The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

No splitting, Leolo. Every arc has to have a couple huge chapters. :P

You can handle it, I'm suuuure. You're a tough guy.

[SeiKeo]

I'll be soooo bored D:

[Spinach]

You could just read half of it, go do something else, then finish the second half.

[Lycodrake]

I read all of it at once. I have to go back and re-read it 1-2 more times, but it's worth it, IMHO.

[Five_X]

It's not like there won't be scene breaks. :V

And don't get bored!! That's mean, Leo! ;__;

i thought you liked this fic

[Junky]

Okay, I just read the entire story in one setting. Five_X, you are a genius.

[Spinach]

Whoa, what? Junky operates in the fanfic forum too? More importantly, welcome to the MPII family, Junky.

[Junky]

Today's my first day, lol. I have a week off from work starting Monday so I'm trying new things to use my time.

[Spinach]

Oh, nice. A wee- wait, it just clicked in my mind. You read all 200,000 words of MPII in one sitting. Are you human?

[Junky]

Oh, nice. A wee- wait, it just clicked in my mind. You read all 200,000 words of MPII in one sitting. Are you human?

I also reread the entire Questions thread in one sitting before. And this was much more interesting. It took me eight hours though.

[Spinach]

I can only bow in the face of your patience and resolve.

[Five_X]

Now, Junky, tell me what you liked! What are your favourite parts; what didn't you like? Which characters and Master/Servant pairs are your favourites?

/super duper question time

And yes, welcome to the lovely MPII family. Hopefully I'll get you all a nice, big update sometime today.

[Five_X]

Well, here's the update, everyone! It's not as long as I initially thought it would be, but I guess once I run through the chapters a second time and edit them all, I'll make it appropriately long. As it stands, it's 6140 words instead of the whole 10k I meant it to go on for.

Oh well, you still get tons of stuff going on, with badassery from pretty much all sides, and only more to come next chapter, when the battle finishes up!

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

CHAPTER LIII

Day 1


Three to a side, the generals awaited the first shot to be fired, the first battle-cry to to echo out into the air, the first blood to be spilled out onto the dust and the rock.


From the south, Alexander led his own core forward, the tips of his phalangites' spears swaying high in the air like bare flagpoles, triumphant and clear. To the enemy ahead they would have seemed to be a forest, stretching on deeper into the army's ranks than could be determined by sight alone; even the soldiers' small, round shields glistened and were intimidating, showing just how rich and ornamented Alexander's force was.


On the left and right flanks of the phalanx were the tight ranks of legionaries, their shields a stark red and their laminated iron armour shining under the glaring eye of the sun. They slowed their pace to match that of the Macedonian heavy phalanx, and deepened their ranks to conceal their deadly secret: at their backs, on the left and on the right, were the famed companion cavalry of Alexander himself, the royal bodyguard units split in two, readied for any necessary flanking.


While Alexander rode on horseback with his compatriots, however, Saber remained on foot, dressed exactly as any of her legionaries. The only vesture that made her stand apart was her heavy scarlet cape, billowing as a light wind passed her army. The very presence of her within the ranks of the common men was inspiring, and her legionaries marched steady, willing to face whatever was ahead.


The rear of the army, in bulk, was defended by an auxiliary infantry block, as the only available cavalrymen were either riding with Alexander or acting on behalf of Saber to reinforce the second, smaller unit of the king's companions.


Behind that, though, was a truly massive force: while Alexander's and Saber's hosts weighed at a total of fifty thousand and twenty thousand respectively, the massive force that was under the command of Moctezuma numbered nearly three hundred thousand, comprised of no cavalry but mixing extraordinarily light foot soldiers with heavy men armed with wooden and obsidian swords, feathers sprouting from the fabric of their woven armour; they were all coloured in exotic greens and yellows and purples, marching at a solemn pace. Their music was a dirge, hummed by the officers and joined in, like an orchestra, by the other sections of the army.


They were drowned out, though, by the blaring of the Roman bugles, and the thunder of their drums, joined in exact tune by the flutes and lyres of the Macedonian force, letting their energetic but imperialistic music flow across the battlefield. It contained the spirit of the peoples behind it, and added a sense of awe: to see such a widespread and ancient collaboration of armed forces was something ordinarily impossible, and now brought on by the dreams of a few generals.


But, across the length of rocky desert, was something that even the host of Romans, Macedonians and Aztecs couldn't match in splendour.


Hannibal led the opposing force, his elephants in the front ranks, side-by-side with his own African phalangites and elite soldiers of Carthage. The man himself was mounted on his elephant, Surus, much greater in stature than the beasts around it. He surveyed the whole field of battle, examining from afar the Roman lines and the impenetrable, famed phalanx of Alexander. Most curious of all was what he couldn't see: beyond the tall forest of sarissas was something beyond his vision, stretching deep beyond the other two armies.


His attention now, though, was fixed on the primary forces assembled against him: that of Alexander, and of Caesar.


