“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”

— G.K. Chesterton

New Washington, Northeastern New Pangaea. September 11th, 2038. 0600 hours.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the wailing alarm tore through the tranquil dawn of New Washington. The colony, nestled amidst Gaia's alien wilderness, was jolted awake as sirens blared from speakers mounted on every street corner, every barrack, and every public building. It was exactly 0600 hours, and the sky was painted with soft hues of orange and gold. The air was cool and crisp, a fleeting moment of peace shattered by the weight of impending war.

"Attention all personnel! Enemy forces detected 100 kilometers from the colony! All combat units, report to your battle stations! This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not a drill!"

Civilians stumbled out of their beds, their faces filled with fear, clutching at loved ones. Soldiers, already accustomed to the sound of alarms, leapt from their bunks and began throwing on their gear. Rows of olive-green uniforms were rapidly donned, boots laced tight, and body armor snapped into place. Rifles, pistols, and combat knives were grabbed with practiced precision. The air buzzed with shouted orders and the clatter of equipment as thousands of boots pounded against steel floors and gravel paths.

Within minutes, the defensive network around New Washington buzzed with organized chaos. The first trench layer, reinforced with steel plating and sandbags, bristled with machine gun nests—M240s and M2 .50 caliber heavy machine guns were mounted on swiveling turrets, their barrels gleaming in the early sunlight. Soldiers crouched low behind cover, helmets strapped on, fingers ready on triggers. Anti-tank missile launchers, including Javelins and TOW systems, were positioned strategically, their operators scanning the horizon.

The second layer of trenches housed mobile mortar teams, their tubes aimed skyward as loaders prepared 120mm high-explosive rounds. Spotters stood with binoculars, their eyes locked on the distant horizon. The third and final trench layer, situated further back, was lined with reserves, ready to fill any gaps in the frontline.

Behind the trenches, the roar of gas turbine engines reverberated as M1A2 Abrams tanks rolled into firing positions, their massive cannons swinging towards pre-planned grid coordinates. Infantry Fighting Vehicles (IFVs), bristling with autocannons and missile pods, positioned themselves alongside the tanks. Dust clouds rose as rows of armored vehicles formed an impenetrable steel wall.

Above the colony, UH-60 Black Hawks and AH-64 Apache helicopters lifted off from makeshift helipads, their rotor blades slicing the morning air. The Apaches bristled with Hellfire missiles and Hydra rocket pods, ready to unleash fiery destruction. Meanwhile, on the partially constructed runway, F-35 Lightning II jets were being hastily prepped. Engineers scrambled to refuel and arm the aircraft while pilots climbed into cockpits, preparing for vertical takeoff since the runway was still incomplete.

Further back, artillery units thundered into life. M777 howitzers and Paladin self-propelled guns, strategically placed on elevated platforms, were loaded and calibrated. Their digital ballistic computers hummed as targeting data was fed in from drone reconnaissance and radar feeds. Crews worked with precision, shouting coordinates over the roar of diesel engines and the grinding sound of metal tracks.

In the civilian sectors of New Washington, chaos was tightly contained. Families huddled together in designated shelters, guarded by armed MPs. Doors and windows were barricaded, and streets emptied as the colony braced for what was to come.

Far beyond the American defensive lines, drone surveillance and high-resolution thermal imaging painted a chilling picture. Nearly 60,000 Equine troops—Normal Equines with heavy shields and spears, Horned Equines marched alongside, their horns glowing faintly in strange light. Winged Equines flying in tight formations above them—were marching steadily across the open countryside. Their square formations mirrored the tactics of ancient Roman legions: dense, disciplined, and unyielding. Each cohort held their standards high, golden banners embroidered with the Sun and Moon insignia fluttering in the wind.

The bulk of the Equine army was supported by dozens of wooden carts, pulled by auxiliary. These carts carried supplies, siege ladders, and even crude mobile ballistae mounted on wheels. But the most surprising sight came from the sky.

Radar stations suddenly lit up with warnings. Something was detected 93 miles from the colony—large airborne objects, moving at a speed of 75 km/h and an altitude of 10,000 feet. Drones dispatched to investigate returned with startling visuals: six massive Airships, their long, cylindrical forms eerily reminiscent of World War I German Zeppelins.

