May 1, 1639 – Otaheit Airbase, Mu Republic, Mu continent

The rhythmic hum of rotor blades echoed across the sky as a US Navy MH-60R Seahawk descended toward Otaheit International Airfield. Marked with the insignia of the United States, the aircraft carried an important delegation—the first official diplomatic mission between Earth's leading superpower and the Mu Republic, a nation seemingly frozen in a 1940s-era military doctrine yet unmatched in industrial prowess and technological ingenuity on the continent.

As the helicopter touched down, a welcoming party of Muan officials and military personnel awaited on the tarmac. Their uniforms—crisp, immaculate, and evocative of mid-20th-century British military attire—stood in stark contrast to the modern aircraft before them. The air carried the distinct scents of jet fuel, steel, and the salt of the nearby sea, a testament to Otaheit's status as an industrial powerhouse.

At the head of the Muan delegation stood Gandolf, the Section Chief of International Affairs for Outside the Civilized Areas. A seasoned diplomat, he was known for his sharp mind and insatiable curiosity about the world beyond Mu. Clad in a dark navy officer's coat with gold epaulettes, he embodied the Republic's militaristic roots. A man of precision, he rarely wasted words—but when he spoke, they carried weight.

Descending the ramp of the helicopter, Ambassador Thomas Caldwell adjusted his suit, taking in the striking architecture of the Muan capital. Retro-futuristic buildings with clean-cut, utilitarian designs lined the city—where old-world charm met rigid, disciplined engineering.

Gandolf stepped forward with a measured nod. "Ambassador Caldwell, welcome to Otaheit. The Republic of Mu is honored by your visit."

Caldwell extended a firm handshake. "Chief Gandolf, it's a pleasure. The United States has long awaited this opportunity to learn more about Mu and its people. This is a historic moment for both our nations."

After a brief exchange of diplomatic pleasantries, Gandolf gestured toward a convoy of military-styled automobiles awaiting them. "I will personally guide you through Otaheit. We have much to discuss, and I believe you will find Mu's military and industrial advancements... enlightening."

With that, the delegation boarded the vehicles and departed from the airfield, setting off toward their first destination.

The convoy arrived at Wellington Barracks, one of the most prestigious military installations in Mu. Tall gates adorned with the Republic's emblem stood as a testament to the disciplined and structured nature of the nation's armed forces. Inside, rows of Muan soldiers drilled in precise formations, their movements fluid and practiced.

Gandolf led Caldwell to a large open field where a squad of engineers stood beside a Bulwark Mk I Tank. The heavy steel-plated vehicle, with its sloped armor and large turret, resembled a modified version of the FV4007 Centurion from Earth's history.

"Impressive," Caldwell remarked, running a hand over the cold metal. "It reminds me of early Cold War-era Western tanks. Your engineering is remarkable."

Gandolf, though stoic, allowed a flicker of pride. "The Bulwark Mk I is our latest model, designed for both offense and durability. Though we lack the advanced materials I imagine your country possesses, we believe this machine will stand the test of time."

A nearby officer presented the MAR-14, the Muan standard-issue assault rifle, an efficient firearm inspired by the StG 44 from Earth. Caldwell picked it up, testing the weight.

"An assault rifle... for standard infantry. You developed this independently?"

Gandolf nodded. "We have been perfecting rapid-fire weaponry for decades. Rifles like this ensure our soldiers have both range and firepower."

Caldwell exhaled in quiet disbelief. "This level of weapons development... in isolation. I imagine you'd be quite surprised when you meet the British."

Gandolf frowned. "The British? Are they one of your rival powers?"

Caldwell smirked. "Not quite. Let's just say you have more in common with them than you think."

The Muan official remained silent, but Caldwell could tell his curiosity had been piqued.

The next stop was Port Trafalgar, Mu's premier naval base and home to its fleet. The moment they arrived, Caldwell's eyes were drawn to the HMB-II, a behemoth of steel docked at the harbor. The battleship's thick armor and powerful gun turrets bore a striking resemblance to HMS Royal Oak, one of Britain's historic vessels.

"Magnificent," Caldwell admitted. "This is a true capital ship. Your navy must be formidable on the seas."

Gandolf folded his arms behind his back. "Mu has always prioritized naval superiority. While aircraft carriers may be the future, battleships remain the symbol of power."

The ambassador nodded. "They were once the pride of Earth's greatest navies as well, though modern warfare has largely replaced them. I imagine your people would be astonished to see a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier in action."

Gandolf raised an eyebrow. "Nuclear? And you claim battleships are obsolete? Intriguing..."

At Ainank Airbase, the delegation was shown Mu's finest aerial weapon—the Marin Mk-III, an advanced propeller-driven fighter plane reminiscent of the Supermarine Spitfire. Engineers performed last-minute checks while pilots in leather flight jackets prepped for a demonstration flight.

As the aircraft roared down the runway and took to the skies, Caldwell watched with admiration.

"Beautiful machine," he remarked. "It looks like a Spitfire, one of the finest fighters from our own history."

Gandolf turned sharply. "You know of such aircraft?"

Caldwell grinned. "Oh, we built thousands of them. They helped us win the Second World War."

Gandolf's expression darkened. "The... second?"

Caldwell chuckled. "Yes. You see, Earth had not just one but two world wars. The first was devastating, but the second was even worse. Entire nations were obliterated, millions perished. The world changed forever after that."