The mercenary troops, ranging from Gallic men in little but loincloths and dirt-brown trousers to the pride of Carthage, the Sacred Band in their silvery-white arms and armour, stood beside soldiers who resembled them little: they wore laminated armour of leather and cloth, with wide-brimmed hats on their heads and simple, long-barrelled firearms in their hands.


Some of those troops, Japanese, were armoured partly in metal, with helms crafted over burning coals, their swords of folded, waving steel. They were the samurai, the greatest warriors of Japan, and they were far from disheartened by the sound and the fury of the Romans or the Macedonians far in the distance. The Japanese men shouldered their rifles, steadied their horses and placed their hands on the hilts of their swords: they knew what kind of fight this would be, and they acknowledged the presence of those foreign, ancient soldiers beside them with respect and understanding. There was a certain cohesion to this group; even as their leaders worked well together, the infantry became used to the rumbling of the great elephants, the sharp smell drifting on the breeze of thousands of horses, and the clatter of iron armour, lean and strong.


Nobunaga walked amongst his men on foot, his very presence inspiring them and his own haughtiness making him stand out: his armour shined brighter, his helm stood taller and his body strode prouder than any around him, and his clothes under his armour made him seem almost Western, a different man than the other soldiers around him.


At last, on the wings of this great formation, were the two halves of Napoleon Bonaparte's Grand Armée, made up of men born of Austria, France, Spain, Italy and even England, all bound together under the charisma and personal power of their great leader.


In the back ranks, staggered, were the cannons, their presence hidden by a screen of cavalry, Napoleon himself among them. Atop his horse he kept pace with the rest of the army, his familiar tricorn hat and great grey coat making him stand out just a little amongst his Old Guard, wearing their beaver-fur hats and their double vested uniforms. Nearly all the men in his army carried muskets or rifles, fitted with socket bayonets, and the cavalrymen looked out across the empty, arid space between them and the enemy, knowing how to fight and win alongside their new comrades.


Their numbers managed to dwarf even the united legions before them: Hannibal alone fielded a force of forty thousand soldiers and thirty-seven elephants, with Nobunaga commanding thirty-five thousand total cavalry and infantrymen behind him.


It was Napoleon, however, who had the most soldiers at his bidding: five hundred thousand professional troops, ranging from riflemen to front-line musketeers, cannon operators, imperial grenadiers and the elegant, noble cuirassiers, mounted on their finely groomed horses.


They, too, had their own music: drums and the pounding of hooves and feet made their rhythm, and trumpets and woodwinds provided a melody to inspire the troops. This glorious roaring of music and men made even the combined orchestral sound of the Romans and Macedonians seem like a whimper, the volume of the French army's theme rising as they approached, their euphony ascending and drifting in the air for all to hear.


It made Napoleon smile, to finally hear his own true might.


Their morale was as high as the cloudless sky above, and even with the heat all around and the menace of the approaching armies they didn't lose heart.


Rising atop Surus, Hannibal clenched a fist, holding it skyward, and looked down upon all those brave men fielded by himself and his allies.


“On the horizon the enemy lies, their arms glistening in the sun!” He pointed a grim finger at the oncoming mixed phalanx and legion, indicating their own stoic resolve. “Let that be your marker! For all their glinting grandeur, they are but soldiers, men fighting for a cause they know only in their hearts. They will not rout; they will not break; they will never give in to us.”


He brought his arm down to his side. “But neither shall we! We will meet them on this field of battle, sword against spear, spear against sword, shields clashing together in the heat of this desert. Let the smoke of your guns fill the air, and the thunder of your cannons shake the very earth itself! This very well may be the last and greatest force we ever assemble, and so you have to make it count!”


Rattling his own spear against his shield, he encouraged his men to do likewise. Soon, even the graceful music of the Grand Armée was drowned out in a cacophony of clattering metal from Hannibal's infantry, beating their weapons against their shields and their armour.


“Never have I witnessed something as glorious as this, and never should you forget this one moment! Before you join the battle, before you let blood be spilled upon this endless sand, know that I will never forget your sacrifices and your honour today, and when our enemy lies bloodied and battered before us, know that it was your strength and your loyalty that allowed us to claim victory!”


Looking on the horizon with pride, Hannibal slipped his silver helmet over his head, wearing it tight to his skull. “Let their shining, rich armaments be a bullseye for your shots.”

-- --

Far off, looking on either army, were the Masters of those fighting generals; they were divorced from the combat so that they didn't come to any harm; if they were to join the battle as it occurred, there was no chance of any of them surviving. The sheer slaughter would be too much for any person to enter, and even if another Servant were to slip themselves into the fight they would soon be beset by thousands of the greatest soldiers ever fielded, not to mention their prideful generals.


Francois carved a small rune below each of his eyes, giving him an unparalleled view of the two hosts as they continued to march together.


The power of Napoleon's army, finally shown to him, was awe-inspiring to look upon, and he almost fell to his knees, unable to come to grips with laying eyes on this event. More than a battle between Servants, this was a clash of armies from centuries and millenia past, coming together in this one spot to prove one victorious. Even now, the sounds like rolling thunder, of men and horses trampling upon the ground towards what they had been desiring for so long, reached Francois' ears, just barely shaking the earth at his feet.


