The Anglion Mountain War

2763 AC

The earth moved. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Actually moved. Millions of tonnes of steel crawled westward beneath a dark sky. Tracks crushed stone. Engines roared. Artillery columns stretched beyond the horizon. Missile launchers rolled through mountain passes. Fuel convoys snaked across entire provinces. The largest military movement in living memory continued its march toward the west. Toward Saint Calder. Toward destiny. Toward war.

General Zhao Ren stood atop a command vehicle watching it all. Even now he struggled to comprehend the scale. He had spent his entire life serving the Dominion. Twenty-nine years in uniform. Three wars. Seven campaigns. Countless battles. Nothing compared to this. Army Group Prime. The true invasion force. Not eighty thousand. Not one hundred thousand. Hundreds of thousands. And still more assembled behind them. The invasion of the western kingdoms had truly begun.

0530 Hours

The White Scholar travelled near the centre of the formation. The old man occupied a simple command vehicle. No grand palace. No golden throne. No ceremonial escort. None were necessary. The army itself served as his escort. The old man studied reports. Read intelligence. Moved markers across maps. Always planning. Always calculating. Always thinking. General Zhao had served alongside the Scholar for eight years. He still did not understand him. Nobody did.

0610 Hours

The convoy halted unexpectedly. That alone alarmed the general. Army Group Prime did not stop. Not without reason.