It was night, yet darkness had not arrived on the front. Everywhere he looked, it was bright. To soften the enemy positions, friendly artillery rained down white phosphorus, thermite bombs, thermobaric bombs, and other nasty incendiary weapons at their trenches. Such a combination created an almost majestic firestorm that soldiers like him could watch from the trenches.

It must have been one hell of an experience for them, slowly being burned by white phosphorus that night. Good, the less of them, the better it would be for him once they launch the assault.

He watched as more munitions were dropped at them, reveling at the silent, almost twisted beauty of the devastation they caused. It was as if they commanded the flames themselves to bring hell to the world.

Indeed, that was what defined this twisted war. For the troops involved were mostly men, almost all rules of war were lifted. Any and all nightmarish weaponry that was developed in the past decades was free game for both sides. And so the fronts were turned into hellish testing sites for every inhumane weaponry known to man.

And they were the guinea pigs.

The gunfire.

The artillery.

The screams of the dammed.

It filled the ears, much as the visuals of terror filled the eyes.

It was so bad that governments participating in the war actively barred entrance to the conflict for their fellow women. It left young men like him alone without much magical support to deal with the brutality they faced.

This is where they belonged, they said. He was an unworthy scum befitting the trenches, his family said. Even his once-beloved older sister almost said the same to console him when he went to the recruitment center. It was what everyone around him said.

And he still remembered what she said when he asked that woman out. He thought it was his final chance before the draft pulled him away. And so he mustered up his courage to face her, his one and only dream.

Yet like all dreams, it was crushed.

"Go to that war first, and prove yourself."

He chuckled. "And they said the worst she can say is no."

A deranged smirk grew on his face as he pulled down his night vision goggles. Perhaps they were right.

Today, he will die with his battalion, on this depraved battlefield, like the millions of his brothers before him.

"They're fucking breaking, lads!" Their Captain shouted at them while he prepared his rifle. "The barrage has cleared a path for us! Now we will sweep them off their trenches!"

It was a lie. Artillery seldom cleared the trenches. Even with its sheer brutality, hundreds would survive and return fire. Yet the lie gave them silent comfort. He was different, though. He knew otherwise...

At the very least, the vapor cloud of VX (Venomous Agent X) on the sector they were about to storm had already evaporated, or at least according to the penal battalions who "surveyed" the front yesterday. That was...a sliver of good news if it was true since supply shortages meant that they wouldn't get their CBRN (Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear) gear for the counter-offensive.

Well, considering that the enemy re-occupied their trenches, it should be pretty clear...

He remembered the scenes two weeks ago when they gunned down their fellow soldiers who attempted to escape the trenches contaminated by VX, all to prevent them from spreading its poison. Entire friendly brigades of convulsing soldiers were decimated as they ran from the nerve gas in vain. He watched as his fellow fighting brothers, some of whom he knew, were cut down by their very own rifles. It was a scene out of hell itself, he thought, as he attempted to bury it again away from his mind.

"Will there be armor support?" A boy, Private Timmy, asked from his right. While his combat uniform, mask, and NVG hid his younger features, his voice betrayed any semblance of adulthood.

It wasn't surprising. The war promised much to every man. They promised a good life for them. Votes, wealth, glory, housing, free college, jobs, and many more. Was it true? They didn't know. But beggars were no choosers, and it was a shiny promise. Even sixteen-year-olds enlisted en masse.

And the Queen was more than happy to send more of her sons to the meatgrinder. Especially willing volunteers. The more troops sent to replace the dead ones, the more land would be taken or held.

"Yes, there will be!" The Captain said as the artillery wound down. Confidence rose as they awaited the command.

"Sir, what about the contamination? We're not sure if the VX is gone." Another asked, and confidence dipped. Nerve gas was the terror of the front that every soldier feared. A man may wallow through a trench filled with mustard gas with nothing but an outdated gas mask and suit, but when it was Sarin or VX, not even cutting-edge CBRN gear would keep the morale high to push on.

