While Victor was marching to conquer Zambia, the second wave of Luxenberg Soldiers had arrived on Asharanian soil. They were fresh, eager and ready to join the war. But by the time they assembled beyond the city walls, the situation had already changed.
Victor had moved south. The road ahead of him was open, and the war had widened.
It was Field Marshal Schwarzenberg who was issuing the orders, not their king.
He stood within the command hall at Basra, the letter open in his hand, his expression unchanged as he read its contents for the third time. Around him, his officers waited in silence.
"We march east," he said at last.
General Kan Ki stepped forward. "At once, Field Marshal?"
"At once," Schwarzenberg replied. "The main army presses south. We do not follow. We expand."
There was no hesitation after that.
Within a day, the second wave had formed into marching columns, their structure blending with the 10th Corps that had held Basra since Victor's departure. The city itself, now secure, was left with a reduced garrison and strict instructions to hold at all costs. It had become a base, not a prize.
Schwarzenberg did not linger.
"Speed," he told his officers. "We move before they understand what we intend."
The destination was clear. A city to the east, one and a half weeks' march from Basra.
Waqib.
The march began under harsh conditions.
The eastern lands were less forgiving than those Victor had crossed. The terrain shifted unpredictably between dry plains and broken rock, forcing the columns to adjust constantly. Yet the army moved with precision, their discipline unmarred by the difficulty of the route.
Unlike Victor's march, this one carried an element of surprise. The enemy expected pressure from the south. They did not expect a second force advancing from the east so soon after the fall of Beirot. Schwarzenberg intended to keep it that way.
"No fires at night," he ordered on the third day. "No signals. We are not seen until we choose to be."
The men obeyed. They marched in silence, their presence concealed as much as possible, their scouts ranging far ahead to ensure no warning reached Waqib before they arrived. By the tenth day, the city lay within reach.
Waqib was not unprepared.
Though smaller than Beirot, it had been warned. Messengers from the south had carried word of Victor's advance, of the fall of cities, of the relentless pressure of Luxenberg forces. Its garrison, numbering around twenty thousand, had already begun reinforcing its defences.
Walls were strengthened. Artillery positioned. Supplies gathered. But they had prepared for one direction. Not two.
When Schwarzenberg's army appeared on the horizon, it did so with sudden, undeniable force.
From the southern ridges, the columns descended in full view, their banners rising against the sky, their artillery already being drawn into position.
Within Waqib, the reaction was immediate.
"They have come from the south!" an officer shouted as he rushed through the streets.
"How many?" the city's commander demanded.
"Enough."
That was enough of an answer.
Schwarzenberg wasted no time.
"Deploy the guns," he ordered as soon as his army reached effective range.
The artillery was positioned with ruthless efficiency, batteries forming in lines that mirrored those used at Beirot, though adapted for the terrain. The lessons of the previous sieges had been learned well.
By midday, the bombardment began.
The first volley struck the walls with a force that shattered any illusion of delay. Stone cracked. Dust rose in thick clouds. The defenders responded quickly, their cannons answering with determination, but the balance was already clear.
Schwarzenberg had brought overwhelming firepower.
"Maintain pressure," he said calmly, observing the exchange. "No pause. No reprieve."
The guns obeyed.
The first days were brutal.
Unlike Zambia, Waqib resisted fiercely. Its defenders, aware of what had happened to other cities, fought with a determination that bordered on desperation. Their artillery fired relentlessly, targeting the Luxenberg batteries with surprising accuracy.
Casualties mounted.
"Adjust position," one of Schwarzenberg's artillery officers called as a cannon was struck and overturned. "Shift left, maintain fire!"
The guns were moved, reset, and fired again. There was no slowing the assault. Inside the city, the strain grew quickly.
Buildings near the walls began to collapse under repeated impacts. Fires broke out, spreading through narrow streets already choked with debris. The defenders worked tirelessly to contain the damage, even as the bombardment continued without pause.
"They will not stop," one officer said, watching the walls shake under another volley.
"No," the commander replied. "They will not."
By the third day, cracks had begun to form.
Not yet breaches, but weaknesses. The walls of Waqib, though reinforced, were not built to withstand sustained bombardment on this scale. Schwarzenberg saw it immediately.
"Focus there," he ordered, pointing to a section of the northern wall where the damage was most visible. "Break it."
The guns shifted. From that moment on, the bombardment became concentrated, each shot striking the same area, grinding the stone down piece by piece.
The defenders attempted to reinforce it, bringing up additional men, sandbags, anything that could slow the damage.
It was not enough.
The fourth and fifth days brought escalation.
Schwarzenberg increased the intensity, bringing forward additional batteries, tightening the pattern of fire until the targeted section of wall seemed to exist under constant impact. The sound was unending.
Within the city, exhaustion began to take hold. Sleep became impossible. The air filled with dust and smoke, turning day into a haze of grey.
"They are breaking us," a young officer said, his voice barely steady.
The commander looked at him, then back at the wall.
"Then we hold until it breaks," he said.
On the sixth day, it did.
The wall gave way with a deep, cracking roar, a section collapsing inward under the accumulated damage. Stone and dust cascaded into the city, leaving a jagged breach in its place.
"Breach!" the cry went up.
Schwarzenberg watched it through his glass.
"Continue," he said.
He did not order an assault. Not yet.
Instead, the guns shifted again, widening the opening, ensuring that when the time came, there would be no chance of holding it.
Inside the city, the defenders scrambled to respond. Barricades were thrown up behind the breach. Troops were rushed into position, muskets loaded, bayonets fixed. They would fight.
The seventh day broke with renewed fury.
The bombardment reached its peak, and every available gun was brought to bear on the weakened sections of the wall. The single breach became two, then three, as additional sections collapsed under the relentless fire.
The city could not hold. By midday, the defenders understood the truth. There would be no saving Waqib. The commander gathered his officers amid the chaos.
"We cannot stop them," one said.
"We cannot outlast them," said another.
Silence followed. Then, slowly, the decision was made.
When the guns fell silent, it was not because they had been ordered to stop. It was because white flags had risen above the broken walls.
Schwarzenberg lowered his glass.
"They surrender," an aide said.
He nodded once.
"Accept it."
The gates of Waqib opened before the assault could begin. The defenders laid down their arms, their numbers reduced, their strength spent. The city, battered but not destroyed, passed into Luxenberg's control.
Schwarzenberg entered without ceremony. He did not celebrate.
Instead, he looked upon the damaged walls, the smoke still rising, the cost written plainly in stone and ash.
"It is done," one of his officers said.
"For now," Schwarzenberg replied.
Behind him, the second wave secured its first victory.
Ahead, the eastern cities waited.