The Emperor Takes the Front

"OJ-3 Company annihilated!"

A thunderous impact shook the command deck. Another of the units he had dispatched had been wiped out, and Sherdon slammed his fist down on the edge of the tactical board.

"Who the hell is—!"

Sherdon, who had always controlled the battlefield with unhurried precision, now stared with bloodshot eyes, his face twisted with rage at the unbroken string of failures.

This time the plan had been triple-layered: the first force as bait, the second posing as the real thrust while the third struck the enemy's weak point and forced them into a temporary halt. If Calsira and Heliane attacked the second force, that heavily armored unit would pin them down as long as possible.

Even so, Calsira's instincts had picked out the very units that posed a true threat and crushed them one after another.

Once his scheme had been read that thoroughly, other delusions began to take root in his mind.

Is there a spy among us? No—I blanketed the area with jamming. No individual could maintain a private line to the enemy.

He even entertained the paranoid notion that a traitor sat among the people in this very room, but his own brilliant mind dismantled the idea at once, and the fury with nowhere left to go only swelled larger.

No choice, then. Relying on raw force has never been my style, but…

"Summon Sir Poltein! Tell him that if he cannot shake the enemy free, we will send support!"

"Yes, sir!"

The operator assigned to their critical asset, Poltein, answered and was about to issue the summons when—

"C-Count Sherdon!"

"What is it? Did I not just say we would send reinforcements if he could not disengage?"

The possibility that Poltein might lose had never entered his head, so he snapped at the operator with open irritation.

"Sir Poltein's signal has vanished!"

"…Sir Poltein… lost…?"

Long-range communication was impossible under the jamming field, but a pilot's survival could still be verified. Poltein had been transplanted into Grancion—an S-class machine, even if at the lowest end of that tier—and could pilot it freely by thought alone. And he had been defeated by something like Gareld, a mere C-class remodel?

Sherdon's thoughts were beginning to tangle when Galdoorn, who had been watching the situation in silence, rose to his feet.

"Drop the jamming."

"What? Ah—yes! At once!"

An operator who had blurted the question without thinking realized the order had come from the Emperor himself and hurriedly relayed the command to cease jamming transmission.

"Communications output to maximum."

"If we do that, parts of the enemy force will hear us as well."

"I don't care."

With the jamming lifted and the comms pushed to full power, Galdoorn opened the channel himself.

Sherdon, who had no idea what the Emperor intended to say, found his back straightening of its own accord at the sudden roar, his mind snapping into sharp focus.

Delivering a speech mid-battle risked shattering the concentration of one's own forces—yet Galdoorn chose to speak anyway. That alone told how badly he felt the tide turning against them.

Galdoorn drove home that they fought not for a new ruling clique, but for the nation itself.

"Move the flagship to the front line!"

"Y-Your Majesty! That is—!"

"Count Sherdon! I know exactly what you wish to say! But this is not the time!"

In any age, in any war, a commander advancing to the front was an act of extreme danger—all the more so when that commander was the leader of an entire faction.

"What are you waiting for! Will you disobey my order?"

"N-No, Your Majesty!"

Under the full weight of imperial authority in Galdoorn's voice, the crew began shifting the flagship toward the battle line. As it advanced, the escort ships followed, punching through the safe-distance gaps between the fleets.

When Galdoorn's flagship appeared on the front, the rebel soldiers who had heard his speech felt their morale surge at the sight of an emperor truly ready to fight beside them.

"His Majesty fights with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us!"

"For the Emperor!"

One might think a war of mechas and warships was nothing more than pressing fire switches from afar—yet the fighting spirit of the rank and file still mattered. Pilots, especially, grew braver and thought faster when their morale ran high. Low morale led straight to fear, and fear froze the mind. Excessive courage could tip into recklessness, but that was still better than a mind locked solid.

Rebel pilots who had grown passive as the line was pushed back and their morale sank suddenly began pouring on the attack with startling ferocity.

"You sons of bitches!"

A loyalist pilot carved through the torso of a charging rebel mecha with his laser sword. The rebel machine, nearly split at the waist, neither ejected nor retreated—it simply lit its boosters and lunged forward, locking the loyalist in a crushing embrace.

"For the future of the Empire!"

"Let go! Let go of me!"

