Under the watchful eyes of foreign nations, Russia launched a major offensive toward one of the two most critical targets—the strategic seaport of Atlanda, a vital Papaldian stronghold defended by a formidable naval fleet and coastal fortresses. This port served as a key supply hub for Papaldia's frontline forces.

  With their final attempt to salvage any chance of victory crushed, nothing stood in the way of Russia's massive forces as they surged toward the capital to seize control of the government—a move that would spell the end of the empire. Inside the central command building, General Cavil gazed out the window at the Third Expeditionary Fleet stationed at the port. The other fleets—first the First, then the Second through Eighth—had all been dispatched and destroyed. Now, only this final fleet remained fully intact and deployable. But would it meet the same fate as its predecessors?

  It no longer mattered. After the emperor's death, chaos in the imperial court left Atlanda's military command without clear orders. Arriving with his heavily battered units after clashes with Russian forces, Cavil found the port in disarray, its initial discipline replaced by panic as lower-ranking generals began defending it in their own uncoordinated ways. Taking direct control, Cavil worked to restore order and strengthen the defenses.

  Through his efforts, the port regained some stability in a short time. He attempted to contact the central capital, but the responses were vague and repetitive, merely instructing him to hold Atlanda as long as possible while supplies would be maintained as needed.

  Cavil sighed. It wasn't good news, but he understood it was the best he could hope for in the current situation. Atlanda was becoming an isolated fortress, its fate resting on the resolve of its remaining soldiers and Cavil's final strategies.

  Outside, on the sea, massive waves seemed to herald something imminent. In the distance, Russian warships appeared on the horizon. The final battle for Atlanda—and perhaps for all of Papaldia—was drawing near.

  Soon, a meeting of officers, including Cavil, convened to prepare for what was likely to be a decisive battle. A sizable Russian force was advancing, grim news given the circumstances. There was no chance of defeating an enemy that had been consistently victorious, but Cavil refused to let the port fall easily. At the very least, he would make the Russians bleed before they reached the capital.

  In his office, the officers stood solemnly, listening as Cavil spoke with resolute clarity: "We will die here." His words shocked them; they hadn't expected such bluntness from a man of his rank. They had hoped for something more inspiring. But for Cavil, the brutal truth was what Atlanda needed to forge a spirit of defiance against the enemy. Some officers bowed their heads, clenching their fists in resignation, while others met his gaze with steely determination. Cavil continued, his voice steady but commanding:

  "If we fail to hold Atlanda, the sacrifices of those who fell before us will mean nothing. The empire is in chaos, but we will decide how it ends—not in shame and surrender, but in resilience and honor. The enemy is strong, but they will pay dearly to face us. I don't demand survival; I demand you fight to your last breath!"

  His words ignited their spirits. The officers nodded in unison, their eyes alight with resolve. Captain Renard, the youngest among them, stepped forward and declared loudly, "We won't let Atlanda fall without a fight. For honor, for our comrades, and for what remains of Papaldia!"

  Cavil nodded, knowing the die was cast. That night, Atlanda buzzed with defensive preparations. Trenches were reinforced, cannons were positioned strategically, and the remaining warships were equipped to serve as floating fortresses. Exhausted both physically and mentally, the soldiers worked tirelessly under flickering torchlight.

  That same night, a Russian naval force approached Atlanda, where most of Papaldia's remaining troops were concentrated. The Russian contingent consisted of 11 warships from the Black Sea Fleet, 15 aircraft, helicopters, and UAVs, 500 marines, 50 special forces operatives, and 10 armored vehicles.

  Initial victories over Papaldian forces had paved the way for a larger campaign. Atlanda, with its strategic position and potential as a supply base, became the next target. Russian command planned a coordinated sea and air assault, employing a pincer strategy to swiftly capture the port.

  Aboard the flagship Moskva, in the Russian fleet's command room, light from a large digital map reflected on the stern faces of the officers. General Ivan Sergeyevich, the operation's commander, stood before a map of Atlanda.

  "Comrades, Atlanda is a strategic target. If we take this port, we can use it against Papaldia's forces. From there, we can advance deeper without fear of being stalled at the front," Sergeyevich said, turning to Colonel Mikhail, the air force commander.

