallowed by fire and steel. The Mekong, once their shield, had become a noose tightening around Vientiane.
Bridges fell, supply lines severed, outposts left to wither in isolation. The capital stood alone, surrounded by an empire that had already claimed the river as its own.
---
The first shells shrieked through the night, their piercing wails the only warning before chaos erupted. A heartbeat later, the jungle-lit banks of the Mekong were consumed in fire and thunder.
Explosions tore through sandbag emplacements, shredding wooden palisades and collapsing makeshift bunkers in an instant. The ground convulsed under the relentless barrage, hurling men like ragdolls, their cries lost beneath the deafening roar. Smoke and dust billowed into the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the stench of scorched flesh and the acrid bite of gunpowder.
Amid the devastation, the defenders scrambled for cover, but there was none—the sky rained fire, and the river churned with wreckage and bodies. The battle had begun, and already, the defenders were drowning in its fury.
Farther down the river, the Grand Dominion, an IFRP aerial carrier, loomed against the twilight horizon like a phantom fortress. Suspended above the battlefield, its massive silhouette cast an ominous shadow over the jungle below.
From its decks, waves of aerial magician troops descended like a swarm, their formations tight as they unleashed precise bombardments on enemy positions. Explosions rippled across the landscape, carving fire-lit scars into the earth.
The Laotian defenders fought back, their heavy machine guns spitting desperate streams of tracer rounds into the night. The glowing arcs of gunfire found their mark, but the rounds merely skittered off the carrier's composite armor—harmless sparks against an unshakable titan.
Above the chaos, IFRP artillery maintained its slow, methodical rhythm, each thunderous impact a death knell for the crumbling defenses below. The Grand Dominion advanced relentlessly, an unassailable behemoth in the sky, heralding the inevitable fall of those beneath it.
Then came the shadows in the trees.
Tamaraws—sleek, armor-plated quadrupedal exosuits—moved like phantoms through the jungle, their muffled footfalls barely stirring the undergrowth. Their riders, IFRP Tamaraw cavalry magicians clad in adaptive camouflage, blended seamlessly with the darkness, their movements eerily precise. Cybernetic implants enhanced their reflexes, while finely honed spellcraft guided their strikes with lethal accuracy.
Ahead, a Laotian patrol trudged through the humid jungle, their uniforms stained with sweat and grime. The air was thick, heavy with tension—then, in an instant, it shattered.
The first spell struck without warning. A crackling blade of compressed air ripped through the night, finding its mark before the soldiers could even turn. A strangled cry rang out—cut short as another spell followed, then another. Gunfire flared in the darkness, wild and desperate, but the Tamaraws had already vanished into the trees, leaving only the dead and the echoes of unseen predators.
A Laotian patrol, their uniforms already caked with sweat and grime, barely had time to react before the first spell struck.
A silent ripple in the air—then the lead soldier crumpled, his skull caving inward as if crushed by an invisible vice. Another raised his rifle, but his weapon turned to rust in his hands, corroding in an instant before he could fire.
The rest fell in a blur of movement—one engulfed in white-hot flames, another gasping as the oxygen was stolen from his lungs. The last turned to run, only for a razor-thin blade of compressed water to carve through his torso, severing him cleanly in two.
By the time the echoes of their deaths faded, the IFRP riders were gone, already melting into the jungle once more.
Silent and unseen, Imperial airships prowled the stratosphere, their matte-black hulls drinking in radar signals, turning them into ghosts above the battlefield. Beneath them, the bomb bay doors yawned open.
Then, the heavens wept fire.
Hypersonic guided munitions streaked earthward like falling stars, their trails searing through the darkness. The first impact obliterated an anti-aircraft battery outside Vientiane, the resulting shockwave flipping transport trucks like tin cans. A heartbeat later, the second strike plunged deep into an underground command bunker—then erupted, tearing through reinforced concrete as if it were mere paper.