But the response was quick. Officers always had that duty. They motivated their men to carry on, no matter what they faced. So the Captain roared.

"Orders are in. Even if nerve agents are still present on surfaces, they should be in low doses. The Queen demands victory. And we shall deliver. No matter the cost!"

A wave of uneasiness enveloped the men, but the Captain continued his speech.

"You are all men, right?!"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Then do not fear hell. You men are lions, and no gas will make you flinch! Am I correct?!'

"Yes sir!!" the men shouted in unison, and then they resumed their preparations. The words struck deep into their hearts. They were men, and this was one of the things they were always proud of.

They may not have magic, but they had stubbornly clung to the idea that men must be hardened warriors, ready to face death when the call came. That when those with wands ran in terror, simple men with but a rifle would hold the line for them.

With radios checked, equipment ready, and spirits "high," the words came out loud at every ear.

"All units! Forward!"

Squads after squads, entire platoons, all climbed up the trenches as armored vehicles rushed from behind them. What little was left of the town before them was gone, nothing but cinders and rubble.

He kept up with his squad as they ran forward like hell. And just as he expected, indeed, the artillery didn't eliminate them. Terror rained down on the entire frontline as they were greeted by heavy gunfire. Artillery and mortar fire decimated entire ranks, sending torn limbs and bodies into the air. Yet they pushed on.

Many were cut down, while others took cover in the rubble, responding with their assault rifles. The tanks behind them moved on, firing on the move.

He grimaced as a mortar shell landed a few meters from him, forcing him to duck down in the rubble.

Looking up, however, he realized it was no mortar. It was a dreaded drone. Those small rotary drones were one of the silent terrors of the night on the front, that dropped bombs at anyone who dared expose himself.

In a fit of panic, he fired his rifle at it as it flew away, but it was futile. Just as the gunfire and explosions intensified around him, a question popped into his mind. Where were his comrades?

He looked around, and the answer to the question came. The tanks were burning. The radio was filled with screams. There were no Orlish soldiers left standing near him.

He looked around for his squadmates, but all he found was Private Timmy over there, lying face-first in a crater filled with rainwater.

There was no point anymore.

"...Fuck it."

Mustering his courage, he stood up and charged at them. But he didn't get far. An explosion nearby peppered his legs with shrapnel.

He didn't know how long he lay there. In and out of consciousness, he lay as the world burned around him, until...

She looked like an angel. No bullets passed through her shining shield. She was clearly one of the few women who volunteered in the front. And damn, were they a true godsend, his delirious mind thought jokingly.

Rare like a gem, they were usually the great medics and nurses who would save one's life from demise. One may lose a limb, but a wand can close the wound and stop the bleeding in seconds.

If only more of them came to support them in the war.

It was cool when she aimed her wand at him. Maybe, some of them did care? He almost stopped believing that...

Someone slapped his back. His eyes opened.

+++

"Wake up, moron." William looked around, his eyes locking up at his older brother, Well Porter, who, unlike him, was born nearly two decades before him and became a successful businessman.

Lucky him, he dodged a hell of a bullet.

They were in the guest room of the Palace. His brother dragged him here today for a meeting with the new Queen. He protested it, but his brother wanted him to experience business negotiations and some politics to 're-integrate him to civilian life.' It was clear that his older brother wanted to train him as a potential successor to the company.

"You war veterans really have a lot of loose screws." Well commented as William took a glass of water from the table before him. He then sat on the sofa with William. "Sleeping on the Palace, all sweaty. You've got quite the balls."

William chuckled and drank the water. The cold liquid awakened him and calmed down his nerves. "I've had worse."

"You sure did."

William looked at his watch. It seemed like he still had time before the meeting.

"We're going there at ten, right?"

"Of course. Hopefully, it goes well." Well said, as he lit up another cigar. The older man was a bit of a smoker, which William never approved of. Many a time, he would tell him how foolish it was to poison one's lungs so willingly - when millions of young men lost theirs on the front.