A piercing shriek of energy—and the trapped loyalist pilot was run through by the rebel's laser and detonated. The rebel pilot, of course, was caught in the same blast.

With the Emperor speaking of the Empire's future and leading his flagship onto the front to fight beside them, rebel morale soared. They felt that their leader was no empty-mouthed braggart, but a man who truly fought for the nation—and their will to battle boiled over.

Galdoorn knew he was no match for Sherdon in pure intellect, but he knew exactly how to raise the fighting spirit of his soldiers.

And the rebels' fierce resistance reached Eirin, who was directing the loyalist forces from the rear.

"Galdoorn has taken the front?"

"Yes, ma'am! And the enemy offensive has strengthened at the same time!"

With the jamming gone, fragments of Galdoorn's speech had reached portions of the loyalist force as well. Hearing that he had truly led his flagship forward, Eirin bit her lip.

From ancient times, a commander stepping onto the front line had been the easiest—and the hardest—way to lift troop morale. Fight safely from the rear and you could still retreat in good order even in defeat. How many commanders would willingly stand on a front where death could come from any direction at any moment? Yet Galdoorn had done it as if it were nothing.

If I move my own flagship to the front in answer, I could raise our side's momentum. But that may be exactly the trap they want.

Eirin regarded it as a scheme of Sherdon—who had already won his sector with minimal losses—and kept her guard high.

Confirming that the Rastold Silverion was not moving, Galdoorn turned to the still-flustered Sherdon and spoke with force.

"Count Sherdon!"

"Y-Yes!"

"I have done everything I can! Now do everything you can!"

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

Without any special strategy or tactic—purely through charisma and by placing his own body in danger—Galdoorn had leveled the battlefield. Watching him, Sherdon set aside every previous tactical defeat and began issuing fresh orders.

Fine. I'll admit it. Those women who have been obstructing me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠possess, astonishingly, the same level of ability as I do. But they are mere pilots—and I am a commander.

His strategist's pride, the stubborn desire to defeat Calsira and Heliane on purely tactical grounds, had narrowed his vision far too much.

"HL-1, 16, and 37 Companies—attack the designated point!"

"Friendly forces in that sector, deploy left and right in thirty seconds! Flagship and escorts will deliver a full barrage—do not spare ammunition!"

"Escort ships, on my signal, open fire on the designated point without holding back a single round!"

"RA-11 and 25 Companies, hold the points I indicated, then push in together with the main force!"

In an instant Sherdon assembled a single overarching strategy and began rattling off the tactical orders needed to realize it.

"Ah! We need to help over there too!"

Calsira sensed threats from every direction that would put friendly forces in danger, but her status as a mere pilot without command authority held her back. If she had held even limited authority over a few units, she could have dispatched them here ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and there to buy time for support.

"Lady Beatrix! We have to stop them over there!"

In the end Calsira marked the sector she judged most dangerous and relayed it to Beatrix—

Beatrix was under such heavy pressure from the enemy force bearing down on the Imperial Guard that she could not easily disengage. Calsira felt that even a fraction of the Guard peeling off would leave no real gap, but she had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only her instincts to go on and could not explain it—so she could only stamp her feet in frustration.

A colossal roar of firepower filled the void. Part of the enemy force split left and right, and through that gap Galdoorn's flagship and its escorts poured every main gun, secondary battery, and scrap of firepower they possessed. As the enemy was driven outward on both flanks, the companies holding the points Galdoorn had designated hastily evaded, then opened fire on the hostiles being shoved toward them—racking up a considerable tally of kills.

The loyalists counterattacked, of course, but only after a painfully lopsided exchange ratio had already been locked in.

"Hahahaha! No matter how brilliant the tactics, strategy always wins in the end! What a pity you are nothing but mere pilots!"

Watching the women fail to call in support to stop his plan, Sherdon was certain they held no command authority—just individual pilots. Several of his schemes had been blocked by them, but that no longer mattered. He would simply flood the field with tactics they could never cover all at once, and crush them with strategy.

The front that had been tipping in the loyalists' favor through Calsira and Heliane's exploits was shoved back again as the rebels seized the momentum.

And in that moment, the one who would shatter strategy itself with the pure tactic of overwhelming power arrived on the field.