The morning sun crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the plains near the border of Tejas. The United States of xico had gathered its forces—a regint of seasoned infantry bolstered by cavalry, their banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Colonel Alejandro Morales, a proud and battle-hardened leader, rode at the head of his column. His deep-set eyes scanned the landscape ahead, the barren expanse deceptively peaceful.
Reports had indicated Arathian troops stationed beyond the hills, and Morales was eager to press the attack. The Grand Republic’s border skirmishes had emboldened him. Victory today would send a ssage that xico would no longer tolerate Arathian encroachnts into disputed territories.
"We’ll show them," Morales muttered to himself, gripping the reins of his steed. His officers rode beside him, their expressions resolute. The infantry marched in formation, muskets resting on their shoulders, while the cavalry trotted confidently behind them.
As they neared the crest of the hill, Morales raised a hand, signaling the column to halt. He dismounted, pulling out his telescope to survey the Arathian position. A cluster of fortified positions and trenches dotted the plain below, their arrangent orderly and precise. Morales furrowed his brow. This wasn’t the haphazard defense he had encountered before.
"Their numbers are small," observed Captain Delgado, his second-in-command. "Perhaps they’ve grown complacent."
"Or perhaps they’ve been reinforced," Morales replied, his tone cautious. "We must proceed carefully."
The colonel’s gaze lingered on a peculiar object positioned in the Arathian trenches. It was a bulky, unfamiliar contraption, its barrel glinting ominously in the sunlight.
"What is that?" Delgado asked, following Morales’ line of sight.
"I don’t know," Morales admitted, his unease growing. "But we’ll find out soon enough."
Morales returned to his horse and barked orders. "Prepare for an assault. Infantry to the front, cavalry on the flanks. We’ll sweep them off this plain by noon!"
Cheers erupted among the troops as they moved into position. Drumrs began their rhythmic cadence, urging the soldiers forward. Morales rode to the center of the formation, his sword drawn, leading the charge as the infantry surged down the hill.
The Arathian trenches were quiet, their soldiers calmly observing the advancing xican forces. Lieutenant Andrew Hayes adjusted the sights on his Hesh Model 85 Bolt-Action Rifle, his steady hands betraying none of the tension in the air.
"Wait for it," Hayes said, his voice low but commanding. Around him, the Arathian soldiers crouched behind sandbags, their fingers resting on the triggers of their rifles. Further down the line, a crew manned a Hesh Model 85 Automatic Gun, its belt-fed chanism ready to unleash devastation.
Through his scope, Hayes could see the xican infantry marching in disciplined rows, their muskets gleaming. He took a deep breath, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Fire!"
A thunderous volley erupted from the trenches as the Arathian rifles spat fire. Hayes’ shot struck a xican officer square in the chest, sending him tumbling to the ground. The precision and range of the bolt-action rifles were unmatched, their bullets finding targets far beyond the effective range of the enemy muskets.
The xican infantry faltered, confusion spreading as n fell before they could even see their attackers. Morales, still astride his horse, shouted orders to press forward.
"Close the distance! They can’t hit us all!"
But the reality was far grimr. The Arathian soldiers maintained their disciplined fire, each shot picking off another man. The xican ranks wavered, their advance slowing as panic took hold.
And then the machine gun opened fire.
The roar of the Hesh Model 85 Automatic Gun shattered the already chaotic battlefield. Its rhythm was relentless, a staccato of death that echoed across the plains. The belt-fed weapon spat out a steady stream of bullets, tearing through the advancing xican infantry with ruthless efficiency. n fell in droves, their bodies crumpling to the ground before they could even see the trenches ahead.
Colonel Morales watched in stunned horror as his formation disintegrated under the onslaught. The neat rows of disciplined soldiers he had led down the hill were now a chaotic mass of wounded and dying n. So attempted to return fire with their muskets, but the distance was too great, their antiquated weapons no match for the precision and range of the Arathian rifles.
"Keep moving!" Morales bellowed, desperation creeping into his voice. "Push forward!"
But his cries fell on deaf ears. The xican infantry, facing an invisible wall of firepower, began to hesitate. Panic rippled through their ranks, and the steady advance turned into a stumbling retreat. Morales turned to his officers, his face etched with disbelief.
"What is this madness?" he muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.
To his left, Captain Delgado struggled to maintain order. "Colonel, we can’t get close enough to engage! Their weapons—whatever they are—make it impossible!"
Morales knew they had to change tactics, and fast. He turned to the cavalry, his voice rising above the din of battle. "Cavalry! Charge the flanks! Break their line!"
The horsen surged forward, their sabers glinting in the sunlight. Dust rose in thick clouds as the cavalry thundered across the plains, their war cries echoing. Morales watched, hope flickering in his chest. The speed and ferocity of the charge could overwhelm even the most fortified positions—or so he thought.
The Arathian gunners shifted their aim. The machine gun roared again, its deadly sweep cutting through the cavalry like a scythe through wheat. Horses scread and toppled, their riders thrown violently to the ground. The charging line fragnted, n and beasts falling in heaps. Sabers clattered uselessly as the survivors scrambled to retreat, their charge shattered before it even reached the trenches.
Morales’ hope turned to despair. His forces were being slaughtered, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He turned to Delgado, his voice trembling with rage and frustration. "Pull them back! Fall back to the ridge!"
Delgado nodded, his face pale as he relayed the order. The remnants of the xican regint began a disorganized retreat, stumbling over the bodies of their fallen comrades as they fled back toward the safety of the hill.
From the Arathian trenches, Lieutenant Hayes watched the retreat through his scope. His heart was heavy as he surveyed the carnage. "Hold fire," he ordered, lowering his rifle. Around him, the gunners ceased their relentless barrage, allowing the battlefield to fall eerily silent.
Hayes stood and looked out over the plain, now littered with the dead and dying. The sll of gunpowder and blood hung in the air. His n exchanged weary glances, the weight of what they had just witnessed settling over them.
"Lieutenant," one of the privates said hesitantly, "do you think they’ll co back?"
Hayes shook his head, his expression grim. "Not today. They’ve seen enough."
Back on the ridge, Colonel Morales slumped in his saddle, his sword dangling limply at his side. Around him, his officers gathered, their faces etched with disbelief and fear.
"They knew," Morales murmured, his voice barely audible. "They knew we’d co, and they were ready."
Captain Delgado placed a hand on his shoulder, his tone somber. "This isn’t like any battle we’ve fought before, Colonel. Their weapons… we couldn’t even reach them."
Morales closed his eyes, his mind racing. He had underestimated the Arathians, and it had cost him dearly. But he also knew this was far from over. The United States of xico would not back down—not after today. They would regroup, rethink their strategy, and find a way to counter this new threat.
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For now, though, all he could do was retreat and count his losses.
"Order the withdrawal," Morales said quietly. "We need to return to camp and report this… massacre."
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