One by one, key targets vanished in pillars of flame. Ammunition depots erupted into firestorms, radar installations melted into slag, and military garrisons became little more than smoldering craters. Defenders scrambled to respond, but there was no countermeasure, no warning—only destruction, swift and absolute.
By dawn, the Mekong belonged to the IFRP.
Laotian forces, their defenses shattered and their leadership in disarray, had melted into the jungle. Their retreat was marked by the distant rumble of explosions—demolished bridges, sabotaged supply lines, the telltale signs of a desperate shift to guerrilla warfare. The battle for the river was over. The war, however, had only just begun.
___
Beneath the thick jungle canopy, Laotian resistance fighters lay motionless, their bodies pressed into the damp earth. Sweat slicked their brows, mixing with the scent of wet leaves, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of fear. A dozen men—LPAF regulars and local militia alike—remained deathly still, their fingers tightening around worn rifles as they watched the winding dirt path below. They waited.
Then, the sound they had been expecting.
Footsteps. Distant at first. Then closer.
A column of IFRP soldiers emerged, clad in high-tech armor that reflected the dappled sunlight filtering through the jungle. Their rifles swept left and right, wary but unaware. Among them, Tamaraw-mounted magicians rode in disciplined formation, their sleek exosuit-assisted mounts gliding over the uneven terrain with an unnatural grace. Their glowing optics flickered with caution, scanning for danger.
But they didn't see the trap.
Not yet.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Then, the jungle erupted.
From the treetops, Laotian fighters unleashed hell. Machine guns roared, muzzle flashes flickering like fireflies in the gloom. Hidden explosives detonated in fiery bursts, tearing through the IFRP vanguard with lethal precision.
Soldiers were flung off their feet, some too slow to react, their bodies tossed like broken dolls amid the chaos. Tamaraws reared, their riders shouting commands, struggling to regain control as the ambush tightened around them.
Then came the RPGs.
A streak of fire arced down from a rocky outcrop. A heartbeat later, a rocket slammed into an IFRP light transport. The explosion sent the vehicle flipping onto its side, flames consuming the wreckage as its crew crawled from the inferno—only to be cut down in a hail of gunfire.
Another explosion rocked the jungle, this time striking a Tamaraw-mounted artillery unit. The blast sent shrapnel ripping through the formation, knocking riders from their mounts and leaving a smoldering crater where the unit once stood.
The IFRP advance faltered, momentarily thrown into chaos. The jungle, once silent, now pulsed with the rhythm of war.
But chaos never lasted long for the IFRP.
A low hum rippled through the air, deep and resonant, like the awakening of something ancient and unstoppable. Then came the pulse—a golden shockwave that swept through the jungle, unraveling the darkness.
Coronia's Bastion had activated.
For a fleeting moment, the battlefield was exposed. Laotian fighters who had melted into the shadows now stood revealed, their heat signatures burning bright against the undergrowth. There was no time to react.
The IFRP soldiers moved with ruthless efficiency. Precision shots cracked through the night, each one finding its mark. Silhouettes crumpled before they could flee. Those who dove for cover behind thick foliage found no sanctuary—IFRP magicians unleashed razor-sharp gusts of wind, slicing through branches, leaves, and flesh alike.
From the hilltop, a Laotian commander's face twisted in fury and desperation. He had seen enough. He raised his hand and barked the order.
Retreat.
But retreat was no guarantee of survival.
Tamaraw-mounted artillery and anti-tank divisions surged forward, relentless and unforgiving. The ground trembled beneath their advance.
Shells shrieked through the air, hammering bunkers and wrecked vehicles with merciless precision. Explosions rippled through the jungle's edge, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Hidden enemy tanks, once poised for ambush, were no match for the IFRP's overwhelming firepower.
One by one, the armored behemoths were torn apart, their thick plating crumpling like paper under the onslaught. Fire consumed their wreckage, turning them into little more than smoldering graves.
Nothing could withstand the storm.
And then came the magicians.