Even bitter Nigel and James couldn't help but stare, unable to take their gazes off the coming battle, the sheer spectacle of it unlike anything they had ever seen before it.


Eleanor, too, had to revisit her own opinion of Moctezuma upon seeing his hundreds of thousands of warriors marching in unison, while Dietrich beside her stood, arms crossed, emotionless.

-- --

The King of Conquerors.


That was his title, as the man who had nearly conquered the world, and such a goal was still in his mind. Seeing those soldiers at his side, the friends from his life who had given their lives to him, swearing to his ideal, filled him with an inspiration he had been lacking for so long. In fact, it filled him with a sense of yearning, wanting to see what existed beyond that distant horizon. No matter the size of the army that opposed him, he would crush it into the dust.


He needed not to give a speech. The ideal inside his heart, written on his very soul, was shared amongst all those who served with him in the old Macedonian phalanx revived, and they would never need for anyone to remind them of what it was for which they fought.


Though his army was far from a massive, overwhelming force of men like that of Napoleon and Moctezuma, it was the strongest, man for man: each and every one of the soldiers was in his own right a Heroic Spirit, lifted to glory in the wake of their king, Alexander. Few, of course, could quite match the sheer strength of one such as Caesar or even Alexander himself, but they had a strength all their own, and with that strength united it wouldn't be unthinkable for them to destroy an army even of the size of Moctezuma's own followers.


Alexander took pride in his military force, standing tall, the same group that had kept by his side for so long, sweeping nations aside from Persia to Egypt to India. His charisma alone had drawn them to him, but not bound them; instead, it was the force of his single ideal that united them all in brotherhood, breaking the bonds of time and space to return to his command.


Thus, he stood on the precipice of battle, ready for whatever faced him. His warhorse, Bucephalus, gave a neigh as he shook his head and mane, and he smiled as he patted him, stroking his neck with his hand. He almost lost himself in the memories of bygone days, but he kept his eyes to the horizon, prepared to fight.

-- --

The two allied armies stood nearly a kilometre apart, eight hundred metres of rock and sand between their front ranks.


Hannibal's elephants halted their march, their mahouts steadying the animals, preparing for their own attack. Saber, seeing this, narrowed her eyes. She wondered at the utility of beginning an elephant charge at such a distance, but quickly understood that there was more to this than what could initially be seen – while the great beasts stood still, the army around them progressed, holding up their weapons.


From within the phalanx, the various soldiers raised their shields, preparing for a hail of arrows or a skirmishing attack, with spears raining down on their heads.


But, such an attack didn't come, even as the music stopped completely.


An order from one of the enemy generals, barked over a continuous march, reached the ears of the phalangites, to them just a whisper; they lowered their sarissas. Locking together, they became the classic image of the impenetrable wall of spears and shields, deadly to anyone who dared approach.


There was a high-pitching whistle as something hurtled through the air.


At that moment, twenty or more men were knocked to the ground, bodies crumpled and broken under the weight and power of a cannonball. Then came another shot, rumbling from far away, and another, decimating the front line of the Macedonian force: the soldiers atop Hannibal's elephants reloaded their guns, preparing the powder and shot for another volley.


With another thirty cannonballs, hundreds of soldiers were dead on the battlefield, forming a hill right in the middle of the advancing phalanx. Their march slowed and their formation became staggered; it was the proximity of their ranks that had caused them so many casualties, and the soldiers reacted immediately.


Saber cut one cannonball in two as it hurtled by her ear, the pieces of iron tumbling through the ranks of men behind her. She scowled, understanding the current strategy her enemies employed.


The closest half of the Roman legions on either flank of the phalanx were hit by stray shots, and Saber scoffed at the bombardment; her troops spread out on her order, moving away from Alexander's army to form their own groupings, avoiding collateral damage. Saber blocked another oncoming light shot with her own shield, letting it fall to her feet, marched over as if it didn't even exist there. While the Macedonian troops were being shattered by cannon fire, Saber abandoned their flanks, preserving her legions with minimal loss of life. What was key, she knew, was to avoid taking too much damage on her part before engaging the enemy armies in melee. Though Napoleon's soldiers were deadly at range, their skill in hand-to-hand combat and lack of tough armour would lead to their slaughter by the Romans, almost regardless of numerical advantage.


Even more than that, the commanders of the Japanese and Carthaginian forces were both skilled in duelling, and just like in the Iliad of old the front most soldiers would be the greatest warriors.


Four hundred metres remained between the two armies, and Alexander's main force was being torn apart by continuous volleys; his companion cavalry began their tentative strategy, departing from the rear of the army and getting ready to circle about and flank the Japanese and French; they had to wait, at least, until the armies were occupied, and given Alexander's estimates, he planned for this to take place at a distance of one hundred metres or less, to account for the riflemen and musketeers.


“Cavalry, wheel!” he shouted, sick of seeing so many lose their lives at this early stage. “Steady your lines, infantry! Let your shields take their shots, and have no fear!”