But that was just how his older brother was. To nag him further would be pointless. So William resigned himself to think about the meeting.

William had already looked at the details of it—a shipyard in the capital. Porter Heavy Industries certainly had the capabilities to construct a major shipyard in the capital, which was why the Admiralty picked them.

Unfortunately, the Parliament blocked the project. They had a point in blocking such a money sink, but PHI's bottom line was his and his brother's main interest. The contract for the construction would be massive money, not to mention the decades of operating such a massive shipyard, which meant shipbuilding contracts.

Especially that juicy new supercarrier class that the Admiralty wanted, as his brother would say.

PHI would finally expand its operations to constructing capital warships, a vision his brother had long dreamed of. While they had facilities for taking on contracts for guided-missile frigates and destroyers in other provinces, anything with a tonnage above twenty thousand tons was considered impossible.

Of course, the Admiralty would also benefit. Having more ships at their disposal would be critical to keeping Orland's global naval supremacy. Even if the Great War ended, the war was not truly over.

Especially when the Empire of Larissa, their main rival, was making moves against the island kingdom of Lorathia on some disputed islands, and Lorathia was one of their key allies in the developing Cold War.

Thus, it would be inevitable that the Orlish Navy would once again face those blasted Larissans on the high seas as if the Great War never ended.

But clearly, women were increasingly distraught at the growth and power of the Armed Forces, the Navy included. And to be fair, they and other corporations involved in the growing military-industrial was a black hole for taxpayer money, mainly paid by women and the nobility.

But, those nobles can go to hell, he thought. If the money was going anywhere, it better go to them. That was the goal of the Porter brothers.

Call it selfish, but anyone outside of the aristocratic elite had been screwed in countless ways for centuries. It was only now that their power and wealth began growing, so why not take advantage of it?

"So, what's our strategy?"

"We will proceed with what we planned." Well answered, and William nodded. It was already 9:44 a.m., which meant they only had a few minutes left. William took one last drink, and the two stood up. It was time to strike.

+++

William followed Well as the two walked through the halls of the Palace. While its grandeur and opulence would certainly attract the eyes, William was too jaded to take notice of that.

Beauty, after all, was a lie. How could one even find beauty in a Palace that symbolized the boots that strangled men for centuries?

Especially his generation?

Distrust, suspicion, and a lack of faith in the system - and women. It was what defined the lessons learned by every young man who went to the war. There was no system out there that would care for or cherish them. There was no warm home nor a dignified job that waited for them.

A good life? College? Nonsense, all of them.

What awaited them was the cold embrace of neglect.

Not even the joke that they now "have a say" through voting rights was true. Ignoring the fact that they were already threatening men's right to vote before it even began, did it even matter?

Many men of his age were dead. How would they even be an effective voting block when nearly half of them had either been shot, stabbed, blasted, incinerated, or gassed to vote?

Was it not simply so perfect for them? That they had effectively eliminated their political power before even giving them the right to vote?

Whatever that blasted Queen says, it's a lie.

But he had to keep it to himself. That stupid brat who promised this and that when none of it even seemed possible. Who was she? The blasted goddess? Did she really think that she would convince men to support her just because of a few sweet words?

Go to hell.

"We're here. Just stay confident and calm. No need to embarrass ourselves in front of her."

"Got it, brother."

The staff opened the door, revealing her office. It was grand, with a nice view of the city behind her. The desk she sat on, the fancy paintings on the walls, the multitude of furniture and ornaments that adorned the room, and then the two flags of Orland that stood behind her desk. It certainly caught Well's eyes, William's on the other hand, not so much.

It was the famous round office. The symbolical center of the power of the Orlish Crown, where the Queens of Orland guided and ruled the proud Kingdom ever since its foundation.

There, sat behind the desk, was Queen Amelie herself. She placed down the cup of tea that she held and then observed the two.