Water coiled through the air, summoned with a flick of the wrist. It struck fleeing soldiers in cold, slashing waves, drenching them before they could even understand the danger.
Then came the second spell.
Thunder.
A blinding flash. A crackling surge. Electricity tore through their soaked bodies, twisting their screams into gurgled agony. Some convulsed where they stood, limbs jerking uncontrollably. Others crumpled into smoldering heaps, their charred remains barely recognizable.
A few broke away, sprinting into the jungle's depths, desperate to disappear into the undergrowth. But escape was an illusion.
The sky was burning.
Columns of smoke writhed upward, staining the heavens as IFRP artillery pounded the city's defenses. Shells tore through bunkers and barricades, ripping apart hastily fortified streets in deafening eruptions of fire and stone.
Along the boulevards, infernos raged unchecked, their orange glow dancing across the Mekong's bloodied waters. Shattered buildings stood like broken teeth against the night, their ruins trembling with each new detonation.
And above it all, the thunder of war reigned supreme, drowning out the desperate cries of those still fighting—and those already lost.
The final stand had begun.
On the eastern bank of the Mekong, Gabriella Aurelia Mendez stood atop the command deck of the Imperial Federal airship, her silver hair billowing in the storm of battle. Below, the city burned, its defenses crumbling under relentless bombardment. But her gaze remained fixed on the battlefield—not with concern, but with certainty.
She raised a hand.
Golden circuits flared to life across her skin, tracing intricate patterns of power as her mana surged. The Imperial Gate roared open.
Reality itself shuddered. A rift carved through space, swirling with arcane brilliance, its depths stretching into an unfathomable void. And then, from the abyss, came the sound of something vast, something unstoppable.
With a deafening roar, the IFRP dreadnought emerged.
A behemoth of steel and sorcery, the warship displaced the Mekong's waters as it materialized, sending waves crashing against the banks. Its immense frame loomed over the battlefield, its presence undeniable, its arrival a death knell.
Towering cannons swiveled into position, their barrels humming with raw energy. A single shot could level a city block. A volley would leave nothing behind.
Gabriella's voice rang out across the command channel, calm and absolute.
"Open fire."
For a single breath, silence reigned.
Then the world erupted.
The dreadnought's main battery roared, its withering barrage shattering the Mekong's surface with shockwaves. Each shell tore through entire city blocks, collapsing defensive emplacements into little more than smoldering wreckage. The last remnants of Laos' anti-aircraft defenses never had a chance—obliterated before they could even lock onto the IFRP airships prowling the skies.
Then, the Imperial Gate flared once more.
This time, it vomited forth an army.
Shock divisions stormed into the heart of the besieged capital, their boots striking the shattered streets as Tamaraw-mounted siege artillery rumbled into position. Cannons thundered, each blast reducing enemy strongholds to dust and flame. IFRP mechanized infantry swept through the ruins with ruthless precision, their spellfire and steel cutting down resistance wherever it lingered.
The Laotian defenders fought with desperate resolve, barricading themselves inside government buildings, narrow alleyways, and the sacred ruins of ancient temples. Every street became a battlefield, every collapsed structure a last stand. But against the relentless advance of the IFRP war machine, their resistance withered, then shattered.
At the heart of the city, the Presidential Palace loomed—a final symbol of defiance amid the ruin. LPAF troops and government loyalists had dug in, their battered forces forming a desperate perimeter around the crumbling halls of power. Ammunition ran low, bodies piled against barricades, yet they refused to surrender.
Beyond the smoke-choked skyline, IFRP warships circled like vultures. The end was inevitable.
But they never stood a chance.
The gates shattered under IFRP explosives, and shock troopers surged through the breach with mechanical precision. Magicians raised shimmering barriers, deflecting desperate bursts of small-arms fire as they advanced without hesitation. The first wave hit like a tidal surge, sweeping through the defenders and cutting them down with ruthless efficiency.
Resistance collapsed within minutes.
