OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

The Boxer APC and FENNEK Recon Vehicle rumbled to life, their engines growling with a low, ominous anticipation. Dust billowed from the roads leading into the village of Mya, where homes lay in half-ruined heaps, some still smoldering from earlier engagements. What was once a thriving Elven settlement was now reduced to a battlefield, littered with rubble and the remnants of a shattered peace.

The Beastkin troops, though still standing, were beginning to feel the weight of fatigue. They had been at it all day, caught in engagements, one after the other, and their nerves were fraying. Eyes were reddening from strain, the exhaustion pressing down on them like a weight they couldn’t shake. Yet, they knew this fight was far from over. Each movement felt heavier, each glance between soldiers lingered a second too long, but they pressed on. Cracks were forming, subtle but dangerous.

In the convoy, the transport trucks spread out, their heavy wheels grinding over the debris-littered ground, finding limited fire support positions. The GAU-21 .50 caliber miniguns mounted on each truck panned slowly, sweeping the terrain. The miniguns were the convoy’s only true protection should the Austorian forces swarm out of the village, and now they covered the roads like silent guardians, waiting for a fight that was all too imminent.

Inside Alpha 1, Lt. Rader Tarfire stared at the flickering screen of the JCVAILS, his mind racing through possible scenarios. Every decision felt like a gamble, and one misstep would be their last. His soldiers had been performing admirably so far, but he could see the exhaustion creeping into their movements. These were green troops, untested in a sustained combat mission of this scale. They were holding, but barely.

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, cutting through the oppressive silence. The calm before the storm shattered with a surge of energy.

“Alpha 1, Alpha 1, this is Northpaw, Drone is on station.” The voice carried an edge of excitement.

The ISR drone, long overdue, had finally made it back to the battle. For the first time in hours, they would have eyes in the sky. Tarfire quickly keyed his mic, relief barely touching his voice. "Northpaw, this is Alpha 1, perfect timing. Send me a full sitrep. I need eyes on enemy movement, particularly battlemages and any slaver activity moving civilians. Focus on the city center and the outlying areas."

Northpaw didn’t respond right away. The seconds ticked by, each one tightening the grip around Tarfire’s chest. The hum of the engines filled the silence as the convoy crawled forward, the weight of anticipation growing heavier by the second.

Finally, Northpaw responded, their voice clear but carrying an edge of tension. “Roger that, Alpha 1, we’re running overwatch now. Standby for sitrep." Another brief pause, and the video feed on Tarfire's display flickered with life as the drone zoomed in on Mya.

Through the grainy video, the map of Mya began to populate with enemy positions. Tarfire’s eyes followed the moving signatures, his jaw tightening as he watched the situation unfold in real-time.

"Alpha 1 this is Northpaw, Sitrep is as follows, enemy stronghold confirmed. Battlemages on rooftops, slavers dug in. Northpaw counting at least 100 battlemages across multiple rooftops, supported by 200 regular Austorian soldiers dug into overwatch and defilades. Heavy infantry guarding the slaver wagons at the center of the square. Three wagons confirmed in city center, Heat signatures show heavily packed with possible captured Elves. How copy, over?”

Tarfire’s stomach churned at the report. Northpaw’s update was worse than he’d anticipated. The Austorian battlemages were spread out, using rooftops to control the field with fire bolts and powerful area-effect spells. And those heavy infantry—damn them—they were entrenched like walking fortresses, standing like shields between the Beastkin and the captured Elves. This was about to get ugly. Very ugly.

"Northpaw, Alpha 1 Actual. Understood. Alpha 1 Actual out."

Switching channels, Tarfire’s voice hardened as he addressed the entire convoy.

"Alpha 1 to all units: Enemy confirmed in the city center. Battlemages on rooftops, slavers dug in near the main square, heavy infantry guarding captives. Echo, hold position until Northpaw updates. Echo 3-1, 3-2, follow and provide fire support for dismounts. Alpha Elements, maintain overwatch. We can’t afford to be pinned down—be ready to fall back fast, if necessary. All units, let’s roll. Out."

He took a deep breath, running his hand over his face, feeling the tension clinging to him. They were about to head into the teeth of the enemy, and with his soldiers already showing signs of exhaustion, this would push them past their limits. But there was no choice.

Tarfire gripped the mic again, this time speaking to Echo 3-1 and Echo 3-2 directly.

"Echo 3-1, 3-2, hold position. Drone’s up, waiting for intel. Stand by for further orders. Out."

A quick response came back. "Copy, Alpha 1. Holding position."

Tarfire’s fingers tapped the console as he glanced back at the screen. He looked at the tactical overlay of the map on the JCVAILS. Well, he thought, it’s going to be a hell of a fight.

