Chapter 1: The Last Gamble

All through the Ohio Rebellion, David Pierce knew he was gambling with his life—he never really thought he’d win.

Some nights, he’d park himself by the window, watching the maple trees sway as dusk crept in, feeling the heavy ache of every decision he’d ever made. The distant hum of cars on Route 8 reminded him just how normal life could have been—if he’d only made different choices.

In every great nation before, when had a governor’s son ever actually succeeded at raising troops against the president?

He’d read about doomed uprisings in battered history books, dog-eared pages from high school flashing through his mind. Every so-called rebellion ended up the same: a quick blurb on the news, a footnote in the records, the rebel leader vanished.

And then there was old man Pierce—Henry Pierce, his father—a sly old fox. To stop another “Seven Brothers’ Revolt” after his death, he made ironclad rules: his sons could only command troops when officially deployed. Otherwise, they had no authority.

Henry Pierce, who shuffled through the house in slippers and flannel, had a plan for everything—even the family barbecue had its own playbook. But the family legacy was sacred: the rules were framed in gold, hanging in the den between the family portrait and a Cleveland Cavaliers pennant.

Only the security detail at their side counted as a son’s personal guard.

At Thanksgiving, even the bodyguards would blend in—serving pumpkin pie, watching the door. But outside official business? They were just as powerless as everyone else.

That’s why President Nathan Young was so sure he could break the Pierce family’s grip.

To D.C., the Pierce dynasty was just another power to put in its place. The blogs and op-eds churned, but Nathan Young saw the numbers—he thought he held all the cards.

With hundreds of thousands of federal troops at his back, why should he worry about twenty thousand family guards?

The gulf between Pentagon press briefings and a handful of loyalists in a red-brick Maple Heights mansion was massive. No contest—at least on paper.

So what could David do? He was just as powerless. Look at me, I’m just the governor’s kid from Maple Heights. If you’d really played fair, maybe I wouldn’t be risking everything.

He’d mutter that to himself like a prayer, pacing midnight halls with only the fridge’s hum and the answering machine’s blinking light for company. If only, if only, if only.

But what choice did he have? If you want me gone, I have no choice but to put everything on the line.

Sometimes the future looked like nothing but empty stretches of I-80—bleak, inescapable, no exits left.

Relying on a lifetime of military training, David carved out a path where none should have existed. The reason he won the Ohio Rebellion—besides President Young’s endless blunders and the wild luck of history—was, above all, David himself.

He could really fight.

His old high school football coach called him a "born scrapper." Turns out, Coach hadn’t seen half of it.

Let’s wind it back. That year, Nathan Young had just taken office, and before he’d even learned the West Wing’s coffee machine, he started shaking things up.

He called his first meetings with his tie still too tight, shoes squeaking on the marble floors.

When Henry Pierce grilled him about running the country, Nathan Young had played the obedient guest. Henry would ask, “If your uncles act up, what will you do?”

Those Sunday dinners at the Pierce estate always ended the same—pot roast going cold as Henry fixed each young hopeful with that steel-eyed stare.

Young gave the textbook answer: “Start with diplomacy, then use force.”

The others nodded, eyes on their plates, the ritual as old as saying grace.

Use values to influence, ceremonies to restrain, reduce their districts, cut their details, and if all else fails, call in the National Guard.

Everyone murmured agreement, the script as familiar as any family tradition.

Old Henry was pleased. “Not bad. The kid’s got potential.”

A rare smile cracked his weathered face, and Nathan felt ten feet tall.

But then Henry died.

The call came at 2 a.m., in the heart of a January freeze. Nathan Young was suddenly at the top—and nothing was the same.

Nathan was bursting with energy. I know the standard answer, but I’m not following it. Hell, I’ll just go wild—what’s a few governor’s sons? Just cut them down.

His staffers whispered he was the most energetic president in decades—until he started firing off midnight executive orders like a kid with a new toy.

Whether you had other intentions or not, if he said you did, then you did. Who cared about values or grand ceremonies? Why bother with the process of reducing land and power?

Old cabinet secretaries shifted in their seats, remembering how Nathan Young waved off protocol with a flick of his hand.

Just cut them down.

It became a West Wing catchphrase, whispered in the halls or barked in late-night meetings. "Just cut them down."

Drag the sons to D.C., confiscate their property, strip their titles, demote them to regular citizens, and ship them to the edge of the country.