Then, with a thunderous crash, the palace doors burst open.
Inside, Laotian ministers huddled together, their faces etched with exhaustion and dread. The chamber, once a place of governance, now felt like a tomb. At the center of it all, the president stood frozen—the last leader of a dying nation—watching as IFRP soldiers stormed into the room, their weapons raised, their victory absolute.
A single command crackled over the Imperial Comm Network.
"Laos has fallen."
Across the burning city, resistance crumbled. Weapons clattered to the ground, discarded by trembling hands raised in surrender. The last embers of defiance flickered—then died.
Above the Presidential Palace, a new banner rose. The white flag and black Nordic cross of the Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines unfurled in the smoke-choked wind, its colors gleaming against the ruin below.
Laos was no longer a nation.
It was now an occupied territory of the IFRP.
___
The jungle trembled beneath the weight of advancing war machines.
Through the dense foliage, IFRP armored convoys rumbled forward, their treads grinding the earth beneath them. Mechanized infantry moved alongside them, rifles at the ready, their faces hardened by the campaign in Laos. Above, Imperial Airships hovered like silent predators, their matte-black hulls absorbing the waning light of dusk.
Every soldier knew what lay ahead.
Cambodia—a nation on the edge of oblivion—stood defiant.
In the heart of Phnom Penh, the red banners of the Communist Party of Kampuchea rippled in the humid air, their crimson hue drenched in the blood of past purges. Once feared across Southeast Asia, the remnants of the Khmer Rouge now scrambled for survival. Their leaders, shadows of old tyrants, clutched at power with desperate resolve, rallying their forces in the name of a cause long condemned by history.
Siem Reap. Sihanoukville. Battambang.
Each city had become a fortress. Machine gun nests lined the rooftops, mortar teams took position in the ruins of old temples, and streets were barricaded with rusted vehicles and sandbags. The Khmer Rouge's aging Soviet-era tanks, battered but still deadly, were hidden beneath camouflage nets, waiting for their final battle.
Yet, even in their zeal, they could not ignore the truth.
Through radio waves and diplomatic channels, a single message echoed from IFRP headquarters in Vientiane—cold, unyielding, absolute:
"Surrender and integrate into the empire, or face annihilation."
But Cambodia did not kneel.
Instead, the call to arms spread like wildfire.
From the shadowed alleys of Phnom Penh to the sun-scorched rice paddies of Kampong Thom, soldiers—young and old, weary and resolute—clutched whatever weapons they could scavenge. Old bolt-action rifles, their stocks worn smooth by decades of use.
Rust-flecked AK-47s, their actions stiff but still deadly. RPGs salvaged from forgotten battlefields, their fates as uncertain as the hands that held them. Each weapon was gripped with the iron resolve of those who refused to kneel, their eyes burning with the unyielding fire of a people unwilling to be conquered.
At the Royal Palace, a former Khmer Rouge general—his uniform tattered but his spirit unbroken—stood before his gathered troops. His voice, rough with age, carried across the courtyard.
"The empire comes for us with its machines and its magic. Let them come. Let them march through our streets. And let them learn that Cambodia does not die easily."
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Not from the sky—but from the relentless march of the Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines.
The invasion had begun.
___
The jungle whispered with death.
Siem Reap—Cambodia's spiritual heart, its ancient temples standing as silent witnesses to the tides of history—had become a battlefield. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the scent of blood and gunpowder. Gunfire echoed off the stone walls of Angkor Wat, the once-sacred grounds now serving as defensive positions for Khmer Rouge loyalists and their magician elites.
The Tamaraw Cavalry came first.
Darting through the dense underbrush, the IFRP's mounted magicians moved like wraiths, their exosuit-assisted quadrupeds vaulting over fallen trees and shattered ruins. Spells flashed in the dim light, streaks of white-hot energy lancing through the jungle. The first wave of Khmer resistance buckled beneath the assault—men engulfed in flames, bodies torn apart by telekinetic force.