Wellknife’s squad, now prepping for dismount, looked solid, but even he could see cracks beginning to form. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality of what they were about to do was sinking in.

Moments later, Northpaw broke back in over the comms. “Alpha 1, new heat signatures—northwest of the city square, movement consistent with a slaver wagon on the move. One wagon is breaking away from the main group, heading east toward the outskirts, possibly trying to flee toward Austorian Royal Army lines.”

Tarfire’s heart sank, but his voice remained steady. “Understood, Northpaw. We’ll deal with it.”

Lt. Rader Tarfire's eyes darted across the drone feed, tracking the fleeing slaver wagon as it sped through the streets of Mya. His tactical mind quickly identified the only chance to stop them before they reached the Austorian forces further east—a side street, free of enemy resistance, leading straight out of the city.

"Echo 3-2, this is Alpha 1 Actual. Right side street clear. Break off and engage the fleeing slaver wagon and secure the Elves. Over."

Sgt. Razel Frostling cracked his neck, his lips curling into a grin as the order came through. "Copy that, Alpha 1," he responded, his voice calm, but there was an underlying excitement. "Let's show them what this baby can do."

The FENNEK's engine roared to life and began towards the side road.

PFC Vand Razortalon the driver asked with a mischievous grin, “Hey Sarg’n, Rock and Roll?”

The Truck Commander Sgt. Frostling smiled, “Lets burn!”

The Forward operator looked up from his Artillery Console and asked “Whats Rock and Ro…”

Razortalon flipped a switch labeled "Go Baby Go," and the turbocharger screamed to full power. The overdrive system—custom-built by one of the Outcast Guardian’s sons—kicked in, and the FENNEK shot forward, pinning the crew to their seats.

The streets of Mya blurred past. Tires screeched as Razortalon whipped through tight corners, the FENNEK darting like a predator closing in on its prey. The armor-plated underbelly scraped against cobbled streets, sending sparks flying as the vehicle bounced over debris and craters.

“HOLY SHIT!” Jal Greenfur shouted, thrown against his radio set as the truck screamed down the road.

"Hold on!" Frostling barked over the roar of the engine. The FENNEK hit a shallow crater, the impact slamming the armored body down before it bounced back up, rattling the crew. The turbo whined louder as they tore down a straight stretch of road, the speed nearly unreal.

Behind them, the convoy heard the FENNEK’s distinct whine—a sharp contrast to their heavier engines. On the drone feed, the vehicle appeared as a blur, a streak of dust and fury slicing through the ruins of Mya. Tarfire looked at the feed with a blank expression, then pinching the upper part of his nose, he slowly shook his head in disbelief.

As the sound of the rockets’ explosion faded into the distance, Lesser Duke Gytha Salus, the Lord Vanguard of the 3rd Elven Suppression Unit, cursed under his breath. His cavalry had been called away—Lyan Drothmyr and his elite forces had vanished, summoned by the unmistakable red flare of distress from the Red Tower.

"Damn those fools!" Gytha spat, his face twisting in anger. Without the cavalry, the odds had turned dramatically against him. His frustration boiled over as he watched his own troops scramble in confusion, trying to regroup after the devastating artillery strikes. The sheer firepower of the Beastkin had rattled them to their core.

Now, without the cavalry to spearhead the assault, Gytha had to rely on what remained of his infantry, the heavy battlemages, and the slavers holed up in the city center. His eyes narrowed as he looked over the battlefield, the once orderly ranks of Austorian soldiers now scattered by the brutal firepower of the Beastkin’s armored convoy.

In the heart of Mya, the slavers huddled nervously, hidden among the rubble of the partially destroyed buildings. Gronos, the leader of the slaver band, felt his courage wavering as he observed the aftermath of the artillery barrage. Bodies of Austorian soldiers lay scattered across the streets, some still smoldering from the HIMARS strike.

One of his men, a greasy, rat-faced slaver, sidled up to him and whispered, "We can’t hold here, Gronos. We’ve got to leave before those Beastkin bring their metal monsters to finish us off."

Gronos glared at him but knew he wasn’t wrong. Already, one of the slaver wagons had fled the city, tearing through the streets at breakneck speed, heading east toward Lord Commander Victus. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the convoy turned its attention to them. His eyes flicked to the remaining three wagons loaded with captured Elves, still tethered in the city square, surrounded by heavy infantry.

The Heavy Infantry, clad in enchanted armor, stood tall and unmoving, their confidence bolstered to near insanity by the dark magic that shielded them from the Beastkin’s relentless gunfire. Their voices carried through the ruined streets, mocking the Beastkin forces.

