Setongrad. A fort branded with the hated name of its human architect—a cruel reminder carved into what was once a glorious city of the Deo people.
Who among the Dedolant folk could look upon it and feel nothing?
Especially those in the Dedolant ‘army,’ who had once claimed their own glory through bl**d and sweat. To them, the name Seton had to be erased from that fortress like an unclean stain.
So, they attacked. Oh, how they attacked! In the bitter cold of winter, instead of huddling by warm bonfires, they charged headfirst into frigid winds for the sole purpose of Dedolant pride and glory, believing with every fiber of their being that they would triumph once more.
The national sentiment arose: Dedolant’s honor demanded that Setongrad must be retaken. Nobles scraped together fortunes, both real and imaginary, to fund the war effort. A draft had been issued since regular recruitment was no longer enough. Every blacksmith in the land was working overtime to produce ever-better weapons and armor. And everything—everything—was poured into the war effort: loot seized from Atiria, spoils plundered in Drugal, every resource squeezed to the last drop.
War. War. And nothing but war. This was their sole focus as they marched into this mess.
Yet, after two months… no, almost three now… with tens of thousands flinging themselves into battle with all their might, Setongrad stood defiantly, unmoved. Every desperate assault on the fortress was met with equal desperation from the Imperial Army, who defended with every ounce of their remaining strength.
And to add insult to injury? Setongrad’s name was now infamous across the continent, drawing more attention than ever before thanks to the Dedolant army’s inability to take it.
Now, Dedolant forces in the Setongrad sector had split into two major camps.
“Cough! Cough! Dammit, it’s bloody freezing out here!”
“Ugh… Are the medics not giving us enough medicine anymore?”
“Let’s just throw in the towel and go home. This is pointless.”
These were the soldiers sick and tired of the siege, their bl**d long since drained. Sure, there’s supposed to be some strategic goal behind this, but let’s be honest—it’s all about Dedolant’s fragile pride. It’s ridiculous that so much fuss is being made over a single fort named after some guy. Wouldn’t it be better to retreat and regroup instead of squandering more lives for nothing?
Winter is coming (well, it’s already here). It’d be smarter to reorganize, rest, and prepare for next year’s campaign. This whole thing feels like we’ve fallen into an Imperial trap. Our elite troops are wasting away in this siege. Isn’t it time to turn back, warm our frozen bones, and fill our empty stomachs?
On the other side of the argument—
“Just a little more! We’re about to break them! Just keep pushing!”
“If we can knock down this wall, we’ll gain access to the enemy’s supply depot nearby.”
“Take this fort as our base, push into the Empire’s heart, and we can change the tide of this war!”
These were the voices demanding that Setongrad must fall. When faced with suggestions to retreat, they bristled and shot warnings at anyone who dared suggest otherwise.
Sure, we’re exhausted, but think about it—the enemy inside that fortress is even more worn out. Sieges don’t just take a toll on attackers; defenders suffer just as much. Plus, they’re surrounded and rationing their supplies. They must be close to collapse. If we seize this fort, we’ll reinvigorate Dedolant’s spirit, create strategic advantages, and maybe even stabilize our crumbling internal situation.
Besides, one vital fact weighed heavily on everyone’s minds.
“Things internally are getting dicey.”
“For years, Dedolant has leaned on the high of constant war. The victories masked our internal troubles. But now…”
“This prolonged war with the Empire wasn’t expected. We’ve drained everything we can from our people, and there’s nothing left. No Atiria to trade with, no Drugal to plunder. If we don’t end this soon…”
Dedolant’s grand momentum, its cries to restore the lost glory of the Deo people—it was all propped up by wartime successes and the spoils they brought. Fighting this kind of unwinnable war, relying solely on internal strength, was unprecedented.
To make matters worse, that supposed stabilizing force—Ross Tannika—wasn’t even willing to negotiate a peace treaty. Instead, they were locked in bitter, no-holds-barred resistance. Meanwhile, Drugal, Dedolant’s one semi-reliable source of supplies, was embroiled in massive uprisings. No one was stepping up to provide what Dedolant needed.
“We have to win. No matter what. If we retreat, we’ll return home empty-handed.”
“After our last great victory over the Empire, we promised the people swift peace through further triumphs. Promised rich rewards. Now, after mobilizing everything for over a year, if we retreat without taking this fort, the cracks within Dedolant will widen, and it could all fall apart.”
