Chapter 851 - This Game Is Too Realistic

## Chapter 851: The Blood-Stained Crown "Wait... Isn't the coronation ceremony the day after tomorrow? Please let me see General Gurion... Have you perhaps gotten the timing wrong?" Inside the solemn and dignified Westfan Harbor Court, about a hundred people stood scattered among the audience. Akbar, initially bewildered by the unexpected scene, turned his gaze towards the Velander standing nearby, voicing his dissatisfaction. According to the original plan, he was to be crowned in the presence of his father's old ministers, affirming his uncontested rule over the Boros Province as the new emperor. Yet now, the witnesses to this historic moment were but a few counts and viscounts. More vexing was that some of those present weren't even nobility. Their giddy, naive expressions almost screamed the phrase "never seen the world" written across their faces. These people were clearly commoners. How could such an important event allow these rabble-rousers to partake in the spectacle? What an absurdity! However, Pete, who faced the young emperor's dissatisfaction, couldn't have been less interested in placating him. He simply replied impatiently. "General Gurion has urgent matters to attend to and cannot meet you. It's going to rain the day after tomorrow, so we've moved it up." Rain...? What kind of reason is that? Akbar was at a loss, his mouth agape, unable to utter a word, merely staring blankly at the Velander before him. The audience in the jury seats hadn’t heard the exchange between the two. Apart from those of status—nobles and knowledgeable elders—the audience bore expressions of curiosity, enthusiastically murmuring among themselves. "That young emperor certainly has a regal bearing; such majesty!" "As expected of royalty, he looks so dignified!" "Westernland is saved!" "Come on, get started already!" Standing at the center of the court, Pete glanced at the time, growing impatient. He gave a pointed look to the dazed Akbar. "Are you going to take the throne or not? If not, we'll find someone else." Startled by these words, Akbar, unsure if they were bluffing, hastily replied. "I'll take it! I will... Wait, this throne is mine by right!" "Then hurry up." As if any additional words would be a waste of time, Pete turned his gaze towards the judge standing not far away. The judge wore a mask of irritation but ultimately said nothing. Gurion was doing this on purpose. Hosting this absurd charade in his courtroom was nothing more than an attempt to humiliate him. One had to admit, that guy really held grudges, with principles as low as, well, possibly just a notch higher than the clowns in this courtroom. "The coronation ceremony begins." Speaking with the same solemnity as when opening the court, the judge announced these words and then turned to leave. Pete didn’t bother looking at him, choosing instead to signal an elderly Boros man standing nearby. That elderly member of the lionfolk, working as a janitor at the court, was casually given the title of count and briefed on the tasks he needed to perform. The old man approached with trembling hands, carrying a golden crown, keeping his head bowed low, avoiding eye contact with the prince. "Your Majesty... please be crowned." His voice quivered slightly, and he slowly knelt on the ground. Akbar didn’t recognize the so-called count in front of him, but he couldn’t find fault with his respectful manner. "Hmm." He responded with a nasal hum, then reached out to take the gold crown, solemnly placing it upon his head. Except for the Velanders, everyone present immediately dropped to their knees, foreheads touching the ground. Whether commoner or noble. They all shouted in unison. "Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty!" "Long live the Emperor!" "Long live Westernland!" The chorus of cheers echoed within the solemn courtroom, an uncoordinated but reverberating symphony. Akbar, however, could barely contain his delight, the sullen demeanor he wore moments ago melting into an irrepressible smile. This was the burden his father bore. His chest swelled with an overwhelming emotion. This feeling was simply... Exquisitely delightful! Akbar extended his hands forward, raising them slightly in a gesture of benevolence. "Arise, my loyal subjects!" Practiced countless times before the mirror, he finally had the chance to do it before everyone! ... "Take cover!!!" At the border between Westfan Harbor and Bull State, raging flames burned upon the scarred earth marked by trenches. The centurion, lying flat on the ground, screamed his lungs out, urging his comrades behind him to hit the dirt. Thirty seconds earlier, a deafening explosion echoed from the direction of Westfan Harbor. By the time everyone processed what was happening, the blinding white light and seething flames had already descended upon the trenches of the Boros frontier forces. In the face of the 902 mm heavy artillery, the trenches dug by the Boros army resembled nothing more than toothpicks, flung skywards along with the surrounding earth. Following the initial explosion, rows of 100 mm artillery joined the cacophony. The fiery blasts roared through the position, shrapnel raining down like storm, engulfing the entirety of the defense line in depth. The shelling continued unabated for a full ten minutes. Where once solid defenses stood, there were now but ruins; the soldiers huddling within the trenches, too, were decimated, faces etched with terror. They didn't even know what had hit them, only witnessing the artillery fire raining upon them from their own ranks. Hiding within an anti-artillery bunker, Isher gritted his teeth, scrambling through the chaos to retrieve a fallen telephone. The connection to the front line radio was severed, isolating them from the vanguard units. Fortunately, however, the line to