The bow of the heavy wooden landing barge scrapes sharply against the dark, coarse sand of the foreign coast with a low, grinding shudder. Seawater foams around the hull as the vessel comes to a sudden halt, its wooden ramp slamming down into the shallow, ice-cold surf.
Aldo steps ashore first, his black leather boots sinking slightly into the damp, dark earth. He does not hesitate, his posture erect, his hands clasped behind his waist as he scans the shoreline. Immediately behind him, the three hundred and twenty teenage slave-soldiers of the 204th Company pour over the gunwales, their heavy boots splashing through the foam, their iron weapons clattering against their chest pieces in a chaotic, rhythmic cadence.
Before them stretches a towering, breathtaking wilderness. The forest canopy does not wear the familiar green of mainland timber; instead, it bleeds in vibrant, suffocating shades of deep vermilion, burning orange, and rich crimson. A vast, endless ocean of red ash trees stands silently against the pale sky, their thick, furrowed trunks rising like dark pillars out of the damp, mossy soil.
Aldo pauses at the edge of the treeline. He extends a single gloved hand, resting his palm flat against the rough, furrowed bark of a massive red ash tree. Back on Earth, he had read extensively about Fraxinus pennsylvanica and autumn pigmentation anomalies in digital botanical databases, but seeing an entire tropical ecosystem dominated by brilliant red ash leaves in person is a mesmerizing sight. His dark eyes narrow in quiet, analytical curiosity. He stoops slightly, picking up a freshly fallen crimson leaf from the earth, rubbing the thick, damp vein between his thumb and forefinger.
Behind him, the reaction from the ranks is far less academic.
"Whoa... look at this!" Comtois gasps, dropping his broad wooden shield onto the damp sand as he stoops to scoop up a massive handful of the vibrant red leaves. He lets them cascade through his calloused fingers, his jaw hanging open in genuine wonder. "It's like the autumn back in Gangwon, but way more vivid!"
A few paces away, a thin, exhausted earthling soldier stares wide-eyed at the burning canopy above. He reaches up, plucking three pristine crimson leaves from a low-hanging branch and frantically stuffing them into the inner lining of his leather tunic like hoarded gold.
"Are these worth anything?" the young soldier mutters under his breath, his hands trembling as he pats his chest flat. "They look like dyed silk! If we make it back, these could sell for a fortune!"
"Put the leaves down and keep your hands on your muskets, you idiots," Hano grumbles from the edge of the sand, adjusting his sliding glasses with a sharp flick of his middle finger. He squints through the clean lenses at the vibrant canopy, his posture stiff and irritable. "It's just chlorophyll dying in style. It isn't currency, and it won't stop an arrow."
Suddenly, a sharp, melodic voice echoes through the dense, crimson canopy high above their heads.
"Ki-Vamia watu-wote! la-onya. Ki-Vamia la-fika!"
The words carry an uncanny, ringing pitch that seems to vibrate through the dry red leaves. High up in the interwoven branches of an ancient ash tree, a swift, dark-skinned woman draped in woven plant fibers and dried vines leaps effortlessly between the swaying boughs. Her dark eyes flash from behind a wooden face-mask as she observes the landing forces below.
The automatic translation magic floating through the crisp air renders her voice into clear, distinct words that drift down like a chilling breeze: "Invaders. Everyone be warned. The invaders have arrived."
Instantly, the casual atmosphere on the beach hardens into ice. The chatter dies instantly. Aldo's face darkens, his calm curiosity vanishing behind a mask of cold, sharp military focus. Beside him, Hano and Comtois's platoon commanders react in a split second, their hands sweeping to their waists to draw their steel blades.
"Formation!" Aldo barks, his voice ringing across the damp sand with cold, absolute authority. "204th Company, raise muskets!"
Three hundred iron barrels sweep upward in unison, their wooden stocks slamming hard into three hundred shoulders. The metallic clicks of iron locks engaging echo like a sudden hail of hail against steel as the slave-soldiers form tight, defensive double-ranks along the treeline.
