Chapter 1: The Fang of the Empire
A Britannian airship carved a silver trail across the sky, humming like a viper ready to strike. Inside, Bartley Asprius trembled, dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was no soldier. No spy. Just a nobleman trapped in a game far above his station.
And he was flying into the lair of Cobra Commander.
Logan Britannia—once a forgotten prince—had transformed himself into a legend cloaked in steel and ideology. Where other royals schemed for power, Logan commanded it. His army of black-clad zealots worshipped him like a messiah. His enemies whispered his name in fear.
Bartley believed he wouldn't leave this meeting alive.
"Approaching Area 12," said the pilot.
The desert below, once Australian outback, was now scorched, jagged, and militarized. Weapons tests erupted in the distance like thunder from an angry god. Bartley spotted a massive fortress shaped like a coiled serpent—cold, menacing, alive with movement.
The ship landed. Soldiers lined the runway. Their armor was jet black, adorned with a silver serpent emblem.
A man in a black suit approached.
"Mr. Asprius, the Commander awaits."
No rank. No royal title. Just Commander.
As they walked through the facility, Bartley noticed strange chambers—prisoners in testing tubes, screams behind glass, horrific experiments veiled in clinical silence. He turned his head. His legs threatened to collapse beneath him.
They stopped at a towering set of doors, flanked by snake-headed columns.
They creaked open.
And there, seated atop a chrome throne, bathed in artificial blue light, was Logan Britannia.
Or rather...
Cobra Commander.
He wore a high-collared black cape over armored tactical gear. His mirrored helmet reflected the room like a predator's eye. When he spoke, his voice rasped like a coiled whip, filled with theatrical venom.
"Bartley Asprius…" he hissed. "You survived the flight. How quaint. Sit."
A soldier dragged a chair forward. Bartley obeyed without hesitation.
Cobra Commander stood and circled him slowly like a serpent sizing up a mouse.
"Tell me," he said, pausing to draw a remote from his belt, "did my father's little speech stir something in your noble heart?"
He clicked the remote. A screen descended. Emperor Charles' speech played, filled with rhetoric about discipline and glory.
Cobra Commander watched it with theatrical disgust.
"Such drivel. Britannia speaks of power yet refuses to wield it. Of unity yet fosters division. And they wonder why a fool like Clovis died with a bullet in his brain."
Bartley flinched.
"Do you know what I think, Mr. Asprius?" he growled, helmet turning slowly toward him. "I think my brother was a coward. A weakling. He begged for mercy while trying to hide behind propaganda and poison gas."
Bartley stammered.
"P-Prince Clovis was—"
A boot slammed into Bartley's chest. He crashed to the floor.
Cobra stood over him, sword in hand now—its edge glinting like fangs.
"Never interrupt me when I'm sermonizing."
He leaned close.
"You nobles live in ivory towers while the world drowns in chaos. But I…" his voice dropped, fervent, intoxicating, "…I will burn it all down and forge something pure from the ashes."
"A new empire. Not Britannian. Not globalist. Cobra."
He walked back toward the throne, eyes glowing behind the helmet.
"Now... why was my brother in the Shinjuku Ghetto?"
Bartley coughed, crawling to his knees.
"He—he was performing experiments. On a test subject. She escaped. He claimed it was a gas leak to cover it up."
Cobra Commander gave a long, eerie chuckle.
"Of course he did. Every tyrant blames the gas."
"Do you have proof?"
Bartley fumbled in his coat and pulled out a folder. Photographs. Diagrams. Faces.
Cobra flipped through them slowly.
"Mmm… yes. That face. I remember this one." He held up a picture of the escaped test subject.
"Where is she now?"
"W-we lost her, my lord. But with time—"
The flash of steel was too fast to see. Bartley's throat opened in a red smile. He gasped, choked, and collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
Cobra Commander wiped the blade clean and sheathed it.
"Weakness has no place in Cobra."
He turned to the guards.
"Feed this waste to the pit beasts."
Later: Command Room
Technicians snapped to attention.
"HAIL COBRA!"
Cobra Commander returned the salute with a slow, precise nod. He stared at the massive screen—footage of Shinjuku. Fires. Craters. Civilians crushed beneath the weight of empire.
He shook his head.
"Such beautiful waste. If only they had obeyed."
A staff officer approached.
"Princess Euphemia has assumed governance. Cornelia will join her."
Cobra didn't react.
"Call them. I want words with the Empire's smiling doll and barking dog."
The transmission opened.
"Logan!" Euphemia beamed. "You look well—"
"I'm not here for flattery. Save it."
Cornelia's jaw tensed.
"Still brash. You haven't changed."
"You're wrong. I've evolved. Shed my skin. What stands before you now is not Britannian royalty. I am Cobra Commander."
Cornelia narrowed her eyes.
"You're still our brother, no matter what mask you wear."
"Spare me the sentiment, sister," he growled. "I'm taking control of Japan."
"It's Area 11," Cornelia snapped.
"It's Japan," Cobra hissed. "Stripped of name, stripped of dignity, but I remember what it was. And I'll reclaim it in fire."
Euphemia raised a hand.
"Wait—Logan—what if we worked together? You and I? A dual leadership?"
Cobra tilted his head, considering.
"…Fine. But understand this."
He stepped forward, voice like steel dragged across stone.
"This is a Cobra operation. Step in my way… and I'll kill you both."
Cornelia clenched her fists. Euphemia recoiled in silence, her expression breaking like glass.
"Cobra out."
Euphemia's Quarters
The transmission ended.
Euphemia stood alone, staring at an old family painting. All the siblings were there—even Logan—smiling, unmasked, whole.
She wiped tears from her cheek.
"Why, brother?"
"Why did you let the serpent eat the boy we loved?"