  "UAV reconnaissance shows the coastal fortresses are primarily equipped with magic cannons and manned by roughly 8,000 troops. Their air defenses, however, are weak, relying mostly on long-range magic casters," Mikhail reported. Colonel Grigory added, "Papaldia's fleet consists of 15 wooden ships reinforced with steel. They're no match for our destroyers."

  Sergeyevich nodded, already grasping the situation. The emperor's death had spread unrest across Papaldia's territories, fracturing their forces into disorganized units. This eased the pressure on Russian infantry, enabling plans to end the war swiftly.

  He turned to Major Olga, the amphibious assault commander. "The plan is to open with a cruise missile strike on the fortresses and docked warships. Then, the air force will hit remaining targets. Special forces will infiltrate to weaken defenses. You know what to do, correct?"

  She responded calmly, "We'll land after the navy and air force complete their tasks. The 500 marines will focus on the main port, with armored units supporting the frontline."

  "Good. Everyone, to your positions. The operation begins at 0400 hours," he said firmly. "We have until noon—no delays."

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  The officers nodded, dispersing to prepare. Each carried their own burden, but all understood the critical importance of victory at Atlanda.

  On Moskva's deck, searchlights illuminated the tense but determined faces of sailors and soldiers. The final UAVs were launched, tasked with reconnaissance and targeting for the opening airstrike.

  The Russian fleet closed in on Atlanda. The sea's silence shattered as Kalibr cruise missiles roared from the warships, streaks of fire flashing across the sky before vanishing into the darkness, racing toward their targets.

  ...

  4:04 AM

  Atlanda lay quiet in the night, its defensive preparations paused to let soldiers rest. But the calm was fleeting. Kalibr missiles slammed into the coastal fortresses, their explosions shattering the stillness.

  Cavil, resting, was jolted awake by the blasts. He leapt from his bed and rushed to the window, where a massive fireball consumed one of the fortresses. Stunned, he grabbed his manacom and shouted, "All troops, prepare for battle! Defend now!"

  His voice boomed through the port's loudspeakers, mingling with the deafening blasts as missiles continued to demolish coastal defenses and the harbor, exposing vulnerable lowlands. Papaldian soldiers scrambled to retreat. Among them was Jax, a long-serving garrison soldier who had just rested after hours of reinforcing defenses, only to watch them crumble.

  Jax and others fell back deeper into the port, descending into bunkers. Helpless and terrified, he watched the enemy's brutal, decisive assault unfold. They huddled in silence, listening to the destruction above. The explosions shook Jax, leaving him trembling and powerless.

  When the blasts finally ceased, he exchanged fearful glances with the others. "Is it over?" someone whispered.

  A soldier cautiously opened the bunker door, peering out. After a moment, he said, "It's stopped."

  The door swung wide, and the soldiers emerged, as did those from other bunkers. The scene was one of ruin—Papaldia's proud strength reduced to rubble. Jax stared in disbelief.

  "What are you all waiting for? Grab your weapons and rebuild the defenses, now!" a commanding voice roared.

  Jax turned to see General Cavil, limping from a wound, blood trickling from his head where a rock had struck him. Ignoring his injury, Cavil directed the survivors. Jax was yanked by another soldier. "Move! Get your gear!"

  Pulled roughly, Jax reached an armory where rifles and swords were being distributed. He rearmed and was dragged to the nearest defensive position. His heart pounded with anxiety. Around him, soldiers hustled, all aware this could be Atlanda's—and Papaldia's—final stand.

  Once equipped, Jax and others were assigned to a strategic post overlooking the enemy's approach, tasked with defending one of the last fortresses—where Cavil had chosen to make a stand.

  "We hold this position," Cavil said, his voice resolute. "If the enemy takes this fortress, they'll march into the port unopposed. We cannot let that happen."

  Jax nodded, drawing strength from Cavil's words. He saw determination in his comrades' eyes. They knew this fight was for Atlanda, for their homeland, for everything they'd fought for.

  Tension mounted as distant noises grew closer. Jax heard the rumble of Russian warship engines, the roar of aircraft, and the shouts of marines. Everyone held their breath, awaiting the decisive moment.

  On the Russian side, landing forces hit the shore. The devastated landscape evoked Normandy. Infantry and armor advanced toward the fortress ahead.