Gandolf remained silent for a long moment, staring at the Marin Mk-III soaring through the air. "We have always believed war to be a constant in human nature... but two world wars? I cannot imagine such devastation."

"Perhaps," Caldwell said thoughtfully, "but it was also in war that we learned to strive for peace."

For the first time, Gandolf appeared truly shaken. The weight of history, the realization that Mu was no longer alone in the vast unknown, settled upon him.

"This conversation has been... enlightening," he finally said. "Perhaps Mu has more to learn from your world than we initially believed."

As the aircraft landed, the delegation prepared for their final stop—the Muan National Museum, where the greatest revelation of all awaited them.

After witnessing Mu's military prowess, the American delegation followed Gandolf through the grand halls of the Muan National Museum. The building itself was a marvel—a fusion of neoclassical design with industrial-age steel framing, exuding a solemn aura of history and resilience. Large banners depicting Muan emblems and historical moments hung from the ceiling, while polished marble floors reflected the dim glow of vintage chandeliers.

As they entered the first exhibit, Ambassador Thomas Caldwell took a deep breath. This was where history—Mu's history—was laid bare.

Gandolf gestured towards a vast mural that dominated the entrance hall.

"This is the story of our people, the Republic of Mu," he began. "Twelve hundred years ago, we were taken from our home, our land cast into the unknown. What followed was a struggle to reclaim civilization in a world that saw us as invaders."

Caldwell and the American delegation observed closely as they stepped into the exhibits, their interest deepening with every revelation.

The first section depicted an era of turmoil and change. Paintings, preserved documents, and even crude photographs showcased the internal strife that shaped Mu's early years in this new world.

One exhibit featured aged muskets and sabers, relics of a time when Mu was fractured between monarchists and republicans. A grand painting depicted the Storming of the Assembly Hall, where revolutionaries declared an end to Mu's monarchy, establishing the Muan Republic.

"It was a time of great unrest," Gandolf explained, his voice tinged with reverence. "We fought amongst ourselves before we could fight the world beyond. The old kingdom clung to power, but the ideals of democracy and industrial progress prevailed."

Caldwell nodded. "It's an age-old struggle. Many nations on Earth have fought wars for independence and democracy. Yours was no different."

Gandolf raised an eyebrow. "That is something we never considered... the idea that our history mirrors yours."

Moving forward, the next section revealed Mu's earliest conflicts against the native powers of Elysia. Massive oil paintings depicted battles against the Kingdom of Sonal, the Leiforian Empire, and the once-mighty Holy Mirishial Empire.

Weapons from different eras were displayed in glass cases—flintlock rifles and cannons from the early wars, later evolving into bolt-action rifles and artillery pieces. A diorama showed a Muan ironclad steamship clashing against wooden warships of an Elysian fleet, demonstrating the technological gap between Mu and the world around it.

Caldwell studied the display carefully. "Your people fought hard to secure a place here. You were centuries ahead of them, yet still faced resistance."

Gandolf nodded grimly. "The native kingdoms saw us as demons, as invaders. And in a way, we were. They outnumbered us, but we had knowledge, industry, and firepower. The wars were brutal. Holy Mirishial, in particular, nearly wiped us out more than once."

Caldwell turned to him. "And yet, here you stand."

Gandolf allowed a rare smirk. "Yes. Here we stand."

The next section showcased Mu's scientific and industrial evolution. The walls were lined with blueprints of steam engines, early automobiles, and crude airplanes, leading up to the modern technology that Mu possessed today.

A massive mechanical display demonstrated Mu's industrial revolution, with interactive gears and pulleys mimicking factory assembly lines. One wall was dedicated to the first Muan flight, featuring a black-and-white image of two pioneers standing beside a fragile-looking biplane.

One of the American delegates, an Air Force officer, chuckled. "Your aviation history isn't far off from ours. The Wright brothers would have been proud."

Gandolf tilted his head. "The Wright brothers?"

Caldwell smiled. "Pioneers of flight on our world. It seems your people took a similar path."

As they moved forward, a large flag dominated the center of the hall. White and red, adorned with a delicate yet powerful design—a blooming rose, flanked by wheat stalks and two proud stars. Below, bold red stripes stretched across the lower half, symbolizing perseverance, unity, and the industrial strength of Mu.

Gandolf stopped before it, his gaze lingering. "The Rose of Mu," he murmured. "A symbol of our people's resilience. The wheat represents our prosperity, the stars our ambition... and the red stripes, the blood we have shed to stand where we are now."

Caldwell studied the flag. "A nation built on struggle and progress."

Gandolf nodded. "Much like your own, I presume."

Caldwell's expression remained neutral, but he had already begun piecing together the truth.

Finally, the delegation arrived at the grand planetary sphere, a massive three-dimensional model of the Muan planet. It floated, suspended by unseen mechanisms, rotating gently under a dim celestial light.

At first glance, the sphere seemed unfamiliar. The continents were different, their shapes unrecognizable. But as the Americans looked closer, their expressions changed.

Caldwell stepped forward, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to one of his aides, who had already pulled out a tablet displaying Earth's map. The resemblance was unmistakable.

The room fell silent.

"Chief Gandolf," Caldwell said slowly, his voice controlled but firm, "this is Earth."

Gandolf frowned. "Impossible. This is our world—our lost homeland."

Caldwell exhaled, placing the tablet beside the sphere. The outlines of the continents, though shifted and aged, were clear. The placements of landmasses were too similar to ignore.