headquarters remained intact. Without hesitation, he dispatched a courier to survey the front lines, hurriedly contacting HQ to report the situation along the border. "This is the 111th company of the northwest defense line, we've been hit by artillery fire from Westfan Harbor's direction! I repeat, we're under artillery attack from Westfan Harbor!" After a brief static, the voice of the rear line operator, clearly frazzled, responded immediately. "What's your current situation? Do you see any troop movements?!" The operator's voice shook with tension, clearly inexperienced, and the command post was completely unprepared for the unfolding events. Cursing under his breath, Isher bellowed into the phone. "The line’s down, I can't reach the front line! Those big-nosed bastards used heavy artillery; this isn't just intimidation!" A chair scraped on the other end, the operator's voice quivered with urgency. "Understood... I'll report your situation immediately." Isher shouted louder. "This is war! I'm not joking—send reinforcements immediately! Damn it, delay and you'll be left with corpses to collect!" Meanwhile, on the most exposed section of the northwest defense line. Of the original full-strength force of 120, it was uncertain how many survived. Slowly regaining consciousness, the centurion Dumte grasped the rifle that had fallen beside him. The scorched earth, still smoking, was blistering to the touch. Yet he dared not risk rising from the ground, gritting his teeth against the heat that could fry an egg. "...Damn it, where's our radio?! Get this information to HQ!" Although he felt the deafening noise could speak for itself, he still shouted towards his communication soldiers. Fortunately, the radio operator had survived, engrossed in repairing the battered radio within the trench. Yet observing his sweat-drenched appearance, Dumte's heart sank—a bad omen indeed. As he feared, the operator raised his head in despair. "The radio's destroyed!" "Damn it!" Dumte punched the dirt with vehemence, cursing towards Westfan Harbor's direction. Thankfully, the artillery landed with some distance. But even so, his insides felt jumbled from the shockwaves. Enduring the abdominal pain, Dumte surveyed the chaos behind him and shouted vehemently. "Prepare for battle, everyone! We won't let those big-nosed bastards snatch another inch of land from us!" Since the Velanders arrived on this soil, his countrymen had bled incessantly. Each time he read the "Survivor’s Daily" reports, saw the massacred families, a fire of rage burned within his heart. Now, those Velanders intended to advance further, allowing that hellish terror to spread deep into Boros Province... No matter how much Abusik appeased them, he would never back down! "Fight them to the last breath!" "Take down those big-nosed bastards!" On the shattered battlefield, the roars echoed, clearly showing that Dumte wasn't the only one with such resolve. Hearing the spirited responses, a smile spread across Dumte's face. Thank goodness. It seemed many of his brothers were still alive. His expression becoming serious once more, he shouted back. "Roll call!" As soon as the words left his mouth, responses came pouring in from every direction. "1!" "2!" "...!" "Report! Team 1, five left!" "Team 2, seven left!" "Team 3, only two remain!" "..." Dumte silently tallied the numbers: fifty-seven out of the original hundred-man company survived. If it came down to it, they could likely buy the rear five precious minutes. Just as this thought passed, a lone figure appeared at the edge of a distant field. Raising his rifle to take aim, Dumte quickly realized the man wasn’t a Velander but a Boros native. "Listen up, you there!" The man halted at the field's edge, yelling towards the troops. "General Gurion's forces are headed to Dog State to battle the rebels! If you don't wish to die, clear the way immediately for the legion!" "The previous artillery barrage was just a warning! If you persist, don’t blame us for blindly falling shellfire—" His warning was abruptly cut short by the sharp crack of a gunshot. The bullet struck the ground at his feet, sending up a spray of dirt. Startled, he staggered and fell, clambering to his feet before fleeing without daring to look back. Gritting his teeth at the sight of the treacherous collaborator, Dumte roared furiously. "You bastard! You’re the ones who should be clearing out!" What a disgrace! He wished he could crush his teeth in anger, but refrained from shooting the man in the back. His compatriots had already shed enough blood. Perhaps the man was coerced... Dark clouds sprawled across the sky, obscuring all light, deep rumbling echoing from their low-hanging depths. The wind intensified, foretelling impending rain. Yet, Dumte was unmoved, his eyes fixated on the distant field, rifle firmly in his grip, prepared to take aim. He didn't expect to survive this battle. But if it cost him his life, he intended to take someone down with him before he fell! At that moment, the rumbling in the clouds intensified, drawing closer. It seemed not to be the sound of thunder. But something else entirely. Murmurs of surprise arose behind him, prompting Dumte to look skyward. In that instant, his fiery gaze froze, locked in awe. A gigantic flying whale came into view, wings adorned with rows of massive propellers. The roar emanated from those propellers, tearing clouds asunder with its enormous blades. But what drew the eye more were the cannons embedded within its mighty steel armor. Cannons more numerous than the guns in their hands. "Dear God..." Dumte mouthed in despair. What in the world was that?! There was no time left for thought, as tracer rounds burst forth from the airborne fortress, splintering into a rain of countless projectiles. This round of artillery was far more intense than the last, the explosive