Late Winter, 1930 (Aurelian Standard) – Southern part of Felsburg-Noirval Border.
A thin layer of snow still covered the ground, but the cold had begun to wane—a sign that spring was approaching. However, at the Felsburg-Noirval border, there was no time to think about the changing seasons. Here, the only thing that changed was the front line.
Beneath a dark sky awaiting the first light of dawn, a vast military camp stretched behind the defensive trenches. Flickering oil torches lined the main pathways, casting dim illumination on the hundreds of figures moving in silence. There were no cheers, no loud commands—only the rustling of equipment and hushed orders passed from one soldier to another.
On the frozen ground, lines of infantry stood in disciplined formations, their long gray coats billowing slightly in the cold breeze. Bolt-action rifles were slung over their shoulders, bayonets fixed at the ends—sharp and ready for close combat. Some adjusted the straps of their steel helmets, while others took slow sips of black coffee from tin cups, shaking off the last traces of drowsiness before the battle began.
Behind them, artillery batteries were making their final preparations. Heavy cannons were being repositioned, their barrels slowly elevated according to the coordinates provided by the officers. The artillery crews worked with practiced efficiency, their dirt-streaked hands gripping the massive shells that would soon be hurled toward the enemy. Every metallic clang, every movement, was part of the grand symphony of war about to unfold.
As the final moments before the operation ticked away, an eerie silence settled over the front lines. The air felt thick with tension, a heavy weight pressing down on every soldier standing in the shadow of dawn. Some tightened their grip on their weapons, while others stared blankly at the muddy ground beneath their feet. Their hearts pounded—not with fear, but with the anticipation of what was about to come.
Through the lingering winter mist, a line of figures in gray-green uniforms moved in silence. The soldiers of Felsburg stood ready, their steel helmets glinting faintly in the dim light. Their eyes were sharp, focused, waiting for the final signal that would send them into battle. This was no mere skirmish. This was a carefully orchestrated campaign, planned for months—perhaps even years.
For some, war was an honor. For others, it was an inescapable nightmare. But no one among them could predict what awaited beyond the no man's land, past the tangled barbed wire, into the enemy's territory. War was always like this—like opening a door into a pitch-black room, never knowing what lay beyond.
Long before today, Felsburg had orchestrated numerous deception operations to mislead Noirval. False intelligence had been deliberately leaked, suggesting that Felsburg was reinforcing its forces at Veldenmark. Given Felsburg's strong desire to reclaim that region, Noirval had taken the bait without hesitation. Believing an attack would come from the north, they had shifted most of their reserves there, leaving the southern front dangerously exposed.
Furthermore, Noirval had assumed that Felsburg's southern units were undergoing routine rotations, unaware that they were, in fact, preparing for something far greater.
Now, with Noirval's strategic miscalculation, the path to victory lay open in the south. The troops at the front awaited only the signal, and once it was given, there would be no turning back.
Among the assembled ranks, Paul stood slightly apart from the others. His fingers traced the edge of a small silver locket hanging from his neck, his thumb gently brushing over its surface. Inside was a photograph of his wife and daughter—the two people who gave him a reason to keep going amid the chaos of war.
His gaze drifted toward the battlefield ahead—toward the endless stretch of churned mud and coiled barbed wire, the land that separated them from their enemy. He inhaled deeply, steadying his mind. Paul was no coward, but neither was he blind to the realities of war. He had his doubts about this invasion.
Noirval was not an empire built on blind conquest. It was a landlocked nation, cut off from the maritime trade routes controlled by the Coastal Crown Alliance. For Noirval, war was not just about expansion—it was a fight for survival.
So how could he justify this invasion?
Paul tried to convince himself that this was not merely for the ambitions of politicians in the capital, but for the survival of Felsburg itself. If they did not strike first, who could guarantee that Noirval wouldn't? And yet, the thought did not ease his unease. If they were the aggressors, how would the rest of the world see them?
The rumors circulating within the military only deepened his doubts. Two members of the Coastal Crown Alliance—the Viperian Empire and the Kingdom of Valdrik—were rumored to distrust Felsburg's new government. And how could they not? This government had risen from a coup that overthrew the rightful king.
