Reinventing the struggle (an original isekai story)

[John_Oakman]

Back into writing again (broken laptop hooked up to a TV means it's now a desktop) with another trash isekai story. Dumping this into the SFW because I already know I don't do lewd writing well so I'm not even gonna bother this time around.

Edit/update: gonna try to get his published on Royal Road lmao so I guess I'm gonna post this as proof of ownership or something to that effect.

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Setting intro​

The End of Days was not the end, at least for those on Novita who lived through those days. It wasn't to say that the ancients were necessarily wrong about the times they lived in, just that the passage of centuries had dulled even the most horrific of apocalypses. Scars fade, peoples repopulate, and societies rebuild. To the casual eye, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

But it did, in small but noticeable ways. Much like a healed bone, the lines were still there if one knew where to look, and some things were never the same after.

Of course, there has to be someone with the relevant frame of reference to point that out to begin with...

------​

Story prologue​

Life… life's pretty good, all things considered. James thought to himself as he crawled into his bed. It's a thought that he often had, usually more to keep a perception of the state of his life. He has a job, his own place, and generally reasonably content.Things could be better, but on the whole he was in the middle of the pack. At least, that's what his gut instinct says in spite of everything he sees on social media and those around him. It's best not to think of that.

As his mind drifted off to sleep he made his regular to do list for the coming day. It's mostly the same as before, differing in only minor details.

He never woke up from that sleep. The rather unhealthy lifestyle of the average modern human being just happened to have caught up to him a bit faster than others. Just another datapoint on some statistic, another number on some document.

Nothing of importance was lost. Generic young adults are a dime a dozen, easily replaceable in the world and the multiverse.

But that doesn't mean another world gained nothing either.

------​

Years later (as if time between worlds has any relevance), somewhere in the world of Novita...

"Clarke? Is your mind still here?" The stern tone of the instructor snapped Walter out of his idle musing.

"Yes, senior instructor." Walter mumbled sheepishly, slowly realigning his head back to the front to where he's supposed to pay attention. His mind still not fully committed, and whatever shards that were happened to be filled with disdain.

The shards of his mind that felt not fully of his own.

Those shards first appeared around a decade ago, when he was barely 6 years of age. At first there were the short bursts of incomprehensible nonsense, daydreams making less sense than his normal dreams. The doctors tried everything, including things that he found out later from the shards that were not exactly healthy for him.

That was the shards' doing too. They only got longer as the years went by. Less intrusive, but they're there all the same. Moreover they began to paint a coherent picture. A picture of another world, a place called earth. A vastly different world in appearance if not substance. Yet for all that an undeniable feeling of… kinship? Affinity? He does not know, and the shards were as maddening vague as ever. It was as if it was the memories of him, just from a previous life in another world. In effect an almost completely different person.

"Feeling ill again?" The instructor asked sarcastically. Walter shook his head lightly.

"No, instructor." Walter lied flatly. The instructor shrugged, going along with the obvious nonesene. They're all like that, the children of the aristocracy. Spoiled brats going through the motions. It has been centuries and the subsequent generations of those who were willing to do unspeakable violence have become as soft as their ancestors dreamed of the afterlife. Of course, it wasn't as if he was any better in that regard, but at least he doesn't pretend to be, unlike his students.

However, Walter Clarke, second son of the Marques of Creeksenville, was a bit different. One could say that he's somewhat… off. Sure, there were moments of absentmindedness, but it was far less than most of the other students. That was actually one of the reasons he called him out more than the rest: at least he has the potential to not be a lost case.

The more troubling aspect of Clarke was all the weird pre-existing notions that he's got. Honestly he has no idea where the dumb kid got them. It sure wasn't from existing popular fiction, because none of the other students had ever even given a hint of anything like that, not even those from the other agricultural estates. Then again, the Clarke estate was a particularly outlying one and lacking much in the way of military prowess… but regardless, his notion of the viability of the arming tractors against kriegmeisters is beyond farcical, yet he defends his insanity with the intensity of the mad. At least, until he was threatened with expulsion from the class for insubordination. Still, he could still see it in his eyes: that rejection of what's being taught to him.

Yet puzzling this insubordination did not extend to anything else outside of that particular subject: he has been oddly polite and attentive in the other subjects, sometimes even giving the occasional insightful observation.

Oh well, everyone's a little weird at the end of the day, especially those from the frontiers.

"Well then, as you have nothing in particular to add this time, we shall continue the lesson." The instructor said dryly as he continued the lesson of the day.

Within minutes Walter's eyes started to glaze over as his mind began to wander off again. The pictures the shards painted of the other world refuse to leave his mind alone…

------​

Some months later, the harvest season. Location: the estate of the Clarke family

Walter looked on from the agrav observation platform at the orderly row of tracked tractors as they drove slowly onwards, harvesting the seemingly endless lines of grain. Though officially in charge of the harvest as part of his duties, most of the actual supervising is still in the capable hands of the master supervisor Mr. Antony Centon. Not that there's even much of a need for such supervision, the farmers knew their craft well, and carried on with their work as smoothly as the flowing of a stream.

Not bad for an industrial feudal world, not bad at all.

There it is again, that weird thought brought upon by the shards, where did even the word feudalism come from? Certainly not what he had been taught in the academy. The world and society just works the way it does. That's all he had ever known, and his father before him, and his father before him, on and on for generations. The world worked in a fair manner, an appointed role for each and every person, the comfort of knowing that tomorrow will be like yesterday… well, barring the rather high chance of violence. Which is why there's a handful of kriegmeisters on standby, their imposing and jarring bulks standing silently a short distance away. The household guard units, and in the event of actual fighting, he would be piloting one of them.

A task that he hoped to never actually do in real fighting conditions.

He himself will be the first to admit it, he absolutely sucks at piloting those mechs. Despite all the schooling at the academy and even some lessons from his older brother Martin hasn't really made any noticeable impact. By this point his parents had already given up on him ever achieving any sort of glory in the fields of battle even as a mere standard warrior.

Hence supervising the harvest. Normally it would be an insult, a punishment for those who are not worthy of being on the fields of battle or tournament. And he felt the sting, even if the shards imply otherwise.

Weird thoughts in the head or not, it still sucks to be seen as a disappointment, especially by family and community. What makes it worse is that, if he admits to himself, he's okay with not being good enough to be a real warrior. There's enough of those already. Martin's already the one, and he himself merely a spare to the heir, and like most spares his upbringing was more of a support role at best and something to be tucked away in a corner when the time comes.

The issue though, was that he was even failing at being a backup. As a member of the nobility, it is his duty, no, identity, to be a warrior. To be able to hold his own on the field of battle, to win glory for his family and country (though the latter being far more abstract, given the dysfunctional and deadlocked nature of the Imperial Grand Council and how pointless the whole thing being most of the time).

And at the end of the day, he was a product of his upbringing.

"Dreaming of your struggle wagons again?" Antony asked, with an air of bemusement. Walter shrugged.

"Not really." He replied. "I was thinking, thinking about my future."

"Really now?" Antony asked.

"Yes really." Walter answered. "Soon I will be of the age of adulthood, and… I felt as if I'm not prepared for such shouldering of responsibilities."

Antony chucked. "You and everyone else since time immemorial, and here we are all the same." He patted the teen on the shoulder. "You'll be fine enough." He assured the young soon to be man.

In truth, the supervisor thought of the younger Clarke as overly dramatic, just like the rest of the aristocrats if he were to be honest. The world in a sense could be described as 'stably unstable'. Yes, wars are as common as spats between the various noble houses, if only because the vast majority of them are caused by them in the first place. Despite the impressive display of agricultural productivity they are overseeing at the moment, the threat of food insecurity is always on the minds of many, especially those who do the actual work. Again, most of those fears stem from the same source as before...

Human life would be so much more sustainable if there's no human factor, or at least no human factor from the top. But then there's the horror stories from the lawless continuous trash fire that is the Turiac People's Directorate so it's not as if the alternatives are necessarily better...

However, at least young Clarke here is a lot more sensible than most of his counterparts, being far less obsessed in martial glory or bloodlust, and actually seemed to be content with managing agriculture and the household. It would probably have been better for him to have been born a girl. Then there at least wouldn't be those same expectations of battlefield competency forced onto him…

… but then again, he does have that weird interest with the whole arming of the tractors. So there's some battlelust in him yet, regardless of how misplaced it is.

It's understandable to a certain extent, the Clarkes were not a rich family by any means, yet as Marques they were expected to possess martial prowess… which they don't really have on the material side of the equation.

Not after that debacle a couple of decades ago.

"You're probably right." Walter nodded in seemingly agreement, the words more to convince himself than anything else. It's reassuring to hear that from another actual human being, as even though the ramblings of the shards have been screaming the same things for a while now, but in his head they didn't sound all that sane.

It was at that moment when the two were interrupted from the ring of a call from inside the agrav platform.

"Wonder what could it be…" Antony muttered as he picked up the receiver. A short conversation followed between him and whoever's on the other side of the line, which Walter quickly realized was his father.

Even before the call ended he knew what was about to happen. "War is coming?" He asked rhetorically as Antony put the receiver back in its slot.

"Some scribes and bards will call it that years later, but I doubt it'll be anything too exciting." Antony shrugged. "It be like that these days. Look on the bright side though, you'll get to make up a good yarn to brag about to all your friends when you come back." He flashed a casual smile, which seemed genuine enough.

Walter simply nodded, though he wasn't as confident as the supervisor. Beneath all the pomp and festivities of most conflicts lies violence and bloodshed. Somebody has to die, often overly pointlessly so.

He hopes he won't end up being one of those unfortunate ones.

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 1: a fish allergic to water​

The weather was miserable, the ceaseless pouring rain from the iron grey skies continued unabated, which among other things had made the nominally dirt roads into rivers of mud. The cargo tracks were trudging along with some effort while the odd agrav, as usual, floated above completely unaffected. The kriegmeisters were somewhere in between the two, their feet sinking into the mud but their height making it not really an issue. The shards in his mind blabbering about symbolism and incoherent rage, almost as if ripping straight from Turiac babbling.