  Massive Russian warships, bristling with heavy weaponry, docked, sending waves crashing against the shore. The roar of engines and marines' shouts filled the air like a symphony of war. Jax's heart raced, overwhelmed by anticipation and fear. He saw soldiers around him preparing frantically, all knowing this could decide Atlanda's fate.

  Cavil stood at his command post, his gaze sharp, scanning the battlefield. Time was running out, the enemy closing in. "Prepare! When they're in range, fire!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the pre-storm silence.

  Jax gripped his rifle, its weight a reminder of his duty. He looked toward the coast, where Russian figures emerged through smoke and dawn's dim light, advancing like predators.

  "Fire!" Cavil roared, and bullets flew like arrows toward the enemy.

  But the Russians, regrouping, struck back. Machine guns and cannons roared, their blasts deafening. A bullet whizzed past Jax's ear, startling him. "Watch out!" a comrade shouted, and Jax ducked, seeking cover.

  As gunfire erupted, the air grew thick with tension. Jax and the Papaldians held their ground, but the enemy's strength was overwhelming. Russian machine guns roared like beasts, bullets tearing toward them. Jax's heart pounded, fear and adrenaline surging.

  "Hold the line! Don't let them scare you!" Cavil shouted, rallying his troops. He knew losing the fortress meant an open path to the port. His eyes scanned his men, seeing resolve mixed with fear.

  Explosions rang out, smoke shrouding the scene. Jax saw comrades fall but had no time to dwell. He fired relentlessly, holding his post. "We can't let them take this!" he shouted, his voice lost in the chaos.

  The battle raged for hours, and ultimately, the Russians captured Atlanda. Their cheers echoed as they stormed the fortress, while Papaldian forces retreated in disarray. Cavil, despite his valiant fight, couldn't stop the defeat.

  "Fall back! Fall back now!" he yelled, but many Papaldians were trapped. Some escaped, but others were captured. The sight of comrades taken prisoner tore at Cavil's heart.

  As Russians advanced, Cavil stood amid the ruins, consumed by despair. He knew the war wasn't over, but Papaldia's position was dire. Refusing to retreat, he vowed to fight on.

  "We won't let them take this!" he shouted, his voice fading. He saw his men firing back, exhaustion etched on their faces. Then, a Russian sniper's bullet struck his head. Cavil fell, blood pooling, his vision fading.

  Meanwhile, Jax fought elsewhere in the port, fear and helplessness overwhelming him as comrades fell. "Why is this happening?" he thought, with no time to act.

  As Russians closed in, Jax stood firm, firing back. But their power was too great. A bullet grazed his ear, then another hit his chest. Pain seared through him, and the world blurred.

  As the last defenders fell, Atlanda's fate was sealed. Russian cheers rang out, and Papaldia lost one of its final strongholds.

  As night fell over Atlanda, Milishial scouts observed from afar, their eyes filled with disdain. The port's ruins, now under Russian control, were a shadow of their former glory.

  Sylas, a young scout, clenched his fists, watching Russians move as if they owned the place. "Barbarians... They turn every land they touch into their hunting ground."

  "Control yourself," Aurelia, the team leader, ordered coldly. Her sharp eyes stayed fixed on the figures below through her binoculars. "Focus on the mission. This storm isn't over."

  Below, Russians set up checkpoints, scouring the port for spoils. Papaldian prisoners were dragged off like worthless goods. To the Russians, this was a game of power, played with unmasked cruelty.

  "They think victory is everything," another scout muttered, voice thick with anger.

  "They don't win—they destroy," Aurelia replied, her gaze darkening. "They'll bleed this land dry and abandon it. That's their way."

  The air grew heavy. The Milishial scouts stood in silence, watching an enemy they viewed as a disgrace to the world. "Are we just going to let this happen?" Sylas asked, his voice choked with rage.

  "Quiet. Our job isn't to act recklessly," Aurelia snapped, her tone like steel. "We report. The church decides the rest."

  The team withdrew silently, leaving behind the faint glow of smoldering fires at Atlanda. In their hearts, a fire of hatred burned brighter than ever.

  "This day won't be forgotten," Aurelia murmured as they vanished into the night. "One day, they'll pay."