Each airship stretched approximately 429 feet in length and 61 feet in diameter. Their sleek wooden exteriors were reinforced with metal ribs and strange symbol glowing faintly along their hulls. Propellers mounted along their sides churned the air, while on their underbellies, gondolas housing Equine crews and mounted ballistae and catapult swayed gently. Brightly colored banners bearing the insignias of Equine nation hung from their sides.

In the command center, General Curtis D. Taylor stared at the screen with a mixture of astonishment and disbelief.

"If they can build these," he muttered, "why are they still carrying swords and shields?"

No one had an answer.

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, the Equestrian army halted approximately 50 kilometers from New Washington. Their formations shifted, with soldiers setting up temporary encampments. Canvas tents sprang up in neat rows, campfires flickered, and cooking smoke drifted lazily into the sky. The six airships ceased their forward momentum, hovering silently like massive wooden whales above the encampments.

For two hours, the US army watched through binoculars and drone cameras as the Equine soldiers rested, had their breakfast, and prepared for the day's grim business.

At 0900 hours, the Equine army split into two groups. The first wave, numbering around 10,000 troops, formed into dispersed units, stretching across a 200-meter-wide front line. Behind them, the remaining 50,000 troops stood waiting, their formations unbroken.

As the forward Equines vanguard advanced to within 25 kilometers of New Washington, Major General Curtis D. Taylor gave the long-awaited order.

"Artillery, fire at will!"

From the artillery platforms behind the colony, the world shook as the first salvo erupted. The air was filled with the ear-splitting roar of 155mm shells launching skyward. Moments later, distant thunder rolled across the plains as explosions blossomed among the Equine formations.

The first impacts landed just short of the advancing Equines, but the shrapnel tore through their ranks. Screams filled the air as hundreds of soldiers were thrown to the ground, their shields and armor offering little protection against the high-velocity fragments.

The second salvo was far more accurate. Explosions erupted directly within the tightly packed formations, sending limbs, weapons, and shattered shields flying. Blood and severed limbs painted the grass red. The horned Equines create a strange shimmering/transparent shields to protect their comrades, but the relentless artillery barrage easily overwhelmed their anomalous shield. leaving dozens writhing on the ground in agony.

Winged Equines scrambled to take flight, attempting to scatter, but high-explosive airbursts shredded their ranks mid-flight, wings torn and bodies tumbling lifelessly to the ground.

For 20 agonizing minutes, the bombardment continued. Hundreds became thousands as salvo after salvo pummeled the Equine positions.

When the guns finally fell silent, the once-proud vanguard was reduced to scattered, smoking remnants. Of the 10,000 Equine who had advanced, fewer than 1,000 managed to retreat in disarray to their main force.

From the trenches, cheers erupted among the US soldiers. They celebrated their first victory in the alien war, confident in their superiority.

But Major General Taylor stood silently, his face grim as he surveyed the battlefield through his binoculars. He knew better.

This was just the beginning.

New Washington, Northeastern New Pangaea. September 11th, 2038. 1200 hours.

The sun reach it zenith over the cloudless sky at noon, casting sharp shadows across the defensive lines of New Washington. The air trembled with anticipation, the distant rumble of engines, the whine of turbines, and the faint rhythmic clang of armored hatches closing filling the silence. Soldiers stood at their posts, sweat dripping down their brows as they gripped their rifles, eyes scanning the horizon. The calm before the storm felt suffocating.

From reconnaissance drone footage, transmitted in real-time to the command center, it was clear: the Equines were advancing in force. 45,000 troops, adorned in glimmering armor and armed with spears, swords, and shields, marched in tight formations. Their shields and banners glinted under the sun, bright and regal, like a scene pulled from an ancient Roman battlefield.

The frontline was made up of normal Equines, their bulky frames carrying heavy shields and large swords, they all walking in phalanx formation. Behind them, horned Equines marched in disciplined columns, horns glowing faintly with strange light. Above them, winged Equines soared in perfect V-formations, their sleek armor shimmering like polished steel, each carrying spears and wooden crossbow.

And above it all, casting long shadows over the formation, the six Airships loomed like floating monoliths. Each vessel, over 400 feet long with massive hydrogen-filled hulls were painted in regal blues and golds, adorned with fluttering banners, they were both majestic and menacing. From their undersides hung massive steel turret armed with heavy ballista, and other primitive but deadly siege weapons.