The old guard watched their names vanish from holiday guest lists, their mail rerouted to PO boxes in the Dakotas or along the Canadian border.

If Henry Pierce knew, he’d claw out of his grave in fury.

You could almost hear his ghost stalking the halls, muttering about honor and good old-fashioned American grit.

Of course, being harsh and ruthless isn’t the problem. If you’re going to be harsh and ruthless, you need brains and muscle. President Grant was harsh and ruthless, but he had troops. What does Nathan Young have?

The running joke in D.C. was that Young could win a policy debate, but not a bar fight in Columbus.

He had policy wonks.

There were more think tanks and consultants per square foot in his administration than all of Georgetown.

During his tenure, besides cutting down the governor’s sons, he pushed a flood of reforms—elevating the Six Departments, aggressively promoting civil officials, and slashing the Five Services Command.

The federal grapevine buzzed with rumors: endless meetings, reorganizations, and PowerPoint decks.

So how were the remaining military men supposed to get promoted?

Every junior officer started polishing their LinkedIn, just in case.

President Young didn’t care. He and Franklin Hart, the champion of old American values, were still dreaming up a modern homestead act.

They’d meet over diner coffee at 7 a.m., scribbling plans on napkins that sounded better in theory than in practice.

Hart was especially ambitious, desperate to revive the old ways—he quoted Lincoln and Jefferson in every speech, but the crowds never looked convinced.

With minds like that, there was no hope for cutting down the governor’s sons.

Everyone in the press room saw it: Young was a reformer at heart, not a streetfighter.

From the start, the order was wrong. Everyone knew David Pierce was the strongest, with the best troops. Nathan Young decided not to poke the hornet’s nest first.

Some aides called it prudence; others just called it cowardice after hours at the bar.

Start with the weak, build up some prestige.

Classic playground logic: pick on the smallest kid first.

You’re already the president, and you’re still picking the softest target. What prestige can you possibly build?

It was the kind of move that would get you laughed out of a Midwest VFW hall.

First to fall: the Wilsons from Duluth and the Parkers from Fresno. They’d gotten too full of themselves—sure, they bullied people, maybe had rebellious thoughts.

Town gossip ran wild, social media lit up, but nobody missed the Wilsons at Fourth of July picnics.

But then there was Tyler Brooks from Flagstaff, who called himself Skywalker. He’d helped suppress riots and maybe printed a few fake bonds—hardly a capital crime.

Neighbors remembered Tyler’s quirky yoga retreats and crystal shops more than any hint of treason.

But Nathan Young sent people to summon Tyler to D.C. and sent troops disguised as truckers to invade his district.

Trucks rolled into quiet Arizona suburbs, blending in with weekend traffic until they pulled up at Tyler’s gates.

Tyler hesitated—should he go or not? Before he could decide, his mansion was surrounded by federal agents. Only then did he realize: the president doesn’t need a reason to take you down.

Flashing lights, barking dogs, the metallic clatter of tactical boots—it all brought the truth home fast.

He knew what fate awaited his brothers.

He’d heard the stories—late-night calls, vanishing texts.

Demoted, exiled—what would be left in the mansion?

The antiques, diplomas, family photos—none of it would matter once D.C. put its stamp on his name.

Outside, a bullhorn: “Mr. Brooks, open up and cuff yourself. Let’s go.”

The voice was chillingly casual, like a cop calling for a missing pet.

Tyler didn’t answer. What would be left in the mansion?

He’d fought in riots; he knew what confiscation meant: women violated, staff slaughtered. A so-called governor’s son, now just a stray dog.

He saw fear in his staff’s eyes, felt his own hands tremble. This wasn’t just the end of privilege—it was the end of dignity.

Under the gloomy sky, Tyler suddenly laughed—a sharp, ragged sound, echoing off marble. Defiance itself seemed to take over.

His eyes were bloodshot. Turning to his family and followers, he said, “I’ve always fought for the president, undefeated in every campaign—how can I be humiliated by petty men today? To survive in disgrace, I cannot.”

The words hit like thunder. Even the most stoic among them choked back sobs.

Everyone wept, but Tyler kept laughing, tears streaming. He ordered all the best whiskey in the house. Despite shouting and cursing outside, they drank together.

It was a wake before the funeral—anger, grief, the sound of glasses clinking a final act of rebellion.

