The Empire's Retreat and the Ambush That Shook Burgoyne
A retreat was underway. Thousands of Imperial soldiers moved in loose, exhausted clusters across the fields, their boots dragging through the mud and their eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
Only hours earlier they had marched forward with the swagger of men certain of victory, flags snapping, drums beating, the promise of triumph heavy in the air. Now their posture was wretched, shoulders slumped, faces drawn with the kind of hollow despair that no amount of discipline could hide.
Even now, replaying the battle in their minds, they could not quite believe what had happened.
The angels had descended. They had swept through their own lines like judgment from heaven itself, and the sight still lodged in every soldier’s chest like a blade.
*What… what in God’s name has happened here?*
*Could the Heavenly Father really have sent His wrath down upon us?*
Centuries of the Church’s own blunders had already chipped away at the faith of the people. After the religious civil wars in the Holy Empire centuries ago, the authority of the Church had never recovered its former strength. Yet the memory of divine power lingered, and so did the terror it could still inspire.
Especially here, in the Colonies, where the first settlers had fled religious persecution and begun building a new life under the shadow of the old gods. To doubt the signs now would be almost treasonous.
For the soldiers, facing the angels had delivered a blow no amount of courage could fully blunt.
Meanwhile, watching his men’s morale crawl along the ground, Grand General Burgoyne felt a headache bloom behind his eyes.
*The men’s spirit has fallen this far? We really have been struck to the core…*
Of course it was true. By now Burgoyne himself had understood that Gates was not the man who had orchestrated this campaign. The stubborn, incompetent general who had once commanded them could never have produced such a disaster. The victory must have been won by the competent officers under his command—whether that was Cromwell, or someone else entirely.
*Still, it cannot end here. We have more than ten thousand elite soldiers left. Recover the men, reorganize, and we will strike again.*
Fortunately, the losses were not catastrophic. Pure combat losses stood below two thousand. The siege engines, the artillery, even most of the ammunition wagons had been secured. The enemy had not pressed the pursuit deeply, perhaps because they too feared prolonged engagement with so few troops. That restraint had saved what remained of the army.
Burgoyne clung to those small mercies and began, quietly, to hope again.
Then—
“Ah…”
“General… General…”
“! Ah… no… General Frizer…? And General Richel as well… what in the name of—”
Two figures burst from the forest on the opposite side, staggering toward them.
General Frizer, barely able to cling to his horse, blood staining his armor in multiple places.
General Richel, face twisted in agony, body battered beyond recognition.
Frizer’s horse collapsed as he slid to the ground, groaning. Richel dismounted to support him, both men collapsing onto the mud.
“What… what is the meaning of this? Frizer, you led the right wing—how did this happen? Richel, you were supposed to guard the rear! You gave me your word!”
Burgoyne approached the two broken commanders, voice tight with disbelief.
Frizer, voice breaking as soldiers helped him stand, managed a few words.
“We… we were ambushed… a trap. We walked straight into it.”
“A trap? What do you mean?”
“The rear was hit… all the supplies we carried… gone.”
“What… what are you saying?”
“The right wing… suffered catastrophic damage. Forty percent of my men are out of the fight.”
“…This… this cannot be… what are you talking about? What has happened?”
Burgoyne’s face had gone stone-hard. The last scraps of composure he had clung to shattered. His voice rose, raw with fury.
“I cannot even look you in the eye, General. I was careless… I allowed it to happen…”
“What nonsense are you spouting? There was no sign of enemy movement anywhere! How did this occur? The rear supplies vanished and the right wing was slaughtered? Is that what you are telling me now?!”
“Kill me now, General! If that is Your wish!”
To better monitor the enemy’s movements, Burgoyne had scattered scouts across every approach. Even a thousand elite troops moving in silence could not hide their presence from this many eyes. He had been certain that any deviation would be met instantly.
But the moment they had lost the fort, the scattered enemy force had shown no sign of gathering. They moved like ghosts—never consolidating. Burgoyne concluded they still did not realize how badly they had been caught.
Yet Richel’s report of devastating losses in the rear and Frizer’s confirmation of forty percent casualties on the right wing made even that conclusion feel hollow.
Burgoyne demanded explanations, voice shaking.
Both generals began to speak, voices heavy with the weight of what they had endured.
Frizer’s army had advanced toward the western hills with the usual arrogance.
He had been warned about the farm by Burgoyne himself, but paid little attention. The enemy had not appeared, and the farm looked abandoned.
“Exactly as expected. The rebels slipped away last night when we showed ourselves. They thought we were chasing ghosts, so they left the farm unguarded. The Grand General himself planned it that way.”
“But General, one cannot be too careful. Perhaps we should inspect it more thoroughly before we pass.”
“There is no time. If we dawdle, Burgoyne will seize the fortress himself. Move—now! We cross the farm and take the hill at once!”
“However—”
“Enough. I hear you. If there truly is an ambush waiting, Richel is still behind us. Send the signal and he will arrive in minutes. Nothing to fear. Do you understand?”
“Yes… yes, General.”
They marched inside the empty farm.
Then—
*Bang!*
“Ugh!”
“! Enemy! Enemy ahead!”
What they found was not an empty barn.
A rebel force had hidden there from the start, as if expecting them. Benellita Arnold’s marksmen waited in perfect silence.
“Kill them all! This will be their grave!”
Benellita’s 1,500-strong force struck without warning, unleashing a storm of precise rifle fire from every hiding spot.
Unlike other units, her marksmen were veterans who had spent years on the frontier—sharp-eyed, steady hands, and deadly accuracy. Though outnumbered, their terrain advantage and professional marksmanship turned the Imperial advance into a slaughter.
“Damn it! Maintain formation! Stay alert! Hold your ground!”
Despite the first heavy casualties, Frizer rallied his men into a defensive line.
He raised his staff and began chanting.
“Wait—stop him! Do not let him cast that spell!”
Benellita’s voice cut through the chaos. Her troops opened fire, but every bullet struck the mana barrier that clung to Frizer’s body like a second skin.
Then—
*!*
—*Boom!*
A crimson lance of pure destruction lanced from the mana circle, its power dwarfing cannon fire. It struck the barn dead center and reduced it to splinters.
Inside, thirty soldiers died instantly.
Watching from the treeline, Benellita clicked her tongue softly, irritation flickering across her sharp features.
*Hmph… The Empire really does know how to fight. A mid-tier mage with pure firepower rated 5.3? That was no boast.*
She raised her voice to rally her scattered troops.
“Do not freeze! Keep firing! We must end him before he can cast again!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The fight resumed, but the momentum had already shifted. Frizer’s sustained barrage and the long cooldown of his magic left the rebels in an increasingly difficult position.
Then—
“General! Reinforcements are here!”
“Oh! Richel!”
Richel’s force charged across the open ground, and Frizer’s face lit with sudden hope.
At the same time, Benellita’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.
*Perfect. Just as planned…*