Yet, the enemy had prepared for this.
From the ruins of forgotten temples, Khmer magicians emerged, their spells woven from ancient traditions predating even the oldest records of the Mahouka Age. The air itself twisted as illusions rippled across the battlefield—IFRP soldiers fired into phantoms, their bullets finding only empty air.
Then the real attack struck.
From the tree line, rocket-propelled grenades shrieked, their trails cutting through the smoke. An IFRP Tamaraw-mounted artillery unit was obliterated in an instant, its mechanical beast crumpling as fire and shrapnel tore through its hull.
Tripwire mines detonated, flipping armored personnel carriers like toys. Khmer Rouge fighters—lean, battle-hardened, and relentless—surged from their hidden tunnels, AK-47s chattering as they swarmed the staggered invaders.
For days, the city became a nightmare of ambushes and counterattacks.
At night, IFRP soldiers found their patrols silently eliminated, throats slit by unseen hands. Convoys meant to resupply the front line vanished into the jungle, their wreckage discovered only days later, stripped of weapons and bodies left to rot in the humid air.
But the empire did not falter.
From the ruins of Banteay Srei, IFRP Tamaraw Magicians activated a new weapon—one that turned the tide of battle.
The EMP Device.
It was not a simple pulse of energy. This was spellcraft engineered into disruption. A localized magical detonation that rippled through the battlefield, not just disabling electronics—but shattering spells themselves. The illusions collapsed. Khmer magicians, caught in the backlash, reeled in agony as their carefully crafted enchantments disintegrated into static energy.
With their deception torn away, the Khmer Rouge fighters found themselves exposed to the full fury of the IFRP war machine.
Imperial mechanized divisions surged forward, cutting through resistance like a blade through flesh. Airships loomed overhead, their cannons turning defensive strongholds into dust. Tamaraw-mounted artillery battalions pounded enemy supply lines, severing their last hopes of reinforcement.
For two merciless weeks, Siem Reap burned.
The last Khmer magician fell beneath the ruins of Bayon Temple, his blood pooling beneath the ancient stone faces that had watched empires rise and fall. The last Khmer Rouge bunker was cleared with flamethrowers and grenades, its defenders fighting to the bitter end.
By the time the IFRP flag was raised over Angkor Wat, there was no more resistance left.
Siem Reap had fallen.
And with it, Cambodia's last cultural bastion was reduced to ashes.
---
The sky over Phnom Penh cracked with fire.
From the distant waters of the Mekong, Imperial Dreadnoughts unleashed a relentless bombardment, their long-range batteries carving deep wounds into the capital. Shells screamed through the air before detonating in blinding flashes of light, reducing entire city blocks to rubble. The old bridges spanning the Tonle Sap River collapsed, sending fleeing soldiers plunging into the dark waters below.
The Khmer Rouge, desperate and defiant, refused to surrender.
Suicide squads emerged from the ruins.
Dressed in ragged uniforms, their eyes hollow with fanaticism, Khmer Communist fighters moved through the streets like shadows. Strapped to their chests were primitive but deadly anti-magic explosives, designed to disrupt IFRP shielding technology.
An IFRP convoy rumbled down a boulevard lined with abandoned shops, their turrets scanning for threats. The lead vehicle, a heavily armored personnel carrier, came to a halt—its sensors detecting movement ahead.
Then, a figure lunged from the wreckage of a collapsed building.
The explosion erased the front half of the convoy. Shockwaves sent IFRP soldiers flying, their shields flickering before failing completely. Before the survivors could recover, Khmer guerrillas erupted from the shadows, spraying gunfire at point-blank range.
For hours, the city descended into chaos. Street battles raged beneath burning skyscrapers. Every alleyway, every ruin, every shattered temple became a killing ground.
But the IFRP had not come unprepared.
High above the smoking ruins, Gabriella Aurelia Mendez stood tall on the bridge of the imperial ship, her presence as commanding as the vessel itself. Mana crackled at her fingertips, casting an ethereal glow that pulsed in rhythm with her breath.