Adelberd steps up to the right flank, his Prussian posture stiff, rigid, and completely resolute. He draws his long sabre, holding the steel point pointing upward at a precise forty-five-degree angle.
"203rd Company!" Adelberd commands, his deep voice cutting cleanly through the wind. "Guard the flanks! Broad stance!"
Comtois lets out a heavy, ragged sigh, rolling his broad shoulders and cracking his neck with a sharp pop. He wipes a smudge of red dirt from his cheek, his playful demeanor instantly replaced by the grim readiness of a vanguard officer.
"Platoons, split into three," Comtois orders, gesturing sharply with his hand. "Flank squads cover left and right. Point squad, move forward with me to scout."
High in the crimson branches above, the hidden scout's voice rings out once more, her melodic cadence fast and urgent as she instructs her unseen warriors scattered throughout the canopy.
"Kichambo Sha-Mupa zenu watu-wote la-kusanya; Ki-Vamia la-vizia tayari."
"Gather your bones and prepare to ambush the invaders," the translated echo whispers through the rustling red leaves.
"Kichambo Sha-Meli zao kubwa sana. Sha-Fimbo-Moto kama upinde mbali la-rusha."
"Their ships are huge and they carry sticks that shoot at distance like bows."
"Kichambo Ki-Mfalme-Mshindi la-arifu! Ki-Bahari-Vamia! la-ondoka mbali!"
"Inform the King! Sea Invaders! Go far away!"
The dense red ash forest rustles with a thousand unseen, fluid movements. The soft, rhythmic scraping of wooden shafts against leather, the rustle of leaves high above, and the sound of foreign tongues whispering through the crimson canopy make Aldo's grip tighten on the leather hilt of his saber.
He turns his head slightly, gesturing to Adelberd with two sharp flicks of his fingers. Adelberd steps close, his iron boots crunching softly on the fallen leaves. Aldo leans in, his lips barely moving as he whispers a rapid, low series of tactical instructions into the officer's ear. Adelberd's eyes widen slightly in realization, followed by a slow, rigid nod of assent.
Lourdes and Lei Delun stand a few paces back near the edge of the beach, unable to hear the quiet exchange over the loud rustling of the crimson wind. Lourdes grips the pommel of her rapier, her knuckles white, her sharp eyes darting nervously between the canopy and the two teenage commanders.
To Lourdes's utter shock, Adelberd suddenly pivots on his heel and shouts an explosive command to his men:
"203rd Company, fall back!" Adelberd bellows, his voice ringing with deliberate panic. "Retreat to the shoreline!"
Adelberd's men immediately break their rigid double-ranks, turning their backs on the forest and falling back into the coastal timber brush in a disorganized, chaotic scramble.
At that exact moment, a small skirmish party of dark-skinned native warriors clad in intricate, beaded plant-fiber armor bursts from the edge of a nearby clearing. They let fly a light, scattering volley of short wooden darts before turning on their heels to flee deeper into the shadowy, red-lit woods, taunting the invaders with loud, high-pitched shrieks.
Aldo unsheathes his sword with a sharp, metallic shring, pointing the blade directly into the dark interior of the forest.
"204th, press forward!" Aldo commands coldly. "Pursue them!"
Is he insane?! Lourdes screams inwardly, her heart hammering violently against her ribs like a trapped bird. Why would Aldo fall for such a blatant feint? He's walking right into a trap!
"Aldo, stop!" Lourdes screams, taking a desperate bound forward.
Before her warning can even clear the air, the crimson forest around them explodes.
Dozens upon dozens of dark-skinned native spearmen and crossbowmen pour out from hollow tree trunks, camouflaged pit-traps, and concealed brush trenches. Within seconds, they completely encircle Aldo's advancing, isolated company. A forest of sharp wooden spears bristles in the dim, red-filtered light, and heavy wooden crossbow bolts thud violently into the ash trunks surrounding the trapped teenage soldiers.
