Reincarnated with the Country System

11:24 Hours – Above Glyveris City – Drop Zone Alpha

Rain didn't fall, but the city wept fire.

Smoke pillars curled toward the sun as hundreds of dark figures cut through the atmosphere—silent parachutes blooming like black petals in the daylight. Bernardian assault troopers—6th-gen combat units in kinetic-reactive armor, helmets lined with live data feeds—descended with surgical precision.

Their boots hit the rooftops, the courtyards, the shattered streets of Glyveris.

Captain Morgan's voice came through the comms, steady and unshaken.

"All callsigns, this is Iron-Four. Palace Priority One. We move fast, we move clean. No civilians unless they interfere. Primary objective: Capture or confirm the location of Republic leadership. Let's finish this."

"Roger that," came the confirmations from across the net. The city's backbone had already been snapped. But cities didn't die easy. Not all threats were military.

Now came the street-level blood.

11:27 Hours – Outer Districts, Glyveris City

The first signs of resistance came as the Bernardians moved through the stone-clad outer gardens of the Republic Palace.

It wasn't soldiers who greeted them.

It was clockwork.

Eight-foot constructs—bipedal frames of brass and arc-glass, powered by arcane cores—stamped out from side halls and rooftops. Their eyes glowed deep crimson. Serrated arms unfolded. A burst of static signaled hostile intent.

They charged.

Morgan's squad went cold and precise.

"Engage."

Plasma rifles barked. Blue bolts slammed into brass chests, melting gears and shearing limbs. But some of the machines reached their lines—one swept a Bernardian clean off the floor, smashing his body into a pillar.

"Two down!" someone yelled.

"Drop the big ones, EMP charge going out!"

A pulse detonated mid-air—electric arcs danced across the clockwork armor. Several collapsed, twitching.

"Keep moving!" Morgan ordered. "Sweep and breach. Palace doors in two mikes."

11:30 Hours – West Wing – Republic Palace Entry

The Palace dome loomed overhead, matte-white marble turned black from ash and soot. Artillery damage from the bombing had cracked some of the facade, but its integrity held. It was still a fortress.

Multiple Bernardian teams converged, forming a kill-box around the central entrance. Civilian screams echoed in the background, scattered in alleys and shattered shops. Nobody dared stand in the open.

Inside the main corridor, the defenders were waiting.

They weren't soldiers, not by Bernardian standards.

Republic guards wore antique plate, bolt-action rifles slung across shoulders. A few had steam-augmented limbs. Others carried enchanted spears.

A hundred years behind. Maybe more.

But they were proud.

When the Bernardians breached the front gate with a thermite charge, the defenders opened fire. Muzzle flashes lit the shadows—bullets clinked uselessly off adaptive composite armor.

"Return fire. Sweep left to right. No quarter."

Bernardian firepower was merciless. Suppression rounds tore through walls. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning movement. One of the palace guardians threw a flask—glowing orange, alchemical fire—but it burst midair from an interceptor drone.

Another tried to charge with a halberd, screaming the Republic's anthem.

Morgan shot him through the throat.

"Idiots," muttered one soldier. "Brave though."

"Doesn't matter," Morgan replied. "Bravery without power is suicide."

11:35 Hours – Internal Sweep – Sector C, East Gallery

The dome was massive. Corridors split in dozens of directions—libraries, meeting halls, ceremonial chambers, administrative wings. Bernardian squads divided into fireteams and began coordinated sweeps.

"Team Bravo, clear. No hostiles. No targets."

"Team Delta—resistance, three down, clockworks disabled. No high-priority intel."

Captain Morgan and Iron-Four moved deeper—Sector C.

They breached another chamber—an office hall. Desks overturned. Old paper maps burned in the corners. Dozens of trembling staff in robes huddled near the wall—clerks, engineers, maybe analysts.

Morgan raised his weapon.

"Don't move."

One of the older staff fell to his knees. "Please. We're not soldiers. We surrender."

Morgan's visor scanned—no weapons, no armor, no visible threat.

"Where are the senators?" Morgan asked flatly.

"We… we don't know," someone stammered. "They left… after the first bombs. We weren't told."

Another raised his hands. "They might be in the bunker—beneath the palace."

Morgan stepped forward. "Where's the entrance?"

No answer.

He pointed his rifle and shot the nearest man in the chest.

"Next one who says 'I don't know' dies slower."

Panic rippled through the crowd. Two women screamed. One young man dropped to the ground, sobbing. Another finally cracked.

"There's a tunnel—beneath the west wing. Behind the old war archive. That's all I know!"

Morgan's HUD flared green—body telemetry, no sign of a lie.

He lowered his weapon.

"You've been helpful."

"Are we free to go?" one whispered.

Morgan didn't answer. He turned to his men.

"Tag this group non-combatant. Lock the door behind them. They move, you kill them."

11:39 Hours – Subsurface Scan – Beneath the Palace

Back outside the chamber, Morgan tapped his wristpad. A schematic overlay of the palace structure unfolded in augmented light.

"Echo-Scan, initiate deep-penetration pulse. Look for any sublevels below west wing."

"Running… stand by… got something," the tech officer responded from rear command.

A faint dome-shaped cavity appeared on Morgan's map, roughly 200 feet below the palace.

"Bingo," Morgan said. "That's where the rats ran."

"Secure the entrance?" asked Corporal Dannis beside him.

"Find it. Breach it. I want eyes on every inch of that bunker."

11:44 Hours – Western Wing – Archive Room

The war archive was half-burnt. Smoke still lingered in the rafters. Books charred. Old propaganda banners hung like wounded ghosts.

A slab of iron marked with the Republic's flame seal sat at the back—an elevator shaft disguised as a storage vault.

It took four Bernardians to pry it open.

Below—darkness.

"Stack formation. Drones first."

Two recon orbs dropped down, lighting the shaft in sterile white. Spiral stairs hugged the wall. Heat signatures registered below—lots of them.

Morgan's pulse never changed.

"They're in there. Final phase. We go quiet and fast. Capture the leadership. If they resist... authorization confirmed for lethal force."

11:47 Hours – Beneath the Dome – Republic Bunker

Meanwhile, far below, the last of Aurelia's leadership was still arguing.

"The bombings have stopped," Fernik whispered. "Maybe they're finished. Maybe they're willing to negotiate."

"Or maybe they're clearing a path to us," General Lys growled. "I don't believe in mercy that comes after fire."

Ilyra stood near the central flame. She hadn't moved since she gave the order to send the Deep Signal. Her eyes were closed. Listening.

Then she opened them.

"They're inside."

Everyone froze.

"Impossible," Vallen hissed. "This bunker is sealed. Shielded. No access—"