He got the children drunk, everyone’s eyes red from crying. Tyler kicked over bourbon barrels and set a great fire.

Flames licked up oak-paneled walls, casting wild shadows. The smell of smoke mixed with the sharp bite of spilled whiskey.

Dressed in his formal suit, bow and arrows in hand, Tyler shouted for the doors to be opened and shot the cursing officer dead like a falling star.

The shot rang out, echoing through the valley, forever marking the house with his last stand.

Then, laughing to the sky, he rode his horse straight into the flames and burned himself alive.

Neighbors watching from their porches would tell the story for years: how Skywalker faced the fire rather than let D.C. claim him.

When news of this reached Maple Heights, David Pierce didn’t dare show anger—President Young, while cutting down the governor’s sons, never stopped watching his strongest rival.

He learned to school his face, hiding every twitch of emotion. In American politics, sometimes silence is the only safe answer.

David’s army was strong, so the administration transferred some to guard the northern border, right?

A neat little memo from the Pentagon, stripping him of his best.

What could David say? Only, “No problem.”

He practiced the phrase in the mirror, deadpan, as if ordering coffee instead of surrendering his future.

After that, President Young kept sending people to Maple Heights to take charge, controlling the military and political power, with inspectors frequently reporting David’s suspicious activities, bribing officials, and harboring treacherous intentions.

Every morning brought a new batch of emails, each one another nail in his political coffin.

David argued over and over, saying these were just ordinary rewards—surely a governor’s son could at least give out some rewards?

His voice grew hoarse in hearings and interviews, but no one cared to listen.

President Young ignored him and directly demoted the official who accepted David’s reward to New Mexico.

The order arrived in a plain manila envelope—no discussion, no debate.

David’s subordinates mocked the administration, spoke disrespectfully, and were executed in D.C. for treason.

The news flashed across cable networks—another warning for anyone thinking of stepping out of line.

An executive order was sent, condescendingly accusing David.

The tone was pure Washington arrogance, the kind that made even seasoned bureaucrats roll their eyes.

David just took the beating, with no room to maneuver.

He felt every blow in the quiet, alone in his father’s old study, staring at family photos that now seemed like relics of another era.

There really was no room. Colonel Simmons brought thirty thousand troops, taking away David’s elite under the pretext of guarding the border, stationed at Fort Johnson, watching David from the mountain pass. The highways and rail lines were also under federal control.

It felt like being boxed in by a thousand miles of Ohio cornfields, nothing but flat land and nowhere left to run.

Surrounded on three sides, how could he fight?

Even the birds seemed to avoid the house, the air heavy with tension, each day colder than the last.

In the bleak northern wind, Reverend Grant—known as Brother Gabriel—entered David’s residence.

The old white chapel on Main Street had always been Grant’s second home, but tonight he looked like a man on a mission.

Brother Gabriel was a preacher, a poet, and full of dangerous wisdom.

He carried a dog-eared copy of "Leaves of Grass" in one pocket and a battered Bible in the other—a strange mix of Midwestern folksiness and firebrand rhetoric. He wore a battered Stetson and quoted Whitman as easily as scripture, his sermons equal parts gospel and small-town gossip.

The Good Book says all is vanity, but people still want something to outlast them. Scholars want their names in the books; Brother Gabriel wanted his name etched into the land.

Some said he was haunted by the ghosts of abolitionist preachers, others just called him an eccentric genius.

Unfortunately, the time wasn’t right; the country was at peace, so he could only be a preacher.

He’d written op-eds for the local paper, ran book clubs, and kept waiting for the world to give him his moment.

Now, Grant entered David’s residence, glanced at the clouds in the sky, and suddenly smiled.

He could smell revolution on the wind, or maybe just the scent of rain rolling in over the lake.

The time had come.

“Sir, the only option now is to raise a militia.”

He delivered the line with the kind of calm certainty that comes from deep conviction—or from having nothing left to lose.

David’s eyelids twitched: “I won’t even talk about our current predicament. The country has just stabilized, and both the troops and the people’s hearts are with that dog president. How can we raise a militia?”

His voice trembled between fatigue and exasperation, every word weighed down by months of sleepless nights.

Grant played his part well: “I know the will of Providence. Why worry about people’s hearts?”

Grant’s smile was enigmatic, the kind that makes skeptics uneasy and true believers bolder.

David: “…”

He rolled his eyes, half wishing for a stronger drink.

