Author Notes:
First, salutation to Sergeant Ben McMahon and Private Philipe Barbet for supporting the construction of the three glorious regimes! I hope you two enjoy your reading experience!
Now, moving on, I kinda did pull the trigger early and release the Prologue of OBOM out into the wild way, way sooner than I intended. The warm reception of the Prologue by you and the public readers have been astounding, in more way than one.
And I am grateful for that. Thank you, everyone.
Now, why an RM chapter despite all the setback? Well, because I love penning down these stuff, and there are all of you who love reading them? I am not a quitter, so don't expect me to drop the ball on RM and GSS anytime soon, even though I am working on OBOM.
By the way, the next OBOM chapter will be slated as an early access one. So no Chapter 1 for the public just yet.
Oh, and the Monthly Discount is still going, just saying~! :D
Anyway, without further ado, enjoy, and have a nice lovely day!
https://www.patreon.com/Heartbreak117
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"Colonel... Sir." A group of sentries, standing guard outside the sealed-off hospital ward, salutes Colonel Bradshaw the moment he approaches.
The Erusean Colonel notes how each man is showing a variety of war injuries, minor as some of them may be. He both applauds their professionalism for standing guard without fault in their posture. Yet, he feels pity that even these hardened veterans of the Royal Guards have fatigue and hopelessness creeping into their gazes.
Much like Bradshaw himself, they're only standing by the weight of their training and loyalty.
"At ease, gentlemen." Bradshaw returns the respectful gesture with his own, feeling the strain it puts on his shoulder as he does so.
"Sir... If I may ask?" One sentry asks, his voice hoarse due to a variety of reasons.
It's been a long, long day, and not many of them can even find the opportunity to get a glass of water from a passing servant. And since this hospital ward is very much closed off to any unwanted personnel, these sentries, with their water canteen either dried up or punctured, have no way to refresh themselves. One would think that calling for a servant would be an easy way to refill their water tanks, but after what has happened to the Royal Family, that's a risk none of the sentries dares to take. So, they stomach their thirst and hunger until Colonel Bradshaw comes with relief.
Bradshaw turns to look at two of his trusted men, signalling for them to take places among the veteran sentries. He also adds. "Go. Grab what you need."
"Thank you, sir." The sentry who first posed the question sighs in relief before leading another peer out in search of supplies for the rest of the wearied Royal Guards.
Those who remain inform the Colonel. "Colonel, the King is awake... But he is just sitting there... Quietly. Pardon my words, but I don't think he is in any condition to hold a conversation, sir."
"We shall see, things have already gotten to this point." Bradshaw notes. "Open it up, Lieutenant."
"Understood, sir." Per his request, the sentries open the doors to the ward for Bradshaw to come in.
The first people he sees are yet more armed guards. If two weren't enough back then, then what about eight more to protect the heart of the Kingdom of Erusea? Granted, there's not much left of the Royal Family to safeguard anyway.
After having the soldiers inside the ward to be at ease, Bradshaw sets his eyes on the figures in the center of the room. Ruin has come to the Royal Family. That's the foremost thing that pops up in the Colonel's mind when he sees the people occupying one chair and three beds.
The occupant on one of the beds has a white bed sheet draped over her body, covering up her face from the rest of the world.
It's a sad day for Erusea, and for a variety of reasons at that. After all that has happened, Bradshaw doesn't even dare to imagine what the King is feeling right now.
Right... King George VI.
With slow, heavy steps, the Colonel steps closer to the figure that, for all intents and purposes, is bound to the hospital chair placed at the foot of the three hospital beds. There, on that white chair, with arms resting limply on the handrests and legs hanging perfectly still below the knees, is the King of Erusea. Bradshaw can very well see the bandages, soaked with blood, beneath the King's recent change of clothes. Despite the doctors' good intentions, King George VI doesn't want to be confined to the bed next to his family. Even risking his wounds reopening, the King is dead set on this bedside chair.
After much hesitation and back and forth, the doctors have decided that the chair is more for the King's mental well-being instead of physical. They ultimately relent, and nurses regularly monitor the King's status from what Bradshaw has learned on his way here.
The Colonel wonders, looking at his bedridden family like that, unable to move or tear yourself away, what is the King thinking about? Yet, this may be a question destined for no answer. Gazing at the King's pale, yet perfectly expressionless face, Bradshaw is partly amazed by his fortitude, and partly understanding how that came to be.
"My King..." Bradshaw finally speaks up, forcing himself to uphold proper decorum. "The situation in London is the worst it could have been in our long history. The Belkans have locked both the traitors and us down to just a few scattered holdouts. Aside from Buckingham Palace, all other points of resistance are met with overwhelming assaults from land, air, and sea. I surmise that it will only be a matter of time, hours at most, before the Belkans start surrounding the palace, my King."
