Rumble—!

A thunderous roar, like the synchronized footsteps of a steel giant, shook the earth. The sheer vibrancy of the colors and the alien silhouette of the approaching mass filled the horizon, leaving no room for anything else. A pungent, choking stench of burning oil rode the wind, assaulting the senses.

Stirring every primitive instinct of fear, they were coming. Emerging from the fortresses of the Continental Covenant, they lumbered toward the Spanish host.

In that moment, Infante Ferdinand felt as though he had stepped into the maw of a titan. These machines were its teeth—teeth forged of cold iron, ready to shear, crush, and grind any foreign entity that dared enter their domain.

Slap!

He struck his own cheek, the sharp pain finally snapping him out of his trance. He surveyed his wavering officers and bellowed with a voice meant to steady a failing line. “Calm yourselves! They are nothing more than carts! No one wins a war with toys!”

Ferdinand brandished his sword, desperately trying to anchor his subordinates’ spirits. Gradually, the panic in the command center began to subside. Yes, he thought, forcing himself to breathe, at the end of the day, these ‘tractors’ are just playthings. The thought brought a modicum of comfort. They were just toys that remained… entirely unscathed… despite every cannonade and musket volley Spain could muster.

Toys? Good God.

As the logic of the situation caught up with his forced optimism, the comfort vanished. He was forced into a state of horrified awe. In truth, every man present doubted the very images burned onto their retinas. How could such grotesque objects withstand a concentrated barrage and remain standing? Did the rumors hold truth—was the Continental Covenant truly a nation shielded by the power of the devil?

“Snap out of it! Target the musketeers taking cover behind them!” Ferdinand commanded. Even if they are demons, we must win.

At his roar, his subordinates scrambled to relay orders. The frontline artillery batteries focused their fire on the approaching tractors, and for a fleeting second, triumph seemed possible as one of the machines ground to a halt.

Ferdinand, watching through his telescope, let out a ragged sigh of relief. Good. If we can disable them one by one, we can return our focus to the fortress walls—

Vroom—!

He was wrong. The stalled machine hadn’t been disabled; it had simply dipped into a trench. As a squad of infantry gave it a collective, powerful shove from behind, it lurched back into motion, its engine screaming with renewed vigor.

“My God… they’re covered in steel plates,” someone muttered, the voice echoing the collective disbelief. “They must weigh a fortune. How can they possibly move like that?”

The question hung heavy in the air. How were these carts maintained? How were they powered? Unless they were fueled by some dark, sorcerous art, the physics of it seemed impossible.

“That… that name again,” Ferdinand stammered, turning to the adjutant who had been paralyzed with fear. “What did you call them?”

“T-tractors, Your Highness,” the man replied, his teeth chattering. “They are… they are unstoppable. It was the same in Florida thirty years ago… and it is the same now…”

Technically, the adjutant was incorrect. Not because they could be stopped—they couldn’t—but because they weren’t tractors at all. They were bulldozers.

***

The ‘War Bulldozer’ was in a different league entirely from the primitive armored tractors of the past. Decades of iterative refinement had led to an impossible leap in fuel efficiency and a speed that now outpaced a running man. Lexan, once used for protection but now needed for other industries, had been replaced by heavy steel plating as engine performance improved. Now, Lexan served only as the transparent shield for the pilot’s viewport.

And they were devastating. Equipped with sharp, reinforced blades at their fore, they were designed to flatten anything—and anyone—in their path.

“Run them down! You can do it, my girl! Let’s let you drink the blood of these invaders for the first time in thirty years!”

“No! Our cannons! They’re being—!”

CRUNCH—!

The evolution from war tractor to war bulldozer hadn’t taken as long as one might expect. Following the completion of the Florida Liberation War in 1611, the members of the Agricultural Order had been riding a high of self-importance. They had defeated the “villainous” Spanish and freed the slaves in a ‘real war,’ and many began to carry themselves with the swagger of ancient knights.

This bravado birthed the “Tractor Jousting”… or rather, the Tractor Tournaments.

While Yu Cheon-yeong had been horrified by the spectacle, the fever for the tournaments never cooled in Florida. The public’s fascination remained white-hot and enduring. After all, it was exhilarating. Under the convenient pretext of ‘simulated military drills,’ the Floridian government encouraged the sport, leading to a frantic explosion of design innovations.

Initially, tractors equipped with circular saws dominated the field. Then came the ‘Hammer Meta,’ where machines attempted to crush opponents with vertical strikes. This was followed by a trend of mounting spiked rotating drums to the front and rear.

Eventually, a question arose: “Wait, if we just wedge our chassis under the opponent, doesn’t the fight end immediately?”

And thus, the ‘Bulldozer Meta’ was born. It swept through the sport like a storm, but as every competitor adopted the bulldozer form, the matches devolved into tedious tactical shoving matches. Much like the decline of robot combat shows in early 21st-century Korea, the popularity of the Tractor Tournaments plummeted. To save the sport, the Order and the Floridian government eventually placed a permanent ban on bulldozer-type tractors in competition.

So, these steel monsters—built solely for the purpose of violence—had languished in the shadows for years. Until today.

“Come on! Our Alexander is hungry!”

VROOOOOM—!