"They think they can touch us? Weakling Beastkin! Our armor will break their teeth, and they’ll fall just like the Elves!"

Despite their bravado, Gytha and his forces had witnessed the destruction wrought by the Beastkin artillery, and beneath the taunts, a sense of dread permeated the ranks.

Gytha barked at his officers, "Hold the town center! We still have the advantage of numbers and these walls. Those damn Beastkin won't last long in a proper fight."

Even as he spoke, Gytha’s eyes kept drifting to the sky, unknowing that a drone circled, relaying their every move to the Beastkin convoy. He cursed the heavens as he realized how badly outclassed they were. His forces had magic and steel, but the Beastkin had an enemy they couldn't counter—technology.

Suddenly, Gytha’s attention snapped to the side road where a FENNEK Recon Vehicle shot past, a whine of mechanical fury as the turbocharger kicked in. The slavers, huddled close behind their wagons, barely had time to react as the "metal demon" screamed through the street like a beast possessed. The FENNEK’s modified engine howled as it bounced over rubble, the underbelly armor scraping as it hit dips and bumps, leaving a trail of sparks and dust in its wake.

The slavers, wide-eyed, exchanged horrified glances as the speed demon zipped past them in a blur. They watched in disbelief, their knuckles white around the reins of their horses. One slaver, trembling, muttered, "What in the hell was that?"

Gronos, momentarily speechless, tightened his grip on his sword. "I don’t care what it is! It’s coming for us next!" His face paled as the implications sank in. The Beastkin weren’t just here to fight—they were here to obliterate everything in their path.

Behind them, the heavy infantry exchanged uneasy glances. Their bravado began to crumble as the realization struck—this was no ordinary fight. They were facing something far beyond their understanding, a force that combined steel and magic in a way that even their powerful arcane defenses couldn't withstand forever.

The FENNEK had vanished around the corner, but the dread it left in its wake remained. Gytha cursed under his breath, watching the slavers panic. He needed to regain control, and fast.

Meanwhile, Lt. Rader Tarfire received real-time updates from the drone circling the battlefield. The Beastkin finally had eyes in the sky, granting them a crucial advantage over the Austorians, whose forces remained concentrated in the town center.

Tarfire, his brow furrowed, studied the superimposed map of Mya displayed on his JCVAILS Monitor. He marked the positions of the remaining enemy forces with a steady hand, though fatigue gnawed at him. They had been at this all day, pushing through heat, ambushes, and relentless assaults. His fingers briefly hovered over the map—three slaver wagons were still sitting in the square, filled with captured Elves, their fates hanging in the balance.

"One wagon escaped east," Tarfire muttered to himself, his jaw clenching. He knew his FENNEK team was on the chase, but the others… they were still out there, trapped under Austorian control. “That’s the priority,” he decided, his voice low but resolute.

Back in the village, Gytha’s forces scrambled to set up defensive positions. The battlemages on the rooftops hurled firebolts down at the advancing Beastkin. Each bolt streaked through the air like a meteor, the force of their impacts sending debris and flames spiraling through the streets. Despite their numbers, even the seasoned battlemages could feel the growing anxiety creeping into their ranks.

In the rubble below, the slavers, slick with sweat and tension, began to whisper among themselves. They had seen the effects of the artillery, felt the weight of their own mortality.

Gronos, the slaver leader, glared at his men, forcing himself to ignore the shivers creeping down his spine. "We’re staying. Anyone who runs won’t make it out alive. I’ll make sure of that."

His voice dripped with menace, silencing any remaining objections. The slavers gripped their weapons tighter, realizing that Gronos was more dangerous than the threat barreling toward them. But they feared the Beastkin too—feared the death they had seen wrought on the streets outside.

Back in the command vehicle, Tarfire’s hand hovered over his radio before keying it in. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of a man who knew the stakes. “All units, listen up. We have three wagons of captives still in the village. Our top priority is their extraction. Heavy Infantry is holding the center, so be prepared for hard resistance. Stay sharp. We’ve got the firepower, but we can’t afford any mistakes.”

At Northpaw HQ, the operators worked tirelessly, eyes glued to their screens. Every movement in the village of Mya was now under their scrutiny, marked by glowing heat signatures and clearly defined outlines. The drone, circling high above, was the eye that saw everything.

“Northpaw to Alpha 1, confirming movement. We have contacts setting up on the rooftops. Their actions are indictive of battlemages. We are highlighting the area. We suggest you neutralize them before they pin down your convoy.”

Tarfire’s lips pressed into a thin line. If those mages were allowed to fire off their spells, his men wouldn’t even make it to the square.