Relief came unexpectedly: Moctezuma guided his army through the thinned ranks of the Macedonians, leading them all in a sprint. The elephants, now in the midst of their army, stopped firing, instead splitting their group apart and marching to the edges of the host.


The Aztecs ran, their light armour affording them speeds that none of the other armies could match, and with that they were soon leading the Romans and the Macedonians; all three hundred thousand took to the field, closing the gap between their allies and their enemies.


Two hundred metres between the Aztec front lines and their foes, and dust was being kicked up by their dash across the battlefield. Most other soldiers would be exhausted by such a race, but the proud Aztec warriors continued, following their exalted leader. In battle, the men could sense the blood pounding through the king's veins, and that was a siren's song to them.


All they could see ahead were the barrels of guns pointed right in their direction; the French and Japanese gunners had made a V-shape, opening up towards the oncoming Aztecs, and without delay they let loose a barrage of thousands of bullets. The cruel visage of Nobunaga could be seen as he clutched the gun of a peasant, aiming it straight down at Moctezuma. His shot went wild, but there were so many thousands more that single bullets mattered little in the solid wall of lead breaking the Aztecs apart.


Just as many thousands of men fell down dead, but the rest continued on, running until all feeling left their legs and they couldn't go on anymore.


Moctezuma, choking on the dust around him and the smoke from the firearms, urged his men to go on, and they did as best as they could, buying time for the other two armies to move forward, with Alexander's broken phalanx trying to catch up to their Aztec allies.


It was almost worthless; Nobunaga and Napoleon together had caught Moctezuma in a perfect trap, holding him still and keeping him or his forces from advancing from the sheer weight of the volleys they poured upon them. Moctezuma's army learned to dread the click of reloading and the clatter of hundreds and thousands of guns firing one after the other. It was sacrilege to a proud warrior, and Moctezuma would have none of it.


Even though tens of thousands of his men had fallen, the rest stood their ground, resolute, using their pinned down position to their advantage: the heavier infantry stayed in the core alongside their leader, while the lighter troops made a ring about them, taking flurries of bullets just so that their comrades-in-arms would be able to fight on.


Bodies piled up behind the Aztec charge, blood drenching the ground. This made an advantage; though there were many oncoming bullets, they could never pierce the thick walls of flesh created by the previous volleys, and each new dead man made another obstacle that the still-living warriors could use to their gain. Even in death, their brothers-in-arms could serve a purpose.


Bullets pierced through unarmoured skin, mowing down whole lines of Aztec warriors before they could react. However, any who foes strayed too close were cut down where they stood, and the men took heart in the sound of the approaching Macedonians from behind.


“See, you fools?” Nobunaga laughed, aiming his musket haphazardly at the line of Aztecs before him. “You have to cower behind your dead, with the blood of thousands spilled already! You can hardly move, and yet you fight on? Useless!”


A shot ran out from the man's gun, aimed for the leader of the Aztecs who showed himself without fear. It was a crack shot, better than any other in the armies of Japan or of France.


“We fight on because we have pride.” Moctezuma, not flinching once, caught the speeding ball of lead in his hand, tossing it aside as if it were nothing. His cold stare was levelled at Nobunaga, who hid his annoyance behind a typical sneer.


“Is that so? Then do you have more pride than my soldiers have ammunition? Can you stand up to the force of arms arrayed before you, until we charge in with our swords glistening in the sun, coated red by the paint of your blood as you die pointlessly under our boots?” Nobunaga had his arms crossed, the musket he once held tossed to his feet, broken apart.


The Aztec king's expression didn't change. “No death is pointless, general Nobunaga. Even if every man behind me falls, we will know that honour was in our hearts, and that we fought against a cause the gods can smile upon. For if we give all our effort to oppose you, then even if you weather the rock of our resistance to dust, then we will be the victors here.”


Nobunaga couldn't stand his continued impedance, clenching a fist at his side. “How can you say you have honour? What does honour even matter on a battlefield, where men butcher men just for the power of another? Kings and dreamers have no place in the realm of true thinkers, those that see the bloody truth of war! Show me your honour, then, king! Show me your pride, and fight me like the warrior you say you are!”


One hundred of the elite knights at Moctezuma's side ran across the hill of corpses, and they only crossed twenty metres before they were all killed by a full volley, bringing a twisted grin back to Nobunaga's face.


The heavy infantry divisions under Hannibal, sweltering in their hot armour, stayed just behind the lines of riflemen and musketeers, and marvelled at how the impetuous, charging Aztecs had been slaughtered wholesale by a single tactically sound formation. The two modes of warfare, that of men with swords and clubs and spears, was entirely countered by professional soldiers in ordered lines, attacking in predetermined patterns with little more than massed shots.


However, this formation created a backlog of troops who were forced to stand still, not fighting and not doing anything to advance their battle; they stood restless while the gunners shot apart the Aztecs, time after time, and their energy was being spent uselessly.


At the same time, they had nowhere to move in tight quarters: the Macedonian peltasts, defending from bullets with their toughened, ancient shields, tossed their own volleys at the Carthaginian and Japanese forces laying in wait; their spears rained down, striking through the armour of those gathered behind the rifles, inflicting the first heavy casualties on their side. Their spears were not unlimited, though, and they were forced to draw small swords and work their way forward, enveloping the defenceless Aztec army.