A realization dawned upon the Muans. Their expressions wavered between disbelief and awe.

One of the American delegates muttered under his breath. "As we expected... Just like Summoning Japan scripted. You're one of our brothers."

Gandolf, still struggling to process this, took a step back. His normally composed demeanor cracked, his face reflecting a rare emotion—shock. "You mean... our people... our nation... was once part of your world?"

Caldwell met his gaze. "Not just once. You never left it."

The weight of history pressed upon them. The truth was undeniable—Mu was not an isolated creation of another world, but a lost fragment of Earth itself. A nation torn away by forces unknown, surviving through the centuries, now reunited—if only in knowledge—with its long-lost brethren.

Gandolf, after a long silence, finally spoke. His voice was quieter than before, but resolute.

"This... changes everything."

Caldwell nodded. "Yes. Yes, it does."

The Muan Republic, the United States, and Earth itself had just crossed a threshold that would forever reshape their understanding of history—and the future of their world.

The room was thick with tension. The revelation that Mu was once part of Earth hung in the air like an unspoken storm. Chief Gandolf and the Muan officials stood frozen, their minds struggling to process the truth. Meanwhile, the American delegation exchanged knowing glances. This was the moment.

And then—

(WARNING CRINGE ALERT)

🎶 A low bass hum rumbled through the hall. 🎶

The museum's old record player—forgotten and gathering dust in the corner—suddenly clicked to life. A vinyl disc, long left idle, began to spin.

A jazzy, big-band swing tune blared from the speakers, shaking the very foundations of the room. Brass instruments exploded into an electrifying rhythm, and a smooth saxophone solo slid in like it owned the place.

(insert: Tank! - Cowboy Bebop)

🎷 Ba-da-da-da-da-da-da-daaa! 🎺

The Americans blinked in confusion. The Muans? Their jaws dropped.

Gandolf's face twitched. His hands clenched into fists. Was this some kind of auditory attack? A psychological maneuver?! He turned toward the Americans, his eyes burning with questions—WHY?!

But before he could speak, Ambassador Caldwell stepped forward.

His serious diplomatic composure? Gone.

Instead, he was snapping his fingers to the beat. His polished leather shoes tapped against the museum's marble floor. His hips swayed ever so slightly.

And then—without warning—he kicked into a full-blown dance.

"OH-HO-HO!" Caldwell twirled, his suit catching the light. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT!"

The Muans stared.

The American delegates gasped.

And then—

One of the Muan officers—Lieutenant Corwell—let out a strangled noise and... HIS FOOT STARTED TAPPING.

🎷 Ba-da-da-da-da-da-da-daaa! 🎺

A second officer, unable to resist the intoxicating beat, bounced his shoulders. Then a third. Then another. A chain reaction of rhythmic betrayal.

Chief Gandolf's fingers twitched. His rational mind screamed NO, but his heart whispered YES.

A drop of sweat ran down his temple. His legs tingled.

And then—

HE BROKE.

With a sudden powerful stomp, he joined the dance.

🔥 THE ROOM ERUPTED. 🔥

Muan and American diplomats swirled and twirled, their formal coats flying as the museum transformed into a grand ballroom of chaos. Even the guards at the entrance—previously stoic and unreadable—were now moonwalking.

One American delegate, completely losing himself, slid across the floor like a possessed penguin.

A Muan general—IN FULL MILITARY UNIFORM—executed a flawless spin before pointing dramatically at Ambassador Caldwell. "YOUR MOVE, AMERICAN."

Caldwell grinned.

With a sharp snap, he threw off his coat, revealing a ridiculous, unnecessarily shiny vest underneath. "LET'S DANCE, BOYS!"**

🥁🎷 THE MUSIC CLIMAXED. 🎺🔥

For one brief, glorious moment in history—Muan and American, two lost brothers of the same world—found unity, not through diplomacy, not through war... but through the unstoppable power of DANCE.

As the last note faded into silence, the room fell still.

Gandolf, now breathless and disheveled, adjusted his collar. "That... was entirely inappropriate."

Caldwell, equally winded, smirked. "But necessary."

One of the Muan guards wiped a tear. "I have never felt so alive."

A stunned silence followed.

Then, from the back of the room, a lone clap echoed.

Slowly, more claps joined. A standing ovation.

This... THIS was diplomacy.

May 3, 1639 – Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Capital Otaheit, Mu Republic, Mu continent

A sleek, twin-engine commercial aircraft from the Great War era, its wooden frame reinforced with metal plating, descended onto Otaheit's central aerodrome. Its propellers whirred, gradually slowing as the landing gear met the concrete runway with a smooth but deliberate touchdown. The fuselage bore the blue and gold insignia of Leifor, marking it as a diplomatic vessel rather than a machine of war.

As the aircraft's engines sputtered to a halt, the side hatch creaked open, and a set of metal stairs was lowered onto the runway. From its sturdy hull, three prominent figures emerged, their expressions firm yet weary from the journey.

Leading the delegation was Étienne Roquelaure, Leifor's Minister of Foreign Affairs, a man known for his silver tongue and sharp diplomacy. Beside him walked Henri Montalivet, the Minister of War, his posture rigid with military discipline, his sharp gaze already scanning their surroundings. Completing the trio was Gustave Boucher, Minister of Industrial Development, a visionary economist whose mind never ceased calculating the numbers of war and production.