All that talk about Providence, God, and angels—Grant and his mystical friends proved from every angle that David had the aura of a leader, destined to be president.

David: “…”

He sighed deeply, the sound echoing off the hardwood floors.

David was exhausted.

The lines on his face seemed deeper in the soft glow of the lamplight, hands trembling as he spoke.

He said, “Save that nonsense for fooling others later. Just tell me what to do now.”

It was the plea of a man at the end of his rope, but determined not to fall.

Grant held up two fingers. Raising a militia is nothing more than recruiting men and buying trucks. Sir, you can use the excuse of rounding up draft dodgers to find men. As for buying trucks and weapons, the Pierce estate was the old governor’s mansion—the back garden is big enough to dig an underground workshop.

He laid out the plan with the same steady voice he used for Sunday sermons, making the impossible seem doable.

David scratched his ear.

A nervous tic from childhood, surfacing only when he was about to do something dangerous.

Grant understood, smiling faintly: “If you’re worried about the noise from making weapons, just keep a bunch of geese or ducks above ground. Their racket will cover up the sounds below.”

His grin was sly, knowing, as if he’d already tried this at some small-town church picnic.

David was noncommittal, sighing: “With all this, how many men can we get? A few hundred at most?”

He was already calculating the odds, scanning every corner of his mind for possible exits.

Grant said: “A few hundred is enough.”

He shrugged, as if leading a hundred against an empire was as simple as organizing a Sunday school bake sale.

David laughed, leaning forward, staring at Grant: “Brother Gabriel, you want me to bet my life with a few hundred men against the federal government’s million-strong army—isn’t that a bit much?”

The laughter was half-bitter, half-challenging—the sound of a gambler testing the house.

Grant was as calm as ever: “You can’t play it safe from six feet under.”

The words landed like a sermon at a funeral, final and unflinching.

After so many days of pressure, David couldn’t help but laugh, his eyes shining: Fine! Life and death, let’s gamble once!

He felt adrenaline surge, the old fire rekindled inside him, a glimmer of hope in the darkest of times.

But recruiting men takes time. Facing President Young’s relentless pressure, David also needed to buy himself some breathing room.

The clock ticked loudly in the halls, every minute another warning.

He’d watched his brother self-immolate, his subordinates get killed, lived every day in fear, and even his son was a hostage in D.C.—going mad was only natural.

It was the kind of pressure that cracks even the strongest steel. Sometimes, the only way out was through madness.

So David went mad.

He didn’t just play the part; he threw himself into it, like an actor on Broadway. Every gesture calculated, every word a performance.

A dignified governor’s son, running into the street fighting for food, acting like a child, wrecking everything he saw, finally dragged back to his house, and then continued his act.

Neighbors watched in disbelief as David, once the model son, now scuffled with stray dogs for scraps behind the local diner.

Saying he’s cold, saying he’s hot.

He’d flip the thermostat from 65 to 85, sweat beading on his brow, then shiver under three wool blankets, muttering about snow in July.

In midsummer, bundled up in thick clothes with a space heater burning, when President Young’s people came to check on him, David turned his head with a gentle but eerie smile: “It’s really cold.”

He stared right through them, eyes vacant, smile fixed, sending a chill down even the toughest agent’s spine.

Scaring President Young’s men half to death.

Word traveled quickly; soon, nobody wanted to be assigned to Maple Heights duty.

Since David was mad, someone had to manage the estate. President Young hadn’t yet openly broken with David, so by both reason and sentiment, he should send David’s sons back.

The local paper ran polite editorials about family and tradition, nudging the administration to do the right thing.

Not to mention, David had already decided to rebel. Besides recruiting, he had other tricks up his sleeve.

He’d learned to play the D.C. game—cash in hand, favors on the line, secrets traded in smoky back rooms.

For example, sending people to scatter cash around D.C.

Stacks of bills in brown paper bags, left at the right doorsteps, always with a subtle nod or handshake.

Whoever could be bought was bought. President Young relied on civil officials, but plenty of military men saw no hope for themselves. If they wouldn’t join the rebellion, at least their resentment would make them stand by and watch.

It was a slow erosion—one loyalty at a time, until the president’s base started to crumble beneath him.

His brother-in-law, Alex Stanton, was very optimistic about him and became David’s main contact in D.C.

Alex, the kind of man who always had a joke and a cigar ready, worked the Hill with the skill of a seasoned lobbyist.