The world is really not that complicated. There weren't paved roads everywhere leading to all the nowhere simply because there's not much of a point. The Agrav caravans don't need them, and there's not much reason for the lesser vehicles to wander off so far from their home garages.

Which sucks all the more for fringe cases such as the one he's part of now. For most estates, war tithe and obligations are done by the cream of the crop, the finest sally forth on their magnificent kriegmeisters and supported by their agravs. The Clarke family on the other hand, was not sophisticated enough to afford those standard gear in the quantities as befitting their social position.

Thus all the tracked vehicles currently wallowing in the endless mud. Something simple enough to be produced even without the secrets of the ancients, and thus befitting the status of the unblessed and unwashed masses. So for a supposed aristocratic family, it's not a good showing no matter how one slices it.

Yet despite all that, a little piece in the back of his mind still felt a shred of pride. It was through his efforts that the estate was able to scrounge up the necessary forces for this war tithe, though he had to admit that his efforts in that were mostly nagging Antony and the other guys in charge of farming to make more and bigger tractors and other such tracked vehicles.

It was degrading work, and the greater productivity from the results of their efforts weren't really in anything that could be traded for better or more socially useful things. After all, there's only so many basic things that the local and regional economy needs, and moreover there are some people that are just too foreign to be trusted. But the supervisor and the rest of them indulged the young spare of the Clarke family, as far as eccentric hobbies went, expanding lowly vehicle production was almost benign, certainly harmless.

Then came the call to war. For various reasons both sensible and otherwise, the elder Clarke didn't want to send the best of the estate to what'll most likely just be another border conflict that'll only bleed out previous resources and skilled warfighters. So lucky for him he and his toys were being sent to the conflict zone, the bare minimum of a tithe to fulfill social and political obligations.

It was also a testing of the waters, as in better times such a force being sent would have been insulting. Peasant material levels of equipment are at best a last ditch defense, if even that. After all, change in the lordship means little in the day to day lives for most, regardless of how that change occurred.

The sudden screams of a rocket, shooting dangerously past the lead agrav, snapped Walter out of his internal monologue. The convoy promptly grounded to a halt, the hissings of the various machinery almost as if the vehicles themselves were glad of taking a break from their trek. The buzz of comm chatter talking about the rocket quickly dwindled into silence as large figures came out of the woods in front of them.

Those figures, of what must have once been kriegmeisters, now more shambling husks than knights of mechanized might, patched all over with grime covered scrap, yet still deadly all the same, as their warning shot had proved.

'Bandits.' Walter thought to himself, knowing that similar thoughts are in the minds of everyone in the convoy. Though the term bandits wasn't exactly the correct term either. Actual bandits as popularly imagined would never be able to acquire the necessary tools and skills to maintain those things, even in their disheveled state, something that those popular fiction also tend to downplay. If anything, there's a sliding scale from desperate bands of marauders to hired goons of regional lords… despite the shabbiness of their mechas, these bandits were probably closer to the latter than the former. There's a rich patron behind them somewhere...

"Surrender your wares, you filthy rabble." An arrogant voice boomed over the unsecured waveset. "You know the law, the tolls must be paid."

"This is Walter Clarke, of the Marques of Creeksenville. We are on a mission of utmost importance in support of the war effort." Walter said, mustering all the confidence he would find in his voice even as he discreetly passed the order for everyone to click off the safeties of their weapons. There are worse fates than dying in a hopeless fight, after all.

"Ha! With this rubble of a trash heap?" There was more than disdain in the voice, but then again even outright mockery was to be expected. "It won't even be worth the effort to hold a runt like you for ransom." The words were barely over the airwaves as the lead bandit kriegmeister fired its main cannon.

The general purpose HE round slammed into the upper leg unit of Walter's much smaller kriegmeister, instantly shredding the complex machinery and sending the whole thing crashing into the thick mud, which thankfully cushioned the fall, if only a little.

The forest promptly exploded in a cacophony of violence as everyone fired everything they had. The tracked vehicles in the convoy, armed with little more than simple autocannons on turrets with equally outdated gear, fought in what ways then could. The thing with bandits of the ambushing kind is that they tend to not take prisoners, and in this case, when even the possibility of ransoming the nobility is out of the question, dying while fighting became a far more practical choice. A choice made for them sure, but for those who never knew of a different world, it's a moot point.

Thus armed with weapons more suited for wildlife control, the convoy was slowly getting shredded by the bandits as they shot vehicle after vehicle, taking them out with a sadistic leisure all the while shrugging off the few shots that landed on them. From his wrecked mech Walter could only watch helplessly as everything seemingly burns into the sea of mud, making graphic his failure as a member of the Clarke, and as a human being in general. About the only saving grace was that some of the vehicles were managing to crawl their way into the surrounding woods. Still an overall low chance of survival given the nature of things, but better than nothing. All the while the few small kriegmeisters of the convoy fight a futile rearguard action, to buy precious seconds with their blood.

Then suddenly the lead bandit kriegmeister stopped in mid motion, an explosion rocked from its back. As the smoke cleared the neat hole punched through the main body. In the following seconds time itself seemed to have slowed as the now crippled mecha first stumbled, then collapsed onto itself as the mass sunk into the mud. Even as it fell more shots rang out, and in a handful of minutes the rest of the bandits joined their leader, wrecked and destroyed in the river of mud. The few bandit pilots who managed to bail out of their ruined mechas attempted to flee, but were quickly stuck in the same mud and soon cut down by the now vengeful track drivers.

Soon the sounds of combat died down, replaced with a silence. The silence of shock, of exhaustion. The faint smell of gunfire and scorched metal hangs in the trees nearby, while tension hangs in the air itself: after all, somebody or something took out the bandits as easily as those same bandits had been taking them out… There are damn good reasons why large chunks of the forests were still not tamed, even centuries after their rebirth since the End of Days.

Just as Walter managed to kick open the hatch of his wrecked machine and poked his head out he saw it: a large, slender, yet curiously misshapen kriegmeister lugging a massive long range rifle.

The lanky mecha spoke (or rather, the pilot inside spoke through it). "If this is the reinforcement being promised then we are truly forsaken..."

And Walter couldn't disagree: it was true, they couldn't even defend themselves against a pack of bandits.

"Well," The stranger continued. "I suppose that's part of my sin too." The mecha turned directly at Walter. "Sorry that you got dragged into this, and what's to come, but such is fate."

Walter continued his silence, the continuous pouring rain falling on him a reminder of his failures, and the burdens he still must bear.

After all, duty spares no one.

 

[John_Oakman]

Map of world made by my younger brother, you can find his deviantart page here: https://www.deviantart.com/samul-cs

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 2: a collection of the shunned​

They were a sorry sight as they entered into the military encampment: the line of broken vehicles and shattered men. The wounded vehicles towing the husks of their dead brethren, some still with the traces of smoke, as if the last of their souls have not yet exited their corpses. The personnel were a similar story, though their dead were buried in the woods where they fell, thus leaving the living, wounded and otherwise, to contemplate the aftermath.

Then again, the encampment wasn't in that great of a shape either: a series of hastily built wooden structures surrounding an equally hastily packed dirt field. That by itself wasn't anything unusual, field fortifications being the temporary affairs they are supposed to be. The actual matter at hand though, was the drab atmosphere. It was the sum of its details, a flood of minute things that on their own warrant no attention, but collectively they cried out in despair.

All in all making it [relative] safety did little to raise the spirits of the levies of the Clarke estate.

……​

"If this is a joke, now would be your last chance to admit to it." Earl Marshal Kurt looked at the disheveled figure of Walter with open contempt and disdain. The ragtag group of scum and misery shambling into his camp was far less than the promised reinforcements that he was promised. While he knew better than to expect what he was promised in full, to expect something to work with was at least within the bounds of reason…

"The widow who gave her last coin gave more than the rich lavished their spending money." Walter blurted out, much to his own surprise. The shards were getting worse, sometimes taking over at the most inappropriate of times. Fuck, he has no idea where in the universe the shards ever nabbed that rhetorical flourish from, because he sure as heck didn't learn anything like that from his years of his education, or if he did it was promptly discarded and forgotten.

"Intentions mean nothing without results!" Kurt roared. Walter barely flinched, whether due to existing exhaustion, resignation, or something else not even he himself could tell. "Your word is piss for all the good that it does, and your excuses even less!"

"Then give us the chance to die with honor." Walter replied, with an air of exhaustion. For once his mind was not nudged on by the shards. If anything the shards were more than a bit unnerved by the possibility of dying… again? Or at least dying in a potentially painful fashion this second time around…

"You are already disgraced without hope, just get the hell out of my sight and be useful in the way of the peasants that you are!" With a wave of his hand he sent Walter out of the command hut.

Even as he trudged out the door and into the courtyard the sting of the marshal came back in full force as the smoke of the ruined vehicles in the distance came across his sight.

"You'll get used to that." An oddly familiar female voice muttered behind him. As Walter turned around he saw her: a blond that even the shards in his head admit is beautiful, and the shards (as far as he's aware) weren't affected by the temptations of the flesh so to speak, which begs the question of what metric the shards were using to make its judgment…

"Used to what?" He asked, not really believing the platitudes that he expects to come out of her mouth. It's the same meaningless words, uttered more to reassure oneself than to soothe the recipient.

"Used to the fact that your best effort isn't enough." She replied in a much clearer voice, taking him by surprise. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself yet. Therese Albrecht, the kriegmeister who saved you and what's left of your convoy."

"Thanks for saving our hides I guess." Walter mumbled as the name reminded him of something.. "Hold up, aren't you-" He asked before she cut him off.

"The crown prince took a fancy to some newcomer, and I incurred his wrath when trying to make him realize the political consequences of his notions of romantic love taking precedence-"

"Sorry, you were fated to lose that one." Walter blurted out, to Therese's surprise. Once again the shards called out things like they were (in this case whatever that happens to be, Walter himself has no idea really) with total disregard for tact or politeness. After a moment of awkward silence Therese responded.

"Valid. Blunt, but probably valid." She conceded with a frown. "I'm also assuming that mouth of yours is the reason you are also here then?"