"Forward! Protect the commander!" Lourdes yells, drawing her broad blade with a desperate flourish. She charges forward with her small squad of French revolutionaries, her face pale with terror.
However, a lethal volley of light, venom-tipped darts hissed through the air, forcing Lourdes and her men to throw themselves behind a cluster of large, mossy boulders. Sharp darts shatter against the stone, spraying splinters of hard wood into the air.
"Aldo!" Lourdes screams through the sudden, rising cloud of smoke and red leaves, her voice raw with desperation.
Suddenly, a thunderous, violent roar shatters the woods from the enemy's completely exposed rear.
"FIRE!"
Adelberd's "retreating" 203rd Company bursts from the thick coastal brush directly behind the native ambushers! Having doubled back under the cover of the terrain, two hundred earthling soldiers present a solid, unbroken wall of iron barrels at point-blank range.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A deafening, continuous blast of gunpowder tears through the forest. A blinding wave of white smoke and flying lead shreds through the native ranks from behind, cutting down dozens of spearmen in a single brutal, bloody second.
Simultaneously, Comtois's vanguard squad charges from the high ridge on the left flank.
"AAARGH!" Comtois roars at the top of his lungs, his face contorted in a terrifying battle-grin as he leads his men down the slope.
They slam into the disoriented, panicking native spearmen with fixed bayonets, the heavy iron spikes crunching through wooden armor and bone. The sudden, violent triple-pincer collapses the native trap in an instant.
Within minutes, the carefully planned ambush turns into a total, chaotic rout. The remaining native warriors throw down their heavy wooden spears, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen comrades and scattering deep into the dense, red ash wilderness.
"Tie 'em up tight!" Comtois barks, wiping a smear of dark blood from his forearm as he tosses a heavy coil of rough hemp rope down to his men. "No loose knots! I want answers, not escapees!"
At the base of a massive, ancient red ash tree, several captured native warriors sit bound tightly with heavy rope. Their beaded fiber armors are torn, their dark skin smudged with black powder soot and dirt. Their dark eyes burn with fierce, unyielding resentment as they glare up at their captors, spitting bloody saliva onto the dark soil whenever a soldier steps too close.
Aldo walks over slowly, his long dark coat completely spotless, entirely unbothered by the violence that had just transpired around him. He stops a few feet from the prisoners, turning his head toward Onaga.
Onaga is already kneeling in the dirt nearby, a thick leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee, an open ink bottle held steady in his large, calloused hand.
"Onaga, record their phonetics and syntax," Aldo says, his voice flat and clinical. "Map their dialect. They refer to this land as Mbao-safi in their native tongue."
Onaga nods eagerly, his calm, dark eyes bright with intellectual interest. He leans closer to a glaring, bound warrior who is currently snarling a string of harsh, guttural syllables at him. Onaga's quill moves rapidly across the cream paper, carefully transcribing the complex sounds and sentence structures with fluid, precise strokes.
Lourdes walks slowly past the row of bound prisoners, her steel rapier held loosely at her side. Seeing the burning anger, fierce pride, and quiet, subterranean terror in the eyes of the captives sends a bitter, icy shiver straight down her spine. These were not monsters or mindless beasts; these were men defending their ancestral homes against ruthless foreign invaders—just as her own countrymen had done in the bloody European wars of her home world.
Behind her, her French revolutionary comrades exchange grim, deeply uncomfortable glances, their hands resting uneasily on their sword hilts.
[We are helping Ofliran colonize these people,] Lourdes thinks bitterly, her breath catching in her chest, her hands trembling violently within her leather gloves. [We are the oppressors now. We are the tyrants. Yet... I cannot revolt against Aldo now. He is our only protection, our only ticket to surviving this brutal world.]
She turns away from the captives, her boots dragging heavily as she walks over to Lei Delun. She stops beside the old scholar, her voice barely a breath above the rustling red leaves.
"Lei... look at them," Lourdes whispers, her throat tight, her eyes glistening with suppressed tears. "This isn't right. This is a colonial invasion."