The Muan officials, dressed in their formal retro-styled military uniforms, awaited them near the edge of the airstrip. The meeting of two great powers was about to begin.

Awaiting them at the aerodrome stood a contingent of Muan officials, headed by Oudigus, the Section Chief of the Superpowers Division of Mu's Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Flanking him were Gandolf, Jules, and Pagua, the leading members of the International Affairs for Outside the Civilized Areas.

As the Leiforian delegation disembarked, Oudigus extended a hand.

"Welcome to Otaheit, gentlemen. I trust your journey was smooth?"

Roquelaure clasped his hand, offering a courteous nod. "A long journey, but one of necessity. We appreciate your audience."

With formalities exchanged, the diplomats were escorted to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a towering structure of retro-futuristic grandeur, lined with towering columns and gilded murals depicting Mu's history.

Seated in the Ministry's grand chamber, the Leiforian delegation wasted no time in stating their case.

"Mu is one of the greatest powers in the world," Roquelaure began. "Leifor is facing an existential threat. The Gra Valkan Empire has begun an aggressive campaign of conquest. They have already dismantled lesser nations, and we fear we are next."

Henri Montalivet leaned forward, his voice steely. "We request Mu's military aid—troops, armaments, ships. Without intervention, Leifor will fall, and Gra Valkan will become unstoppable."

The Muan officials exchanged glances, their expressions carefully neutral. Mu and Leifor had been bitter rivals for centuries, their history marked by disputes over trade dominance and past military conflicts. While no open war had occurred in recent times, distrust ran deep.

Oudigus, ever the tactician, folded his hands.

"And why should we intervene?" he asked coolly. "Leifor has long sought to undermine Muan influence. You have stood against us more times than I can count. Now, you come asking for aid?"

Roquelaure stiffened, but before he could respond, Jules cut in, his tone laced with skepticism.

"Perhaps you believe Mu should fight your battles for you?" he remarked. "What makes Gra Valkan so different from any of the other conflicts Leifor has engaged in?"

Montalivet's patience thinned. His voice rose slightly. "Because Gra Valkan is unlike any adversary we have faced! Their military technology rivals even yours. Their battleships outgun ours. Their troops are well-trained, disciplined. We have seen them obliterate entire fleets in minutes."

That statement stirred the room. Mu had little intelligence on Gra Valkan's actual military strength. While their technological advancements were rumored to be impressive, Mu had always assumed itself superior.

"If Gra Valkan is truly so powerful," Gandolf mused, "then perhaps they are the real threat to Mu, not Leifor."

A heavy silence followed.

Oudigus, ever perceptive, finally sighed.

"We will not send troops," he declared, his tone resolute. "Mu does not fight wars on behalf of others. However..." he glanced at his colleagues, "we are not entirely unsympathetic."

Montalivet exhaled sharply. "Then what can you offer?"

"Weapons. Supplies. Ammunition." Oudigus leaned forward. "If Leifor is truly willing to resist Gra Valkan, then we will ensure you have the tools to do so. But the fight will be yours."

Roquelaure and Montalivet exchanged wary glances. It was not the full support they had hoped for, but it was something.

"Then we accept." Roquelaure nodded. "But know this—if Gra Valkan wins, they will come for you next."

"Then we will be ready." Oudigus's eyes gleamed.

As negotiations concluded, the conversation took a different turn. The Leiforian ministers, fascinated by the strange new nations of Earth, began to inquire about them.

"These Earth nations you have encountered," Gustave Boucher interjected, "do they hold the same level of power as Mu?"

Gandolf exchanged a glance with Jules before replying. "In some ways, they surpass us. In others, they are behind. But make no mistake—Earth is a world of war. They have fought conflicts that have reshaped entire continents."

"Conflicts?" Roquelaure's brow furrowed. "Tell me of them."

Gandolf hesitated, then began, "There have been many wars, but two of them stand above all others—World War One and World War Two."

Montalivet scoffed. "World wars? As in, wars fought across the entire world?"

Jules nodded gravely. "The first was devastating. The second was apocalyptic. Nations were consumed, cities reduced to ash, millions slaughtered."

The Leiforians paled. Even at their most ambitious, Leifor had never fought a war on such a scale.

Roquelaure exhaled. "And who won?"

"The victors reshaped the world," Gandolf continued. "And one of them—perhaps the most powerful of them all—is the United States of America."

Boucher leaned forward, intrigued. "This America... Could they help us?"

Gandolf shook his head. "The Americans have made it clear—they do not intervene in conflicts they do not see as necessary. Your war is not their war."

Montalivet frowned. "Then what do we do?"

Oudigus stood, signaling the end of their meeting. "You prepare. Mu will provide what aid we can. The rest... is up to you."

As the Leiforian delegation departed Otaheit, their minds were heavy with new knowledge. Mu would not fight their war for them, but they had at least secured military aid.

And yet, the words of the Muan diplomats haunted them.

World wars... Cities turned to ash...

Gra Valkan was powerful, but what if—someday—Leifor had to contend with a power even greater?

For now, their focus remained on the war ahead.

And the weapons of Mu would be the tools of their survival.