"I guess." Walter shrugged. "What do you mean though, being here for a reason?" He asked, realizing there's something that he might not be aware of.

"Penance for transgressions. That's all of us really, even the old marshal himself in there." She said, pointing a finger at the command hut he had exited earlier. "Everyone here has done something that could not be merely forgiven or forgotten, but our ingrained loyalties meant that it would be a waste to simply dispose of us akin to common criminals."

"Even the common levies?" Walter asked. Therese stopped for a moment again, before replying in a quieter voice.

"Not them." She said in a somewhat reluctant voice, seemingly more annoyed than anything. Whether from her own forgetfulness or the expected dismissal of the masses he couldn't tell.

"And they'll be the ones who will suffer the most." He simply said. Therese narrowed her eyes.

"And you actually care?" She asked, suspecting the intentions behind his words. Walter doesn't blame her, nobody above them cared for the masses of peasants: at best they're seen as slightly lower than that of the animal herds, while the more detached of the nobles sees them as a necessary eyesore for their lifestyles. It has been that way since the day before forever, and so were the occasional outburst of seething rage from the masses to their overlords. For the most part though most peasants simply didn't care, as the matter was so far above the plane of existence in which they could do anything about it.

"It takes one to know one." Walter spat back, once again the shards taking over the dialogue to the detriment of the conversation. It's not even as if the shards were a peasant in a past life, that much he was pretty sure of. Worse is that he sort of empathizes with those lunatic ramblings at times, whether due to the similarity in personalities of the both of them or something else he also could not tell. It's just maddening like that.

Therese waved a hand, as if to dismiss the tangent. "This isn't making any headway, nor helping in solving any of our crises." She said, dragging the conversation back to where she wanted to be. All that talk of the peasantry was rather uncomfortable, to put it mildly. It felt like a personal attack to her character.

She shook her head to clear those thoughts. Now's not the time to be obsessed over the personal, not to mention it was that kind of thinking that was part of what got her in the current predicament in the first place.

"I might have an idea, but you will probably not like it." Walter said. Therese raised an eyebrow.

"Say it then, this isn't the time to tease about it." She said curtly, not having the patience for the indirect ways of communication that's one the hallmarks of the imperial court. She could play the game as well as anyone, but here far away from civilization there's preciously little tolerance for that.

"Wrecks are plentiful here aren't they?" Walter asked. "Especially heavy weapons now without a mount?"

"Yes?" Therese wasn't sure where this line of inquiry was going. At least he seems direct enough…

"Then we mount them out the tracks." He simply said, as if it's just that simple. "A fighting chance to die a meaningful death."

"Oh great, you actually have a death wish." Therese groaned. But it's not that bad an idea.

Undignified, sure. Stupid? Certainly. Humiliating? Obvious.

But there's no harm in letting the fool do that. The worst thing that could happen is his death, and that's what he wants. No, what he needs.

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 3: Success in failure​

Well, it could be worse. Walter thought to himself as the line of tracks rumbled out the main gate, on their way to the frontlines. The guns slapped onto hastily welded turrets, some of which were occasionally swirling to one side like nervous ticks.

There's a lot to be nervous about.

It had been a handful of months since he arrived at the base, and the situation on the frontlines had not improved since that time, if the seemingly continuous stream of broken kriegmeisters and sullen & depressed faces were any indication.

The silver lining was that it meant more resources and materials to work with, as there's a consistent shortage of spare parts to fix up the kriegmeisters, and with meaningful reinforcements and resupply being nowhere in sight due to some internal political bickering in the neighboring estates… well, the stupid idea of arming the humble tractors began to seem almost reasonable.

Reasonable in the sense of getting rid of some undesirables and problematic people, Walter was under no illusions as to which category he's in. With a sigh he crawled back into the turret of this track and shut the hatch. His own kriegmeister still not fixed as others had much higher priority. In any case, it wasn't as if he would make much of a difference in a kriegmeister.

"Let's go." He muttered the order with a weariness that mildly surprised even him. He hasn't been doing all that much in terms of physical work.

"Ja." The driver acknowledged in a resigned voice as he gunned the engine and the command track rumbled forth, joining the rest of tracks on their way to almost certain death.

It's hard not to be pessimistic about all of this. None of this has been tested, Not even the theories (whatever babblings of the shards of the other world is of no relevance here and now).There was simply not enough time for that nonsense. Heck, the idea of testing a new weapon system outside of the field of battle had been an idea of the shards, and equally nonsensical. The chaos of the battlefield is a far cry from the heavily sanitized tournaments that the nobility loves to amuse themselves with, just another part of their debauchery…

In any case, there wasn't enough time or resources for that kind of thing, nor the inclination from the leadership, who balked at the concept of cuddling cannon fodder like that, not to mention almost everyone else's distaste at the concept of the 'armored struggle bus' in the first place.

As the ceaseless rumble and clanking of the tracks continued on their way Walter began to ease in his seat and reflect on what they had accomplished so far. From the outside perspective it was childish: with turrets nicked from stationary redoubts and other fortifications, guns pilfered from the kriegmeisters who had given up the ghost, and other random dudads homebrewed in a way that's beyond the cringe… but that's just the problem with appearance, and outside of the eyes of their betters none of that matters.

According to the shards though, these lumbering examples weren't that bad, a bit oversized and overweight perhaps, but it's a different world and more relevantly a far more different infrastructure and combined arms dynamic… Well, the part about the combined arms remains to be seen. In this case the shards were of little help, and the visions of abstractions of a world devoid of kriegmeisters as usual wasn't useful.

"Are the forces in position?" Therese asked over the comms. The question snapped him out of his fruitless musings, and dragged him back to the mission at hand.

"We are." He replied as he squinted at one of the displays, where the IFF signals of the tracks were mostly in position. Low tech as the tracks are, they are reasonably fast in comparison to the infinitely more expensive kriegmeisters, at least, over long distances. Burst jumps and jet boosts tend to skew the equation on the battlefield side though…

Now the question remains as they are of any use in the actual fighting.

"Good. May you die with purpose." Therese replied crisply as she cut the link. Walter assured that she was also in position. The situation has deteriorated to the point that she was the only kriegmeister around that could be spared.

Walter hopes that she's right. The shards screamed the opposite but for all its imbecilic screeching it had little control over the matter. For all his patheticness Walter still knew and experienced more actual combat than the shards, and after a while, as always, the shards conceded the point: experience trumps theory, at least on the small scale.

It was still needlessly annoying though, which already makes the waiting more tedious than necessary. Thankfully the ramblings were only a problem in his head, everyone else simply had to deal with dreaded anticipation that comes with the waiting. Dying glorious in battle is a privilege reserved for their betters in the kriegmeisters, not for the common fodder.

But duty is god, and so they stood.

After what seemed to be forever but probably was only a handful of hours when a voice cracked over the comms.

"Enemy kriegmeister sighted."

The tracks suddenly became animated as their crews began the process of target acquisition. Turrets turn with the whines of the gears and barrels tilt upwards. After a handful of seconds a series of booms echoed as the guns fired.

"Hit!" The words echoed from the various gunners as they found their mark. The actual sounds of the rounds impacting being drowned out by the general chaotic sounds of battles, the din of the tracks moving, the crunching of vegetation, and the beeping of various machinery and displays.

As he popped open the hatch and looked out he dared hope for the best, only for said hope to be dashed to pieces immediately: the enemy kriegmeister was barely scratched, and it looked merely inconvenienced if anything. Even as the tracks began to disperse the kriegmeister brought its gun to bear.

Once again he felt that sense of pained helplessness as he watched the tracks being blown up one by one, even as they desperately fired back while evading as best as they could. Yet it was as if they were throwing pebbles at the mountain. Bigger pebbles than before perhaps, and sometimes even having an effect, but pebbles all the same.

They were certainly living up to the name of the struggle. Not really the armored part yet, and it looks like he'll never get there either.

Before he knew it he saw the massive gun barrels of the enemy pointing at his track, and even as the driver made a split second turn he knew it was too late as the guns fired.

It was an almost miss, one of the rounds slammed into the front of the track and obliterated the entirety of the front. The turret was thrown into the air as if it was a child's toy. As luck would have had it Walter was thrown out of the turret, slamming into the ground with an impact that most certainly shattered bones.

As he lay there in pain and wished for the sweet release of death, he saw the enemy kriegmeister staggered back, rocked by an explosion from some powerful weapon.

Took her long enough. He thought to himself as he lost consciousness and everything faded to nothing…

------​

"Congratulations, you failed." Therese said in a cheerful mocking tone. Walter simply stared back at her with dead and empty eyes.

It wasn't as if he could do much else, given his body, or rather what's left of it, was wrapped up in a bio cast. While normally someone of his status would have been given the use of one of the more advanced regen-pods he was still disliked enough by Marshal Kurt that he was denied such a privilege. Only those who won glory on the battlefield are entitled to such luxuries, so the reasoning went.

It was all fine with him. They weren't wrong about him being a failure. At the end of the day it was still Therese who fired the killing blows, thus preserving the status quo.

"It's still too early for you to die." She continued, "You still have some unfinished business in this world. Your honor, your dignity, your vision." The last two words came out in an almost whisper, as if she doesn't want to acknowledge it.

He merely snorted, then coughed as the simple action brought quite a bit of pain to his chest. She simply nodded, as if understood what he wanted to say.

"It's going to be a while until you can leave that casing. Don't worry, your little vanity project is safe… for the moment." She frowned. "The supply situation is still in rather tight straits, to put it mildly, but fodder and scraps are plentiful so Kurt wants to put that into use somehow. Be glad there's a lot of people wanting to die the good death."

With that she turned and left the field hospital room, leaving Walter to stew in his thoughts along with the shards. It was just as well since the shards had been raging a storm, sending stabs of pain all over his head and causing the headache of the ages.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, they weren't supposed to be annihilated, panzerkampfwagens are supposed to be so superior as a concept that they could close the technological gap of a thousand years.

Then again, it's not the end, but the beginning. There will be more chances, and perhaps in the end he might even get what he wished for: a chance at redemption.