"They’re moving in force this time… All or nothing, it seems,” Major General Curtis D. Taylor muttered as he observed the drone feed in the command center.

“All units, prepare to engage upon my command.”

At the unfinished airfield, the 301st Fighter Wing was finally ready. Eight F-35 Lightning IIs, sleek and menacing under the midday sun, stood on their VTOL pads, engines screaming as they prepared for liftoff. Engineers scrambled to make last-second checks as pilots climbed into their cockpits.

One by one, the F-35s lifted off vertically, rising into the sky like birds of prey before turning their noses towards the horizon. Within minutes, they were climbing to altitude and rocketing towards the Airship fleet at 1,500 kilometers per hour.

At 10 kilometers away, the squadron launched their AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles at the approaching Airships. The missiles, sleek and deadly, streaked towards their targets at Mach 4 speeds, leaving vapor trails in their wake.

But then—impact.

Instead of exploding against the hulls, the missiles erupted mid-air, a blinding flash revealing a translucent, glass-like shield shimmering around the Airships. The shield pulsed briefly, like ripples in water, before fading back into invisibility.

“They’ve got some kind of shield technology!” one pilot exclaimed over comms.

Undeterred, the squadron adjusted their tactics. Eight AMRAAMs were launched at a single Airship in rapid succession. The shields flickered violently, forming spiderweb cracks across their ethereal surface, but held strong. The pilots knew they needed more.

As they closed to 3 kilometers, each F-35 deployed GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bombs. The bombs screamed downward and struck the shield with pinpoint accuracy. This time, the shield shattered like glass, shards of glowing energy scattering in all directions.

The bomb penetrated the Airship's hull. A fiery explosion tore through the hydrogen-filled chamber, igniting the gas in a devastating chain reaction. Flames engulfed the Airship, bright enough to be seen from the trenches of New Washington. The wreckage spiraled downward, crashing into the ground in a fiery inferno.

From below, the advancing Equines paused. Thousands of troops turned their heads skyward as one of their mighty sky fortresses came crashing down. Screams of panic and horror erupted among their ranks.

To the Equines, steel birds that spitting fire and explosions from their wings were incomprehensible, unnatural beings. Their sleek forms cut through the sky with impossible speed, and their wingtips glimmered under the sun like blades.

The F-35s circled back, launching additional sorties, and over the next hour, two more Airships were brought down. Though the Airships retaliated with ballistae and strange plasma lance attacks, but the speed and maneuverability of the jets made them impossible to hit.

At 25 kilometers, the Equine advance finally entered artillery range. Major General Taylor gave the command.

“Fire at will.”

The M777 howitzers and Paladin self-propelled guns opened up again, their 155mm shells screaming through the air before exploding amid the Equine formations. The first salvos tore massive holes in their tightly packed ranks. Shields shattered, bodies were ripped apart, and entire platoons vanished in clouds of dust and gore.

The Equines had adapted, however. Horned equines cast large, shimmering shields to protect their troops, and formations moved in quick zigzag patterns, attempting to make targeting difficult.

But the firepower of modern artillery was relentless. Direct hits shattered shields instantly, sending molten shrapnel slicing through armor, flesh, and bone. The smell of charred fur and blood filled the air. Hundreds of Equines fell in each salvo.

A lone Equine, his shield cracked and body bloodied, staggered through the cratered battlefield, screaming for help before another shell landed nearby, sending him flying in pieces.

At 10 kilometers, the Equines finally pushed through the artillery zone. Dust clouds billowed around them, partially obscuring their advancing ranks, but for the first time, the defenders in the trenches could see their enemy with the naked eye.

The winged Equines launched in massive swarms, darkening the sky like locusts. They carried wooden crossbow and long spears, their eyes locked on the human trenches below.

The MIM-104 Patriot missile of the 1-43rd ADA batteries unit roared to life, launching interceptors skyward. Explosions bloomed in the sky as Airships shields shattered and its wooden hull were blown apart mid-air.

The M163 Vulcan Air Defense Systems began to whirr, their 20mm rotary cannons spinning and unleashing a torrent of fire. Hundreds of winged Equine were shredded mid-flight, their bodies reduced to bloody mist and scattered feathers.

