The valley of western Virginia lay cool under June mist, the Tygart River rolling past Philippi's bridge like a slow drumbeat.
Few in the sleepy town had ever seen more than a company of militia march by, yet in the first week of June 1861, whole armies converged upon its streets.
Three thousand Union men, gathered under Major General George B. McClellan, had returned to the army, and taking command of the Ohio garrison, marched to invade West Virginia, in a bid to strike early and fast enough to drive a spike into the heart of the confederacy, by having their 'capital' fall.
In their path upon entering Virginia, was a small confederate contingent of only five hundred men, simply border guards, while the real army was being raised in the more important parts of the state.
The newspapers of the North would call it a skirmish, a sweep, a near-bloodless affair.
But for the men of the greyback division, this was their first meeting with the Union in open field, and after all the waiting they had done these men were thirsting for blood, and the enemy was all to eager to provide sources of blood for them to gourge upon.
~
Inside a tent of rough canvas pitched on Philippi's southern slope, Captain Marcus Varga, one of Elias's lieutenants, stood over a crude map.
The air smelled of damp wool and powder.
Around him, Confederate officers bickered in low tones—some eager to fight, others praying the Union columns would pass them by.
Varga ignored their fears.
Through the System link he had already reported the Union advance: Three columns converging. Estimated strength: triple ours. Orders?
Elias's reply had come cold and direct across that invisible tether: Hold. Repulse them. Show the South that the North bleeds too.
So the riflemen prepared.
Meanwhile the confederate volunteers quickly fell under Varga's orders, taking up positions along a defesive line, planned to defend the town with five hundred volunteers and five hundred of Elias's.
The training in the days leading up to the battle the volunteers received strict training from their regular compatriots.
Such that by the time June rolled around even the volunteer force was ready.
Their muskets were oiled, their ammunition carefully rationed.
To the Confederate recruits beside them, they seemed merely European immigrants, disciplined but quiet but fighting for the cause and thats all that really mattered.
None suspected their true origin, nor the unseen voice that bound them, nor the even darker purpose behind why they were even there to begin with.
~
June 3rd came with a drizzling rain, soft but steady.
The Union had planned a surprise, their columns intending to strike from two sides at once.
But a premature shot from a jittery sentry spoiled the timing.
Blue-coated infantry surged forward regardless, their bayonets catching the weak light.
The Confederate camp erupted in confusion.
Half-asleep recruits stumbled from tents, some fleeing toward the hills before a shot was fired.
Union muskets cracked, sending grey coats scattering.
Yet along the defensive ridge, where the riflemen had been stationed, none retreated, scouts had already informed of the unions approach and so they kept their forces ready sleeping in their trenches waiting.
Varga barked orders in clipped English.
Muskets, and rifles leveled.
At his command, a disciplined volley tore through the mist.
Union skirmishers staggered back, surprised at the sudden firmness of the line, only to become even more shocked seconds later when another volley came, then another.
"They stand!"
one Federal officer exclaimed, disbelieving.
"God help us, they stand!"
Volley followed volley, the riflemen firing in near-mechanical rhythm.
Smoke rolled across the field, the acrid taste of powder mingling with the rain.
Each discharge echoed like thunder against the surrounding hills.
The number of rounds being fired down range, had the Colonel believing that they had mistakenly encountered an actual formal army of the south.
~
At the Philippi bridge, the fight sharpened.
Union troops pressed hard, confident in numbers, but the riflemen anchored the defense.
For every Southerner who broke and ran, a summoned soldier stepped into the gap, his rifle steady, his gaze cold.
Cannon fire from Union batteries began to pound the ridgeline, but Elias's men kept formation.
Their discipline unnerved even their Confederate allies, who whispered that these "foreigners" fought like veterans of a dozen campaigns.
On the northern bank, Union officers cursed their misfortune.
What was meant to be a rout had become a slugging match.
Casualty lists climbed: men groaning on the muddy ground, stretcher-bearers rushing between lines.
~
By midmorning, the Union columns had failed to crush the defense.
Rain fell harder, turning the hillside into a mire, and causing them to lose the advantage of greater artillery numbers.
Confederate cavalry, emboldened by the riflemen's stand, swept down from the ridge, slashing into disordered blue lines.
The riflemen shifted like clockwork, pouring fire where the enemy's will faltered.
Varga himself led a charge across the bridge, bayonet fixed, his voice carrying even over the din.
Union soldiers, exhausted and disheartened, fell back in ragged order, bringing back with them horrific tales about what it truly meant to stand against their brethren.
What had begun as an intended triumph for the North now teetered on collapse.
At last, the bugles called retreat.
Blue lines broke, straggling back toward Grafton, leaving behind wagons, wounded, and pride.
Philippi was held.
~
The town stank of powder and fear.
Houses bore shattered windows, barns turned into makeshift hospitals.
The Confederate dead numbered scarcely two dozen, though close to two hundred lay wounded mostly from artillery.
The Union casualties were heavier, some eight hundred killed or captured before their retreat with even more wounded.
Among the survivors, stories spread quickly: that raw Southern boys had stared down seasoned Union regiments, that Providence itself had favored Dixie.
None outside their own ranks spoke of the iron-disciplined riflemen who had turned panic into victory.
That evening, as rain tapered off, Varga gathered his men in a secluded barn.
Through the System, their report was carried across oceans.
Philippi secured.
Enemy repulsed despite threefold numbers.
Southern morale high.
Casualties among our detachment: minimal.
In Montenegro, Elias received the words in silence.
He needed no celebration.
The message itself was enough: the South had shown resolve, the North had tasted humiliation, and his hidden army had blooded itself at last.
~
Newspapers in Washington downplayed the affair, calling it a "skirmish."
In Richmond however, it was hailed as proof of Southern courage.
Neither side realized how deeply the lesson would cut.
For the North, that a greater force could not scatter a smaller one in its very first effort was sobering.
For the South, that men could stand firm against such odds gave confidence that independence was possible.
And for Elias, watching from afar, Philippi was more than a battlefield.
It was a laboratory.
His men had been tested, and they had not broken.
If they could stiffen the South's ranks here, what might they achieve at Manassas, at Shiloh, at Richmond itself?
The war was only beginning.
Philippi had been but a spark—but sparks, when fanned, could set whole nations ablaze.