2

Winter was ending—short, sharp, and done.

It was ending, too, with the start of war.

Batis and Leon had already formed their troops, moving toward the buffer zone, steadily preparing for battle.

Seventy percent had already gathered, now checking final positions.

And the remaining thirty percent? Right here, in the capital.

Funny thing—our unit’s waiting here, too.

Not because we’re the princess’s personal guard. No, apparently there’s no reason to keep me safe for this fight.

Still, I’m glad I’m not just standing around, thumbs tucked in my mouth, watching from a distance.

So why are we, including me, still stuck in the capital? Because of the muster ceremony.

Honestly, it’s nothing but a headache—though, right now, the military’s under the Second Princess, and apparently we’ve got to do a full-blown parade, even go all the way to the front lines for this battle.

She’s just as fed up as the rest of us—says she’s got a mountain of other things to do—but apparently it’s necessary to keep the people calm.

So here we are, right before winter’s fully over. The capital’s lit up with fireworks, and the main road’s packed with marching troops.

At the front, a brass band marches in formation. Behind them, carriages roll—among them, the magic carriage the Princess rides in.

She’s leaning out of the open-top vehicle, waving, all elegance and charm—true to form, a proper royal daughter. Well, technically, she’s not a princess anymore. She’s the King’s sister, after all.

And right behind her, me, riding on my machine.

My machine—different in silhouette from the others—hits the eye first with Armunale, pure impact.

All that bulk and firepower, built to give the common folk a sense of safety.

I’m not stepping out of the cockpit this time. Normally, for parades, walking’s set to auto and I ride on a shoulder, but this time it’s a bit different.

The reason? The Abnomyle unit following right behind me.

Watching them on the rear monitor, they’re nothing like the old models.

Giant rifle mounted on one shoulder, shield in both hands.

A proper sniper-spec machine, you could say.

All that winter’s preparation gave Abnomyle a new evolution. Now they’re specialized.

Just like soldiers split into infantry, magic-users, and cavalry, Abnomyle’s split too—snipers, close-combat units, and general-purpose models.

Might seem obvious for army tactics, but we’d just been shoving whatever we’d built straight to the front line. Never got around to proper unit structure or gear development.

But over winter, that changed. Managed to get it all sorted before the fighting started.

Sniper units—well, you can see for yourself—shield themselves with both hands while blasting distant foes with their shoulder-mounted rifles. That rifle’s based on my Pelfirizzi, and since it’s slung over the shoulder, the magazine connects straight to the backpack. Means I don’t have to swap out ammo anymore. But then again, if someone fires at the back of the thing, the whole magazine goes off at once—blasts the whole machine to bits. That’s why we always move in groups, you know.

And right behind the sniper comes the close-combat unit.

Built just as its name suggests, it’s designed around close-quarters combat, with a sword as its main weapon. Whether it’s a greatsword or a regular one depends on the pilot—so you’ll see all sorts of setups: two swords at the waist, one greatsword on the back, or a mix of both, looking a bit messy from the outside. Of course, it can carry a shield too, so some models are practically just sword-and-shield combos, pretty versatile that way.

We’re not much for long-range weapons, so unless it’s a full-blown brawl or they shout ‘charge,’ we’re just hanging back behind the sniper.

The one walking at the very back—universal-type machine.

These guys are wearing pretty much the same gear as the old Abnomyle.

A mid-sized shield on either side, harmonica pistol strapped to the back of the waist, and a few ammo clips slung around too.

While the snipers pick off enemy craft, these guys close in and stir up the chaos. So they’re the foundation for close-combat units to get in. That’s why they’re seen as high-risk—whether to send elite pilots or just throw them away was a real debate among Armunale’s crew.

Eventually, they went with letting confident volunteers step forward. Though, surprisingly, a lot of people volunteered. Guess they figured it was a lot like Armunale’s own role—more likely to end up on our side, as knights.

That’s how Armunale ended up reshaping their whole deployment scheme, and today, finally, they’re unveiling it.

The parade line-up’s full of new-looking machines, and the crowd’s buzzing with excitement.

Still… there’s one thing that nags at me.

I activate my sound-absorbing magic, focusing it on the parade crowd.

“Long live Fatal Kingdom!” “Victory to the Emperor!” “Long live Lady Ines!”

Amidst the cheers for Fatal, there’s a noticeable undercurrent of hatred.

“Death to Overd!” “Eradicate the enemy!”

Those voices cut through the air.

Sure, we’re at war—so it’s not strange to hear such rage.

But a year ago—before Rayla and the others attacked the capital—this kind of hatred was almost nonexistent.

Back then, Overd was just… scary. A distant fire across the river. No one ever spoke ill of Overd’s people with such direct venom.

This must be what Rayla meant—stirring up hatred to fuel the war.

Truth is, there’s no point in trying to reason with them anymore.

The hatred swirling in them isn’t some weak flame you can blow out with a breath.

Before the parade started. The princess said it.

“The next battle. If we don’t force Overd to surrender, it’ll become a quagmire—more dead than any war before. That’s how much the people of Fatal hate Overd. That’s why we’ll settle it this time. Once and for all.”

I heard it loud and clear in their voices.

That’s why I swear it, too. Next battle. Anyone standing in front of me—every last one—I’ll cut them down. Take the victory.

After the parade ended, we rushed off to the front lines.

That said, the high-ups—including the princess—were riding the magic train. Can’t fit all of Abnomule’s lot on board, so they’re walking it. But my machine? I can haul them just fine.

I’m thinking how handy that is, when we arrive at the forward base. It’s the buffer zone fortress we’ve held together, barely, and managed to get built.