July 11, 2023 – Conshal Islands, Western Hemisphere

The gray waters of the western ocean parted as the Chilean Navy's Amphibious Expeditionary Group neared the rugged shores of the Conshal Islands. Leading the fleet was the LST-92 Sargento Aldea, its deck bustling with Marines and landing craft. Escorting the invasion force, the FFG-11 Almirante Latorre and FFG-14 Almirante Lynch patrolled the perimeter, their radars scanning for any potential threats. Beneath the waves, the SS-22 Carrera prowled silently, ensuring no unseen dangers lurked beneath the ocean surface.

As the first landing craft hit the shores, Chilean Infantería de Marina rushed forward, their HK33 rifles at the ready. Resistance came in the form of aggressive tribal warriors, wielding crude weapons and shouting war cries as they charged from the dense jungle. The first volleys of gunfire cracked through the humid air, cutting down the initial wave of attackers. Those who survived fled into the jungle, their primitive tactics proving useless against modern firepower.

Helicopters from the Sargento Aldea—Bell 412s and AS332 Super Pumas—hovered above, providing aerial reconnaissance and relaying live battlefield intelligence. By the end of the day, Chilean forces had established a firm beachhead, marking the beginning of their control over the Conshal archipelago.

With the coastline secured, Chilean combat engineers worked quickly to set up Base Naval Conchal Sur, the first military installation in the region. Prefabricated buildings were erected, communications towers established, and a temporary airstrip cleared for transport aircraft.

As geologists and reconnaissance teams ventured deeper into the islands, the true value of Conshal became clear: oil reserves, vast mineral deposits, and untouched fertile land. The government wasted no time mobilizing extraction teams to begin surveying potential drilling sites. However, the jungle remained a threat, with uncontacted tribes still resisting the Chilean presence.

Night raids by tribal warriors were met with swift retaliation, as UAVs and infrared sensors exposed their movements. With each skirmish, the local resistance weakened, and Chilean forces pressed further inland, establishing control over key resource zones.

By the second week, the entire Conshal coastline was under Chilean control. The Navy tightened its blockade, cutting off any potential outside support to the island. Fighter jets—F-16 Fighting Falcons—took to the skies, conducting patrol missions over the newly claimed territory. Lockheed C-130 Hercules aircraft transported additional troops and supplies, ensuring the military had the resources needed to sustain operations.

As Chilean forces pushed deeper inland, resistance continued to dwindle. Some tribal leaders surrendered, realizing the futility of fighting, while others retreated to the unexplored regions of the islands. Chile had now fully cemented its presence in Conshal.

July 30, 2023 – Conshal Islands, Western Hemisphere

The air over the Conshal Islands was thick with humidity, the scent of saltwater carried inland by strong ocean winds. The once-untamed archipelago had changed dramatically in just a few weeks. Where there had been only dense jungle and isolated tribal settlements, now stood military outposts, refineries, and roads cutting through the wilderness like veins feeding the growing Chilean presence.

From the command deck of the FFG-14 Almirante Lynch, Admiral Juan Andrés De La Maza surveyed the horizon, where landing craft ferried supplies and personnel onto the largest island. Behind him, Defense Minister Maya Fernández studied a strategic map, her expression sharp with calculation.

"We have secured important territories, but this is the first step because Conshal is about 149,455 square kilometers" she said, pointing at a map. "But stability is another matter. The locals are... resistant."

De La Maza glanced toward the shore, where armed patrols moved cautiously through the thick vegetation. The indigenous tribes had been fierce in their defiance, but their primitive weapons were no match for modern firepower. Still, their knowledge of the land made them a persistent threat. Just days ago, a supply convoy had been ambushed in the jungle, the wreckage of burned-out trucks a stark reminder that not all of Conshal had surrendered.

Further inland, Chilean engineers worked under the sweltering sun, establishing the framework of what would become permanent military bases and industrial zones. Drilling rigs had already begun extracting crude oil from beneath the earth, their towering silhouettes marking the dawn of a new economic era for South America. Copper, lithium, and rare earth metals—resources vital for the modern world—had been discovered in abundance, drawing the attention of Santiago and beyond.

But Chile was not alone in this endeavor. On the distant shores of the northern Conshal islands, Brazilian warships loomed over the coastline as Marines waded onto the beaches, their green uniforms blending with the jungle. The Brazilian government had wasted no time securing its own stake in the archipelago, with Admiral Marcos Sampaio personally overseeing the construction of Base Naval Santarém. Meanwhile, to the south, Argentine destroyers patrolled the waters around Conshal del Sur, their crews busy establishing military outposts. Peru, though less aggressive, had sent diplomatic envoys to the scattered tribes, offering trade and protection in exchange for peaceful annexation.

At a newly built command center near the Chilean landing site, a tense negotiation took place. Seated across from a delegation of tribal leaders, Chilean official Pedro Valdés adjusted his glasses, speaking slowly in the newly deciphered Conshalian language.

"You have seen our weapons. Our ships. Our power," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We offer you a future—education, medicine, protection. But you must abandon your old ways."

The tribal chief, his face lined with age and streaked with war paint, narrowed his eyes. He had seen what the invaders were capable of. He had witnessed entire villages disappear overnight, their people taken, their lands transformed into Chilean holdings. His people had survived countless enemies before, but none like this.

After a long silence, the chief gave a single, measured nod.

The first step toward integration had begun.

From the balcony of the newly constructed Chilean command center, De La Maza watched as the sun dipped below the horizon. The waters surrounding Conshal, once unclaimed and wild, were now patrolled by South American warships. The conquest was complete, but the true battle—the fight to control, develop, and hold the islands—was only just beginning.