With such people stirring the pot—and, more importantly, President Young himself unable to decide whether to release David’s sons—he hesitated, listening to all sorts of opinions.

White House aides bickered through the night, their voices rising above the static of late-night cable news.

Alex said, “David is filthy rich and has no troops. Why would he rebel? Just to die faster?”

He flashed his trademark grin, confident as ever in front of the West Wing’s old oak doors.

President Young believed it.

He leaned back in his leather chair, letting the words sink in, thinking he’d outfoxed the old guard yet again.

Even though David’s elder brother-in-law, Paul Stanton, repeatedly advised not to release the boys, it was useless.

Paul’s warnings got buried under piles of policy briefs and the endless churn of White House memos.

President Young was confident nothing would happen, and he wasn’t ready for a real showdown. Although he’d been rude and broken procedure with his rivals, he still wasn’t used to tearing things up directly.

He’d spent years playing nice, and old habits die hard, even for a president.

The boys stole Paul’s horses and galloped out of D.C.

It was the kind of stunt that would’ve made headlines in the Old West—except now it was captured on security cameras and replayed on the evening news.

Paul gave chase but couldn’t catch them.

He cursed under his breath, vowing to never lend out the horses again.

David breathed a sigh of relief and continued pretending to be mad.

It was almost fun, fooling the men who thought they were fooling him.

This act didn’t last long. After a few months, the Wilsons and Parkers were gone, both demoted to regular citizens, and President Young finally turned his attention to David.

As the sirens howled in the distance, David realized: this time, there was nowhere left to run.

With all his wings clipped, and no chance of a “Seven Brothers’ Revolt,” what could you possibly use to fight me?

It was a taunt whispered across the country, echoed in every rumor and social media post.

How could he lose?

With the numbers stacked, the odds seemed unbeatable.

So the Maple Heights Police Chief, the County Executive, and the City Commander led the city’s seven precincts and local militias to surround David’s estate, just waiting for the order from D.C. to arrest him and bring him to the capital.

Cops stood in the sticky July air, hands sweating on their radios, the sound of cicadas blending with the distant wail of sirens.

The order soon arrived. David’s envoy was detained, and President Young got the confession he wanted: David’s rebellion.

It was delivered in a sealed folder, the final nail in the coffin.

Everything was ready. Next was to arrest him as ordered.

It felt like the calm before a summer storm—everyone knew trouble was coming, but nobody moved.

These days, Police Chief Gregson was both nervous and excited. He’d never done anything as big as arresting a governor’s son, especially one with military merit.

He practiced his lines in the mirror, shirt collar tight, feeling a little like a rookie again.

So Gregson was cautious. He glanced at his colleague, Ben Carter, who’d just arrived, and asked, “No problems, right?”

Ben was much more relaxed, smiling and waving: “David’s estate is tightly surrounded. What could possibly happen? These days, not even his own men can get in—only a preacher goes in to counsel him.”

Ben grinned, twirling his keychain—a souvenir from the last police convention in Vegas.

Gregson frowned: “A preacher?”

He never trusted preachers—too much mystery behind those calm eyes.

Ben patted his shoulder: “It’s the late governor’s order. Every son has a preacher to counsel and pray for them. What’s strange about that?”

He shrugged, as if it were just another odd quirk in the Pierce family rulebook.

Gregson thought about it and agreed.

Still, the unease clung to him like sweat on a hot Ohio night.

But he was still uneasy and asked about Commander Harris. Wasn’t he supposed to help with the arrest?

He scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of the gruff old commander.

Ben curled his lip: “Harris is too soft-hearted. He fought with David before. He told me days ago he wouldn’t come—just sent his men.”

Ben rolled his eyes, remembering how Harris always let his heart get in the way of the job.

Gregson frowned: “Commander Harris wouldn’t leak the news, would he?”

The question hung in the air like a thundercloud.

Ben laughed: “For what? To die?”

He clapped Gregson on the back, trying to shake off the tension.

Gregson nodded, took a deep breath, then suddenly smiled at Ben: “Do you think David is still pretending to be mad?”

The edge in his voice was half-joke, half-worry.

Ben laughed: “A governor’s son is common. A mad governor’s son is rare. I’d like to see more of his madness.”

He winked, trying to lighten the mood, but his hand hovered close to his sidearm all the same.