Their initial assault, though, gave them renewed hope for victory.

-- --

While the phalangites and assorted heavy infantry in Alexander's army advanced past the Aztecs, closing their lines and surviving behind the bulk of their spears and shields, the man himself was circling around with his cavalry. He aimed to exploit any number of holes in Napoleon's flanks, riding too fast and too well to be stopped by bullets alone.


His full force of armoured companion cavalry, numbering in the low thousands, rumbled across the rocky desert, keeping a large berth between the opposing army and their own position. They were the best in the army, the true pride of Alexander's fighting force and his most beloved friends.


They caught sight of the cavalry division of the Grand Armée, a group of hussars and cuirassiers greater in number but lesser in strength than the relentless hetairoi: it was a match between the greatest horsemen of their respective eras, but nothing could go exactly as Alexander has planned it out to be.


“Tighten your lines, men; screen their charge!” cried a voice from ahead.


As the companions circled around, preparing for a straight-on charge, they were faced by a mass of almost twenty elephants, with Hannibal and his Surus at their head. The sight of the beasts was an initial shock to the Macedonians, but they held fast, continuing their charge and adjusting their direction to rush at the elephants, planning on taking them out in one sweep. A few dozen horsemen were lost to arrows and spears as they closed, but no more than that could be taken down.


“You arrive just at the perfect time, eh, Hannibal?” shouted Alexander from the back of Bucephalus, holding his spear tight in one hand, tip pointed forward menacingly.


The Carthaginian pulled up on the reins of his beast, staring down at the general below him; Surus pulled a quick swerve left, avoiding a hit from Alexander's bronze spear that could have sliced her belly right on the side. “Or maybe you were too obvious and too slow this time, did you think of that, Alexander? I hoped you hadn't lost your touch!” He laughed, and signalled to the mahouts on both of his flanks.


The horses and elephants crashed together, and once more against Alexander's wishes, the outcome was beyond his expectations: hundreds were killed in the first pass, with men swept off of horses by the raking of the elephants' tusks, and horses killed with spears tearing into their flesh. Only a few elephants succumbed to their wounds, crashing into the dust after being pierced in their stomachs and necks by the spears of the hetairoi. Blood spilled on the dirt, but too much more of it was the blood of the horses and their riders.


Alexander grimaced, but he'd survived the charge; there was an arrow through his shoulder, but he tore it out, teeth gritting. He was as tough as an elephant himself, but the pain throbbed in his upper arm all the same. Yet, he knew he was past the first obstacle, taking sacrifices that were still acceptable. He wanted victory, and nothing less.


Then past the elephants, who were wheeling around just as Alexander's cavalry began to do the same, there was Napoleon's imperial guard, waiting for this exact moment.


The French grenadiers raised their muskets, aiming for the horses as they came near, bayonets affixed to their weapons. The clatter of their guns erupted across the thin line, filling the air with smoke that partly blocked Alexander's view, their sound loud enough to be heard over the shouts, screams and thunder of the battlefield.


“Fire on me if you dare, cowards!” Alexander yelled, ignoring Hannibal at his back and spurring his companions on. “Stand if you think you can kill a god among men, but otherwise, you will break before me!”


Horses, rather than riders, were the target of the volley, a clever move that Alexander despised. Though his own mount was too strong to be felled by a line of shot, the men beside him along the front lines of the charge were crumpled and dead beneath their armoured and galloping horses; the animals fell and broke their legs, whinnying in shock and pain if they weren't already dead, bolting their masters from their saddles.


The trumpeting of the elephants could be heard at his back, and Alexander scowled; being trapped like this was a dishonour to him, and he wouldn't let a failure like this turn more bloody than it should. He rallied his men by blowing on a horn at his side, and he threw his spear forward to strike through two men, seniors of the French guard, breaking one's shoulder and impaling the second through his collarbone; he unsheathed his sword, declaring his intent: the wounded group of companion cavalry rushed headlong at the coming cuirassiers, long spears held in both hands, horses remaining steady, like a jousting match.


“Fortune favours the bold!” he shouted, and a chorus of cheers came up from his friends as they rode abreast their king, not stopping for anything that could get in their way.


The cuirassiers, wielding broadswords rather than weapons with much reach, were for the most part knocked from their horses, left heaving on the ground, their lungs pierced, forcing them to bleed out and suffer, holding their chests. It was almost a complete victory for the hetairoi: even the greatest cavalry of Napoleon's personal guard were swept away by their advance, and the proud fusiliers standing in short lines to protect their emperor were trampled under the unrelenting hooves of Alexander and his companions.


There, amidst Napoleon's best men, Hannibal was powerless; Alexander had taken a bold move and rushed to where he was at once at great danger, and yet safest from the stomping elephants not far from where he sat atop his horse. There couldn't be any cavalry charges by any of the three sides, but with the martial skill of Alexander and his companions, it was a clear gain to put themselves in such a potentially dangerous situation.