For some reason the shards weren't too happy with that.

 

[John_Oakman]

Alright let's just get this over with. Also I might come back later with pics.
--------------​

Chapter 4: Failures after failures: The obligatory montage chapter​

"It's impossible I tell you." The master engineer tried to explain to the barely walking bag of bandages. "You can't put a gun of that size on a frame that small. It'll barely be able to move!"

"But- it could still get into position?" Walter asked, in between coughing fits that threatened to collapse his still fragile lungs (and everything else really). About the only thing that weren't battered were the shards, being immaterial figments not of this world nor his mind.

Bastard. Smug Bastard. Fuck that bullshit. The same mentality from the others he could live with, being mostly the products of superior breed & status. But the shards, what made that in particularly annoying was that it has none of that, yet acts even more insufferable.

"Technically yes." The engineer conceded the point, only to pull out another one immediately. "But it couldn't fit more than half a dozen rounds for its main gun."

"Doesn't matter. It probably won't need that many rounds- one way or the other." Walter sighed. It's true, either they destroy the enemy or they get blown to bits. It wouldn't be smart to put those implications into words though, given that there would be actual people crewing these things… "At least they would be sniping at long distances." He threw out that tidbit in an attempt to make the prospect less hopeless.

The engineer winced at that. Sniping is dishonorable, only done by bandits and the honorless ones inhabiting the Turiac lands… and to be resorting to such acts, when all of them are still trying to get back in the good graces of God and country… Well, that doesn't reflect well on them in the eyes of He who is, does it?

Walter noted the pained expression, and nodded in acknowledgement.

"It's highly unlikely that we would be remembered for that." He added lamely. Or remembered at all for that matter. He was well aware of how history will be written, long before the shards butted in with irrelevant examples from whatever lands they came from.

After a long moment of awkward silence the engineer finally responded.

"It shall be done." He simply said as he walked away, moving on to one of the many things that requires his attention. Out of his earshot Walter breathed a strained sigh of relief.

So the work shall continue. For all their failures in the previous skirmish it was still a good exchange of losses. All those tracks lost was dust in the wind so far as the scribes were concerned, the lives of their crews the least important of them all.

Needless to say, morale wasn't high, not that they would normally be high in any case to begin with. After all, it's the peasantry that bear the brunt of the suffering in death in the sport of the nobility known as war. A sport well known for the absolute ruthlessness displayed at the lessers.

Hopefully, that will change, one way or the other…

That stray thought from the shards spooked him, sometimes he wondered if the shards was actively plotting his doom.

Curious thing, at least, if it was anyone else who had to deal with it. Still, it has been doing a far better job than he by himself could have ever done.

That has to count for something right?

------​

"Denied." The sheer smugness of the words dripped out of the scribe's mouth like stray bits of food from a spoiled child.

"Noted." Walter replied flatly as he turned away, not giving the bureaucrat the satisfaction of his little power trip.

Once out of the hut, he breathed a sigh of resignation, safely out of earshot of that bag of lard bureaucrat. Power and authority are rare and precious things, thus any of either in the hands of anyone should be abused to its limits as quickly as possible… and unlike the actual nobility, the bureaucrats aren't even constrained by the formalities of court manners. At least when their lords weren't around, and their victims weren't important enough.

WIth a shrug he began walking back to his group's machinery bay. It's not the end of the world, and he really didn't expect any better: Most of the other commanders, already loath to share even their scraps under normal circumstances, were even less willing to give out things meant for kriegmeister to be equipped for lesser vehicles such as tracks. They were, if anything, even more unwilling than usual after he shared with them (or rather, their engineers. For it's usually beneath the real nobility's dignity to be interested in those kinds of things) all the data, plans, and schematics of the new combat tracks.

Of course, it wasn't his original intention to be so generous, as he knew how the whole thing would be received. As usual, it was the shards who prodded on, rambling something about streamlining R&D and that it's not necessary to have nine separate projects wasting resources on redundancies. It's been some weeks and he still has no idea what other worldly events the shards were referring to.

After all, why would a postal service be in the business of world ending weapons? Heck, how would a postal service become that powerful in the first place? Must have been a pretty trusting world for something like that to flourish… but that place couldn't have been that great either, when a postal service needed to do that kind of research.

As he trudged back into his own maintenance bay his eyes once again gazed at the half completed shells of the newest batch of armed tracks, only a few armed with the more potent weapon systems, mainly those nicked from the wreckage of the enemy kriegmeisters. He knew they were lucky to even get those, mainly because Therese pulled a few strings… probably not out of any altruistic motives, nor any genuine appreciation of the implications of these new tracks.

Which brings up the question of what she is scheming? More cannon fodder between her and the enemy? A pawn for her political maneuverings? Something else entirely?

He shook his head to clear those unfruitful thoughts. Whatever's going on behind the veil is nothing that he could meaningfully influence, so no point in worrying about them, despite the foreboding whispers of the shards that hints of unknown horrors.

Those horrors, whatever they are, could wait. The enemy here and now has to be faced first if they were ever to get to that point to worry about the other things.

------​

"I refuse." The pilot said flatly.

Walter didn't even bat an eye at the insubordination. "Then you can stay behind." He shrugged, the motion still brought a flash of pain throughout his body. "We simply don't have enough kriegmeisters on hand."

"Well I- wait, you're not going to fight over this?" The pilot was taken aback by the simple acceptance of his position. Walter shook his head, then winced at the motion as it brought a flash of pain to his head

"While I wished and hoped for otherwise, I was mostly expecting that to be your choice in the matter." He explained. "You are, after all, the descendent of a long line of noble blood- and for me to ask for something like this is an insult. I apologize for that. Considered this matter dropped."

With those words he got up and left the room, moving on with a slight hobble in an futile attempt to convince some other mecha-less pilot to take a dive in the peasant vehicle of the armored track.

In the now empty room the pilot thought to himself some more. These are desperate times, and his own kriegmeister is currently little more than a useless pile of metal for want of spare parts. Moreover, the younger Clarke wasn't like most of his kind: he was more than willing to lead from the front, swallowing his pride when he went into one of those lowly deathtraps. Almost forfeited his life too.

But it was still a bridge too far for him to cross to agree to pilot one of those… contraptions. If nothing else it would be a waste of his talents and skills, both scarce commodities even in the best of times…

… but that does not mean he'll simply sit back and watch that runt die a death of the dutiful. No, he couldn't live with the shame of that either. There has to be a way… something that he can do.

Suddenly an idea came to him. He wasn't special: There's plenty like him, pilots with wrecked kriegmeisters waiting for spares that will probably never arrive. And like him their honor and dignity would similarly prevent them from debasing themselves by crawling into those peasant vehicles…

… then no one will find some more parts amiss from those husks wasting away… and he'll have his mount, one way or another…

------​

Well, it could have been worse. The thoughts from the shards flashed through Walter's mind as he stood on the side, reviewing the hodgepodge of armed tracks, most of which still with engineers and mechanics crawling all over them for their last minute checks. For all their efforts at uniformity (at the insistence of the shards, though a lot of the mechanics weren't opposed to it, unlike some of the master engineers) the results were anything but. Most of the chassis were similar enough, still being based on the common supply tracks. The turrets on the other hand were more unique, being constrained by the needs of the pilfered weapons from the various mechas and other looted sources.

"They're breeding like pests." Therese remarked idly. Walter merely shrugged, long used to the barrage of insults by his peers and superiors hurled at the armed tracks. At least the repenting princess made the effort to grace her presence here, as they were about to march forth again into battle.

"Perhaps after this you might… see them in a more positive light." Walter choked out the words without confidence. Not that he has no confidence in the competency of the tracks, as even the shards, still smarting from the previous debacle, had regained some of its prior arrogance. No, the actual hurdle being one of legitimacy. Recognition from those who matter.

It's something that the shards just seem to not understand, for whatever reason. Oh there are times when he argued with them in his head, as he realized that they are actually the fragments of a soul, and moreover, he could actually converse with it…him? Didn't really help with the understanding though. Thing thinks it could bend reality towards its will for… storybook reasons?

It's a good thing that the shards are not in charge, though how long that'll last is anyone's guess.

"Impossible." Therese said in the voice of someone who has already made up her mind. He couldn't really blame her either. So far he had delivered much less than he (and the shards) had promised.

He sighed. "As the skies will it." He muttered, taking comfort in the age old meaningless platitude. There's no point in arguing in either word or deed.

With a start he realized that her and the rest of the nobility's stubbornness is oddly like that of the shards: reality is just an inconvenience to be ignored in favor of a higher truth. Perhaps the other world that the shards came from isn't that different, which doesn't exactly bond well for this obsession of unproven weapons…

As the skies will it indeed.

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 5: You didn't do that, and that never happened​

"Convoy sighted." The voice cracked over the intercom. "Tracked vehicles, dozens of them."

"Acknowledged." Walter replied wearily, staring at the dots on the display, the slow moving nature of the enemy forces even on the radar made it clear long before that they are of primitive tracked vehicles rather than the much faster and glamorous agravs that most warriors prefer for their retinue.

It's one thing for them to be using such lowly equipment, for reasons already endlessly hammered in previously, it's quite another to see the opponents doing so: So far all any of them have observed of the enemy were kriegmeister and agravs, as befitting of a proper army. Outside of the battlefield or not.

… and they're definitely outside the field of battle, a place where only the disreputable, such as bandits and assassins, commit their acts of transgression. Yet here they are, sinners seeking repentance, yet about to commit an act of dishonor.

It matters not that the opponent was also doing something disreputable, in this case taking aid from the Turiacs, the enemies of all civilized states. That much is obvious. While for normal people only the most desperate among them, such as the Clarke estate, would resort to even using peasant level technologies such as tracks to sully the noble task of war, the anti-civilized (and supposedly barely humans) of the Turiacs have no such inhibitions.

"Orders?" The question hung in the air. Walter swallowed before replying.

"Fire when ready." He uttered the order with a sigh. They know what they're doing, if anything even better than him. Real combat was nothing like the classroom lectures nor the glorified sports of mock battles.