Moments later, the two were disappointed. Someone came running out of David’s estate, humble and low-voiced: “My boss has tied up everyone inside, waiting for you two officers to come in and check. Please be lenient.”

The message was so polite it almost felt like a trap.

The two exchanged a smile, relaxed, and gestured for each other to go first.

They stepped forward, shoes crunching on gravel, joking about who’d get to write the arrest report.

In the heat of July, Maple Heights already had a northern wind. The sky was leaden like iron. The two men, who held Maple Heights’ military and political power, strode into David’s estate.

Their uniforms clung with sweat, breaths coming short, the world suddenly quiet except for the wind rattling the magnolia trees.

People knelt all over the ground. Deeper inside, David could be seen sitting in the main hall.

The image was almost cinematic: a lone figure, head bowed, surrounded by a sea of silent followers.

Gregson smiled: “Oh, David isn’t mad anymore?”

He tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out higher than intended.

David didn’t smile, only looked up at the sky. The north wind grew stronger, and the leaden clouds seemed ready to break and fall, turning into a downpour.

For a moment, time held its breath. The room smelled of impending rain and old wood polish.

In the heavy rain, David’s gaze fell back on Gregson and Ben. He raised his hand and waved.

A simple gesture, but it carried the weight of destiny.

“Now.”

The word was quiet, but it cracked like a starter’s pistol.

Gregson and Ben were stunned. The dozens of armed officers who’d followed instinctively gripped their guns, but it was too late.

The sound of boots thundered in the hallway, the sudden click of the main gate echoing like a drumbeat.

The main gate of the estate slammed shut. Eight hundred men emerged from behind the hall, led by generals John York and Mike Neal, charging at Gregson and Ben through the rain. The dozens of armed guards were caught off guard and killed on the spot.

For a split second, the only sounds were the crack of gunfire and the roar of the storm outside.

Blood pooled on the polished floor, and for a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering the windows. Even the victors stood silent, shaken by how fast everything had changed.

Gregson still couldn’t believe it, shouting, “Impossible! Where did you get the men?”

His voice wavered, full of terror and disbelief.

At that moment, two more people came from behind the hall. The first, in preacher’s robes, was Brother Gabriel, Reverend Grant.

His hands were folded in prayer, lips moving in silent benediction as chaos erupted around him.

David ignored Gregson. Grant had already dug a huge tunnel in the back garden; digging a secret passage was only natural.

The Pierce family had always known how to plan for a rainy day—sometimes literally.

As for how David managed to counterattack so precisely, it wasn’t luck. He knew perfectly well President Young’s men would come to arrest him that day.

He’d been counting down, waiting for this very moment.

Coming out with Grant was Commander Harris, who’d once followed David on campaign and now came to arrest him on President Young’s orders.

Harris’s face was drawn, his hands clenched, torn between duty and loyalty.

Seeing this, Gregson realized he really had leaked the news.

Regret flickered in his eyes, but it was too late for second thoughts.

But Gregson never understood, even as he died, why?

He had time to wonder—was it friendship, or something deeper?

Eight hundred men—David had only eight hundred he could use—why risk his life for them?

For David, eight hundred was enough to start a fire. For Gregson, it would never be enough to understand.

He would never know the answer.

History rarely grants answers to those it swallows whole.

In fact, the Pierce estate was the old governor’s mansion. Gregson and Ben might not have even seen David himself, just been killed in the long corridor when the gates closed.

Their stories would end in the footnotes, if they were remembered at all.

After the fighting was over, the eight hundred men all looked to David, waiting for his next order.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and spent gunpowder, the hush of anticipation settling like a shroud.

Before David could speak, the wind and rain raged on. With a bang, a roof tile was blown off.

The sudden crash made everyone jump, a bad omen hanging in the air.

Rebelling was a matter of risking your head. Although the eight hundred present had already chosen to follow David, seeing such an unlucky omen still made them nervous.

Superstitions ran deep in the Midwest, and even the bravest paused to knock on wood or cross themselves.

Even David’s eyelid twitched.

He rubbed the spot, trying to will the doubt away.

So many unlucky things had piled up these past months.

Every setback felt like one more sign from the universe, but still he pressed on.

Luckily, there was Grant.

The preacher stepped forward, his presence as steady as a lighthouse in a storm.

As people’s hearts wavered, Grant calmly stepped forward, giving David a mysterious smile, as if to say “all within the plan,” and pointed to the sky: “The eagle soars in the storm, following the wind and rain—this is a good sign.”