But still, the winged Equine did not retreated. They swooped down on the first trench line, spears and crossbows in hoof.

The trench line erupted in chaos. M4 rifles barked, M240 machine guns rattled, and explosions from automatic grenades launcher tore through the attacking Equines. Some managed to land in the trenches, engaging in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Bayonets clashed against blades, and blood ran freely into the mud.

At the same time, Equines infantry breached the 5-kilometer mark, coming under fire from M1A2 Abrams tanks, Bradley IFVs, and BGM-71 TOW missiles. Explosions turned tightly packed formations into clouds of dust and body parts. Shields shattered like brittle glass as high-explosive rounds detonated within their ranks.

From behind their formations, Horned equines fired orbs of blinding plasma-like bolts towards the trenches. The impacts incinerated machine-gun nests, leaving behind charred craters filled with the smoldering remains of US troops.

Above, AH-64 Apache helicopters from 1-501st Attack Battalion (AB) fired Hellfire and Hydra missiles into the ranks of Equines, but they had to stay distant, harried by airborne equines.

The field before New Washington became a scene of apocalyptic carnage. Thousands of Equines lay dead or dying, their broken bodies littering the scorched grass. Hundreds of US soldiers had been wounded or fallen, their blood mingled with that of their foes.

Yet, despite the devastation, the Equines pushed forward. Their commanders shouted desperate orders, and their soldiers obeyed, driven by loyalty, fear, or sheer determination.

Victory hung in the balance, and neither side showed signs of relenting.

The M1A2 SEPv4 Abrams tank rumbled with the constant hum of its engine as the battle raged around it. Inside the confined metal hull, Lieutenant First Class Joe Cooper and his crew worked like clockwork, their faces smeared with sweat and grime. The air reeked of oil, cordite, and adrenaline. Every movement was precise, every command barked with authority and urgency.

"Load HEAT!" Lieutenant Cooper's voice cut through the constant thuds and distant explosions outside.

In the cramped loader's station, Private First Class Caleb grunted as he hauled a 22.9-kilogram M1147 High-Explosive Multi-Purpose shell from the rack. His hands trembled slightly from exhaustion, but he rammed the shell into the breech with practiced efficiency.

"Loaded!" he yelled over the intercom.

From his seat, Staff Sergeant Hampton, the tank's gunner, squinted into the Advanced Gunner's Primary Sight (AGPS). The targeting reticle illuminated a dense formation of Equine soldiers attempting to rally under the shimmering, faint glow of their strange anomalous shields.

"Target locked," Hampton confirmed calmly.

Cooper's hand clenched the joystick-like Commander's Independent Thermal Viewer (CITV). "Fire!"

The tank rocked slightly as the 120mm cannon erupted with a thunderous roar. A blinding flash illuminated the dark interior, and outside, a shockwave flattened grass and threw dirt into the air. The HEAT shell screamed across the battlefield and exploded amidst the tightly packed Equine formation.

The result was catastrophic. The force of the explosion obliterated Equines caught in the center of the blast. Those closer to the edge were flung through the air, their armor shattered, bodies twisted and torn apart. Others screamed as they stumbled through the mangled remains of their comrades, only to be cut down by the tank's 7.62mm coaxial machine gun that Hampton immediately turned on them.

"Splash! Target neutralized," Hampton said, his voice steady despite the devastation outside.

The gruesome cycle repeated itself—Caleb loaded another shell, Hampton aimed, and Cooper ordered the shot. Each explosion brought more destruction, each burst of the coaxial gun cut down survivors who dared to advance.

Suddenly, the voice of Senior Sergeant Marcus, the tank driver, crackled through the headset. "Lieutenant! Winged contacts incoming! They're bypassing the second trench line!"

Cooper snapped his eyes to the thermal imaging screen of the CROWS (Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station) mounted atop the tank. The infrared view displayed dozens of winged Equines diving towards their position, some carrying crude spears, others carrying crossbows at their hooves.

"Engaging CROWS! Hampton, keep the main gun on ground targets!"

Gripping the remote joystick, Cooper swiveled the .50 caliber M2 Browning machine gun towards the incoming wave. His thumb pressed hard on the trigger.