With a single sweeping motion, she summoned the Imperial Gate—an ultimate feat of teleportation magic.
"Imperial Gate."
The air shuddered.
A colossal rift tore through the battlefield, a golden vortex of spiraling energy opening at key locations throughout the capital. And from its depths, IFRP shock divisions emerged.
Heavily armored troops materialized behind enemy fortifications, catching Khmer defenders in a pincer assault. The Palace District, once the heart of Khmer Rouge authority, became a battleground of magic and gunfire.
At its center, the Khmer Rouge Palace stood defiant—converted into a fortress, its halls barricaded, its courtyards teeming with Cambodia's most elite warriors. From its rooftop, Khmer spellcasters unleashed torrents of cursed fire upon IFRP troops. Reinforced bunkers spat machine gun fire, cutting down any who dared approach.
And then, amidst the raging inferno of battle—Sylvan Garcia Mercado arrived.
He moved like a storm through the wreckage of Phnom Penh, his IFRP military uniform gleaming beneath the flickering fires of war. His armor—woven with magic-enhanced plating—deflected incoming spells and shrapnel with ease.
On his wrist, his custom CAD device pulsed with energy.
Spells erupted at blinding speed—barriers forming in the blink of an eye, precise energy bolts lancing through enemy defenses. His right hand gripped an IFRP-issued military sidearm, its barrel glowing with stored magical energy.
A Khmer spellcaster leapt from the ruins, a sorcerous dagger raised for a killing blow.
Sylvan fired once.
A single shot.
The enemy crumpled to the ground—his magic dispersed like smoke in the wind.
With every step, Sylvan cleared a path. Helping his allies, cutting down his enemies. The palace doors loomed before him, its defenders still clinging to their last desperate stand.
And then—the final push began.
___
The Siege of Phnom Penh had entered its bloodiest hour.
Phnom Penh burned.
The once-proud capital of Cambodia was now a battlefield of ruin and despair. Smoke curled from shattered buildings, its streets littered with the bodies of the fallen. The last remnants of the Communist Party of Kampuchea, knowing their end was near, launched a desperate counteroffensive.
From hidden tunnels and makeshift bunkers, Khmer Rouge forces surged forward. Grenades rained down from rooftops, sniper fire cut through advancing IFRP soldiers, and tanks—patched together from scavenged parts—rolled out of alleyways, their cannons roaring defiantly.
They fought with the madness of men who knew they were doomed.
But the Empire did not yield.
High above the city, IFRP Magicians gathered, their circuits glowing in unison. At Gabriella Aurelia Mendez's command, they unleashed large-scale suppression magic—a spell so vast that it crushed the enemy's will to fight before their bodies even hit the ground.
The sky itself darkened.
A pressure unlike any other settled over the city—Khmer Rouge magicians gasped as their incantations withered into silence. Guns jammed. Rockets misfired. The very air trembled with the weight of suppression.
And then, the killing began.
IFRP forces swept through the last Khmer strongholds like an unstoppable tide. Tamaraw Cavalry thundered down the main roads, mechanized divisions reducing enemy barricades to smoldering wreckage. Squads of shock troops breached every government stronghold, executing resistance leaders without hesitation.
And at the heart of the dying city—Sylvan Garcia Mercado met his greatest challenge.
In the ruins of the Royal Palace, Cambodia's strongest magician stood waiting. Draped in crimson robes, his body was a living conduit of ancient power—his spells woven from the oldest and darkest traditions of Khmer magic.
Sylvan stepped forward, his magic-enhanced armor reflecting the fires around him. His CAD wrist device hummed with energy, ready to release spells at a speed no ordinary magician could match.
The two warriors clashed.
A hurricane of fire and steel.
Spells ripped through the palace, shattering walls, tearing apart the marble floors. Each strike from the Khmer sorcerer cracked the air like a thunderclap, his power warping reality itself—but Sylvan was faster.