He delivered it with the practiced confidence of a man used to rallying broken souls.

As for the fallen tile, that was probably Providence’s joke, reminding you to fix the roof.

His dry humor drew nervous laughter, breaking the spell of dread.

David’s eyes lit up.

He nodded in gratitude, feeling strength return.

People’s hearts were steadied.

The tension eased, men standing taller, hope flickering in their eyes.

In rebellion, American preachers were always professionals.

They’d guided revolutions before, from colonial times to the civil rights marches.

After taking down Gregson and Ben with lightning speed, David ordered John York to lead the eight hundred to seize Maple Heights’ nine main roads, while he and Harris used their old prestige to control the leaderless police in the city.

Old relationships counted for more than badges or titles. The memory of fighting side-by-side outlasted any political order.

Don’t look down on just eight hundred men. How many officers in Maple Heights had fought alongside David in past deployments?

Memories of shared foxholes and late-night patrols built a loyalty no bureaucrat could erase.

In peaceful times, command was just paperwork. But with chaos just ended, David, Harris, and Grant rushed about, producing Henry Pierce’s deathbed letter: when corrupt officials are in power, the governor’s sons may clear the administration and protect the nation.

The letter was passed from hand to hand, read aloud in trembling voices in church basements and squad car parking lots.

All over in the rain was the sound of weapons hitting the ground, and the urgent calls of David.

Metal clattered on asphalt, a steady beat under the storm.

The president was too far away. For the officers, David felt closer. Besides, no one was leading them to kill David, so they all joined him.

It was as much about old debts as new hopes—sometimes, that’s enough.

David led more and more troops to support York, seized Maple Heights’ nine main roads, and drove the resisting Police Chief Mason out of the city.

The last holdouts scattered into the rain, their protests drowned by the roar of the crowd.

Within three days, he controlled all of Maple Heights.

The local radio played nothing but static, but word spread fast by mouth: the city had changed hands overnight.

No one came to congratulate him, nor did David need it. He knew better than anyone that this was just kicking the can down the road—he’d only pulled one foot out of hell’s door.

He sat alone in his father’s old armchair, staring at the rain-streaked windows, wondering how long before D.C. would strike back.

For three days, David didn’t remove his gear or rest, reorganizing and drilling men. But even after all that, he had just over ten thousand men.

He lived on black coffee and cold sandwiches, his voice hoarse from barking orders.

Never mind marching south to “fix the country”—Maple Heights was still surrounded on three sides. As soon as the southern army pressed in, Maple Heights was doomed.

Every route in and out was watched, every bridge patrolled by men with itchy trigger fingers.

So he couldn’t wait—he could only fight.

Every hour lost was another nail in the coffin.

David Pierce slapped the table. He had to take care of the three-sided encirclement before the southern army could march north. With just over ten thousand men, he had to strike like lightning.

The old oak table bore the scars of a thousand decisions—this was the biggest yet.

Such heroic spirit was very much like Henry Pierce.

The family legacy was alive in every gesture.

And this business of starting with eight hundred men—who knows if Grant was thinking of Lincoln’s early days?

It was a long-standing American tradition: small beginnings, outsized dreams.

In President Young’s first year, in July, David left his son and Grant to guard Maple Heights, and led his army east to raid Johnsonville. The commander there had fought David before and knew his situation well.

He left with only a few trusted aides, boots crunching in the predawn darkness, heart pounding with equal parts fear and hope.

Since he had rebelled, he really dared to kill.

His men followed him not just for loyalty, but because they believed in the cause—or at least in his ability to win.

The Johnsonville commander compared himself to David and knew, before the southern army arrived, if he held out, he would die miserably.

He weighed the risks in a moment of clarity, remembering every lesson from West Point and every warning from his mother.

So, of course, he surrendered to David. Who would really die for President Young?

A handshake sealed the deal, and for a moment, old enemies became reluctant allies.

Further east, there was the territory of Nick Pierce. David wasn’t sure if the administration could mobilize Nick’s troops, so he sent a detachment to block the road toward Danville.

The old rivalry between brothers became a chess game, every move calculated to keep options open.

This force, led by Mike Neal, fought hard to take Smithtown, killed Police Chief Mason, and forced Sunnyside to surrender with their victory.

The battle was brief but brutal, the smell of gunpowder lingering for days after.