Soon after the crack of gunfire could be heard, first through the comms, then the faint booms as the few artillery sized guns made their presence known through generous application of explosive energy. Quickly followed were the dots on the display winking out of existence, each such case representing the fiery end of a vehicle probably costing the combined income of an average peasant family and the death of a crew representing a number of shattered families. Though only the shards seemed to care for the last bit… It seemed that after being banged around in the head after that last battle he became even more vocal of the plight of the common peasant.

Walter had little time to muse on that matter as soon as the din of battle approached closer. With a start he realized that the rear force, in which his command vehicle being part of, had come under attack.

As the realization sets in the first of the tracks began to explode, it was the large gunned ones, their heavy barrels making it more difficult to turn around in a timely manner.

As he popped open the hatch an eerily familiar scene begins to play out again as a group of enemy kriegmeisters merrily slaughtering their way through the tracks. Once again their unnatural grace and speed, the gift of unimaginably advanced technologies from before the End of Days making a mockery of the labor and hardships of the lessers.

He wondered helplessly as the fated events unfold in front of his eyes, wondering why, why were the shards so insistent on this mad calling to challenge the ancient established order as ordained by the god themselves? The shards screamed back at the question with a will and force that took him off guard even in the midst of combat and imminent death.

Fuck them gods, and all their hypcritical, self serving lackeyes. The thought barrel forth with a fury of a thousand years of hatred. While the shards had always harbored a disdain towards the upper crust, a sentiment that Walter privately shared, this was something else.

Do they, it have no idea that the body-, person that it's inhabiting is also nominally part of the "lackeyes"? Or such is the hate that it crossed into self loathing?

With a start he realized that the din of battle had disappeared, not because his mind had blocked them, but that the fighting in the immediate vicinity had concluded… and the massive gunbarrel of the enemy kriegmeister staring at him in the face told him all he needed to know who won that particular fight.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" They shouted into the barrel, the shards and him agreeing for once. "Another death won't be the end of me, I seen what's on the other side!" Though Walter hasn't exactly seen said other side, he trusts that the shards knew better for once. Besides, it's not as if there's another acceptable option. Begging for mercy like a coward is simply not done.

Of course there was no response, whoever's piloting the kriegmeister probably taking a sadistic pleasure in his pointless last act of defiance. Noble last stands are a privilege of the nobility, of those in kriegmeister. Certainly not some rambling loser in a struggle bus.

It was at that precise moment when, once again, a barrage of rounds slammed into the enemy mecha, forcing it to shuffle back a few steps. As Walter looked up in shock, as the type of rounds was different from the kriegmeister of a certain someone, being far too scattered and almost taking out the vehicle he's in. Instead, he saw instead a different mecha, some hastily strung together last minute kitbash.

"Sir, are you well?" Even through the comms the hint of concern was there. Walter recognized the voice as from that pilot he had a talk with some time ago. Apparently he managed to patch up his kriegmeister at some point after that little talk.

"Still drawing air." he muttered though the mic, while nodding in acknowledgment before continuing. "Now we need to-"

Before he could even finish the sentence before a flurry of rockets simply deleted the kitbashed mecha in a cloud of smoke and fire. He snapped his head at the direction of the fire, and immediately cursed himself as a bundle of pain shot through his spine to his temple. The only upside was that it managed to shut the shards up for a brief bit.

What he saw was utterly unsurprising, but chilling all the same: another group of enemy kriegmeisters, guns ready to put in the finishing blow. Out of the peripherals of his eyes he saw the smoldering husk of the luckless kriegmeister who had just given him a respite from imminent death.

With a sigh he simply shrugged, not even having the mental strength to quip a response. This being real life, it would be folly to expect a storybook ending. Then he remembered that while his death here might have some abstract meaning to himself, the crew of his command track deserved better.

"Wait." He said while holding up a hand. It might well be a pointless gesture, but his personal sense of morality, as warped as it is, dictates that he is obligated to make such a gesture regardless.

This time the enemy paid no attention to his lack of surprise, but as the lead one was in the process of aiming his weapon the forest surrounding them exploded into violence as the surprisingly accurate fire came pouring from all sides. With a start Walter realized that the background rumbling he had tuned out in the chaos of his near death experiences had been the main ambushing force making their way back.

Caught by the intensity of the ambush, the enemy mechas soon began to withdraw, pouring fire haphazardly at shadows in the trees. As the withering fire continued one by one the kriegmeister began to fall, the volume of fire overwhelming the advance armor and protection of a bygone era.

As the last of the mechas crashed into the mud with a heavy thud an eerie silence descended on the broken terrain, as if the living could not believe what had transpired. Then the rumbling began as one by one, the tracks moved out of their ambush position, their crew popping their heads out of the hatches, to see with their own eyes the impossible task they had just accomplished.

Before they could react in any form however, the telltale sound of a kriegmeister's footstep snapped them into instincts. Hatches slammed shut, and gears were put in reverse as they scurried back much faster than they came forward.

Walter was too drained to even flinch as he turned his head towards the sound, being far too done with the flips of fates in the span of a handful of minutes. His facial expression remained unchanged as he saw the familiar sight of Therese's kriegmeister.

Without even a greeting she made her way to the downed enemy kriegmeisters, and quickly put a round through the cockpit of each and every one of them.

"What are you doing?!" Walter shouted into the comms, spurred on by the shards more than anything else. Something about the laws of war in the different world or some such nonsense.

"Giving them a dignified closure." Therese replied back irritantly, as if annoyed that her actions would even be questioned, much less owned an explanation.

"What?" Walter spat out, as the shards put thoughts into words faster than etiquette could police them.

"Do I really need to explain this?" Therese snapped back, suddenly pointing her gun directly at him. Walter shook his head, having wrestled control of his mind and body back just in time.

He knew, though he and the shards didn't really want to admit it. The whole operation here is a transgression of the code of war in this world, and the specter of mere tracks taking down kriegmeisters a transgression of the natural order of the cosmos. It doesn't matter that they have proof that their enemy the Seoguks are in league with the despised and shunned Turiacs. By the social norms the word of a noble will always trump the word of a peasant, even if the latter has raw camera footage.

Feelings don't care for facts, and the words of the worthy can overwrite reality itself.

The incoherent rage of the shards continued well into the night, causing the most debilitating of headaches for Walter on the entire ride back to the camp and some more…

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 6: But why?​

"You know what your obligations demand of you." Kurt said with barely restrained hatred as he slid forth a plain semi-automatic pistol across the table to Walter, with one round in the chamber that everyone present saw being inserted a couple of minutes ago. "The trash needs to be taken out."

Walter stared at the pistol for a moment, while a conflict rages on in the depths of his mind. His own thoughts, sculpted through a [so far short] lifetime in a culture steeped in, whispers for the sweet release of an honorable death. Meanwhile the shards, which seemed to have reconstituted into something that resembled a soul that even calls itself by the name of James, advocated discarding what it perceived to be the worthless notions of honor, and double down on the disgrace, as if it revels in wallowing in the humiliation brought upon by transgressions.

Easy for a disembodied soul from another world living rent free in someone else's head to say, being rather insulated from most of the non-physical consequences and all. On the other hand a death of the physical body would mean the end of his goals, at least temporarily…

You ain't thinking of doing it because of your obsession for honor, you're thinking of it because it would be the quick and easy way out. The shards- the disembodied voice of James mocked him. What if death isn't the end? I'm proof enough of that. What if you off yourself and you lose your honor anyways after the deed? You think any of those shitheads have your interest in mind?

As coarse and crude the words were, the shards had a point. For all the talk of honor and moral virtue among those of noble birth there has be preciously little of that being displayed in actuality. Even out here, far from regaining their redemption, they were digging themselves further into the pit of unforgivable sins.

Mustering the dregs of determination that he still possessed Walter shook his head and slid the pistol back.

"I have not yet given up on the path of redemption." He simply said to the Earl Marshal.

The Earl Marshal did not take it well, as he grabbed the pistol, cocked it, and pointed it directly at Walter's eyes.

"Won't be the first time I have to take out the trash myself." He growled, ready to do what he has done countless times before.

"Perhaps this… problem might be put to better use, elsewhere?" The slightly bored voice of Therese butted in. She was leaning off in a corner of the rather austere room, while showing no obvious signs of interest her very presence belies her intentions, whatever they might be. "After all, there is still much work to be done concerning the Turiacs."

Kurt gave a snort, while still keeping the pistol pointed at Walter. "They are a cursed people in a cursed land. We have banished them back to their hated lair."

"For now." Therese narrowed her eyes. "And that's what our fathers have said, and their fathers before them. Yet as sure as seasons they always come back, hungering for destruction and corruption as is their nature. Surely as someone of your brilliance could see that they need to be taught a lesson. Moreover a lesson that will leave a mark where they will see it the day after."

"And you wish to embark on such an accursed task?" Kurt asked the question pointedly, having caught on to what she was implying immediately. Therese shook her head.

"Oh no, the forsaken one in front of you will." She said with a warmless smile, an almost sinister grin. "Make the Turiac bastards spend the bullet instead."

Kurt nodded slowly as he lowered the pistol, before leaving it on the desk. "A valid point." He said to Therese, before turning his attention back to Walter. "You will die, and you will make your death a meaningful one." He said icily as he got up from his seat and made his way to the door.

A silence descended in the room as Walter and Therese stared at each other for a long moment, each gauging the other's intentions while trying not to voice their own questions. Therese was the first to break the silence.

"Show some gratitude already." She prodded. Walter blinked a couple of times before answering.

"Why?" The two souls asked in unison through one voice. Both wanted to know for different reasons.

"You assume ulterior motives from me?" Therese asked in a mocking offended tone, unsheathing her sword and pointing it at his throat. Walter, or rather, James, groaned inwardly. Compared to the genuine hatred on the Earl Marshal's part, the theatrics of an ex-otome-villainess wasn't all that impressive.

"It wouldn't be out of character for you to do so." Walter/James calmly explained, still unflinchingly nonchalant about having his life threatened for the second time that day. "After all, you are the star of your life, everyone else merely obstacles or props to overcome said obstacles… and I suspect I'm in the latter category."