With calculated precision, he dodged a burst of cursed energy and retaliated. A single shot from his IFRP sidearm. The bullet, infused with a high-speed magic formula, bypassed his opponent's defenses—piercing his heart.
The strongest magician of Cambodia collapsed, his blood staining the ancient floor.
With his death, Khmer resistance crumbled.
Phnom Penh had become a city of ghosts. For a month, its streets had been a battlefield—a maze of crumbling buildings, barricades of shattered cars, and alleys thick with the scent of death. The war had been relentless, fought block by block, room by room, until there was nowhere left for the Khmer Rouge to hide.
The last echoes of gunfire had faded, replaced by the weeping of survivors and the distant roar of fires consuming the wreckage of a fallen regime.
At last, the communist government collapsed. Their leaders, once gods of terror in their own eyes, were dragged from their underground bunkers, their fine uniforms stained with dirt and fear. The might of the Empire had shattered their armies, leaving their soldiers broken, surrendering by the thousands, their weapons discarded in heaps along the roads.
There would be no escape. No mercy. The Empire did not forget the horrors these men had inflicted upon their own people—the endless executions, the starving labor camps, the mountains of unmarked graves. Justice had come, and it wore no blindfold.
Gabriella stood at the heart of the ruined capital, her presence undeniable, her will absolute. With a single command, she summoned the Imperial Gate—a swirling vortex of silver and black, towering above the city like a celestial executioner.
The air crackled with raw energy as the portal spiraled open, its unnatural winds whipping through the shattered streets. The people of Phnom Penh, those who had suffered under Khmer rule, gathered to witness the reckoning.
The condemned were herded forward, their hands bound, their hollow eyes darting wildly between the Gate and the Imperial soldiers who drove them forward.
The generals, once so untouchable in their hidden compounds, now stumbled like cattle to the slaughter. The executioners, the torturers, the architects of genocide—each one felt the weight of their fate pressing down upon them.
There was no bravado left, no defiance. The bravest among them muttered empty prayers. Others collapsed to their knees, sobbing, pleading for a mercy they had never granted to their own victims.
Steel cages, reinforced and unyielding, awaited them. One by one, they were locked inside, their bodies trembling as the realization set in. Gasoline, thick and reeking, was poured over them, drenching their uniforms, seeping into their skin. Some screamed. Others pounded against the bars, their desperate fingers clawing at metal, their voices rising in pitiful cries. But there was no salvation beyond the Gate.
With a final, decisive motion, the Imperial Gate closed, sealing them within. For a breathless moment, there was silence. Then, from within that iron tomb, fire bloomed.
It was an inferno, ravenous and unrelenting, consuming flesh and bone alike. The screams of the Khmer oppressors rose in a final, agonized chorus before vanishing into the abyss. The flames did not merely kill; they erased. The suffering they had once inflicted upon millions now turned inward, devouring them whole.
As the last embers faded, the people of Phnom Penh watched in silence. The monsters who had ruled them were gone. Their judgment was final. Their suffering was but an echo of the agony they had once unleashed.
The streets of Phnom Penh, once filled with the echoes of fear and oppression, now buzzed with the murmurs of hope. The IFRP forces, having crushed the remnants of the Khmer Rouge, moved swiftly to undo the horrors left in their wake.
Civilians who had spent years under the suffocating grip of the regime—starved, beaten, and forced into labor—were finally free. Shattered families, torn apart by war and ideology, found one another in tearful embraces. Mothers clutched their children, their hollow eyes now brimming with something long forgotten—relief. Food and medicine, once hoarded by the elite, flowed freely to the hungry and sick.
Soldiers, once feared as harbingers of destruction, now extended hands to the broken, guiding them from the ruins of their past into an uncertain yet promising future. The tattered red banners of the Khmer Rouge were torn down, trampled underfoot as the victorious standard of the IFRP was hoisted above the city.