As the first armored vehicles of the Russian army rolled into Estaurant, the emptiness of the city was the most striking feature. Leading the charge were tanks, followed closely by BMP-3s.

  I walked alongside a BMPT. Its massive, imposing frame somehow made the stifling atmosphere feel strangely bearable. But I knew one thing—urban combat is always a nightmare.

  Back in Aditha, Syria, we were ambushed by Ahrar al-Sham. Many units suffered losses under their relentless assaults and were forced to retreat. The city at that time had been bombed beyond recognition, and we were criticized for failing to protect civilians.

  If those were considered civilians, then everyone's a civilian, even the Americans.

  The buildings vaguely resembled old European towns but were noticeably larger. From within those houses, I could sense eyes watching us. Whether friendly or hostile, I couldn't tell, but we had to identify the enemy as quickly as possible.

  "Mezad, take a left with the BMPT, secure the wide path near the center."

  The commander's voice crackled through the radio, snapping me back to the reality of the war and the need to stay focused.

  The BMPT swiftly turned left, and we followed tensely.

  "Luka, you holding up?"

  A comrade called out my name, his face covered by a skull-patterned mask. I smirked at him. "Better than someone about to suffocate."

  We started joking that if this war didn't have its fantastical elements, it'd be a laughingstock for us. Just like that, when we reached the designated road, we quickly regained our composure.

  Just when we thought things would get easier from here, a violent explosion erupted from somewhere. I turned my head and saw an Mi-35M helicopter flying toward the blast, its gunfire exploding like hellfire from the "Universal Warrior."

  That signaled trouble on the other side. We continued moving as planned. The BMPT shifted to the side, allowing a BMP-2 to scout ahead alongside another vehicle carrying soldiers for support.

  It was a clever tactic. I watched the two BMP-2s with cold detachment, knowing they'd face no real trouble, and neither would we.

  But suddenly, from the shadows of a building on the left, a fireball appeared and struck the BMP-2 loaded with soldiers on its roof.

  Before anyone could react, flames engulfed the vehicle. The soldiers atop screamed, jumping off and writhing in desperation before dying in agony. From somewhere, high-velocity bullets rained down on us, accompanied by deadly arrows, forcing us to fall back.

  My captain shouted urgently, "Fall back now!"

  As each unit took cover behind the tanks, I saw a flood of people rushing out. Most weren't wearing Papaldia's uniforms, but that didn't matter when they wielded an array of crude weapons, slowly surrounding the remaining BMP-2 up ahead.

  We reacted instantly. Machine gunners on the armored vehicles opened fire, 12.7mm and 30mm rounds tearing through the charging crowd. Yet, amid the gunfire, some enemies pressed forward, using magic to create protective shields.

  I dove behind a collapsed wall, shouting into the radio:

  "This is Luka! We're under ambush! They're using magic! Requesting immediate fire support!"

  The BMPT roared as its twin autocannons unleashed a barrage, wiping out a wave of attackers. An explosion landed close, sending dirt and debris flying. The sounds of gunfire and magic blended into a chaotic inferno, turning the street into hell.

  From a distance, the roar of engines signaled the Mi-35M's return. A salvo of S-8 rockets tore through a building where enemies were hiding. Another low-altitude airstrike could end this battle in an instant.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I scanned the battlefield, realizing something critical: these weren't regular troops. They were armed civilians—or worse, fanatics ready to die for some cause.

  "Damn it, the Papaldians have lost their minds," I growled. They were using civilians as living shields.

  I couldn't stand this situation. Without timely support, this human tide would soon overwhelm us.

  I fired at the nearest enemies, each wielding sharp objects as if prepared to fight to the death. The Mi-35M continued raining 30mm rounds from its Shipunov 2A24 cannon to support the infantry. But we had underestimated the fierce resistance of the city's residents.

  A figure resembling a leopard lunged from nowhere, clawing and wounding one of our men. He wore leather armor covering most of his body, but it was useless against the AKs that ended his life.

  "Damn it. If it was just a normal attack, it'd be easy to handle. Using civilians as bait while hiding and striking—cowardly," I cursed under my breath, staring at the blood-soaked, mangled corpses mixed with charred remains on the ground.

  This final battle wasn't going as I or anyone had planned. Simply put, this world was different from ours. It had its own rules we had to adapt to, and that would be proven right here.