April 24, 1639 – Vornessa Capital city, Republic of Yulkon, Gaia continent

23:45 Local Time

The jungle night was thick with humidity, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and diesel fumes. Under the dim glow of street lamps, the grand avenues of Vornessa appeared lifeless, save for the rhythmic march of soldiers patrolling the streets. The towering propaganda posters of Supreme Leader Dainis Rauthen loomed over the city, his severe gaze a constant reminder of Yulkon's iron grip on its people.

But for a handful of desperate souls, tonight was the night they would defy that grip.

Huddled in the shadows of a crumbling warehouse near the industrial docks, Kaspars, Elza, Vilmar, and Ivars—four citizens of Yulkon—waited in silence. They were just a fraction of the escapees, but their mission was critical: steal a transport ship from under the noses of the Yulkon Republican Naval Command and flee east.

Kaspars, once an engineer at the Tormagda Shipyards, checked his battered wristwatch. "Ten minutes until the guard shift changes," he whispered. "If we miss this window, we're done."

Elza, her sharp eyes scanning the dockyard from behind a stack of rusted containers, exhaled slowly. "That's if they haven't caught onto us already."

Beyond them, the Port of Vornessa was a fortress of security. Watchtowers lined the perimeter, their searchlights sweeping across the piers like the piercing gaze of an executioner. The docked transport vessel—RMS Eglīte, a cargo hauler repurposed for military logistics—was their only hope of escape.

But getting to it meant passing heavily guarded checkpoints, sneaking past patrols, and breaking into the ship without triggering an alarm. A single mistake would send them to the gallows.

Kaspars turned to Vilmar, the former dock worker who had secured their access codes. "Are they still valid?"

Vilmar hesitated. "They should be. But if they've changed them recently, we'll have to improvise."

"We're dead if we improvise," Ivars muttered.

Elza gritted her teeth. "Then let's make sure we don't have to."

The group moved, sticking to the deep shadows. They weaved through stacks of cargo and idle cranes, ducking whenever a soldier passed by. The rhythmic stomp of boots made their hearts pound, but they pressed on.

Finally, they reached the first checkpoint. Two guards stood at a small outpost, rifles slung over their shoulders. The escapees had expected this. Vilmar produced a forged identification card, his hands steady despite the tension.

He approached the guards casually, waving his pass. "Late-night maintenance," he said, forcing a yawn. "New orders came in last minute."

The guard squinted at him, then at the pass. "Nobody told us."

"They never do," Vilmar sighed. "It's always last minute with these bastards."

The guard exchanged a look with his partner, then shrugged. "Fine. But be quick about it."

Vilmar nodded and motioned for the others to follow. The moment they were past, they quickened their pace, heading straight for the RMS Eglīte.

But just as they reached the boarding ramp, an alarm blared.

"Shit," Kaspars hissed.

"They must've checked the pass after we left," Elza snapped. "We need to move—now!"

Soldiers erupted from the barracks, barking orders. Spotlights flicked on, illuminating the dock in an artificial blaze of white.

"RUN!"

Kaspars sprinted up the boarding ramp, fumbling with the control panel. The moment he activated the ship's engines, gunfire erupted. Bullets pinged against the metal hull as soldiers took aim.

Ivars was the first to reach the bridge, yanking the throttle to full power. The ship groaned as it lurched forward, cutting through the water.

"Elza, take the wheel!" Ivars barked.

"I've never driven a damn ship before!"

"Just keep it straight!"

The RMS Eglīte roared to life, pulling away from the dock. Soldiers ran along the piers, shouting into radios. Sirens blared across the entire port.

Kaspars barely had time to secure the doors before the heavy boom of a coastal artillery gun shattered the night. A shell exploded just meters behind them, sending water and metal debris into the air.

"They're not letting us go without a fight," Elza growled, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

Ivars gritted his teeth. "Then we better not give them the chance."

The ship plowed forward, breaking past the outer docks and into open waters. But they weren't safe yet—far from it. The Yulkon navy wouldn't let a stolen ship escape that easily.

As the night raged on, the RMS Eglīte and its desperate crew raced toward the unknown, toward the hope of freedom that lay somewhere beyond the horizon.

May 20, 1639 – Open Seas

The RMS Eglīte had been sailing east for nineteen days. The frantic escape from Yulkon had been a blur of chaos and fear, but now, desperation had hardened into exhaustion. The stolen transport vessel—never designed for prolonged voyages—was barely holding together, its rusting hull groaning like a wounded beast with every passing wave.

Inside the bridge, the air was thick with the scent of salt and sweat. The engines sputtered unpredictably beneath them, a constant reminder of their dwindling luck. Food stores had been rationed to scraps, just enough to stave off death, and sleep had become a luxury none could afford.

Kaspars sat hunched over the bridge console, his fingers tightening around the ship's failing compass. The needle drifted erratically, mirroring his own growing unease. Every mile they put between themselves and Yulkon was a small victory, but it wasn't enough to silence the gnawing doubt clawing at his gut.

They had fled their homeland, but to what end?

"Land!"

Elza's voice rang out from the bow, sharp and urgent.

Kaspars shot upright, his pulse hammering as he grabbed the binoculars. The wind tore through Elza's unkempt hair as she pointed toward the horizon, her breath coming in quick, exhilarated bursts.