"... We would have found ways to evacuate you by the underground passages, had the Belkans not collapsed them all with their bombs." Bradshaw adds after taking a long breath of turbid air.
"The men..." Bradshaw pauses, closing his eyes before opening them slowly, as if they're weighted by iron and nickel. "We seek your guidance, my King. We can't run. We can't hide. We most certainly can't fight worth a damn now. Of the ten men we have, nine have injuries from minor to severe... My King, at the very least, the men will benefit from hearing a command from you."
Seeing that the King is unresponsive despite his slow, deliberate breathing that conceals a body riddled with wounds on all limbs, Bradshaw says with finality.
"My King, at the very least, the men need to know there's something worth dying for."
While Bradshaw doesn't consider himself of much renown in pulling someone like the King back from the deepest pit of despair, to see the King reply tersely and hoarsely with a single word...
"Leave..."
... Is crushing, and disappointing. Although the Colonel is in no position to fault the King for his inactivity at best, defeatism at worst, Bradshaw still finds King George VI not much of a stalwart ruler he used to be, needed to be.
Yet, from one human to another, Bradshaw can seriously admit that, if he were placed in the King's shoes, to experience the horror of having one of your loved ones torn away to the afterlife, the remaining two struggling to stay alive, while he was tortured physically and mentally by watching them in the confines of a disabled body... Those with something to love, even the toughest men among them, can find their resilience wanting. Bradshaw can handle the darker side of the war, but he is not confident that he won't break down from what the King experienced.
Ultimately, the Erusean Colonel can only mutter simply. "I see."
Giving the immobile King one last, prim and proper salute, one that King George VI doesn't even deign to acknowledge, Colonel Bradshaw pivots around and makes for good speed out of the silent ward. In a corner of his mind, Bradshaw registers the disappointment of the soldiers in the room. Whether it's disappointment with the state of affairs or something else entirely, the Colonel won't be able to know.
Right before Bradshaw can crest the doorway out of the ward, an aide runs up to him from afar, shouting.
"Colonel! The Belkans have overrun Kensington Palace!"
The alarming information stalls the Colonel's step, his brain churning at full speed before settling on a sigh.
"So, they come even faster than our worst estimated..." Leaving behind those words for the King to hear, Bradshaw fixes his officer cap before braving himself for just a few more steps of the way.
Just.
A.
Few.
Steps.
"To the Northwestern corner! You, and you, with me!" Bradshaw says loudly, injecting his remaining spirit into the words.
Come what may, the Erusean Colonel won't showcase a beaten dog appearance.
Bradshaw, followed by the aide and two soldiers, sprint to a vantage point on the higher floor of Buckingham Palace. Ignoring the salutes of more soldiers stationed behind sandbags and makeshift protections by the large windows, Bradshaw props himself up by one such glass pane and directs his eyes outward.
The once pristine palace is long gone. It's flattened, cratered, and burned down by the onset of back-to-back wars. Because of this, despite the dim Fog of War, Bradshaw can see from the road of Constitution Hill all the way to the Wellington Arch. Much to his chagrin, what moves beneath the arch are armored vehicles not of Erusean origin, but Belkan. If there's any hope left in the Colonel that the aide must have mistaken reinforcement for a Belkan attack, even that is gone now.
Bradshaw may not be familiar with modern Belkan doctrine, but even he can see that, by the way the armored vehicles are splitting up, the Belkans seek to encircle the North and West sides of Buckingham.
"Shall we engage, sir!? They're right there!"
"With what, Sergeant!? What we have are a couple of half-empty rifles while they have all the tanks in the world!" Bradshaw snaps with a glare. "One blink and they can blow up half of the palace with a volley! Think, Sergeant, think!"
Even before Bradshaw can finish his admonition, the sounds of beating propeller blades draw near above them. With a grim face, the Colonel shot his hand upward nearly vertically.
"To the roof!"
Once again, Bradshaw and his little group of four rush away, this time, to the stairway that leads to the rooftop. Along the way, a soldier, who has just run down from the very roof Bradshaw is heading to, intercepts him.
"C-Colonel! Belkan aircraft, too many to count...!" He adds with irregular breathing while running alongside Bradshaw. "T-They're all around us!"
Instead of replying, Bradshaw and his group quicken their pace. Reaching the stairs, they're hastily ascending the steps when something, a lot of things, impact the roof of Buckingham Palace. Then, all sorts of screams, both fading and shocking, can be heard before a burst of white completely blocks the doorway to the roof and knocks Bradshaw's group rolling down the stairs.
"W-What in the bloody fuck was that!?" Bradshaw's aide cursed, rolling on the ground once before getting onto his feet to help the Colonel stand back on his feet.
"Belkan witchcraft!" Bradshaw huffs with an aching body; he must have landed quite badly on his left foot as well, for it spikes sharply in pain whenever he puts some force on it.