Yep, I knew it. She's an elitist prick. Speak sweetly and passionately in front of her people during a coronation, then look down at us in private. How unsurprising.

His brother coughed, and then he began introducing himself and William.

"Your Majesty, I am honored to be in your presence. I am Well Porter, the CEO of Porter Heavy Industries. This right here is my younger brother, William Porter."

With a gentle smile, she stood up.

"Welcome, do be at ease, gentlemen—no need to bow or kneel. I'm not a fan of such trivialities. Let us proceed straight to business instead."

+++

Amelie paused for a few seconds as the two took a stunned and confused reaction. However, it was clear that the two were suppressing it.

Did...did I go too far?

Yesterday, Albert told her that she must keep a sense of authority to deal with them. That she should present herself as a true Queen and not get too casual with them. However, he warned her not to get too arrogant when speaking.

Naturally, without much experience, perhaps she screwed up the balancing of it.

Damn him, at least he should have shown me how to do it!

She cleared her throat.

"Well then, do take your seats."

"Well, thank you, Your Majesty."

The two took their seats in front of her, with Amelie doing the same.

Well Porter spoke first, his tone businesslike as he explained the project. Amelie listened well to the details, and so did William as Well laid down the shipyard's capabilities.

Indeed, it was an interesting proposition to Amelie. Such a shipyard could construct the new Queen Areya-Class Nuclear-Powered Aircraft Carriers for the navy in bulks of two in a four-year production cycle.

Such a large vessel had a displacement of a hundred thousand tons. So far, the Orlish Navy had only commissioned two of these advanced carriers, the ONS Queen Areya and the ONS Matriarch, as they could only be constructed by one shipyard in all of Orland.

"Your Majesty, with this shipyard, we could construct eight of these carriers in the next two decades. Not to mention the other ships we could make on these extra facilities. And that's only for the short term. This shipyard has the potential to operate for a century."

She nodded. Indeed it was a great project. But such projects would only make sense if they had the budget. Technically, Orland could afford it - but the Parliament refused to pay.

"Well, then, what about the cost of the project?"

This time, the young man, William, stepped in.

"Your Majesty, the shipyard, according to our latest estimates, will cost eight Billion Orlish Blancs."

"Well...there's the problem."

William cut her words.

"I don't see the problem with that, Your Majesty. You've just approved an eighteen billion budget increase for the Royal Guard. I'm not sure why the military should not receive the same."

Porter looked at William as his skin paled. The way he spoke to the Queen, was borderline insolence. His neck was on the line, for heaven's sake.

Fortunately, Amelie had no violent reaction.

"Indeed, that is true, William, was it? Say, do you have a special interest in the military to get this budget?" She asked curiously. The way he defended the interests of the military was above how a businessman would.

"Yes, I do, Your Majesty. I'm off duty, but I am the commanding officer of the 16th Armored Battalion."

Well began fidgeting as William continued. "Hey, come on, I told you not to bring up your military business here."

"No worries about that, Mr. Porter. There is no shame in being in the military." She looked back at William. "Interesting. Why then are you here?"

"Officially, my unit was demobilized, Your Majesty. Technically, I'm now a civilian employee of PHI, but, as you know, the circumstances are different these days."

She nodded. "Yes, I've heard of it. Men going home but keeping their gear and equipment ready at the bases?"

"Yes, most demobilized units are ready to be reactivated at a moment's notice. The Armed Forces are prepared to face any threat to Orland."

"Well, that is most interesting. So what do I really gain from helping the military in this project, Mister William?" She looked at him seriously, demanding a straight answer.

It was clear that she wasn't asking for the material gain from constructing the shipyard. No, she wanted a straight answer from someone in the military itself. Would her approval for the project gain their support?

"Your Majesty, I cannot promise much from my branch, the Army. But one thing I can tell is that if you give us this budget and complete the shipyard - the Navy would be on your side."