Reincarnated with the Country System

12:39 Hours – Central Broadcast Hall, Glyveris

The chambers smelled of burnt stone and ozone. Smoke from the aerial bombardment still lingered, coiling around shattered columns like the ghosts of old arguments.

Colonel Volst paced quietly near the entrance, flanked by Captain Morgan and two Bernardian riflemen.

The Bernardian warlord was a man of industrial muscle—thick-shouldered, eyes like black iron, his uniform crisp even in this ruin. The insignia on his coat shimmered faintly.

He said nothing at first. Let the silence stretch like a noose.

Across from him sat the last remnants of Aurelia's high command—Senator Vallen, blood seeping through the bandage on his shoulder; General Lys, barely able to stand without aid; and Ilyra, face bruised from Captain Morgan's strike, her hair clumped with soot.

They looked like beaten statues of a dying civilization.

"You know what must be done," Volst finally said.

His voice was calm. Not cruel. But there was no gentleness in it, either. Only inevitability.

"A broadcast of full surrender. Republic forces are to cease operations immediately. All remaining garrisons and provinces are to lay down arms. You will read it yourselves. Today. To your people."

Vallen coughed into his hand. When he looked at it, there was blood in his palm. He stared at it for a long moment, then closed his fist and lowered it to his lap.

Lys leaned forward. "And if we refuse?"

Volst didn't blink. "Then we begin the liquidation protocols. Gridfire bombings. Public executions. We've already mapped out the strike zones: ports, academies, libraries, farmlands. For every minute you delay, one district dies. Not just soldiers. Everyone."

He turned to Ilyra. "You're a symbol to them. Make it easy."

Ilyra didn't respond. Her fingers curled on the table.

"You don't have to mean it," he added. "Just read the words. The voice matters more than the truth."

A silence followed. Long. Uneasy.

Finally, Vallen whispered, "Let me see the statement."

Volst nodded to a waiting officer. A datapad was brought forward—thin, metal, humming faintly with Bernardian tech. It contained only one screen of text.

Vallen read it, his lips tightening with every line.

"We, the Senate of the Aurelia Republic, under duress and in recognition of our military and logistical collapse, hereby surrender unconditionally to the Bernard Empire. We order all citizens to cease resistance immediately. This surrender is final and binding. Long live peace."

"It doesn't even mention the war crimes," Vallen said, voice shaking.

Volst tilted his head. "There were none. There was only war."

"You shelled hospitals."

"We targeted communication hubs embedded in hospitals. Your doctrine hides infrastructure behind civilians."

"You bombed orphanages."

"Noted locations were tagged with transmitter spikes. Blame your side's signal irregularities. Or your lack of shielding."

Lys slammed his fist on the table. "Lies!"

Volst didn't flinch. "History is written by infrastructure. Not rage."

Then, more softly, he added, "What you say doesn't matter. What you record… does."

Ilyra rose.

"I'll do it," she said quietly.

Vallen looked at her in horror. "No."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "We're out of plays. Let me do this."

Volst watched her with curiosity. "And why the sudden obedience?"

Ilyra met his gaze. "Because I'm not done yet."

Volst gave a small, unreadable smile.

A Few moments later —

From the control balcony above, the Bernardian engineers signaled readiness. The main projector—the Republic's crystal relay—whined as it began to draw energy. A soft hum spread through the floor.

Volst gave her a short nod. "When you're ready."

Ilyra took a breath and stepped forward.

13:07 Hours – Aurelia National Broadcast (Capital Reach Radius)

Across Glyveris, the shattered capital, dozens of remaining crystal towers flared to life. City squares lit with flickering holograms, magic-fed and mirrored off broadcast plates housed in public forums, civic centers, and command barracks. The sigils shimmered through the smoke-filled skies, casting an ethereal light over broken walls and cratered streets.

Crowds gathered, faces gaunt, uniforms bloodied. Some wept. Some stood in silence.

And then—her voice.

"This is Senator Ilyra of the Republic."

In the upper tiers of the capital—near the ruined Senate steps—old men in coats paused, holding their hats to their chests. At the foot of the Ministry Library, wounded medics froze mid-bandage.

"On behalf of what remains of our Senate and High Command, I speak to our people. We have no more soldiers to send. No more skies to command. Our walls are broken."

A few spat at the ground. Others simply bowed their heads.

"We, the remaining Senate, hereby declare our unconditional surrender.

To all remaining forces: you are ordered to cease resistance.

To all citizens: we implore you—do not sacrifice yourselves further."

She paused, glancing beyond the projection toward Volst. Then added, firmly:

"This order… is final.

May those who live remember the cost.

And may history not forget who we were."

The hologram stuttered once, then blinked out.

Silence blanketed the city.

13:09 Hours – 2nd Floor, Republic Broadcast Hall

The chamber dimmed. The last threads of crystal light faded from the dais.

Ilyra stepped down. Her legs trembled slightly, but she did not fall.

Volst studied her for a long moment.

"That was… effective."

"It wasn't for you," she murmured.

Volst allowed a faint nod. "No. But it served both purposes."

Behind them, the Bernardian engineers began shutting down the relay. The old brass-armored broadcast coil hissed as its magic unwound—its last duty fulfilled.

Captain Morgan stepped forward. "The message reached all active nodes. Major cities, surviving garrisons, and provincial capitals. Transmission was clean."

Volst turned back to Ilyra. "It's done. The war, at least… this phase."

Ilyra didn't reply. She walked past him, slow and steady, as if carrying the weight of a tombstone across her back.

13:15 Hours – Capital Square, Glyveris

The people stood in stunned silence. Where once they had rallied to speeches from the Senate Balcony, now they stared at the cold, empty air where Ilyra's image had stood.

An elderly person sobbed into her sleeves near the foot of a ruined obelisk.

Then, slowly, a woman in a field medic's uniform tore the brass sigil from her coat. Not in surrender—but in mourning. Around her, others followed. A quiet ritual of grief.

But there were no riots. The city itself seemed to exhale—like an old creature finally giving in to sleep.