Retreat wasn’t just an option—it was a d*ath sentence. Slow or quick, that’s all it was. Moving forward, however, offered at least a chance—one way or another. Either they’d lose it all or gain it all.
“Your Highness, the fortress will fall soon. We cannot afford to retreat now.”
“Forget that. It would be wiser to withdraw now while the Empire is distracted by threats on all sides. They can’t afford to chase us away.”
Even among the officers, the arguments raged. They were supposed to be leaders, yet their disagreements were only fiercer.
“Setongrad! Right there, in front of us. You want us to just walk away?!”
“If we keep going like this, Dedolant’s strength will be utterly depleted!”
“The Dedolant army is invincible! We annihilated two whole Imperial legions! Are you saying attacking this one fort has drained our last bit of strength?!”
“Our internal problems are mounting. Reserves are near-empty, and production is woefully inadequate because all our young workers are out here fighting!”
Shouts erupted back and forth, each side certain they were right and the others utterly wrong.
Prince Georg sat silently, clutching his forehead. He hadn’t dared speak.
“This is hopeless.”
He’d come into this campaign confident, sure that Dedolant’s forces were unbeatable, capable of overwhelming even a well-defended fortress. Surely it couldn’t withstand tens of thousands of elite soldiers?
Yet, here they were. Setongrad still stood, an unbroken challenge. Inside, the Imperial Army held firm, proving far tougher than expected. And worse, retreat wasn’t even a viable option anymore.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
It was almost poetic justice that the decisive battle happened here, of all places: Seton. Georg knew he would have intervened regardless, but others surely must have pushed for it too. Even now, the very people screaming for a retreat had once been the loudest voices calling for the attack.
Had their domestic situation been stable, perhaps they could have pressed on for a final surge. But Dedolant was stretched to its limits. Atiria had been ravaged by Nobogorod. Benito was preoccupied with its own problems far to the south. Ross Tannika was turning from a potential ally into yet another thorn in their side. And Drugal, the last hope for reinforcements? Its people were in open revolt, unwilling to send more men or supplies.
Gruber had done well at first, using both carrot and stick to secure decent numbers of reinforcements from Drugal. But then something strange happened—Drugal’s population turned sharply against Dedolant. Whatever happened, it triggered mass uprisings that Gruber crushed with brutal force. The result? Drugal was pacified… but only through relentless coercion. From now on, getting soldiers would require violence, not cooperation.
The world was in flames, and Dedolant stood alone, surrounded by enemies. The original plan was simple: crush the Empire, subdue others as needed, and reap the benefits. Instead, they were the only ones left fighting, everyone else either resisting or withdrawing.
“Your Highness, we need a decision. We can’t keep dragging this out.”
A new aide spoke up amidst the bickering. Prince Georg rapped his fist on the table to restore order.
“Calm yourselves. Let’s focus on the facts. How much supplies do we have left?”
“There’s still some reserve, but our consumption rate has increased sharply. Despite fewer soldiers, demand is higher. That suggests…”
“That our men have lost self-control.”
In these uncertain times, where no one knows when the siege will end or who will survive, stress needs an outlet. Indulging in fleeting comforts—even excessive consumption of supplies—had become their way to cope.
“Intelligence on the Empire’s movements.”
“They’re planning new offensives in the North and South. Reports from both areas confirm large-scale movements.”
“Diversions from the central front, hmm?”
Georg stroked his chin, deep in thought. Other commanders saw this as proof that the Empire was avoiding direct confrontation with them, choosing new battles elsewhere. But was that really the case? Could Kael Klauwitz truly be so cautious, when he was known to excel even in a direct confrontation?
“Your Highness! Urgent news!”
“What is it?”
“We’ve received intelligence of unrest within Setongrad. Fires have broken out. Many defenders on the walls seem missing. It appears something significant has occurred.”
At this, even Prince Georg turned his head, along with the others.
Unrest in a fortress struggling to hold out? Questions raced through their minds. Should they believe it? Could it be a trap? What would they gain, or lose, either way? What decision would bring the greatest advantage?
“Then let’s try one final assault.”
“Understood, Your Highness!”
“This time, we will take that blasted fort!”
After all they’d invested, retreating wasn’t an option. For the sake of changing the increasingly bizarre situation and boosting morale, Dedolant had no choice but to make its final stand.
—
[Message from the Chief of Staff to all commanders.]
[Order Number One: Operation Uranus commencing immediately.]