Inside the Boxer APC, SSG Wellknife glanced at his monitor. Fatigue weighed on him too, but his focus remained sharp. The convoy was inching closer to the outskirts of Mya, and the tension in the air was palpable.

“Echo 3-1 to all units, we’ve got incoming fire any second now. Keep your heads low—we’re about to piss off a lot of people.”

Behind the Boxer, the transport trucks formed a staggered line. Their GAU-21s swiveled, ready to engage. The crews inside were silent but alert, waiting for the inevitable clash. Even the most seasoned among them knew this would be different. The slavers were vicious, but it was the Austorian battlemages that haunted their nightmares—magic combined with ruthless military precision.

The stillness shattered as the first firebolt streaked through the air. A bright red flare that crashed into the ground just ahead of Echo 3-1, blowing a crater in the road. A second firebolt followed, slamming into a destroyed building, sending chunks of stone and dust into the sky.

Tarfire’s voice cut through the chaos. “All units, engage! Engage! Target those battlemages first! Suppressive fire on every rooftop!”

The Mk44 30mm cannons roared to life, tearing through the rooftops. The high-velocity rounds ripped stone and wood to shreds. One battlemage, caught in the middle of a spell, was flung off the roof, his body twisting mid-air before smashing onto the cobblestones below.

The streets of Mya were turning into a battlefield. The Boxer and transport trucks fanned out, laying down suppressive fire, their guns barking in sharp bursts. Infantry prepared to dismount as rounds ricocheted off walls and debris scattered across the streets.

Tarfire’s mind raced, calculating their odds. Magic vs Firepower. It wasn’t the first time he had faced such odds, but it was always a dangerous equation. With Northpaw’s drone overhead and their convoy’s overwhelming firepower, they had a shot. This was it—the fight for Mya had begun.

The Boxer APC rumbled into position, settling near the northern edge of the village. In the back, Staff Sergeant Wellknife motioned for his dismounts to prepare. They could hear the sharp cracks of firebolts ahead. The time had come.

"Go!" Wellknife barked.

With Alpha and Bravo dismounting and advancing, the fight intensified. Battlemages who had fallen back were now funneled into a narrow corridor, where the Beastkin’s dismounts awaited them.

The first battlemage emerged, his eyes wide with shock. "Engage!" came the order. And just like that, the alley was lit up with gunfire, the Beastkin’s Ultimax 100s roaring, their relentless fire tearing through arcane shields, leaving nothing but dust and the fallen behind.

Lt. Rader Tarfire tightened his grip on the radio as the sound of gunfire echoed from the streets ahead. The drone's feed showed Alpha and Bravo teams engaging the scattered battlemages, but now fresh enemy movements caught his attention—Austorian swordsmen and archers, marching in tight formations, converging on the dismount teams from the road ahead.

"Alpha 1 Actual to Alpha Fireteam," he barked into the mic, "You’ve got company incoming—Austorian infantry and archers marching from the south! Watch your flanks! Hold your ground but keep moving!"

Alpha Fireteam, led by Sergeant Dorne Blackpaw, had been moving steadily through the alley, weapons trained on the rooftops and alleyways ahead, when the sharp crack of firebolt spells and the flicker of arcane light filled the air once more.

"Contact front! Mages in the open!" Private Lir Stormfur yelled, his Ultimax 100 opening up in a deafening roar. The light machine gun spat out rounds, the sheer volume of fire cutting down battlemages as they tried to conjure their spells. The rounds tore through their arcane shields, sending bodies tumbling from the rooftops like ragdolls.

"Alpha, hold position!" Blackpaw shouted as he fired his M807 at an approaching mage. "Bravo, shift left and give us some damn cover!"

Bravo Fireteam, under Corporal Jax Ironclaw, moved swiftly to the left, taking up firing positions behind the remnants of a half-collapsed building. The team communicated with the ease of a well-practiced unit.

"Bravo, suppress those mages before they get any more spells off!" Ironclaw ordered.

"On it!" PFC Darian Mudclaw dropped to one knee, slinging his M807 with the CZ 40mm grenade launcher up and firing off a round. The grenade arced through the air and detonated with a thundering blast, sending one of the rooftops crumbling down, battlemages along with it.

Meanwhile, Private Zakin Rundo swung his Ultimax 100 to the right, providing suppressive fire as the mages tried to rally. Their spells fizzled out mid-chant, bodies jerking as rounds slammed into them.

"Reloading!" Rundo called, slapping in a fresh box mag with swift precision as bullets whizzed past.