But Noirval was not without allies. Aberia and Portoval, two nations that had recently emerged victorious from civil wars, had also dethroned their monarchs. The timing was suspiciously convenient. Paul, like many others, suspected that Noirval had played a hand in their revolutions.
Erzregen, however, seemed unconcerned. The recent civil wars had left Aberia and Portoval weakened, making them incapable of providing significant aid to Noirval.
Yet, in the end, all political theories and speculation no longer mattered. Before him lay war, and war did not tolerate hesitation or doubt.
At that moment, a soldier emerged hurriedly from the communications tent. His breath was heavy, but his expression remained composed. Paul turned to meet his gaze, and for a brief second, they locked eyes. No words were spoken—only a nod.
But that nod carried weight. It was the confirmation they had all been waiting for. The operation had begun.
Without hesitation, Paul reached for his gas mask and secured it over his face. The air grew heavier behind the lenses, his own breath echoing in his ears. He carefully shut the locket, tucking it beneath his uniform before tightening his grip on his rifle—ensuring he would remain standing no matter what lay ahead.
"Soldiers! Forward!"
His command rang through the cold morning air. In an instant, the entire unit surged ahead, their synchronized footsteps shaking the frost-covered earth. Row after row, they advanced with unwavering discipline.
And with that, the war had truly begun.
* * *
05:00 AM – Noirval Border Units Command Headquarters
The emergency meeting room was filled with anxious murmurs from the gathered officers. They had long suspected that war with Felsburg was inevitable, yet the sheer speed of the attack still caught them off guard.
At the center of the room, a long table was covered with a detailed map of the border, marked with various military unit symbols reflecting the latest reports. Felsburg had truly launched its assault.
"Attention! General-in-Chief Roussel Bouchard has arrived!"
The moment the guard's voice rang out, all conversation ceased instantly. Every officer in the room straightened as an older man in his sixties strode in, his sharp gaze cutting through the air like a blade. General Roussel Bouchard—the mastermind behind Noirval's border defense—was a figure both revered and feared by his subordinates.
Without wasting a second, he marched to the head of the table and spoke curtly. "Report."
A military intelligence officer immediately stood up. "At 04:00 AM, Felsburg launched a large-scale offensive along the front lines. Initial reports indicate they crossed through Veldenmark with full force."
Several officers exchanged glances before one let out a scoff. "So, they really are that reckless?" he said, amusement lacing his voice.
"We've known for years that Veldenmark would be their main route of attack. That's why we reinforced our defenses there," another colonel added. "If they really committed their forces to that sector, then we'll crush them. They're walking straight into our trap."
A different officer nodded in agreement. "I don't even know why we're gathered here. We were already prepared for this."
One officer, however, hesitated. "But this feels too easy. What if we're missing something?"
"That's nonsense," a major interrupted. "Felsburg isn't stupid, but they're not cunning enough to do something unpredictable. They attacked from Veldenmark because it's the only logical route. Their main army is there, so we'll just bombard them into oblivion."
The room was filled with nods of agreement. They all knew Felsburg had been itching for war, but Noirval had been ready for it. To them, it was only a matter of time before the Felsburg offensive was crushed.
Major Duvivier, a senior officer in charge of artillery, crossed his arms. "Our artillery is perfectly positioned. They might break through a little, but within a few hours, they'll be stopped dead in their tracks. There's nothing to worry about."
Laughter echoed throughout the room. The officers found it absurd that Felsburg had been this careless. Some even joked that the war would be over quickly and that, afterward, they'd force their beloved Erzregen to dance in front of them as compensation for waking them up so early and disturbing their sleep.
Some nodded, some chuckled. To them, this assault was merely the beginning of Felsburg's inevitable defeat.
"The southern sector has fallen!"
The sudden, panicked cry shattered the room's confident atmosphere. Every head turned toward the entrance, where a messenger stumbled in, his face pale, his breath ragged. His wide eyes spoke of sheer terror, as if he had just witnessed hell itself.
"What?" Bouchard's voice thundered across the room, but the messenger didn't wait for permission to speak.