The air was filled with the deafening roar of the .50 cal as it spat heavy rounds into the sky. Bullets tore into the Equines mid-flight, their fragile bodies ripping apart under the intense kinetic force. Feathers, blood, and pieces of armor rained down as the survivors scattered in terror. Some tried to evade, banking sharply or dropping altitude, but Cooper's aim was relentless, his eyes locked on the reticle.

One Equine, its wings flapping desperately, let out an agonized scream as a bullet tore through its side, sending it spiraling to the ground. Another exploded in a fine red mist as three rounds punched through its chest.

"Targets neutralized," Cooper muttered, his voice heavy with focus.

Below, the horned Equines had begun their assault, strange glowing aura arcing from their horns. Bright plasma-like bolts struck the first trench line, vaporizing sandbags, melting metal, and incinerating soldiers caught in their path.

"Hampton! New target! Horned contacts, grid 4-6-Alpha!"

Hampton adjusted the turret, the reticle settling on a cluster of horned Equines behind a shimmering spherical shield.

"Firing!"

For nearly an hour, the Abrams fired continuously, switching between cannon and coaxial machine gun. Caleb's muscles burned from loading shell after shell. Marcus maintained the tank's position with surgical precision, avoiding craters and debris. Hampton's trigger finger was numb, his focus unbroken.

"Shit, we're out of HE rounds, sir!" Private Caleb's voice crackled through the intercom, strained from exertion. Sweat dripped down his soot-smeared face as he leaned against the shell rack, his gloved hands trembling slightly from the endless cycle of loading.

Lieutenant Cooper's eyes flicked to the ammunition indicator on his display. The numbers confirmed Caleb's grim report. "Understood, Caleb. Load APFSDS!."

Caleb turned back to the ammunition rack, grunting as he hefted one of the long, sleek Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot (APFSDS) shells. Unlike the bulkier High Explosive shells, these rounds were slender, designed to punch through armor with pinpoint precision. He slammed the shell into the breech and smacked the loading handle.

"Up!" Caleb called.

"Target locked. Firing!" Hampton said.

The 120mm APFSDS (Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot) round screamed towards the target, punching through the shimmering barrier and sending molten metal in a fiery blast. The shield shattered like fragile glass, and the Equines behind it were vaporized or torn apart by shrapnel.

"Direct hit, shield down!" Hampton reported, swinging the coaxial gun into action to mop up survivors.

Without hesitation, he swung the 7.62mm coaxial machine gun toward the survivors. The heavy rattle of gunfire erupted from the Abrams, sending streaks of red-hot tracers zipping into the crumbling ranks of horned Equines.

One Equine, bleeding heavily from a shrapnel wound, tried to crawl away, dragging itself with trembling forehooves. A burst from the coaxial gun ripped through its side, leaving it motionless in a spreading pool of blood.

"Keep loading, Caleb! We’re burning through ammo fast!" Cooper ordered, his voice sharp but steady.

Caleb slammed another APFSDS round into the breech. "Loaded!"

The turret adjusted slightly, Hampton aligning the reticle on another shield formation in the distance.

"Firing!"

The second APFSDS round streaked through the air, striking true. Once again, the anomalous shield shattered into fragments of light, and the horned Equines caught behind it were torn apart by the sheer force of the kinetic impact. Limbs, armor pieces, and shattered weapons littered the smoking ground.

Despite the lack of explosive force, the precision and sheer penetrative power of the APFSDS rounds allowed the Abrams to systematically dismantle enemy defenses. Whenever a shield fell, Hampton followed up with coaxial bursts, leaving no survivors.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the Equine forces began to crumble. Cooper watched on his CITV as scattered remnants of their once-mighty charge began retreating in chaos. Their formations shattered, their shields broken, their numbers decimated.

"Marcus, adjust position—fire at the retreating forces. Hampton and I will engage with coaxial and CROWS."

The retreating Equines were mowed down in droves. Machine gun fire tore through their ranks, leaving the grassy plains littered with corpses and broken armor. The cries of wounded Equines echoed faintly through the meadow.

Finally, the battlefield began to quiet. The distant thud of artillery and the chatter of small arms gradually faded as the Equines vanished into the distant horizon.

Cooper gave a long exhale. "Cease fire. All stations, cease fire."