The thick armoured coats hanging on the sides of the horses ridden by the hetairoi foiled any attempt to gut the animals with bayonets, and Napoleon glared at the intruders with a sneer, raising his arm and pointing at them.


With his direction a full unit of infantrymen near him parted and aimed their rifles towards the hetairoi, and yet it only managed to bring down a few, with many of the bullets merely deflected by the peerless bronze of their armour, forged long ago and with such age becoming stronger than steel. Alexander let out a cruel laugh, glancing pointedly at Napoleon.


“You there, you call yourself emperor of the French?” As if for emphasis, Alexander cut the head from a younger guardsman's shoulders, letting his body fall to the dust. No one could resist the King of Conquerors in his slow march towards his chosen foe.


“I am more than an emperor,” Napoleon shouted back, unperturbed by the encroaching king. “I am a general, a leader of men with no parallel! How can a king dare to challenge the proven authority of a man who has risen from the lowest of statures to the greatest?”


Alexander directed his curved xiphos at the Frenchman, his eyes narrowed and his off-hand tightly gripping the reins of Bucephalus. “How dare I?” he laughed, as if the statement was absurd. “Look behind me, idiot emperor: behind me you'll find thousand of men who have fought beside me since my campaigns began, who can personally attest to my skill, bravery and intelligence. What do you have to repeal that proof of authority, emperor? You think all kings are born into riches and glamour, do you? You believe that the nobles grow fat on their money while the peasants are the ones who should lead? I hope you jest, emperor, or else you've only offended me more. A peasant who rises to power is no more or less impressive than a king who rules the world.”


Showing that he would never stand for this, Napoleon held his guardsmen in a group around himself; he was mounted on his own warhorse, looking like a pale mirror of Alexander's glimmering, heroic host and the general that led them on his famed steed.


“Ah, king, that is where you lie!” Napoleon clenched a fist, hiding the weakness he felt in the face of this mighty leader of history. He knew that he would prove himself if he killed Alexander, but the goal seemed far too high to ever reach.


He could fight, then, with words. “King, do you know who my father was?”


Alexander sneered, lightly shaking his head and bringing his horse to a stop. His companions followed suit, sharing glances amongst each other.


“My father, Carlo, was a minor politician from Corsica, many of whose children died in their infancy. I survived, and was afforded the opportunity to attend school in France, making my way to a royal military academy. I succeeded against the sons of noble families, who were enabled to attend this same school through connections and the usual nepotism; I was recommended for further studies through merit, rather than familial influence and politics.”


He eyed Alexander with disgust and a hint of wariness. “Yet you, king, your father was Philip, lord of all Macedon and conqueror of Greece; under his tutelage, with Aristotle as your mentor and with the greatest of opportunities afforded to you, you managed to succeed. Hardly a strong effort, is it? Every situation you entered was prefabricated to ensure your success, and you merely followed in the footsteps of your father. Had he survived some more years, then naturally he would have done just what you later did, assaulting Persia with a mighty force of arms. Your tactics were borrowed from Philip, your intelligence from Aristotle, and your temperament from the Macedonian wine you always favoured.” Again he sneered, showing his true contempt for Alexander.


The king could take no more of this. “You slander me!” he yelled, looking back to his companions, who bore looks of anger against whosoever would insult their friend and leader. “You were gifted with chance, which comes to every man every so often in history. There were thousands of other potential emperors brewing, but you merely had the luck to be picked out of all of them! You are hardly special, you fool and failure of an emperor, and you can never brag of your skill and superiority in the face of the true King of Conquerors!”


He ordered an assault, and with swords in hand the hetairoi advanced through the lines of Napoleon's troops, safe in the close quarters their staggered lines allowed.


The Old Guard were no match for the thousand companions of Alexander, even though their own numbers were in the thousands themselves; Greek shortswords hacked at their thin, fabric uniforms, finding no worthwhile armour to stop the onslaught of their blades. Alexander, in his assault, was relentless: not one man was spared, and as the cavalry advanced they butchered with sword and with spear everyone that came close. Yet, even with this, the imperial guard didn't falter, and they stood by the side of their emperor even to their brutal deaths, their bodies so close that their blood stained his heavy coat as they fell.


Napoleon Bonaparte would not stand for this.


“So be it, old Alexander.” He stepped down from his horse, handing his hat to a guardsman near him. A wind blew, fluttering the flags carried by the standard bearers, and Napoleon advanced in a slow walk, determined to face his foes himself. As he stepped towards Alexander, boots dirtied with the desert's hot dust, he unsheathed his cavalry sabre; metal rang on metal when he tapped the tip against the bronze armour of a fallen friend of Alexander's, getting the prime attention of the man himself.


There was no turning back for either of them.


Napoleon narrowed his eyes, meeting the gaze of the King of Conquerors. “I am most unimpressed, you know. While your army is being slaughtered, you retreat along the flanks, hoping to have a chance at striking me down personally. That would be smart, if your men were not spilling their blood needlessly in the centre of this battlefield, and it would be honourable if honour was worth anything when two armies meet.”