Lei Delun looks at her, his weathered face filled with a deep, mournful solemnity. He places a gentle, reassuring hand on her shoulder, giving her a slow, sad nod before turning his footsteps toward Aldo.
"Captain," Lei Delun says softly, bowing his head slightly as he approaches the young commander. "Do not mistreat the captured. They are defeated foes defending their soil, not beasts of burden."
Aldo shrugs his shoulders indifferently, not even bothering to look up from the small tactical parchment he is holding.
"Whatever," Aldo replies dryly, his tone completely flat. "As long as they yield vital intelligence on roads, fortification locations, and clean water sources, I don't care how they're handled. Keep them alive."
He rolls up the parchment with a sharp snap and turns toward the deep forest trail leading inland.
"Move out," Aldo commands. "We push deeper."
Behind them, the primary landing force of five hundred newly hired Ofliran mercenaries streams off the heavy landing barges. They pour across the dark beach in disciplined files, spreading out along the winding forest trails to secure, disarm, and occupy the surrounding native villages one by one.
Over the next four days, the iron discipline and overwhelming firepower of the invaders prove unstoppable. A vast, sprawling swath of the Red Ash territory falls under Ofliran military control with surprisingly little sustained local resistance.
The late afternoon sun casts long, deep crimson shadows across a small, quiet village nestled at the edge of the red ash forest. The air is still, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.
In the center of the dusty main road, the local village elder—an old man with long, silver hair and skin lined like dry bark—kneels in the dirt. With trembling hands, he holds up a simple wooden bowl filled to the brim with dried grains toward a broad-shouldered Ofliran mercenary captain, symbolizing the total, unconditional submission of his people.
Lourdes stands a few paces away alongside Aldo, watching the heartbreaking scene in complete, agonizing silence. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ache.
"Is it over?" Lourdes asks quietly, her voice heavy with a profound, crushing grief. "Is the war finished?"
Aldo shakes his head flatly, his dark eyes observing the kneeling elder without a trace of pity or triumph.
"No," Aldo says cleanly. "We hold a considerable amount of territory, but in the grand scheme of Sapocitradansia, this Red Ash region is barely a fraction of the island."
Lourdes lets out a soft, mournful breath, her head dropping slowly. She stares at the trembling, kneeling villagers, her heart breaking for them, then turns her body to face the fourteen-year-old commander standing so rigidly beside her.
"Let me manage these villages, Aldo," Lourdes says firmly, her voice regaining its sharp, decisive edge.
A long, heavy silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the distant caw of a forest bird and the soft rustle of the crimson canopy overhead.
If this were a normal world, Lourdes monologues bitterly inside her mind, her eyes locking onto his cold, unreadable profile, I would never, in a thousand years, ask permission from a fourteen-year-old kid like you to govern innocent people. I would cut your throat for doing this. But here... in this godforsaken world... this is the only way to protect these people from Ofliran cruelty.
Before her bitter thoughts can finish, Aldo cuts in smoothly, his voice crisp, efficient, and entirely practical.
"Yes," Aldo says, without even turning his head to look at her. "You may manage the settlements. Just ensure you establish a stable supply line for my troops regularly and organize a proper administrative framework."
Lei Delun steps forward from the shadows of a nearby thatched hut, bowing his head slightly toward both of them.
"Captain," Lei Delun offers in his warm, measured tone, "since your primary objectives are agricultural output and long-term administrative stability, Miss Renaud can handle local production and relief, while I manage the formal civil bureaucracy and record-keeping."
Aldo glances briefly at Lei, his sharp mind calculating the efficiency of the proposal in a split second, then gives a single, firm nod.
"Approved," Aldo says flatly. "Keep the grain flowing."
Without another word, Aldo turns cleanly on his heel, gesturing with a quick flick of his wrist to his nearby officers.
"Adelberd, Comtois," Aldo calls out, his voice echoing down the dusty village street. "Assemble the companies. We push on to the next district."