Through the mist, jagged islands loomed in the distance, their peaks shrouded in rolling clouds. Dark forests stretched inland like a great, untouched wilderness, ancient and foreboding. The sight should have filled Kaspars with relief. Instead, a deep unease settled in his chest.

Vilmar, a former dockworker turned reluctant fugitive, leaned heavily against the railing, his face hollowed by hunger. "That's it, then," he muttered. "No more running."

Behind them, Ivars twisted the radio dial with slow, deliberate movements, his expression darkening.

Kaspars frowned. "Something wrong?"

Ivars didn't answer at first. The silence stretched, heavy and unnatural. Then, finally, he spoke.

"There's... too much silence." His voice was low, uneasy. "We should be picking up something. Merchant traffic, coded military channels, anything." He tapped the side of the panel. "I don't like this."

Elza folded her arms. "Maybe we should be grateful. It means no one knows we're here."

Kaspars wasn't convinced. Something about this felt wrong.

Then—

A deep, static-laced voice crackled over the radio.

"This is the Gra Valkan Imperial Navy. Unidentified vessel, state your identity and purpose, or be fired upon."

The words sent an icy jolt through every soul on board.

Elza's fingers tightened on the railing. "Gra Valkas?" she whispered, her voice laced with disbelief. "They're not supposed to be out here."

Kaspars whirled, pressing the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the fog-veiled horizon.

And then—his stomach dropped.

One battleship.

Two destroyers.

Steel-gray warships, their monstrous forms slicing through the mist like executioners stepping onto the gallows. Their guns stood silent for now, but their intent was clear.

The Gra Valkan Empire had found them.

For a long, heavy moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of approaching engines.

Then Ivars let out a bitter laugh. "So this is how it ends."

Elza shot him a glare. "Don't start."

"Don't start what?" Ivars snapped. "Pretending? Lying to ourselves? We had no future before, and we have none now." He gestured wildly at the approaching fleet. "We spent years fighting against Yulkon's traitorous regime, dreaming of freedom, only to be hunted like rats."

He turned to Kaspars. "Tell me, commander, what future do you see for us now?"

Kaspars clenched his jaw. Ivars wasn't wrong.

They had once been fighters—rebels, resistance operatives, the last embers of Yulkon's dying dream. They had watched their homeland fall, their families slaughtered, their comrades buried in shallow, unmarked graves.

Yulkon had once been proud. Independent. Defiant.

But that was before Gra Valkas arrived.

The empire had spread across the world like a devouring storm, offering alliances to the weak and annihilation to the strong. Yulkon's leaders had bowed to their new masters, betraying their own people.

The resistance had been crushed. Cities burned. The last rebels—Kaspars included—had been forced underground.

Survival was all they had left.

And now, even that was slipping away.

Kaspars met Ivars' glare, his voice firm. "We keep moving."

"To what?" Ivars demanded. "To an empty island? To starvation? To being dragged back in chains?"

Kaspars took a step forward, eyes burning. "To whatever comes next. But we don't give up. Not now. Not ever."

Ivars exhaled sharply and looked away.

Elza checked their course, her face tight. "Then we better hurry. Those bastards are gaining."

The Eglīte surged forward, its battered engines roaring as they pushed toward the islands.

The Gra Valkan fleet followed.

BOOM!

A shell whistled past them, slamming into the water just meters from their stern. A towering geyser of seawater erupted into the air, drenching the deck.

BOOM! BOOM!

More shells followed, bracketing the ship as the battleship adjusted its aim.

Vilmar's hands trembled. "They're toying with us."

Kaspars knew it, too.

The Gra Valkans didn't just destroy their enemies. They crushed them. Humiliated them. Made them an example.

Kaspars grabbed the radio. "No response. No signals. We keep our heads down and run."

"Run where?" Elza snapped. "We can't outrun them forever."

Kaspars turned to the map. There was one last option.

"The shallows," he said. "We head straight for the reefs."

Ivars stared at him. "Are you insane?"

"They're too big," Kaspars explained. "Their battleship can't follow us in, and the destroyers will have to slow down. It's our only chance."

Elza's eyes flicked toward the incoming warships. Then she nodded. "Do it."

Kaspars grabbed the wheel, veering sharply toward the treacherous waters.

Behind them, the Gra Valkan fleet adjusted course.

BOOM!

Another shell screamed through the air.

IMPACT!

The world exploded.

The Eglīte lurched violently, fire and shrapnel tearing through its battered hull. Smoke billowed skyward.

"We've lost power!" Vilmar shouted.

Kaspars turned to Elza. "Brace for impact!"

The coastline rushed toward them—

CRASH!

A brutal, grinding collision.

Metal screamed as the ship splintered against the reefs. The force sent bodies tumbling across the deck.

Kaspars shoved himself to his feet, dragging Elza up with him. Elza staggered but steadied herself, gripping her rifle tight. Blood smeared her arm, but she ignored it. With a sharp breath, she pushed forward, eyes locked on the jungle ahead. No time for hesitation—only survival. Around them, the others groaned, clutching bruised limbs and bloodied faces.

The Gra Valkan warships remained in the distance, their guns silent. Watching. Waiting.

Kaspars clenched his jaw. "Then we don't give them the satisfaction."

He grabbed a rifle, slung it over his shoulder—

And ran.

The others followed.

Through the open beach.

Into the jungle's gaping maw. Elza darted through the underbrush, breath sharp, rifle clutched tight. The jungle swallowed them whole, shadows shifting, branches clawing at her skin. No turning back now.

