The time to march had come.
With a thousand soldiers at his command and Kael Von Steel by his side, Adrian set forth toward Crustenel. The path from Dawnspire to Crustenel spanned two turns, and upon their arrival, he found himself face-to-face with yet another army of the Successionists.
At their helm stood General Heins Eisenhart.
Adrian's frustration simmered beneath the surface. How had the enemy mustered an entire army so quickly? His previous victory should have crippled them, yet here they stood.
It defied logic.
If the Successionists had the power to muster an army of this scale, then why hadn't they struck the capital with their full force of 1,700? Why split their strength, sending a mere detachment of 700 into the lion's den?
It was a tactical misstep—one that left them vulnerable. By making such a move, they had placed themselves in a bind, caught between aggression and recklessness.
The questions nagged at Adrian, the inconsistencies gnawing at the edges of his mind. But in the end, he sighed and let it go.
Perhaps this was just another quirk of game logic.
And so, he moved on—to slaughter.
The battle had begun, and in his first three attempts, Adrian suffered devastating losses. But by the fourth retry, he had memorized the enemy's placements, the terrain's hidden advantages, and the rhythm of their movements.
With the Black Knights Cavalry under his command, victory was not a question of strength but of patience. And patience, he had in abundance.
By the sixth retry, Crustenel had fallen. Two cities now lay under Kael's control, yet securing the province of Dawn demanded more—two additional strongholds still rested in the Successionists' grasp.
Something about the opposing army unsettled him. Their morale wavered for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint. A single cavalry charge or two volleys from the Ironshots was enough to shatter their ranks, sending them fleeing in disarray.
Adrian welcomed it gladly.
Adrian allowed his army two turns of rest at Crustenel before marching toward Drakenshire. The journey took only a single turn, and by the time they arrived, the Successionists could barely muster a defense. The city had nothing but a garrisoned force—no reinforcements, no proper resistance.
Victory seemed assured.
Confident, Adrian considered using auto-resolve to claim the city, but the game's warning halted him. Auto-resolving will result in the loss of one Ironshots unit card.
He scowled. Losing elite troops in a battle he could win flawlessly? Unacceptable.
With a resigned sigh, he opted for guerrilla warfare instead.
The harassment lasted only a single turn before Drakenshire capitulated. Not a single soldier was lost, and another city fell into Kael's hands.
Yet there was no time to revel in victory. He pressed onward, leading his forces toward Greystone—the final stronghold needed to secure the province. As they approached the city gates, Adrian braced himself for yet another siege… only to be met with an unexpected sight.
The gates were already open.
No enemy banners flew from the walls, no soldiers stood in defiance. Instead, the city itself seemed to welcome him.
Then, the game prompted a message:
[The inhabitants of Greystone have heard of your mighty victory against the Successionists and have driven out the scum that plagued their city. They welcome you with a grand feast.]
What will you do?
[Accept their surrender]
[Demand tribute]
[Slaughter all the driveling filth]
Adrian smirked.
This game... isn't it getting too easy.
Adrian shrugged and selected the option to accept the city's surrender. With Greystone under his banner, the province was finally secured.
At the start of the next turn, he turned his attention to the lands beyond his borders. His newly claimed territory was surrounded by powerful factions, each with their own ambitions.
To the north lay Armathia, a province still under the legitimate rule of the Empire of Man. The empire, forged by Wisenland's legendary forefather—the Sun Dragon, Emperor Reingnald—had been divided into nine equal dominions, each ruled by a powerful faction.
The Steelclad Order, sovereign over Armathia, was one such dominion. Though they still recognized the imperial throne, their armies were already stationed near Kael's border, a silent yet unmistakable warning.
Should he show even the slightest sign of weakness, they would strike without hesitation.
To the west was the prosperous province of Marentha, a region enriched by its vast trade network and access to a deep-water port.
It was ruled by The Eisenreich, a faction that had long benefited from imperial infrastructure yet failed to send its due tribute to the Imperial Treasury.
Their refusal to pay taxes was more than a simple act of defiance—it was a statement. They saw themselves as independent, despite still claiming allegiance to the empire in name.
To the south lay the fortress province of Ironmarch, ruled by Velieanland. Unlike the others, they were not mere opportunists or schemers; they were the empire's bulwark.For generations, they had stood as the loyal sentinels guarding against the relentless waves of the Beast Tide, particularly the war-hungry Tribe of Urzan Khanate.
Though Ironmarch had no intentions of rebellion, its soldiers were hardened by battle, and its leaders would not blindly submit to imperial authority unless proven otherwise.
This was the fractured state of the empire—nine factions, each with their own ambitions, grudges, and allegiances. But for Kael, the rightful Emperor, there was only one path forward.
To complete Act 1, he had to unite them all—to forge the divided dominions back into a single empire, with every banner raised under one ruler.
Him.
The Emperor of Man.
But just as Adrian thought that the game was getting too easy, he saw, in less that 6 or 7 turns, that what he had built up till now crumble like dust.