As Alpha and Bravo continued to hold their ground, the sound of marching feet became unmistakable. Austorian swordsmen and archers had spotted the dismounted teams and were closing in fast. The clink of armor and the stomp of boots echoed from the narrow street ahead. From the drone feed, Tarfire watched the approaching enemy and keyed his mic again.

"All units, Austorian infantry and archers advancing on dismounts! Spread out and engage them if you see them!"

Sergeant Blackpaw cursed under his breath as he peered around the corner, spotting the tightly-packed Austorian swordsmen advancing in disciplined ranks.

"Here they come," Blackpaw muttered. "Rundo, get ready for suppression. We’re going to need everything we’ve got to hold this position."

Alpha took a knee, setting up firing positions as Bravo laid down more covering fire. Private Harin Darkfur sighted in with his M807, squeezing off precise shots at the approaching infantry, each round finding its mark between the gaps in the Austorians’ armor.

But then, the air around them shifted, growing thick with an unnatural energy. From the village square, the Heavy Infantry began to chant, their dark magic coiling through the air like an invisible mist. It hit the dismount teams first as a creeping sense of dread—a weight pressing down on their minds.

"We’re... We’re not alone," Private Lir Stormfur whispered, his hand trembling slightly as he wiped sweat from his brow. His heart raced, thudding loudly in his chest.

"They’re messing with our heads!" Corporal Ironclaw shouted, recognizing the effects of Austorian arcane manipulation. "Stay sharp, stay focused!"

The Heavy Infantry, shielded by their enchanted armor, stood like living fortresses in the village square, sending waves of magic meant to break the enemy’s will. Their presence warped reality itself, distorting the perceptions of the Beastkin soldiers, making them doubt the ground beneath their feet and the air in their lungs.

But the Beastkin were not so easily broken.

"Focus on your training!" Blackpaw roared to his team, snapping them back to reality. "This is what they want—keep moving, keep shooting!"

"Incoming arrows!" someone yelled.

From behind the advancing infantry, Austorian archers let loose a volley. The sky darkened for a moment as dozens of arrows rained down on the Beastkin’s position. The teams scrambled for cover, rounds bouncing off stone and dirt as the volley fell.

The Austorian Heavy Infantry, infamous for their ability to manipulate arcane magic to enhance their defenses, moved with chilling precision. Shields raised and short swords drawn, they advanced methodically, their heavy armor shimmering with magical energy. 5.56x45 rounds from the Beastkin rifles hammered into them, but instead of staggering, the infantry marched on, the bullets deflecting harmlessly off the glowing barrier surrounding their plate.

The sight of the infantry advancing—impenetrable, relentless—was unnerving. The Beastkin line kept firing, but the enchanted armor turned aside every shot, the rounds bouncing off with metallic pings. The infantry drew closer, their swords glinting in the fading light, ready to tear into the Beastkin at close quarters. The arcane shimmer around their armor flared with each impact, glowing brighter as the magic absorbed the force of the bullets.

With the slavers hesitating and the Heavy Infantry forming a defensive bulwark, the Austorian soldiers still standing tried to regain their composure. Fear gnawed at them. They knew their helmets ensured instant death if they fled, but the sheer power of the Beastkin made holding the line seem impossible.

Behind the protective wall of heavy infantry, the remaining battlemages regrouped, their hands crackling with elemental energy as they began weaving new spells. Fireblast spells arced through the air, impacting the ground near the Beastkin lines like magical mortar rounds, creating bursts of fire and shockwaves. But the Beastkin’s armored vehicles pressed on, undeterred.

Then, with a practiced motion, one of the Grenadiers loaded his M807’s CZ 40mm launcher and fired. The thump of the round being discharged was followed by a brief, tense silence—then the grenade detonated in the midst of the heavy infantry.

The explosion sent them flying, their bodies tossed into the air by the concussive force. As they crashed back to the ground, the shimmering arcane barrier flickered, then vanished. Without the protection of their magic, their heavy armor, once impenetrable, was now just cold steel. The Beastkin opened fire again, and this time the 5.56 rounds tore into the exposed infantry, puncturing their armor. The heavy soldiers crumpled, their advance finally halted.

Back at the village square, Lesser Duke Gytha Salus stood watching his men engage. His mind raced. His battlemages were faltering, the Beastkin's relentless firepower cutting through them like wheat before a scythe. His heavy infantry, while strong, would be forced to hold their ground without the magical support they depended on.

For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed Gytha’s mind. Could they actually lose? He had never faced an enemy with this level of firepower before. Swords and arrows were all that had ever been needed—until now, now even Magic isn’t working.

Gytha cursed under his breath, watching as his own swordsmen marched toward the Beastkin, their armor gleaming in the fading sunlight, unaware of the true horror that awaited them. The Austorian troops were disciplined and well-trained, but this—this was something entirely new.