The machines were finally tasting the sun again. Sir John Skinner (79), a legendary veteran who had won the Florida Tournament twenty-seven times in a row, roared as he accelerated. Beside him, Aaron Hunt (81), a nine-time runner-up, and Horlepoya (84), a thirteen-time award winner, kept pace. Every one of them was bloodthirsty and driving with a reckless, linear fury.

KRA-KOOM!

“Hahaha! That shell hit us! Direct hit!” Skinner cackled.

“Are you dead yet? That old geezer’s still breathing!” Hunt yelled back.

Mere stones and round shot could not halt their progress. Thirty years had passed, and they had returned faster, stronger, and far more vicious.

Rumble…

As the Spanish artillery’s desperate barrage sputtered out, the “tractors” (bulldozers) closed the distance. With their forward blades, they began to systematically fill the very trenches the Spanish soldiers had spent weeks digging under fire. For a bulldozer, erasing earthworks was child’s play.

“R-run! We have to run!”

“Mierda! We’re all going to die! Every one of us!”

The sight broke the Spanish spirit completely. They abandoned the trenches they had toiled over so painfully and bolted in a disorganized panic. The work of weeks was erased in a heartbeat. It was a futile, hollow realization, but they didn’t even have the luxury of mourning their labor.

“Hold the line! Re-form! If you scatter now, it’s the end of us!” the officers screamed themselves hoarse.

But control was an impossibility. When steel monsters are breathing fire and death right in your face, the chain of command dissolves into ash. The few officers who tried to stand their ground were simply overwhelmed, either collapsing in shock or being swept away in the tide of fleeing men.

Even Infante Ferdinand was paralyzed. His reputation as an undefeated commander offered no protection against such a bizarre, unnatural nightmare.

Why? he thought, staring through his lens. Why must those things look so terrifying? If they were built to inspire fear…

In truth, the garish paint jobs and intimidating decorations were originally meant for the tournament crowds, but they were proving to have a secondary, devastating effect on the battlefield. The monsters of blood and iron forged by the Covenant advanced without hesitation, snatching the souls right out of the Spanish ranks.

***

“Magnificent as always, Master. You let the Spanish draw close to the gates only to shatter their morale in a single stroke.”

“Hmph. There’s no need for flattery. This was a war we couldn’t lose from the start. Though, I suppose I did play my part well,” Ernst von Mansfeld remarked.

He stood atop the ramparts alongside Gideon, lighting a cigarette as he surveyed the chaos below. He wasn’t being humble; he was stating a cold fact. A fortress built of steel-reinforced concrete that refused to crumble, cannons with a range and power that dwarfed the enemy’s, and enough tractors—no, bulldozers—to instill absolute dread.

In a situation this advantageous, losing would have been the greater miracle. Victory here wasn’t determined by a commander’s brilliance; it was determined by ‘cost-effectiveness.’ The goal was to minimize friendly casualties while maximizing enemy attrition. He wanted to trample the Spanish into the dust.

In that regard, his strategy was flawless. Spanish morale was in the gutter. The bulldozers would bury their trenches, and by the time they tried to return, their heavy siege guns would be entombed in the earth. If they wanted them back, they’d have to dig them out while under a constant rain of Covenant shells. He doubted they had the stomach for it. They were likely more concerned with whether they’d live to see Spain again.

Now, I just need to recall the bulldozers according to plan and garrison the fortress—

“Run! Argh!”

“Mercy! Please! I’ll convert! Just let me live!”

“Lord, Lord… please get me out of here!”

Wait.

Mansfeld and Gideon looked down at the field, then simultaneously glanced at each other. The Spanish panic was far more severe than anticipated.

“Perhaps we should just push them all the way?” Mansfeld mused. “How many bulldozers are left in the fortress?”

“About six more, sir,” Gideon replied. “They’re all tournament-winning ‘knights’ from the various districts. They’re actually complaining about being left out of the fun.”

“Then send them all out. We wouldn’t want those old gentlemen to feel lonely.”

At Mansfeld’s command, the remaining gates swung open. The reserve bulldozers charged out, followed by a wave of infantry roaring with triumph. Though they numbered only ten thousand—a fraction of the Spanish host—it was more than enough to chase down a disorganized mob that had lost its trenches, its artillery, and its soul.

As he watched his tens of thousands scatter into the wilderness, Infante Ferdinand felt a hollow realization. There was nothing out there but native tribes and wild beasts; he didn’t even know where they were running to. But he knew one thing with absolute clarity: no matter what he did now, victory was impossible.

“…Prepare the white flag.”

“Your Highness? No! If we re-form our lines—”

“Re-form? With what?” Ferdinand snapped, his voice hollow. “How… how do you propose we pierce those monsters?”

“I… er…”

And so, the Cardinal-Infante, Prince of Spain and Portugal, recorded his first-ever defeat. Yet, he felt no humiliation, no shame.

It simply wasn’t a fight that could be won.

***

“A total victory! The tractors… specifically the bulldozers… achieved staggering results!”

I looked sideways, a sense of impending doom prickling my neck. Oitotan was standing there, his nose practically touching the ceiling with pride.

“…Once again, the Order, blessed by Lord Nemo’s grace, has delivered. It seems the very people who so ‘nobly’ support the Covenant’s economy also play a vital role in its defense.”

I quietly handed over several Othello chips to Oitotan. He accepted them with a broad, delighted grin.

Dammit.

Next time, I am definitely not betting on the tractors.