After a moment of silence, Therese withdrew and resheathed her sword. "Then know your destiny, and act accordingly." She said as she turned around and exited the room as well. Leaving Walter alone in body, stewing in enough thoughts for two.

……​

"Why?" The simple one word question echoed again and again in Walter's head as James asserted his consciousness.

"Why what?" Walter asked back, genuinely not understanding what the shards were asking. Or why they- he is asking this kind of question now of all time.

"Why continue this farce?" The question came out of the void. Walter responded by rote.

"Because that's what virtue expects." Even before the thought was fully formed he felt the pushback.

"And said virtue system expects nothing out of anyone else?" James shot right back. "You think that bitch was acting virtuous by stealing the credit of our work? Or that smug old bastard that's all too willing to off us because how it's done is more important than something actually being accomplished?"

"The moral character of the man is his responsibility and his alone!" Walter shot back, but with less conviction than before. The shards did raise points, not necessarily sophisticated points, but points that nevertheless need to be addressed.

"So why are everyone else prospering by doing the exact opposite?" The questing became more biting with each strand of thought exchanged.

"Suffering is the true test of virtue." Walter trotted out yet another generic platitude, drilled into his head by the academy instructors, and once again he finds solace in those familiar words.

The saying hit James differently. "Oh fuck you're even more retarded as the rest of them. At least they know how much bullshit the whole official morality is. Fine, have it your way, but don't say I didn't warn you when they dump this weakass body into some unmarked grave and everything ends up going to shit regardless."

And with that Walter was by himself, the shards having bugged off to some dark recess of his mind like it does from time to time, usually taking a break from having to deal with the apparent stupidity of this world.

And to be honest, the feelings are mutual. Perhaps this James came from a much more prosperous world, a world that didn't have to compromise between moral virtues and material gains… but here in Novita, moral virtue is all they have in the absence of everything else.

If he loses that, death wouldn't be a threat, but a release.

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 7: … as I stare back all I see is ugliness…​

Летят самолеты, и танки горят… огонь, огонь, огонь, Агония… The disembodied, and in this case frivolous, voice of James was singing some gibberish from his world as the "panzerkampfwagen" spearhead continued its advance at what felt like a breakneck speed, so far as for tracks go. Through whatever arcane magic the gibbish from the shards managed to get translated into words he understood, with the smoothness that only supernatural forces could enable.

Out here in the seemingly vastness of the Northern Wastelands there were few agravs flying about, if only because it's effectively a fight of bums. Quite a few tracks were burning though, along with plenty of fire and agony to go all around. The stench of burning fuel and screams of twisted metal hang in the air, overpowering the smells of burning flesh and the cries of the damned. The human element consumed by the vastness of metal and machinery that it surrounds itself with to do its bidding… but who is really in control?

"Admit it, you're enjoying this." Walter asked the shards in his mind. Things had been going a lot smoother ever since Earl Marshal Kurt returned back to Goten, having fulfilled the terms of his penance and thus released from his duties among the repentant levies. Although normally the strategic operations since then were being managed by Therese, the princess was shewed enough to leave the actual work to Walter… or merely too lazy to be bothered with the tediousness of all the paperwork and planning that goes into bringing the likes of her to glorious victories.

"Merely not hating this maddening existence for once. Out here it's simple, more like in the videogames and those shitty isekai stories." Came the internal reply from James, as lacking in context as ever. "None of that hypocritical morality nonsense that only fools like you still follow." It seemed that he was still somewhat resentful of what transpired the last time he met with Kurt.

"The obligations to moral virtues do not disappear just because we crossed borders." Walter reminded the uppity voice in his head. The constant vigilance against the forces of temptations and corruptions were trying enough as is without

"Ha! As if they were any in the first place." Came the biting retort. "While we're at it, where the fuck did you even suddenly find religion?" That question hit Walter all the harder, mainly in its lack of malice or sarcasm.

"I beg your pardon?" Walter asked, fishing for more context as an explosion nearby threw up plums of dirt, some coating the track that he's on. While they might be advancing and winning, that does not mean that the violence has stopped. If anything

"You didn't have such a stick up your arse back in your school days." James replied.

"That was before the kiss of the fields." Walter responded, the internal awkward silence that greeted him realized that the shards might have been asleep or distracted when that phrase was taught. Sometimes it do be like that with the shards. "It's the brushes with death that focus one's mind and soul on what's important in life, and of the things that one should cherish. An epiphany, a moment of clarity, so to speak."

"So this is what brain damage due to excess concussions sounds like." The line from the shards was delivered in the usual dismissive tone, but for the first time there was a tinge of something else. Something that vaguely resembles uncertainty.

Then again, perhaps he's just imagining all that. Heck, the real question is what isn't being imagined or simply gaps being filled in. Is James real? The shards? Did he just made all of this up to disassociate himself from all those crazy and blasphemous thoughts?

Another nearby explosion rocked him out of his idle musings, bringing his attention back to the ongoing fight in the material world. It was another stray shot from one of the enemy mechas, futilely trying to take out the tracks. However, there's simply too many of them, with the safety of sheer numbers forcing panic among the enemy, who with their jittery nerves became less accurate in their firing.

The invasion of the Turiacs was surprisingly smooth, almost suspiciously so. The initial battles, though barely large enough to count as skirmishes, were real, genuine victories for the tracks as they smashed the border levies of the Turiac forces. Small though those skirmishes were, they were still as brutal as any that came before… or after.

Something lit, or snapped, within them however, and now, as for the past handful of months since those now seemingly insignificant skirmishes, they were advancing, rushing, deep into the desolate Northern Wastelands, much like animals running towards the open gate of a cage.

As he watched through a pair of binoculars as a pair of Turiac mechas made a brave but ultimately futile last stand, quickly disappearing in clouds of dust and flame as a hailstorm of rounds smashed into them and the ground around. Once the dust cleared there was only shrapnel and scraps, as the luckless mechas and their pilots joined many of their compatriots before them.

The tracks are finally coming onto their own as a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Sure, the Turiacs weren't known for their military prowess, and their kriegmeisters barely deserve the title of such. Still, they have come a long way from being fodder buying time for the real heroes to finally capable of going toe to toe against the gifts of the gods themselves, all in the span of a handful of years. Something that James had repeatedly muttered as an impossibility outside of things like "trash fics" and "shitty wish fulfillment".

Wish fulfillment? Perhaps, for wishes are always fulfilled at the cost of something, somewhere. They certainly paid the costs already, in the wounded and the dead. And the costs will continue to be paid, as the crusades for redemptions rages on.

……​

It was nearing dusk when the forces reached yet another unremarkable Turiac village, a collection of dreary concrete blocks, all bearing the worn looks of the ancients who wished for the blessed release of oblivion. The narrow streets were completely deserted, with no human nor animal saved one lone old man, who was armed with a rusted pitchfork. The hardened gaze of

A thick silence descended, saved for the rumbling of the engines idling, a stark reminder of the violence of the past, present, and undoubtedly future.

"Orders?" The single word question hung in the air as the seconds dragged on. For some reason, this hit differently. Stripped of the metal and machines, the lone opponent seemed to focus the complexities of the conflict into clarity. A clarity that Walter didn't want to face once he recognized it. Meanwhile James was reminded of the last time he and the person he inhabited in experienced such a power disparity. A mildier but still uncomfortable thought to chew over.

Suddenly the man disappeared into a cloud of dust and fire as a heavy caliber round smashed into him and the ground around. Before any of them could react a voice cracked over the comms.

"If you can't finish the job, then leave it to those who are worthy." The voice of Therese snapped out, an air of annoyance at the hesitation of the tracks and by extension Walter. The line was cut before he could respond, but obviously Therese had then given additional commands to the kriegmeisters as a moment later a storm of firepower was unleashed into the town, which within the minute was reduced to a mass unmarked grave for the thousands of innocents who had called their home. Hundreds of years of history disappeared in the blink of an eye and the pent of rage of the privileged discharged itself upon the defenseless.

As the kriegmeisters wade into the still smoldering embers, firing the occasional shot at the odd unlucky survivor with seemingly sadistic glee Walter fiddled with the comms, trying to establish a comm link with Therese.

"Why?" Was the only word he could croak out once a line was established. He couldn't understand, while James only looked on internally in contempt from a meta perspective, whatever that means.

"Why what?" Came the contemptuous reply from Therese, who's boredom was the only reason she even entertained acknowledging the call. It seemed that the fool still had his head stuck in the quagmire of delusions.

"Why that!" Walter has by then popped out of the hatch of his command track, waving a hand at the unnecessary destruction all around that they had caused. "What of your honor?!?"

"The privileges of civilization are not afforded to the forsaken." Came the biting reply.

"And is that how honor and chivalry works? On technicalities?" Walter shouted back into the comms, not believing what he had just heard. Sure, James had long convinced him that Therese had not abandoned her villainess ways if not gotten worse since she started her road of repentance, but to be that blatant and cavalier about it, even out here so far from civilization?

"The matter is closed." Therese said with a finality as she cut the link, leaving Walter to stew in his thoughts as the death and destruction brought upon by the kriegmeisters continues unabated.

Slowly taking off his headset, Walter buried his head in his hands and wept. It's all so hopeless, he just wanted to do his duty. Yet so far he has only dug a bottomless pit, with no end in sight with either the bottom or his digging. Even James, still living rent free in a distant corner of his mind, was concerned, even if it's more of his own selfish matters.

"Look, just a few well placed shots, and that bitch would stop being a problem." James finally suggested. The kriegmeisters had by then mostly wrapped with their orgy of violence, only taking the occasional sporting potshots at the odd fleeing villager. "And I don't think you care about what happens to yourself afterwards either."

And James was right. It seems that by living he manages to just make things worse. A meaningful collateral suicide would at least put a stop to this continued dumpster fire that's his miserable existence…

"No. I cannot throw away the lives of those in my care." Walter replied, taking a step back from the abyss. A collateral suicide would be easy precisely because of the consequences would be spread out more than just himself. It would be the selfish choice of putting his own wants before what should be done.