He could see the looks in their eyes, the weariness, and the flickers of fear. And then he realized, with a sinking dread in his gut: He may not make it out of this.

Back in the alley, Bravo Fireteam saw the Austorian infantry advancing closer, the weight of their swords and shields unmistakable. But the Beastkin dismounts were ready, weapons ready and nerves steeled.

"Alpha! Bravo!" SSG Wellknife bellowed over the comms, "Time to move! Engage those infantry before they pin us down! Echo 3-1, move up and provide support!"

The whine of the engine can be heard as Echo 3-1 caught up with the infantry company, its cannon and coax machine gun sweeping the houses and roofs for enemies.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the sharp tang of gunpowder. Ralven, an archer of the Austorian Royal Army, pressed his back against the crumbling stone of the rooftop wall, panting, his heart thundering in his ears. He had peeked out only a moment ago—just enough time to see his comrades in the Royal Guard form up into a shield wall, the proud crest of Austoria emblazoned on their heavy pikes. But what he saw next made his stomach churn.

CRACK! CRACK!

A sharp burst of gunfire echoed through the streets below, the booming noise of the Beastkin weapons shaking the very stones beneath his feet. He cursed under his breath as more rounds whizzed past his hiding spot, each one screaming through the air like a vengeful spirit.

Keep your head down, or you'll lose it, he told himself, gripping the worn leather of his bow. But he needed to look again. He needed to see what was happening.

Gritting his teeth, Ralven risked another glance over the edge, keeping low. His eyes widened in horror. The Royal Guard—fifty of the king’s finest swordsmen, backed by pikemen and reinforced by a line of ten Heavy Infantry—had begun their charge. The ground trembled beneath their feet as they marched in perfect unison, their shields locked together, the Heavy Infantry forming the core of their attack.

But the Beastkin were waiting.

He watched in horror as the Boxer APC opened fire, the Mk 44 30mm chain gun on top of the machine spinning to life with a high-pitched whine. Its rounds punched through the shield wall with terrifying ease. Ralven saw men in full armor lifted off their feet as the explosive shells ripped through their formation, tearing apart shields, flesh, and bone in a gruesome spray.

The Heavy Infantry, their enchanted armor glowing faintly with arcane magic, took the brunt of the attack. Normally, they would be impervious to even the sharpest blades, but the Beastkin’s weapons were something else entirely. A 30mm HEAT round struck one of the Heavy Infantry square in the chest, the explosion sending him sprawling backward like a ragdoll. His enchanted shield crumpled; the magic shattered by the force of the impact.

Ralven ducked just in time as another burst of gunfire from one of the transport trucks zipped overhead, kicking up dust and bits of stone. He could feel the heat from the rounds as they passed by, each one far too close for comfort.

“What are these monsters?” he muttered to himself, breathing heavily, his hands trembling around the bowstring.

He could hear the cries of his fellow soldiers below, the desperate shouts of commanders trying to rally their men. But it was futile. The Beastkin were relentless, their machine and their staff’s tearing through everything in their path. He peeked again, just in time to see another line of pikemen torn apart by the Boxer’s chain gun, their bodies flung into the air like broken dolls.

Then, in the distance, Ralven spotted movement—a flash of speed out of the corner of his eye. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the FENNEK recon vehicle tear down a side street, its engine roaring like a beast unleashed. The modified turbo on the machine gave off a high-pitched whine, almost like a scream, as it bounced over the uneven ground. The bottom of the FENNEK scraped against the stone as it hit dips and bumps in the road, but it never slowed, the tires skidding for traction as it shot forward with terrifying speed.

“What in the gods' names…?” Ralven breathed, watching in disbelief as the vehicle raced past, heading for the fleeing slaver wagon.

The slavers, who had been trying to make their escape down the eastern road, caught sight of the speeding FENNEK. Ralven could see the panic in their eyes as they whipped their horses harder, desperate to escape the metal demon bearing down on them. But it was too fast, too relentless.

Ralven's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the slaver wagons in the city square. There were still three of them, loaded with captured Elves, and the heavy infantry were now positioning themselves to defend the last of their spoils. But Ralven could see the cracks forming. The Beastkin were unstoppable.

As he huddled against the rooftop, listening to the endless thrum of gunfire and the cries of dying men, a sinking realization washed over him.

They were losing.

Ralven, for the first time in his military career, understood the taste of true fear.

In the FENNEK, Frostling’s grip tightened on the controls, his eyes locked on the drone feed relayed to the FENNEK’s HUD. The fleeing slaver wagon was now just a few hundred meters ahead, its drivers desperately whipping the exhausted horses in a futile attempt to outrun the pursuing recon vehicle.