The crew clambered out of the tank, their boots hitting the muddy ground. The sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and red, casting long shadows over the charred, corpse-strewn field.

Caleb leaned against the hull, chugging water from a bottle. Hampton lit a cigarette, the faint glow of its embers dancing in the dusk. Marcus simply sat on the tank's tread, staring into the distance with hollow eyes.

Around them, medics rushed to and from the trench lines. Bloodied and broken soldiers were carried away on stretchers, some screaming in pain, others eerily silent. The once-pristine trench lines were now scarred landscapes of blood, broken weapons, and discarded helmets.

Lieutenant Cooper climbed atop the turret, his boots resting near the slat armor. He let out a deep breath, smoke and dust still lingering in the cooling air.

The first major battle between humanity and the Equines had ended in a brutal, decisive victory for the United States forces. But at what cost?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness crept over the battlefield, shrouding the dead and dying in shadow.

For Cooper and his crew, it was just another day in hell.

Evergreen steppe, Northeastern Equestria. September 11th, 2038. 1900 hours.

The Royal Guard officer tent stood in eerie silence under the suffocating weight of failure. Outside, the once-bustling military encampment was now a shadow of its former self—rows of abandoned tents fluttered in the cold wind, their occupants either dead, wounded, or missing. Fires flickered in the distance as wounded soldiers groaned faintly, their cries barely rising above the persistent rustle of the midnight breeze. The sky above was an oppressive void—no moon, no stars, only darkness stretching endlessly, as if the heavens themselves had turned away from the slaughter below.

Inside the tent, a large wooden table held a map of the battlefield, stained with dirt and streaks of blood. Small wooden markers, once carefully positioned to represent the pride of Equestria's military might, now lay scattered as though swept aside by an invisible hoof. At the center of the table, the shattered remains of General Gallant Glory's helmet sat like a grim trophy—a twisted mass of gold and steel, riddled with jagged holes where the enemy's vile projectiles had pierced it.

Out of the forty-five thousand soldiers who had charged valiantly toward the enemy stronghold that morning, fewer than eight thousand had managed to limp back to camp. The rest lay broken and lifeless in the fields, their golden armor tarnished and their proud banners soaked in blood.

General Blueblood sat at the far end of the table, his once-pristine golden armor stained with mud and sweat. His hooves pressed into his face, muffling his trembling voice. "How... how could this happen?" he muttered, his breath hitching as panic clawed at his chest. "I’ve never seen weapons like that. They tore through our finest soldiers as if they were made of paper. What are these creatures? What kind of monsters wield such power?"

His voice cracked, and he lowered his hooves, revealing bloodshot eyes rimmed with tears. "We must retreat, we must fall back to Canterlot. If we stay here, we’ll all die!"

Across from him stood General Crimson Armor, his crimson-red cape draped over his shoulders, frayed and stained from the day’s disaster. His face was etched with exhaustion and grief, but his piercing amber eyes remained locked on the map before him. His mind swirled with tactics, strategies, and cold calculations. Every scenario, every attempt at victory, played out in his mind—and ended the same way: in ruin.

But retreat? No. That would mean dishonor. Shame upon the Royal Guard. Shame upon his family, a lineage stretching back centuries. The nobles of Canterlot, the soldiers who had fought and died today, even Princess Celestia herself—all would see them as cowards.

And furthermore, many ponies across Equestria have already prematurely celebrated the victory. Many cities were adorned with banners of gold and white, fluttering proudly in the wind. Streets buzzed with activity as artisans crafted medals, families prepared feasts, and foals played in mock parades, pretending to be soldiers marching home in glory. Across Canterlot, the capital city, nobles raised their glasses in lavish halls, offering toasts to an assured victory.

A retreat now would not only cost them the battle—it would shatter the very foundations of Equestrian unity.

He finally spoke, his voice low but firm. "We cannot retreat, Blueblood. We are the Royal Guard—the shield of Equestria, the sword of the Princesses. If we run now, we might as well hand these creatures the crown on a silver platter."

Blueblood slammed his hoof on the table. "You don't understand! If we attack again we will be completely annihilated!"

Crimson’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Gallant Glory's broken helmet. Equestria’s first war in one thousand years of peace should have been a decisive triumph.

And yet...

Forty-five thousand soldiers had marched proudly into the jaws of death, and now only thirteen thousand remained.