"The southern sector has fallen!" he repeated, his voice hoarse. "Felsburg attacked from the south! They didn't just strike Veldenmark—they broke through the southern border as well! And... they used something!"
The room, once filled with mocking laughter, froze into a dead silence.
Bouchard narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? Explain yourself clearly!"
The messenger swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "We... we don't know exactly! A yellow-green mist suddenly engulfed our defensive lines! Our soldiers—they started choking, collapsing, clawing at their own throats... like they were dying in unimaginable agony!"
Several officers exchanged horrified looks.
"Gas?" someone whispered.
The messenger nodded frantically. "We don't know what kind! But anyone caught in it collapsed instantly—they choked, they vomited blood! No one could survive! Then the Felsburg soldiers came... emerging from the mist like ghosts, wearing something like masks! They slaughtered what was left of our forces—there was no resistance!"
Bouchard clenched his fists, his face draining of color.
They had underestimated Felsburg. And now, they were paying the price for their arrogance.
---
05:15 AM – Southern Battlefield
"...It's horrifying."
The voice was barely a whisper, yet in the eerie silence of the battlefield, every word rang clear. Paul didn't need to turn around to know that his men were seeing the same thing he was—something so gruesome that even the darkest nightmares couldn't compare.
They stepped forward slowly, cautiously, through the thick, yellow-green fog. The air around them felt heavy, almost suffocating, despite their gas masks. This was not the cool morning mist rolling down from the mountains. This was not the smoke of artillery bombardments.
This was death itself—creeping, silent, merciless.
Corpses of Noirval soldiers lay scattered across the now-thawing ground, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Some lay face down in the dirt, their limbs contorted as if seized by an invisible grip of agony. Others sat slumped against the ruins of trenches, their glassy eyes staring into nothingness, their mouths frozen in silent screams.
Their fingers were clawed against their own throats, as if desperately trying to remove something suffocating them. Some had lips tinged blue, frothing, while dark crimson streaks ran from their noses and eyes, staining their pallid faces.
Paul raised his hand, signaling his unit to halt. Slowly, he crouched down beside a fallen Noirval officer, his uniform still neatly buttoned but drenched in filth. His hand clutched the grip of a pistol, though the weapon had never been fired. His face was locked in an expression of sheer terror, as if death had seized him in unbearable torment.
Even without a bullet wound, he would have died. Everyone who inhaled this gas had no chance of survival.
Paul straightened, inhaling through the filter of his mask.
This wasn't a battle. This wasn't a victory.
This was a one-sided massacre.
His fingers trembled slightly. Was it because of the horror before him? Or was it something deeper—something that shook the very foundations of what it meant to be a soldier?
When they were issued gas masks before the operation, Paul had questions. But there were no answers. No briefings about this new weapon, only one strict command: Never remove the mask. Keep moving forward. Finish the job.
At first, wearing the mask had been uncomfortable. His vision was narrow, his breath sounded unnaturally loud. But now, standing in the middle of this poisoned graveyard, he was grateful for it.
At least with the mask, he didn't have to see everything with his own eyes.
There were no gunshots. No resistance. Only the sound of boots trudging through mud, the weight of their breath behind filters, and the stillness of corpses scattered like discarded dolls.
For a brief moment, they simply stood there. Not out of fear, but because even the most hardened soldiers needed time to process such horror.
It seemed... this was yet another "investment" from Erzregen.
"Herr Hauptmann?"
Paul snapped back to reality at the sound of Hans's voice. He shut his eyes briefly, pushing away the grotesque images that burned into his mind. Instead of battle formations and tactics, another image surfaced—his daughter's face.
Yes... I do this for her. For my family. For Felsburg.
Paul inhaled deeply, his resolve hardening.
"Ah... my apologies, Hans." He squared his shoulders, his tone steady. "Send word to Otto. Ensure his platoon doesn't spread out too far. Tom, order Ludwig's unit to take the vanguard position."
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann!"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann!"
Without hesitation, they resumed their march. Their shadows drifted through the lingering toxic mist, moving like wraiths among the fallen.
No one knew if any Noirval soldiers still remained—or if they had all succumbed to their fate.
But one thing was certain—the southern sector had fallen.
And the cleansing had only just begun.