"They’re running scared," Frostling muttered, watching as the slavers glanced back, their eyes wide with terror. "Time to end this."

The FENNEK hit another dip in the road, the suspension groaning under the strain, but the vehicle held steady. The horses pulling the wagon were frothing at the mouth, their flanks heaving with effort as the wagon bounced and rattled on the uneven cobblestones.

"They won’t outrun us," Frostling said through gritted teeth, his hands steady on the wheel. "Tanner, get ready to disable that wagon."

The gunner, Specialist Gaz Tanner adjusted the Mk 44 30mm chain gun, aligning it with the fleeing wagon’s rear axle. "Ready to fire, Sergeant!" he called out, his voice filled with adrenaline.

"Send it," Frostling ordered.

The Mk 44 barked to life, a rapid burst of rounds tearing through the air. The first volley missed by inches, but the second connected with precision. The back wheels of the wagon exploded into splinters, sending the entire cart skidding to the side. The horses whinnied in terror, their legs buckling as the wagon flipped onto its side with a violent crash.

The slavers were thrown from their seats, tumbling into the dirt. Dazed but not out, they scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords and short spears as they realized their only option now was to fight.

"Get ready!" Frostling shouted to his crew as the FENNEK slid to a halt mere meters from the overturned wagon. Dust and debris billowed around the vehicle as the side hatch flew open.

Frosting and Tanner poured out of the vehicle, their M807 battle rifles raised, ready for close-quarters combat. The slavers, already disoriented from the crash, hesitated for just a moment—just long enough for the Beastkin soldiers to open fire.

"Get em!" Frostling commanded, his voice cold and steady.

The first burst of gunfire tore through the slavers’ makeshift armor, sending two of them crumpling to the ground. Another slaver, clutching a short spear, attempted to charge forward, but a well-placed round from Specialist Gaz Tanner M807 dropped him before he could get within striking distance.

"Slavers neutralized!" Frostling reported, his voice ringing through the comms. "We’ve secured the wagon. Elves are alive, but they need medical attention. Send evac ASAP. Over."

Tarfire’s voice came back over the radio. "Copy that, Echo 3-2. Well done. Transport’s en route. Hold your position and secure the area. Good Job. Alpha 1 out."

Frostling glanced toward the overturned wagon. The Elves inside were huddled together, their faces gaunt and eyes filled with terror. They had been through hell, but they were alive, and for now, that was enough.

As the dust settled, the FENNEK’s engine idled quietly, the whine of the turbo finally fading. The streets of Mya were silent once more, save for the distant rumble of the convoy preparing for the next phase of the operation.

The FENNEK with Alpha 6, loaded with the formerly enslaved Elves, arrived back at the Beastkin lines. Dust and smoke still filled the air, remnants of the fierce battle that had scarred the streets of Mya. Lt. Rader Tarfire stood atop Alpha 1’s command vehicle, watching the convoy pull in. His comm crackled to life with the updates from his teams.

Lt. Tarfire knew the mission wasn’t over yet.

"Echo 3-2, reinforce Echo 3-1," he ordered. "We’re pushing up hard on the last line. Let’s finish this."

Echo 3-2 pulled out, moving into position alongside Echo 3-1. The combined firepower was formidable, and the rate of Beastkin movement surged. The convoy weaved through the war-torn streets of Mya, passing ruins of houses and shops, only to come to a halt at the final obstacle—what was left of the mayor’s residence.

The drone feed from Northpaw’s ISR camera was fed directly to Lt. Tarfire’s monitor. The battlemages were entrenched, waiting behind a makeshift barricade of rubble. Spells shimmered in the air, ready to be unleashed the moment the Beastkin got too close.

“Hold positions,” Tarfire barked. "We’re almost on top of them."

He relayed the drone’s live feed to SSG Wellknife’s small battlefield monitor. The sergeant, now behind cover, watched the shimmering spells, reading the desperation of the last Austorian defenders in their shaky movements.

“Grenadiers!” Wellknife snapped. “Fire at will—over the barricade. Clear it!”

The crack of launchers cut through the air as the grenades arced gracefully over the rubble. Seconds later, the ground shook with the impacts, and the air filled with dust and smoke. Craters remained where the battlemages had prepared their final stand.

SSG Wellknife peered over the cover. “That’s it. No movement.”

Lt. Tarfire’s voice buzzed in his ear. “Secure the area. We’ve got to wrap this up. We have planes to catch, and fuel to pump.”

A smile cracked Wellknife’s battle-hardened face. “Hooah, sir!” he barked, then turned to his squad. “You heard the man—final assault! Let’s take that city center!”