This new fortress—now called Move Fort—is our frontline.

The princess is greeted by a crowd of soldiers, and she steps inside with Maurice, commander of the Armunale forces, and Cruze, overall commander of the Abnomule unit.

“Is the command center ready?”

“Already set up, Your Highness.”

A junior officer, who’d arrived earlier, answers the princess’s question.

"Thank you. How's the imperial side looking?"

"Frontline fortifications are gradually taking shape. Reports keep coming in—every time scouts return, the number of enemy troops seems to grow. I should be able to explain their deployment alongside the map later."

"Understood. Then let’s hold the meeting in an hour, including the current status. Maurice, Cruze—agreed?"

'Got it.'

"Have the other officers assemble. And—since we’ve arrived here, the enemy might react more sharply. Maximum alert for today and tomorrow. Eld, you’ll take over security. Ange and Eis will handle this side just fine."

"Understood. Then I’ll be off. You two, take care."

"Uh-huh." "Leave it to us."

Yeah, trying to outmaneuver those two in a face-to-face fight? That’d be tough. I’ll stick to what I’m good at.

I leave the princess’s side and make my way to the hangar. There, the Pespilarge is already standing by, ready to launch at a moment’s notice.

“Orell, we good to go?”

“Always ready. What’s the hurry? Already heading out?”

“Yeah—there’s a chance the enemy might react to the princesses and move.”

“Huh. Right. Karyne! The commander’s on deck!”

Orell calls out, and Karyne appears from the cockpit.

“Got it! Heave-ho! Oh, Commander, you’re already here?”

“Setting out now.”

“The physical simulator—uh, senseboard—is in top form. Gonna give you the best performance yet.”

“Thank you.”

As Karyne steps aside, I leap into the cockpit and power up the machine.

The hangar lock disengages. The unit stands free.

“Eld, the Pespilarge’s moving out!”

Once I’m sure the maintenance crew’s clear, I push the machine forward. Out of the hangar, straight past the fortress walls.

Beyond the sprawling buffer zone, the enemy front line comes into view. Zooming in on the monitor, I can see a good number of units keeping watch.

“Yeah… that one’s ready to move anytime.”

Looking closer, I notice there are variations among the Abnomyle units.

Looks like they’ve been getting their machines in order over the winter too.

Which means the fight between Abnomyle units won’t be much different from infantry combat.

But there’s a weapon in this world that can change the whole situation.

If just one Armunale charges an Abnomyle formation, it’ll shatter the whole enemy unit.

Looks like it’s all up to the Armunale, after all.

◇

“Then, if you’d please, the deployment report.”

The meeting starts with Ines’s voice.

A man stands, taps the map spread across the table with a pointer, and begins explaining the current situation.

“First, our forces—adding the units that arrived today, we’re nearly fully assembled. As for positioning, we’ve deployed seven units each to the north and south of this point, totaling three hundred fifty Abnomyle units—fifty per unit. We’ve stationed two Armunale each behind them, ready for mobile strikes.”

The officer points at the map, placing black pieces down as he speaks.

“What about the enemy’s formation?”

"From what the scouts’ve reported, they seem to have set up camp on the far side of the river—pretty shallow water, right where it’s crossable."

The baton points to the flatlands deep within the buffer zone—closer to the Empire. Ten white horses stand placed around the perimeter of the formation.

About ten units. More than our own country has, but each unit’s estimated number of abnomyle is around thirty to forty.

Same in practice, though?

But if the command chain’s fine-grained, the unit’s less likely to collapse all at once. Total rout? That’s rare.

Kruze, once a foot soldier commander, rubbed his chin while studying the map.

More men per unit looks like an edge, sure—on paper. But when the enemy’s pushing hard? The bigger the group, the harder it is to keep orders straight. And once it starts breaking apart—well, that’s the kind of mess that ends you.

The imperial side’s morale’s been sagging, so they’ve been thinning out units to cut the risk like this.

“Looks like we’re at a disadvantage in a long fight. Any word on the Armunale?”

“Three imperial units confirmed. All guarding the command center—one of them’s definitely Leon’s, the second seat of the Eightfold Knights, Shoren Tzieva Sandrosia.”

“Second seat… wasn’t he supposed to be on eastern defense, according to the spies?”

“Looks like he’s been pulled in for this battle. That’s how serious they are. How many mercenaries do we reckon?”

“Five confirmed. Three of them are from the Elshard Mercenary Company.”

“Huh. So they’ve shown up after all. But… fewer than expected. I figured we’d see around eight.”

For a mercenary company carrying Armunale, a war between great powers is pure gold. That’s why I figured, with Fatal and Overd at each other’s throats, we’d see a flood of mercenaries—eight, maybe more. But here we are, and only five show up.

The thin numbers nag at Ines.

“Could they be hiding? Maybe lying in wait from north and south?”

“We’ve sent scouts both ways, keeping in constant touch with the other outposts. Nothing’s turned up that looks like a threat. And even if they were, trying to flank us now? Nearly impossible. The front’s too wide to even squeeze in.”

The way the troops are spread out north and south—there’s too much space between them. All you can do is push from one side and shake things up for a moment.

And in preparation, we’re adding two more Armunale units to each of the flank divisions, positioned behind them.

“Is that so.”

“Still, we expect the enemy’s numbers to grow even further in about a month. You’d better brace yourself—three divisions in a single month.”

“Then we can’t afford to drag this out. Let’s strike within a month. If they don’t move, we’ll go first.”

The scent of battle was already close—just beyond the spring breeze.

Next time:

The fight begins. On each front line, they’ll swing their swords, lives hanging by a thread.