Seeing the thick ice wall that magically appears to block the passage up high, Bradshaw says coarsely. "If they can block this stair, then the same can be said for the others. The people on the roofs are gone now, there's no helping them..."
Turning to his aide, Bradshaw instructs. "Go have soldiers blockade all of the stairs. The Belkans are enigmatic bastards that can easily circumvent their own mess if they so choose."
"Understood, sir! But what about you?"
"You there, Private, come help me!" Bradshaw beckons the soldier who ran down the roof earlier to alert him with his hand. "Since you're lucky enough to escape the roof just in time, then I may as well get a share of that luck."
Now that the shaky Private is supporting Bradshaw, the aide can rest assured and dive into a corridor to gather the soldiers required for the blockade. Bradshaw then speaks to the remaining three soldiers around him.
"To the Northeastern corner!" This time, Bradshaw lacks the spirit that was there in his voice; only urgency and gnawing desperation remain.
With a bit of an effort, the others support Bradshaw to the fighting position facing the Northeastern side of the palace. There, much to his overwhelming dismay, Bradshaw sees, beyond Queen Victoria Memorial, a horizon increasingly filled with Belkan steel and aircraft.
"My God..." No one knows who whispered the words. Perhaps it's the scared Private, or a veteran of two wars, or even Bradshaw himself.
With Belkan tanks lining the entire horizon, as far as the eyes can see, what do the Royal Guards hope to achieve with measly Lee-Enfield and Boys AT rifles? Even Bradshaw, upon facing the crushing weight exuding by the row of Belkan war machines, found himself going silent, his mind burned out upon witnessing the disparity between him and them.
For a long time, the Eruseans have no idea what to do or how to react. They only stay by the windows, injured and all, in numb acceptance, quietly watching the Belkans finish their encirclement and force deployment.
It's hopeless.
That's something the Royal Guards were forced to accept after a relentless beating.
Bradshaw and his men watch as Belkan aircraft come airlifting a lot of equipment before placing them down on the ground for Belkan soldiers to secure and point directly at Buckingham's front door. The Colonel would have marvelled at the expediency with which the Belkans can set up a frontline around the palace if not for the fact that he suddenly sees an aircraft unhooking a piece of heavy artillery for the Belkans to secure and crew.
"Bloody crazy bastards..." Bradshaw feels his forehead going sweaty when the artillery piece directs its muzzle in the direction of Buckingham Palace.
If it were any other hot head in charge, he would have ordered interception fire against the crew of the artillery piece, ignoring the threats posed by all the different tanks and infantry around them. Fortunately, Bradshaw is not one to risk his men blindly. Not when he, and they all, have found little reasons to wage a desperate last stand after witnessing everything the Belkans have brought to bear.
Bradshaw fills his eyes with pinpricks when the Belkan artillery piece flashes, and the perimeter wall and gate of Buckingham Palace are made nonexistent in a blast of shockwave, smoke, and flame. The explosion, while not directly impacting the palace itself, still knocks everybody clean off and away from the windows.
Once more, Bradshaw hits the deck, and once more, he is helped back on his feet by frightened, grim-faced soldiers. Perhaps it's stupid to show his head by the window again, but Bradshaw is past the point of caring about his own life. Despite the soldiers trying to pull him back into safety, fearing yet another shelling, the Colonel thinks differently. Seeing that the Belkans haven't made any move even when the smoke of the prior shelling has dissipated, Bradshaw urges his men not to act rashly. It's a decision that will save lives, as fate would have it.
From among the ranks of the Belkan encirclement comes a figure holding up a megaphone.
"To the people of Buckingham Palace." Says a feminine, mature voice. "The next shot won't miss. Consider carefully. Surrender now, and there will be no more bloodshed for today. You have my word that those who surrender will be treated according to international laws and the highest respect we can offer."
"The war is over!"
That one declaration, four words, yet it his every Erusean like a thunderclap. Bradshaw finds himself unable to breathe for five full seconds due to the slap reality delivers him with. Yes, perhaps the war can be considered truly over, now that the Belkans have reached this far. Nonetheless, no one, not even Bradshaw himself, dares say anything in the subsequent five long minutes.
It's only when his aide rushes back with a look that can't be described in a reasonable sentence that the quiet is broken.
"Colonel... Sir... The King..." Opening and closing his mouth a few times, the aide takes a deep breath before saying the accursed words. "Heed the King's decree... Soldiers of the Kingdom of Erusea. Surrender!"
"The war is over!"
And that's the final nail in the coffin. What follows are the sounds of weapons being dropped onto the floor in quick succession, and crying...
Lots of crying...
Real men don't cry, especially not these Royal Guards, the King's Guards, the Scots Guards. But then again, can you blame them for crying?
After all, the kingdom they have been struggling to keep safe has reached its end of the line in their generation.