"Point taken." James acknowledged the issue with little fuss, much to Walter's surprise. In fact, he could have sworn he saw a shrug from James, despite the shards still being incorporeal and all.

"That's it?" Walter asked, having expected more of a fight from what's rapidly becoming his alternate moral advocate.

"Sometimes even a fool like you have a point too." James finally responded after a moment. "It's actually quite easy to be a hard man making hard choices while hard. But it's quite a whole other thing to actually make the true hard choices. Better pray for moral fortitude, because you'll need it soon enough."

And with that Walter was left in internal silence, a genuine fear chunning in the pit of his stomach. Far more is at stake than mere lives, but also of souls.

And with the existence of James proving the existence of something after the physical existence of life, the question of how to die has never been more important…

-------------------

Author's note: the lyrics James was singing in the beginning is from the song Комбат by Любэ

 

[John_Oakman]

Let's be honest... it's pretty obvious where this was going, hardly a random left turn on the plot.

-----------

Chapter 8: Well, well, well, if it isn't the consequences of my convictions…​

It was another ordinary day, or as ordinary as it could be for an invading force despised by everyone who's deep in enemy territory. The command hut, which was a ramshackled wooden structure due to the speed of the advances, was filled with smoke and stress, the latter causing the former. In the center of the main room stood a massive table, on it lies a map, and surrounded by a number of men. The interesting thing among the assembled was that there were no kriegmeister pilots, and barring a certain diminutive and otherwise unremarkable figure there were also no members of the warrior class.

It's a different type of war being planned out and conducted. Gone were the showy set piece clashes between the gifts of the gods themselves, and their wrath upon the unwashed masses. The sport of the chosen has been replaced by the grind of the workers. It's dishonorable, disgraceful, and disgusting…

… but then, it was always like that, just that for the first time in centuries that the veil of nobility of war has been ripped away, leaving the ugly reality lying beneath. It was just as well that this new ugly form of war is being waged far away from the eyes of civilized folks.

In the absence of honor, the forsaken and the condemned only thought of the immediate future: the next resupply, the next battle, the next day. Mulling about anything bigger only encourages the demons of the soul.

"... while basic foodstuffs and equipment could be foraged from the surrounding hamlets the same could not be said for munitions and primary weapon system supports." One of the now staff taskleader, a former depot chief, droned on. The flat tone of his voice did not completely hide the concern, which was made rather obvious by the expression on his face.

"We cannot simply continue our reliance of salvaging enemy combat systems." Another taskleader, this one a former tactical mechanic, chipped in, "The enemies we're facing now simply don't have that level of technological sophistication."

With that all eyes present were pointed at Walter, who nodded in acknowledgement before he spoke.

"There's no point in beating around the bush." He began. "We have done all that could have been done. Now the so far unsaid choices are between a final pointless sacrifice and digging in for the long haul." He took a short breath before continuing. "While it would be in the moral interest of those above us to send us to send us to die for their personal glory I cannot in good consciousness agree to that."

Another pause as a silence descends in the room. It was one thing to have those cowardly and treasonous thoughts, but quite another to voice them, even out here where the stars don't shine.

"Well, better start thinking of excuses." Walter spoke again as he looked around, hearing the growing faint sounds of footsteps in the distances. "Weird. What could be going on at this time of the day?" He asked rhetorically as he turned around from the table towards the door, straightened out his jumpsuit, having long abandoned the more formal parade uniforms that the aristocracy prefers. There's simply no one to show off to, not to mention that it's a pain in the ass to get into and out of them.

Suddenly the flimsy door to the room was blasted open, and even before the smoke cleared a squad of gold clad troops barged in, the Righteous Guardians of Peace and Justice, the de facto secret police of the empire. Without a word one of them walked up to Walter, and without a word smashed the butt of his rifle into his stomach.

As he collapsed Walter thought to himself that sometimes it would be more convenient to be in a story, where getting smashed in the gut like that would have been enough to knock a person out. As it was, the GWFG agents took their sweet time as they continued the beating, all the while casually shooting everyone else present, the large caliber expanding bullets simply popping bodies like water balloons.

His, or rather, James's last thought as unconscious finally came to Walter was that I should have seen this a mile away…

------​

"Huh, you are so disgusting that even death refuses your pathetic carcass?" The voice of Therese droned on in the damp dungeon cell.

Walter attempted to open his eyes, and after a few minutes of effort managed to open one a crack, them being too swollen for him to do more. The pain of the rest of his body he had long accustomed to.

"This is all your fault of course." Therese continued, in the same mildly bored voice. "But it's not too late for you, for I can still find some use for you…"

"So what are the bullshit charges?" Walter asked, in between coughs of blood. Therese rolled her eyes.

"High treason." She said casually. "Do you really think your exploits out there would go unnoticed?"

"Of course. For all the talks of honor and morals it seems that no one in the imperial palace has actually seen any such thing within living memory." Walter snorted, coughing up more blood onto the floor in the process. Thankfully the lighting in the cell was dim, or else the amount of blood and other bits would have been a rather… unsightly sight.

"That's some rather seditious talk there." Therese said, narrowing her eyes. Walter merely shrugged.

"The punishment for high treason is death, condemnation of memory, and obliteration of the soul. It's rather hard to tack on more to those." He pointed out.

"You have already accepted your fate?" Therese asked. "Hardly what I expect from someone so adamant fighting for his life before."

"It's- not the same circumstances." Walter said, looking for words to explain. Therese merely shrugged.

"Well, since you're about to die in every sense of the word, why not make your death a useful one?" She asked, and continued before a reply could be given. "As you're about to pay for the crime, why not commit said crime?"

"You speak of actual treason?" He couldn't believe the words he's hearing, though James was slightly less surprised by this turn of events, but only slightly.

"It's not treason when I do it." Therese snarled, reeking of narcissism and ego even more than usual in James's opinion. "You might have forgotten it with your head being banged around too much, but I am still of imperial blood."

"Good for you, princess." Walter muttered sarcastically, James having hijacked the body for a moment to make that off the cuff remark, much to the original owner's annoyance. Therese spat in his direction.

"I don't need you or your rabble of fellow losers to succeed either." Therese snapped back. "I'm just offering you a chance at extending your worthless life for a little while more."

"So I will end up dying a traitor regardless." Walter pointed out the implication between her lines almost immediately. "Except I will die as an actual one if I go along with your plot."

"What's the difference? You'll be dust to be swept away regardless." Therese shrugged, not seeing the big point of what really amounts to the internal workings of some defective machinery.

"So what's the incentive then?" James asked with Walter's voice.

"Incentives, incentives! How dare you pathetic waste of flesh ask for such a thing?!?" Therese exploded, shocked at the audacity of the trash in front of her. "Where is that supposed moral spine of yours?" She asked in a mocking tone.

"The moral path is often the difficult one, and the easy way out would be to take your offer." Walter said through clenched teeth. "I have, and am still willing, to sacrifice everything for what is right."

"But you'll sacrifice nothing." Therese replied icily, the words piercing into his soul. Her mouth contorted into the snarl of someone who just played her trump card. "I know you believe in that reincarnation nonsense, but since you believe it, that means that you are not actually risking your immortal soul, thus making the whole point of sacrifice trivial."

With those words she turned around. "Die a meaningless death then." She said as she walked out of the door of the cell, leaving Walter in silent darkness saved for the shards in his head.

……​

"She… she has a point." Walter thought, the princess's last words festering in his mind. While she certainly didn't make her point in good faith, it doesn't mean the point itself isn't valid.

"And everything you have suffered, is suffering, and will suffer, doesn't matter?" James asked back.

"All Inconsequential when immortality or reincarnation is a known factor, which your existence proves." Walter explained, not liking his own thoughts. The world was much easier when there was nothing to gain and everything to lose: in that case the motives for moral virtue were never in doubt.

But now? There was little to be lost, and potentially something to be gained in the long run. Thus is his path truly the one of virtue or merely the most selfish one of all?

There was a long moment of silence before James responded.

"Then there's nothing left but intention," He finally replied, "and that's between you and the stars, or whichever deities on the other side. I don't know." A pause. "What do know is that based on your warped sense of morality is that giving in now would be selfish regardless. Perhaps it was always out of reach-"

"That's it. If it was always out of reach, then it's worthwhile." The realization, or perhaps the rationalization of the deluded and the hopeless, hit Walter. It was comforting, in its own twisted way.

"Sure, whatever buddy." James was far more leaning on the latter, but as he was more along for the ride, had accepted his fate sometime ago.

After all, it won't be the first time he gets to die, though this time it's shaping up to be… more uncomfortable.

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 9: leaving the stage hanging​

Justice is blind, which supposedly explains why the court of supreme justice was as dimly lit as it was large. Whatever its original intentions, as it stands the vibe it's actually giving out was that of the lair of the demon king. The intentional choice of using torches as lighting certainly wasn't helping in setting the mood.

Or that's James's opinion, which once again Walter found to be rather trivial. Then again, there was a lot of time to dwell on such trivias, as he stood on trial. Of course his guilt and fate have been decided months ago by the powers that be, but the show must be put on, for the vanity and self assurance of the powers that be if nothing else.

And there's plenty of vanity to be had. The Grand Inquisitor of His Imperial Majesty has been in thunderous verbal tirade for the better part of two hours of which the court seems to enjoy very much, if periodical applause from the audience was any indication.

After all, it's a country that worships moral righteousness and justice, and what's more morally righteous and just than the sentencing and coming death of a traitor? A glorious occasion displaying the highest of justice being served.

"All this has happened before and all this will happen again." James noted idly, the two of them having long sense tuned out the court proceedings. "Regardless of the world it seems, the nature of humanity being what it is."

"For some reason, your words here in my mind are oddly comforting." Walter replied.

"It do be like that." Was all James responded with, finding himself lacking the words for once. It wasn't that their imminent death was that preoccupying. Rather, it's a tinge of regret of his own combativeness up to this point. In a way he was just as stubborn as Walter is.