The king remained on his horse, looking down at the emperor with a sneer. “I have nothing to do with you now; you are merely an obstacle in my way, and I will rout you as I did Darius.” His words were spoken with impeccable care and precision, and perhaps most of all, they were as arrogant as could be heard from him at that moment.


“Like Darius? I think you have me mistaken, or has your judgement soured with age? He was a king, you should recall, and I have spoken long on the matter of kings.” Twirling his sword in his hand, Napoleon stepped forward and stood tall, not bowing to the words of his old hero. “Right as we speak, your own forces are being massacred on the field, and if you do not aid them now you will be crushed into finer dust than my foes at Austerlitz.”


Alexander failed to care about the words spewed by this enemy, and he spat on the dirt below him, showing how insignificant he found the Frenchman before him.


He scoffed. “Had you bowed to me, I would have spared you.”


With that, he pulled back on the reins of Bucephalus, and had the horse raise her front hooves into the air menacingly, challenging any who would come near. The infantry divisions of Napoleon had cleared away, not avoiding the fight but instead creating a clear firing lane in case their emperor was under direct attack. They waited only on his order, which he did not give.


With a beating of hooves on the sand, Alexander and his companions rushed forward; the sword Alexander gripped tightly in his hand swung low, aiming for Napoleon's neck, but it was too obvious: Napoleon slipped aside the blow like a finely trained duellist, parrying it with a touch of his own blade, and letting his counterattack strike near to the ground, hewing off one of Bucephalus' back legs, near the knee. The horse let out a sharp cry and tumbled to the ground, dragging its bulk with its remaining legs as its rider glared back at the man who had dared injure his precious friend.


And then, there was a shout that they all could hear: “Fortune favours the bold!”


The hetairoi looked around, letting the blades of their spears and their swords cut swaths through the air, and they looked all at once to their king. Yet, he was silent, and looked at them as baffled as they were.


Beneath them, the ground rumbled as if a storm had rolled in; the sky was clear, and it became apparent that nothing was right when a mass of huge, grey elephants tore into view. They bashed aside the companion cavalry, using the lane that Napoleon's men created to bullrush the remaining horsemen, narrowly avoiding Napoleon himself.


In moments, Alexander's friends had been beaten to the ground or trampled underfoot by the bold charge led by Hannibal, and he was at the mercy of the Old Guard.

-- --

On the other side of the battlefield, Saber was leading her men through the scattered ranks of peltasts and phalangites, tearing through them with a vengeance. She wished to have some sense of satisfaction, utterly wiping away the unsuspecting soldiers, who in their continuous advance towards the Carthaginians and Japanese were slaughtered without pause by the Romans. They didn't see the approach of the men dressed all in red as the coming of a foe; instead, some hailed them as they neared, hoping for relief as their numbers still whittled before endless gunfire; they had barely managed to move a few metres in the time that it took Saber to annihilate their rear guard, collapsing their ranks and forcing the survivors forward to their deaths.


She never spoke to her soldiers; she just ordered them with her will, just as one would swing a sword to beat back a foe.


Just like that, the core of Alexander's army had been wiped out, and already the equestrian legion of Saber's forces was wheeling around the side to move towards the Japanese, letting Alexander himself continue with his suicidal charge at the flanks of the French imperials.


Saber raised her sword high, and pointed forth at an approaching detachment of twenty elephants, their thunderous bellows not managing to frighten her soldiers in the least. The thick smell of blood and death in the air appeased her, and she stood on the front ranks with her men, standing proudly against the onrush of the mighty beasts.


With a gesture her legionaries split ranks, forming lanes wide enough for the madly charging elephants to dash through: it was the Zama strategy, one innately familiar to a proud – and more than certainly arrogant – Roman such as Saber.


With the same technique that ushered in Hannibal's ultimate defeat in his war, she felt satisfaction welling up inside her. Victory, for her own forces, was near at hand. Yet, it was empty.


The mahouts tried to divert their mounts from their course, but without the grand example of Surus or the sheer charisma of Hannibal himself, they couldn't manage such a thing: the elephants rushed down the lanes the Roman soldiers created, and were unceremoniously pelted with pila from either side. By the time they reached the rear of the legions, the great beasts were stuck through with hundreds of javelins, laying dead on their stomachs with their riders following soon. It was over faster than Saber could quite notice, and she frowned. It was hardly a battle, and though her soldiers barely noticed, she scowled and swung her sword as though her arm was heavy; she couldn't muster the effort to fight as she once did.


But she kept her thoughts on the direct, emotionless statistics of the battle, detaching any feeling or beauty from it: so far, Saber had few casualties strike her own army; she'd played this battle as a simple game, weaving through the ongoing conflicts, never fully engaging in them. Only now did she enter herself into the engagement as a genuine competitor, and her record was standing tall.


She drew her men around, bringing them up right to the base of a long, tall dune; the Masters were not far from there, having moved to a second hill to avoid getting embroiled in the conflict.


That dune Saber led her troops up, specifically, was right at the flank of Nobunaga's army, and she saw her chance to eliminate another rival from the running.