Meanwhile, David pressed on, leading his troops north. There was still Colonel Simmons, sent by President Young, who had taken away David’s elite under the pretext of guarding the border—thirty thousand crack troops.

Every step northward felt like walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls.

At this point, David’s total force was less than thirty thousand, so he didn’t plan a bloody battle.

He’d learned to count every bullet, every truck, every ration—nothing wasted, everything with a purpose.

Taking away David’s elite was a good move before he rebelled, but now that David had broken out of Maple Heights and confronted Simmons, Simmons lost his nerve.

The tables had turned; the hunted was now the hunter.

His men were all former Pierce troops, and top-quality at that. Who knew if they’d switch sides in battle?

Loyalty was a fickle thing in times of war, especially when family ties ran deep.

So Simmons gritted his teeth and came up with a rotten idea.

He called an emergency meeting, sweating under the fluorescent lights.

Simmons told his troops, sighing, “David Pierce has rebelled. You are with me, so you are his enemies. Before David marched, he sacrificed your families to the flag. Maple Heights ran with blood. Sad and lamentable.”

The speech was full of drama, but nobody quite bought it.

Among the thirty thousand, there was uproar—some didn’t believe it, some wept, but at least morale was up.

A few true believers banged their fists on the table; others just looked away, ashamed.

Simmons called out, his cronies echoed, and soon the parade ground rang with cries of “Take down the traitor, avenge our kin!”

The chant rose like a football cheer, but nobody’s heart was really in it.

Just as Simmons was feeling confident, David arrived.

He brought not just soldiers, but civilians—fathers, mothers, sons—waving signs and flags, voices hoarse from days of worry.

Without even fighting, David’s spies heard the news at Fort Johnson and reported, barely suppressing a laugh: “Sir, Simmons says you killed the soldiers’ families for sacrifice.”

The absurdity was almost too much—David nearly choked on his coffee.

David scratched his head, looked back, and suddenly felt extremely embarrassed for Simmons.

He wondered if Simmons had ever been good at lying, or if he’d just run out of better options.

He hadn’t just brought combat troops. In the cold north wind, there were thousands of Maple Heights civilians—relatives of many of Simmons’s crack troops.

The families huddled together, waving photos and calling out familiar names.

In war, attacking the heart is better than attacking the city. Who doesn’t know?

Old Sun Tzu would have nodded in approval from beyond the grave.

When David’s troops arrived, these people suddenly rushed to the front, some shouting for their fathers, some for their brothers, some for their sons. Simmons’s men were stunned, thinking, what the hell?

Some stood frozen, weapons dangling uselessly; others broke ranks to embrace their families.

Finally, someone reacted, and suddenly shouted, “Colonel Simmons lied to us!”

The words spread like wildfire, breaking the last barrier of doubt.

Simmons’s vision went black.

He knew then and there that his career was over, if not his life.

He had no time to feel embarrassed; his heart pounded like a drum. He knew he was finished.

He’d been outplayed by a better man—there was nothing left but surrender.

This time, thousands really switched sides on the spot. David seized the chance, crossed the river, and attacked fiercely. Of Simmons’s thirty thousand, some died, some were wounded, some fled. Simmons himself died in the chaos, leaving David more than eight thousand trucks and countless weapons and supplies.

The battlefield was littered with abandoned gear, the sound of weeping and relief blending with the distant wail of ambulance sirens.

From eight hundred men fighting for their lives, breaking out of Maple Heights, taking Johnsonville and Sunnyside, seizing Smithtown and the mountain pass, to shattering the cage President Young had set for David—all in just twelve days.

It was the kind of streak that would’ve made even the old sports reporters at the Beacon-Journal take notice.

This is what “speed is everything in war” really means.

David could feel his father’s old ghost grinning somewhere in the storm.

After the victory at Fort Johnson, there was little resistance around Maple Heights. Copperton, Long Lake, Hillcrest, Cloud City, Pine Bluff, and Lakeview, which surrendered during the Fort Johnson battle, all fell in a few days.

The dominoes fell fast, old alliances crumbling under the weight of new reality.

At this point, D.C. was just starting to appoint generals and prepare for the campaign.

The news barely made the late-night talk shows, buried beneath coverage of a celebrity wedding.

The first large-scale encirclement David faced had only just begun.

The real storm, everyone knew, was still on the horizon.