"BY THE GRACE OF STARS AND THE POWERS VESTED TO ME BY HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY I SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH, DAMNATIO MEMORIAE, AND THE COMPLETE OBLITERATION OF THE WICKEDNESS THAT IS YOU SOUL." The Grand Inquisitor finally reached the end of his self serving ego stroking performance.

A pair of guards brutally yanked Walter, and dragged him out of the court chamber. The scraping of the chains on the floor echoed through the halls, yet not a sound came out of Walter's mouth, though that minor detail wasn't noted by anyone. He was far from the only condemned within living memory to have kept his silence in the face of his fate.

It makes no difference, silence or the last pleads of mercy, all will be obliterated and never to be seen again, as is the will of justice. Or of political convenience, the two are one and the same for the powers that be.

Finally they arrived in the dungeon, the dimly lit of the vast room unable to hide, or rather, it amplified the stench of death and despair as intended. Through the darkness the few strands of light caught themselves on a line of meathooks. A Banisher priest stood in a corner, ready to recite the rites of obliteration.

Such is the fate of traitors: to be disposed of like animals, and to be disposed of out of sight, and out of mind.

Without fanfare or fuss the guards wrapped a length of piano wire around Walter's neck, and with the other end tied to the meat hook it began to lift. The priest began his holy chant of the banishment of evil.

Slowly the wire bit into the skin and the flesh beneath, and his body twitched and twisted as it left the ground. His vision blurred, then turned red, and finally faded into blackness of nothingness.

Curiously, even as the lifeblood was strangled out of him Walter felt a clarity, as if all the trivial things of life were also being stripped away as well. Just like in the stories of old, such a revelation came far too late.

… or is it? As the two souls finally left the corpse behind and the pitch blackness itself dissolves into an oblivion that could not be described by mere words. It's a nothingness more empty than vacuum, yet there is he is, with his thoughts, the will to use those thoughts, and that by extension his soul.

And he wasn't the only one, off in the distance he hears the faint voice of James, singing an unfamiliar song presumably from his original world.

As the battle raged around the city.
Framed by the glows of gunfire.
Those do not bend nor break us.
Apparently we are tougher than armor.

We are not diplomats by vocation.
We prefer our battle brothers.
The commander's orders are clear.
And a couple of grenades in pouches.

Friends, let us remember these lands.
The glows of fire, the ocean of mountains.
All these troubles of life and of war.
Let's remember them in the vastness of silence.

Let's remember how we walked with you into the night.
How the enemy fled from us into the hills.
Witness the rumble of our mighty guns.
Remember, friends, let us remember…​

Walter wanted to ask where did that song come from, which James through the void told him it was merely the latest iteration of an old war song from his world, of soldiers who lost despite their best efforts, and that even in defeat and disgrace the world could not rob them of their dignity and self respect. There were many versions, each chronicling a different bad end, but all held their heads high regardless.

"Feeling better?" Walter asked. "About it all?" Though there's nothing to be seen he felt the presence of James giving a ghostly shrug.

"Nah, just psyching my mind to make some sense of this horrid mess." James chuckled. "I should have paid attention to the things that mattered."

"And might those be?" Walter asked.

"The seemingly stupid things that you care about." James replied. "Everything else, military innovations, body politics, economic maneuvering. All that's merely rearranging the deckchairs of a boat, whether moving or sinking. The virtues of the individuals transcends all that." He paused a bit before continuing. "At least when the whole immortal soul and reincarnation thing is actually true."

"It's true even when those other things aren't true." Walter replied, wondering if James truly get it, or if it'll take him another few lives to figure that out.

Oh well, only the infinite of the universe will tell.

---------------------------

The lyrics are modified from the song Вспомним, товарищ, мы Афганистан by the band Контингент, and that song itself is based on the earlier song Юрий Визбор Баксанская. Additionally, the implication here is that James is actually from the 2040s or even the 2050s of "our" timeline, where there's a few additional covers of that song, with the latest one a more generic homage to all those who fought in the pointless & futile wars of the late 20th and early 21st centuries…

I think that song is relatively cheerful, at least it's not Три вертушки на Моздок or Темная ночь tier of depressing. Then again, what do I know?

Yes, the actual story ends here. There will be an epilogue wrapping up the other loose ends but that's not really that important right?

 

[John_Oakman]

Epilogue: And the wheel turns again…​

Therese felt an eerie feeling walking down the now unlit hallowed halls of the High Palace, the feeling of wrongness not helped by her state of dress: the full dress uniform without the usual stacks of unearned ribbons and medals that most officers managed to amass. It was almost as if the building itself was telling her that she had committed an unspeakable evil, and that the point of no return had been crossed.

It was necessary, it had to be done. She had repeated those thoughts to herself many times throughout the coup. The execution of that problem child of that minor noble family was a message to her: that the crown is watching, and they don't like what they had seen from her. Therefore it was either kill or be killed, and she was more than ready to kill. Something she had learned from the spilt blood of others…

Perhaps in a different time they might have had the luxury of time to slow the progress of innovation and make it work for them. But alas, it was not to be. While the old regime managed to pin the blame of the proliferation of the PKW on that worthless piece of scum she knew the truth: it was such an obvious thing that even the unwashed masses could crank them out in their scrap yards, and they did.

That has been the biggest boon, and the biggest problem. A boon because it allowed her and other like minded conspirators to amass the necessary forces to take power from the fools who was about to bring the country to ruin, a problem because everyone else was also able to amass such military might, and that in the wrong hands meant more going their own ways… contrary to the needs of that has to be done. And a lot of them had in fact done just that: despite what their moral imperatives demanded of them they had fled even before the bodies stopped swinging, offering their service and expertise to the enemies that they had been fighting just a while before.

Stifling a sigh she continued her walk, the scared little girl deep down inside being stuffed back into a dark forgotten corner… again. There's no time for that, no time to cry, no time to despair. Not with the blabbering madmen of the Turiacs baying for the blood of everyone right outside their borders, and the backstabbing renegade nobility, and the roving bands of peasant bandit mobs with their own mobs of PKWs.

There is only the next fight, the next battle, the next war. She muttered a prayer under her breath, praying that the struggle might end better this time around…

------​

Excerpts from An Elementary Overview of the History of Novita

… although at the time it appeared that she was successful in consolidating power, Duce Albrecht's short-lived regime collapsed as quickly as the coup that brought it into power. Despite one of the earliest proponent of the tracked armored fighting vehicle (at the time known as panzerkampfwagen, nowadays known as the armored struggle bus), she was reluctant to abandon the traditional kriegmeister corps, for political reasons if nothing else as their social powers were still significant among most of the military class which was the backbone of her support. This reluctance to embrace change was often cited by historians as the reason for their defeat at the Battle of Kroywen at the hands of the Directorate…

… with the annihilation of the Republican Repentant army at the Battle of Kroywen and the death of Duce Albrecht the fate of the Central Republic was sealed. Although the Turiac Directorate was never able to occupy much territories past the old borders of the Seoguk Kingdom the collapse of centralized power in the Heuchler region handicapped it for decades, in an era that in hindsight was one of massive social transition and technological innovations.

Although later [mostly] reunified by the Republic of Goten, Heuchler was never able to regain its former political, economic, or cultural prominence as the continental hegemon. Although most of their reasons for their inability to regain their former glories had much to do with a number of long term trends one must wonder the what-ifs if either the Divine Imperial Confederation or the short lived Central Republic was able to keep the region intact…

------​

Excerpts from The Rise of the Fall: The dark age of innovation

The proliferation of the armored struggle bus not only changed the face of warfare forever, but also caused a social revolution of a magnitude not seen since before the First End of Days…

… despite its origins of noble institutions, the armored struggle bus's ease of production and refinement meant that knowledge of its manufacture and [more importantly] use rapidly became widespread, with almost every village and hamlet quickly amassing forces capable of taking on most kriegmeister forces. Along with the proliferation of such abilities to amass military power meant the [relatively] quick breakdown of the old social order. Although most of the initial peasant revolts were quickly crushed, and not all (or even a majority) rebel, the absolute monopoly of military power of the nobility was severely eroded, a changing state of affairs that would only become more pronounced in the centuries after.

… The decline of the kriegmeister warrior caste was one the of the main contributing factors in what would later be known as "The Second Great Loss". With the decline of importance of mechas on the battlefield the production facilities and their supporting infrastructure gradually faded into the pages of history, the almost incomprehensible advanced technological nature of their construct dismissed by the techno-illiterate mobs who destroyed the old order in the arrogance of their primitive and uncivilized weapons & tools.

Thus passed the long and illustrated legends of the keepers of the light and civilization, at the time mourned by few, their demise cheered by many. For all the legends of their noble birth and deeds it bears in mind that they were heavily despised by the unwashed masses, who cared little for the legends of distant lands and more distant past, but were keenly aware of the perceived injustice inflicted upon them in the then present.

Yet even as the ancient knowledge faded back into myth and legends the seeds of innovations grew as common people of the lower classes began to tinker and modify their tools, armed with the knowledge that the power to overthrow the heir of the gods could be in their hands with enough effort and know-how.

Thus man once again overcame, but in doing so his baser nature was also unleashed…

------​

Excerpts from Legend of the Corruptor

… the origins of the legend of the so-called "Corruptor" in the region of Heuchler in the late 6th century AR seemed to have coincided with the collapse of the old Divine Imperial Confederation and the revolution of military tactics brought upon by the armored struggle bus…

… While there's supporting evidence (however scant) for all these theories the most likely explanation is that this entity was imagined up as a way to neatly explain the numerous factors in the collapse of the Divine Imperial Confederation. As the populations of the Heuchler region still mostly subscribe in the "moral theory" of historical studies rather than the "material theory" that's more commonly accepted in the rest of Novita, it's rather unsurprising that they clung to the use of "exceptional individuals" as a way of deflecting responsibilities (and thus temporal collective guilt) from their ancestors…

---------

For the record, this is not exactly a spite fic against the isekai genre, nor a spite fic against those who complain about the state of modern isekai genre. Rather, it's because I bought a lot of knockoff legos from Wish.com some time ago and built a bunch of mechas & tanks and… Yeah. That's it, there's no hidden motives or axe to grind.