Crimson’s teeth ground together audibly as he glared at Blueblood. "I will not retreat. I will not allow these... creatures to walk away from this day unpunished. We will deliver justice for Gallant Glory, for our fallen soldiers, and for Equestria itself."

Blueblood stared at him, wide-eyed, before whispering, "And how do we do that? We have barely thirteen thousand troops left. And if we march them back into that killing field, they’ll be cut down before they even see the enemy!"

Crimson fell silent for a long moment, his amber eyes flicking across the map. And then, an idea began to take shape—a plan born from desperation, yet brimming with possibility.

"A night attack," he said quietly.

Blueblood blinked. "What?"

Crimson leaned forward, his voice low and firm. "The enemy relies heavily on their ranged weapons. But from what I’ve seen, they lack nocturnal senses. The night blinds them. We, however, have the Thestrals—our batpony auxiliaries. They can guide us, lead us through the darkness, and strike from the shadows. We’ll move silently, under cover of night, and strike while they sleep."

Blueblood hesitated, his lips trembling. "That... that could work. But do we have enough Thestrals for such an operation?"

Crimson’s face hardened. "We’ll make do. Send messengers to Hollow Shades—it's only five kilometers from here. Draft every able-bodied Thestral, conscript them if we must. Every set of wings, every sharp eye—we’ll need them all."

Reluctantly, Blueblood nodded. The orders were given, and as the cold night stretched on, messengers galloped toward the darkened hollows of the batpony villages, dragging civilians from their homes and pressing them into military service.

The camp was deathly silent as thirteen thousand soldiers prepared for one final gamble. Their golden armor had been dulled with ash and mud to avoid reflecting light, and their banners had been furled. The Thestrals, their slitted eyes gleaming faintly in the dark, led the formations forward, guiding the ponies step by step.

At the front marched General Crimson Armor and General Blueblood, their weapons drawn, their faces set in grim determination.

"Stay silent," Crimson whispered. "One noise, one mistake, and we’re finished."

The advance continued, slow and deliberate, the sound of hooves muffled by the damp earth.

And then...

A light appeared in the sky.

It was unlike anything they had ever seen—a bright, floating orb of white light, suspended in the air like an artificial sun. Its glow spread across the battlefield, casting stark shadows and illuminating the entire pony formation.

Everypony froze.

"H-how...?" Blueblood stammered, his voice trembling.

Crimson turned sharply to him. "Raise a shield, now!"

But where Blueblood should have stood, there was nothing. Only his sword, discarded in the mud, glinting faintly under the artificial light.

The coward had fled.

Crimson’s teeth bared in a furious snarl. "Damn him! Everypony, CHARGE!"

The night erupted into chaos as thirteen thousand ponies surged forward, their voices rising in a defiant battle cry.

But then came the whistling.

One by one, explosions tore through the formation, throwing ponies into the air, ripping limbs from bodies, and leaving craters of smoking earth. Screams filled the night as blood and viscera coated the ground.

Still, they charged.

And then came bright streaks of light that cut through the darkness, slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with unrelenting efficiency. Ponies fell in droves, their screams drowned by the cacophony of automatic fire.

Crimson felt a sharp, fiery pain in his leg. He collapsed, his body hitting the cold mud with a sickening squelch. Around him, his soldiers fell one by one, their bodies piling atop each other.

Bleeding and broken, Crimson laughed—low and bitter.

In this hour of victory, they taste only defeat…He ask, why?

They were the Royal Guard, defenders of Equeastria. The roots of Harmony had grown deep under them, where there is life the wisdom of their countless generations has saturated the soil. Their strength is a luminous sun, towards which all civilization blossoms, and the impervious shelter beneath which it has prospered…

This new species stood as the greatest threat to the world, refusing to eradicate them is a fools gambit. Ponykind squander millennia in hard work, while they seize their lands for their own! This land for all things, belongs to Ponykind alone…

"Equestria is doomed..." He murmured.

A final explosion lit the night sky, and General Crimson Armor was no more.

The Age of Harmony has ended, and the Age of Man has begun.

And they are hopeless to stop it.

Author's Note

Good news, I finally recovered from my illness. It will take a while to get back to my old writing speed, I just need some good motivation rn.