Kaspars forced himself to look away from the distant warships. The jungle had swallowed them whole.

Towering trees stretched skyward, their thick, gnarled roots twisting through the damp earth like skeletal fingers. Vines hung in tangled curtains, draped over ancient trunks, their leaves suffocating the last traces of daylight. The air was a damp, stifling weight, thick with the scent of rot and soil. All around them, the unseen jungle life stirred—distant shrieks, the rustle of movement in the undergrowth, the low drone of insects.

They pushed forward, their legs burning with exhaustion, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The jungle was a wall, endless and unrelenting, but it was shelter. No searchlights. No booming naval guns. Just the wild, stretching in every direction.

Kaspars finally lifted a hand. "We stop here."

Elza didn't hesitate—she dropped to her knees, wiping sweat from her brow with a trembling hand. "About damn time."

Ivars collapsed against a fallen tree, his chest rising and falling in deep, unsteady breaths. "Nineteen days at sea," he muttered. "Now we're running through a jungle. Feels like we just swapped one hell for another."

Vilmar set his rifle down, rolling his shoulders with a wince. "Better than getting shot."

A thick silence settled over them, broken only by their panting breaths and the ceaseless hum of the jungle.

Kaspars sank down onto a moss-covered rock, raking a hand through his damp hair. The weight of everything pressed down on him. They had defied their oppressors, stolen a ship from right under the navy's nose, survived a chase across the sea—only to be hunted, shot down, and left for dead just short of escape.

And yet, somehow, they were still breathing.

For now.

Elza leaned back against a tree, tilting her head to glimpse the slivers of sky between the branches. "What do you think they'll do?"

"The Gra Valkans?" Kaspars asked.

She nodded.

He exhaled. "They don't need to do anything. They know we have nowhere to go."

Vilmar rubbed his temples. "Then why not finish us off? They had the firepower."

"They didn't need to waste the shells," Ivars said darkly. "Not when they figure this place will do the job for them."

No one spoke.

It was the bitter truth—one they had all considered but left unspoken. They were stranded. No allies. No way home. No guarantees.

Kaspars reached into his tattered coat and pulled out a battered flask. He shook it. A few drops sloshed inside.

He took a slow sip, the alcohol burning down his throat—a sharp, fleeting reminder that he was still alive.

Then, without a word, he passed it to Elza.

She raised an eyebrow but took it. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type."

Kaspars offered the ghost of a smile. "Consider it a toast."

"To what?"

His expression hardened. To the dead. To the ones they had left behind.

"To those who never got the chance to run," he murmured.

The others exchanged glances. Then, one by one, they drank.

No words. No false hopes.

Just quiet remembrance.

For now, there was nothing to do but breathe. Rest.

Tomorrow, the jungle would decide their fate.

Aboard the Grade Atlastar-class Battleship

The sea lay still, its surface a mirror of the dimming sky. Ahead, the jungle-shrouded island loomed in silence, betraying no sign of life. But inside the steel belly of the GVS Barbarossa, the officers of the Gra Valkan Imperial Navy (GVIN) were far from idle.

In the dimly lit combat information center, cigarette smoke curled through the stale air, mingling with the quiet hum of machinery. Shadows stretched over a strategic map spread across a steel table, where men in crisp naval uniforms stood in tense deliberation.

At the head of the table, Kommodore Augustin Krieger surveyed the map with the cold scrutiny of a predator. A gloved hand tapped against the island's outline, his voice calm but razor-edged.

"So," he murmured, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. "They survived."

His second-in-command, Kapitän Hugo Brandt, scoffed. "For now."

Through the reinforced porthole, the shattered remains of the RMS Eglīte sat stranded against the coastline, its wreckage a ghostly silhouette in the twilight. The fools had believed they could outrun the Empire—only to sail straight into their graves.

"They scattered like rats," Brandt sneered. "Typical Yulkonian filth. Always running."

Krieger said nothing. His piercing gaze remained locked on the map, fingers drumming lightly against its surface. Something about this place gnawed at him.

"This archipelago..." he mused. "We know nothing about it."

The room fell silent. That fact alone was unsettling.

The Conshal Archipelago—a blind spot in the Empire's naval intelligence, a swath of uncharted jungle forgotten by history. No records, no settlements of note. Nothing but an empty void on their maps.

Korvettenkapitän Erich Falkenrath crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "We came here to exterminate rebels," he said. "But I think we've found something more valuable."

Krieger inhaled deeply, his mind already working ahead.

"If this land is truly untouched..." He turned to Brandt, a gleam in his eye. "Inform Headquarters. Tell them we may have found a new foothold for the Empire."

Brandt smirked. "Another colony?"

"Perhaps." Krieger's voice darkened. "But first, we finish what we came here to do."

He straightened, sweeping his gaze across the gathered officers.

"The Yulkonian vermin are on borrowed time. We burn them out, kill the rest, and capture at least one. Headquarters will want a prisoner for interrogation."

Falkenrath's lips curled slightly. "And if we find something unexpected?"

Krieger crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, embers dying beneath his fingertips.

"Then we claim it in the name of the Empire."

Outside, the Gra Valkan fleet stirred.

The rebels had thought they had escaped.

They were wrong.

_________________________________________________________

The dance scene is absolute cringe to me lmao 💀

Yeah another 2 weeks of waiting for 2 chapters

This chapter need at least 25 votes for next 2 chapters