With a coordinated bounding overwatch, Alpha and Bravo fireteams advanced, moving through the streets littered with debris, their weapons at the ready. The city center loomed before them, a place once full of life, now nothing but a silent graveyard of conflict. The barricades and makeshift defenses gave way as the Beastkin reached the heart of the village.

As they reached the city square, the tension dissolved into an eerie calm. No more firebolts. No more spells. The remnants of the Austorian forces stood defeated. Weapons dropped; hands raised. The Lesser Duke, the commander of the 3rd Elven Suppression Unit, lay dead amidst the ruins, a victim of the earlier grenade attack. Gronos, the slaver commander, was found dead beside him, his ambition extinguished along with his life.

Ten surviving Austorian soldiers, all that was left of what had been a proud army, stood with hands raised in surrender. Fear etched into their faces as the Beastkin approached. The Heavy Infantry, once feared, had been eliminated, their once-impenetrable armor shattered under relentless assault.

"Search them," Wellknife ordered. "Make sure they aren’t hiding anything."

The Beastkin soldiers moved swiftly, disarming the Austorian remnants and ensuring there were no concealed weapons. The surrendered soldiers were bound, their fate now in the hands of the Beastkin. But Wellknife's priority wasn’t the prisoners—it was the Elves.

The three wagons full of captured Elves, still tethered to slaver wagons, stood silently in the square. They were still in shock, their fate uncertain until the Beastkin arrived. Now, tears of relief streamed down their faces as the soldiers cut their bindings.

The freed Elves, exhausted but grateful, embraced their rescuers. Some kissed the Beastkin soldiers, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and relief. Others wept openly, clinging to their liberators as the horror of their captivity faded into the past.

As the Elves were secured into recovered transport wagons, the dismount squads of Alpha and Bravo began demolishing the iron slave carts the slavers had used to transport them. The sound of the carts being torn apart and burned filled the square as a final symbol of the slavers’ defeat.

Echo 3-1 and Echo 3-2 took up the rear, watching as the last remnants of Austorian rule were literally torn apart. The Beastkin were victorious, but there was still work to be done.

Lt. Tarfire gave the order to prep the convoy for the returning tiltrotors. Radio silence was broken as the first distant booms echoed through the sky—the helos were inbound.

The streets of Mya were finally quiet, except for the sounds of the jubilant Elves, now under the protection of their Beastkin liberators. Cheers of freedom rang through the village as the convoy began its return to base. Even as the smoke from the battle lingered, there was a new sense of hope in the air.

Ralven, an archer from the Austorian Royal Army, crouched low behind the crumbling remains of a rooftop. His heart raced as the sounds of battle echoed across the ruined streets of Mya. His bow rested against his leg, the quiver on his back nearly empty. He had lost too many comrades in this disastrous fight—mages, soldiers, and even the feared heavy infantry had fallen like leaves in a storm. The Beastkin's relentless firepower had shattered them.

As the Beastkin secured the city center and began freeing the Elven captives, Ralven knew his time was running out. He wasn’t about to wait for the Beastkin to hunt him down. His unit, a small band of archers, had already scattered, some lying dead, others having vanished into the winding alleyways of Mya. He had always known when to retreat, and now was the time.

He signaled to the few remaining archers under his command. They slipped silently from their hidden positions, moving through the shadows. The streets were too dangerous now, so they scaled the back of a building, moving across rooftops to avoid the Beastkin patrols below. The convoy was focused on cleaning up the last remnants of Austorian resistance, freeing the slaves, and preparing to extract, giving Ralven a narrow window to escape.

The further he moved from the city center, the quieter the battle became. His band weaved through ruined homes, slipping out through the side streets. As they neared the edge of the city, the unmistakable sound of tiltrotors filled the sky. Ralven glanced up to see the massive flying machines cutting through the evening light. The helos were coming, and soon the Beastkin would pull out.

But Ralven wasn’t interested in sticking around. His loyalty wasn’t to the fallen Lesser Duke or the doomed battlemages. His only goal now was survival, and he still had a chance if he could reach Lord Commander Victus and the 2nd Austorian Royal Army further east.

As his small band reached the forest’s edge, Ralven spared one last look at the smoking ruins of Mya. It had been a catastrophic defeat, and he knew the blame would fall on those who had failed to stand against the Beastkin. But Lord Victus was still out there, and the 2nd Royal Army was no small force.

With a grim determination, Ralven and his men slipped into the trees, disappearing into the dense woods. They would regroup, warn Lord Victus, and perhaps find a way to turn the tide in the next battle.

The war was far from over, and Ralven intended to live to see its end.