  The BMPT surged forward, relentlessly firing at windows with enemies. This forced us to run behind it to protect the vehicle. GAZ Tigr trucks followed, still shooting at both sides of the road.

  I ran, panting, unsure of what lay ahead. But it didn't look good. As I reached the front, I saw dozens—no, thousands—of people charging out in a frenzy.

  I waited for orders, but none came. Only the sounds of gunfire, screams, and relentless explosions filled the air.

  "Luka! Don't just stand there!" A hand yanked me behind a pile of rubble. The captain shot me a sharp look. "Stick with the BMPT! Don't get left behind!"

  I nodded, gritting my teeth as I surveyed the chaotic battlefield. The attackers kept pouring from every corner, undeterred by the bullets tearing up the street. One of them raised a hand, muttering something before a massive fireball hurtled toward our tank.

  I exhaled, cursed, and roared into the radio:

  "Enemy mages attacking directly! They're using heavy fire magic! Request priority elimination!"

  The BMPT reacted instantly. Its AGS-17 grenade launcher thundered, sending a barrage of 30mm rounds toward the mage. Before he could cast another spell, his body exploded into fragments. Those nearby were thrown back by the shockwave, collapsing like marionettes with cut strings.

  "Anyone else? Anyone else dare come out?" The BMPT's gunner bellowed, his PKTM still spitting bullets. But no one answered. The surviving attackers began retreating, dragging their wounded with them.

  The Mi-35M's roar echoed again. Another salvo of rockets swept the street, turning an entire block into a sea of fire. I stood, my shoulder still numb from a nearby explosion's shock.

  "We need to push forward," the captain ordered. "Don't give them a chance to counterattack!"

  The Russian forces advanced, steadily capturing the main roads leading to Estaurant's center. Fires still smoldered from earlier blasts, black smoke billowing from ruined buildings. The air reeked of burnt flesh and gunpowder, a nauseating mix I was all too familiar with.

  The infantry split into small groups, using armored vehicles as mobile shields. The BMPT led the charge, relentlessly firing at buildings showing signs of enemy presence. Its 30mm cannons reduced obstacles to rubble in seconds. But no matter how strong the firepower, urban warfare remained a deadly game of chance.

  We reached a large intersection. The map showed the road ahead led straight to the Papaldian royal palace. But as soon as we arrived, I spotted signs of another ambush.

  BOOM!

  A deafening explosion rocked the convoy's lead vehicle. A BMP-3 was hit by an anti-tank weapon—possibly magic or high-grade armor-piercing rounds. Smoke and flames erupted, but the vehicle hadn't fully detonated.

  "Vehicle hit! Casualties!" Someone screamed over the radio.

  I squinted ahead. From alleys and half-collapsed buildings, enemies swarmed like insects crawling from garbage. This time, they were better organized—a group with magical shields advanced as cover for archers and mages behind them.

  "We're pinned down!" A soldier shouted.

  No time to hesitate. I dove behind an armored vehicle, yelling into the radio:

  "Artillery! Immediate support! Southwest intersection! Heavy enemy concentration!"

  Less than thirty seconds later, a piercing whistle sounded from afar.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  A barrage of 152mm shells from 2S19 Msta-S self-propelled howitzers crashed down like thunder. The entire street shook violently, the ground splitting under the explosions' force. Buildings harboring enemies were torn apart, bodies flung from their hiding spots.

  The BMPT seized the moment, unleashing relentless fire on the survivors. The magic-shield bearers were now just charred corpses.

  "Clear the way! Advance!"

  I charged forward with my team, gripping my AK-12 tightly. Every corner, every ruined wall could hide an enemy shooter. We swept through each house, gunning down anyone still resisting. The Papaldians fought fanatically to the end, some cornered ones detonating themselves to take us with them.

  But the gap in tactics, firepower, and discipline was too vast. After nearly an hour of brutal fighting, we reached the main gate of the royal palace.

  The palace was majestic, but now it felt like a haunted ruin. Papaldian soldiers' bodies littered the steps. Some were still alive, moaning in pain, but no one cared. War has no room for mercy.

  I exhaled, still clutching my rifle. Everything around was eerily silent. We had arrived, but the war wasn't over.

  Beyond the gate, holdouts remained. And we'd drag them out, no matter the cost.