-- --

The soul of a proud warrior, raging within Moctezuma, could hardly suffer the shame of being defeated so unrighteously. He screamed to his troops, telling them to fight on, regardless of the sacrifices, and that their deaths would appease the gods watching them far above, but even those pleas could not stop the gunners of Napoleon's army, and those of Nobunaga's, from continuing to strike them down with waves of bullets, killing hundreds if not thousands with each barrage.


There was no turning back, and yet going forward meant only death.


Moctezuma cried out against this pale imitation of honour, and stood tall amongst his soldiers, leaving them to defend their centre, not moving an inch. It seemed, to the infantrymen firing upon them, that with every man they killed the vitality, rage and strength of the others grew greater, and each man died harder than the last.


So it was that the greatest of the Aztecs, holding his sword high above his head, rushed out from his guard, the stoic Aztec knights who swore to protect him, and faced the oncoming volleys of shot after shot after shot.


Even as bullets pierced through his tough skin he ran onward, cutting down whole swaths of fighters, slicing apart any who got in his way. Those who opposed him were cut down, Moctezuma's obsidian blade tearing their limbs from their body with inhuman precision: his rage could not be stopped, and countless men fell before him, some even fleeing as he approached.


Seething, his robes coated with deep, red blood, he thrust his hand through a lightly armoured man's chest. Lifting him into the air with sheer strength, the man's wide-brimmed hat fell from his head, and the only reason his eyes were not bulging with fear was simply because the shock of having his heart torn from him was simply too great to handle.


Grasping the bloodied, still-beating heart of that man, Moctezuma raised it in the air as an example to all those around him; they stayed back, lowering their shields, readying their swords. They did not rout, but they did not make a move to attack him.


They trembled, and Moctezuma could see that fear – he could feel it.


He crushed the frail organ in his hand, letting its blood run down his left arm, coating the iron wrapped around it. His muscles shined with blood and sweat, and he breathed heavily, having torn apart more soldiers than he could count, working with his bare hands and his sword in a perfect duality.


As the blood seeped into his clothes, the heavy chain on Moctezuma's arm began to loosen, and his lips curled into a sadistic grin.


A flame-like aura of bluish-green licked about his body, and he charged back into the ranks of those who dared kill his own people with their merciless ways.


He would show them the honours granted by a god thirsty for blood.

-- --

Disorder was rampant on the field of battle: though the French and Carthaginians stood together, and Romans and Aztecs made no moves against each other, the Japanese set themselves upon Hannibal's mercenary force like hounds at the will of Nobunaga; he had planned this betrayal to win his own glory, waiting for the armies to weaken.


He didn't notice the Romans on the battlefield, searching for them left and right; his sight was blocked by the samurai and horsemen charging from his side to crash into the Carthaginian lines, and he did his best to assert his own power over the desert, letting the blood at his feet be a reminder of what he sought.


His own ego powering his lust for conquest, he took in a deep breath of the deathly musk all around, enjoying its odour.


In his mind, all was performing as he had expected it to, but his time for glory would come when it could; he wished not to be over-hasty, and yet being a coward was not on his agenda. Instead, he actively attracted the attention of the Carthaginians, rushing to meet them in battle personally.


Flames licked at his heels, and his eyes turned a bloody, inhuman shade of red.


-- --


The once orderly battle had turned into an all-out brawl, with the remaining forces of each side fighting against each other, with only a few staying true to their preordained alliances.


Not one, however, looked to the hill, where the sun would glare in their eyes: beneath the harsh light was a silhouette of something that could not quite be discerned, and still none were in the mind to pay attention to what lingered far off in the distance. The heat alone was distracting, and some soldiers were fighting beyond their capabilities, ready to fall dead from exhaustion at any point. The battle took its toll on everyone, with one hundred thousand bodies or more littering the desert's sun-baked sand.


The environment alone boiled them under their armour and filled sand in their boots and in their leggings, and when they turned about to face their foes often the sun stung their eyes, the great flame in the grand, hopeful blue sky burning too brightly, with no clouds to hinder it.


Thus, but a few caught a single glimpse of the sight: of nine white banners sitting on the hilltop.



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

Oho, what is this? A challenger approaches!

I think you'll enjoy where this is going, now. Also, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it was fully of army battles and tactics and stuff! I tried to fit a few duels in there, but it's rather difficult.

[Frantic Author]

...

Welp I've only read this chapter and now I have to read the entire fic.

GODDAMMIT FIVE

[Five_X]

...

Welp I've only read this chapter and now I have to read the entire fic.

GODDAMMIT FIVE

Just wait until you get to the part with Blackbeard and the Leviathan.

[Frantic Author]

Will there be cake at the end though? Do I have to assume the Party Attendee Position?

[Five_X]

There will not be cake.

However, there will be blood. And hugs.

[Frantic Author]

No cake?

But but

you said it would be awesome

[Five_X]

I think Napoleon, Francois and Amelie have cake at one point, for what it's worth?

[Frantic Author]

Yessss that makes up for everything

Five I shall now go violently devour this fic and gain some sort of medal for it

Also get on notes dammit