roar drowning out Dumte’s shouts. In an instant. He and his entire company, along with the surrounding position, were erased from the ground. The long-brewing "thunder" finally reached Isher's ears, leaving him slack-jawed in disbelief. In a blink, three of his companies were obliterated, severing all communication. His hand trembled while gripping the phone, his mind racing with desperate thoughts but yielding no solutions. Unlike in Westfan Harbor, this time he faced not wavering fence-sitters, but a host of bloodthirsty demons. The disparity in strength was too vast, rendering all strategies meaningless... Continuing the fight would lead only to certain death! Isher wasn't one to fear death. If he had been, he wouldn't have stood bravely that night, rescuing the innocents. However, even though prepared for martyrdom, he had to consider the comrades entrenched in the trenches. They shouldn't die here. They should survive, preserve their strength, and relay what they witnessed at the front lines, joining forces to devise countermeasures. If one must die. It should be with purpose! "Damn it..." He cursed through gritted teeth, switching the channel to reach all frontline units, shouting into the phone. "All units, hear my command! Immediately retreat from the trenches! Move southeast!" Following the order, Boros soldiers evacuated the trenches, seizing moments between artillery barrages to withdraw orderly from the battlefield. Their faces bore the marks of shame, yet they understood that holding the line equated to a senseless death. Their murine officer had made the toughest yet most prudent decision. Against such an adversary, trench warfare was obsolete. Perhaps mobile tactics would be more suitable... ... The same rumbling reached Ross. Standing at the border of Westfan Harbor, his expression remained detached as he gazed northward. An officer approached, whispering. "The 111th Boros Group has retreated." Ross's eyes narrowed slightly, a faint, sly smile curling his tight lips. He perceived a mouse. A cunning mouse. But against overwhelming force, cunning alone was inadequate; they needed to sharpen claws and teeth. Gazing at the smoke-drenched battlefield in the distance, Ross issued a cold command. "Advance the first armored and second infantry companies!" The officer before him snapped to attention, saluting with fervor. "Yes, sir!" The moment long anticipated had finally arrived! He and his subordinates had awaited this day with bated breath! They would shatter the final shackle—an ignominious pact, signed under the witness of the War Construction Committee's "remnants." No one could halt their advance anymore. The frontier of the Velanders stretched to the boundaries of the solar system—and perhaps even the galaxy! This moment marked the prelude to a grand epic. Their descendants would forever remember this instant and eternally offer heartfelt gratitude! As the order was given, ten tanks stationed at the field's edge roared to life as one. Belching thick black smoke, their fearsome armor moved forth under the watchful eyes of the massive airship, advancing towards the shell-torn trenches! Following the tanks were squads of heavily-armed ten-man teams, pressing forward in tight formation. They crossed the battlefield cultivated by shellfire, meticulously inspecting every trench, every crater, every body, executing suspected survivors. Observing the steel juggernaut and track marks carved into the fields, a man lurking at the field's edge flushed with eager excitement. His name was Chettri. Like Centurion Isher, he was also of the murine race, though clearly a different breed of rat. He had approached with good intentions to broker peace, only for his earnestness to be mistaken for malice, nearly costing him his life. Thankfully, the other party's aim was poor, and he was quick enough to escape unharmed. Looking at the decimated position, a sense of visceral satisfaction filled him, his heart cheering for the big-nosed invaders. Retribution, indeed! "...You worthless lot, the Velanders only wanted passage, not war. Surrender for peace—what's wrong with that? Tsk tsk, serves you right!" Spitting on the ground with relief, Chettri stomped on it before departing the tumultuous scene. In the distance, tanks plowed unhindered through the Boros defenses, a storm on the tropical plains advancing into the northern tri-state area of Dog State. During this period, Boros launched multiple attacks, but without exception, they were defeated before even catching sight of the enemy, overwhelmed by the simultaneous horizontal and vertical barrage of firepower. The legion's forces, without paying them the slightest heed, merely passed over the gore-soaked mud scattered with blood and flesh. The main attacking force was led by Centurion Oleut's 17th Myriad Troop. Their mission was to carve out the northwest corner of Lion State, establishing a strategic corridor from Westfan Harbor to the northern tri-states on Boros Province's northwest side. Spearheading the attack was Ross's 171st Mechanized Company, supported by the airship Horn. The front line advanced almost by the minute, the Boros army's defenses crumbling in disarray. In the command post, Centurion Oleut looked down at the map, a pleased smile on his face. "An unsurprising battle... I expected the natives here to be shrewder than the desert freaks, but I overestimated them. They're even worse than those who fight with iron sticks." Equipment is but one determinant of victory—not the entirety. These fools, however, naively thought they could win against the legion using trench warfare. Before the southern legion's airship Horn and 902 mm heavy artillery, those shovel-dug trenches were nothing but a joke. Remaining stationary increases casualties. Standing next to him, McClaren chuckled lightly. "I have a similar viewpoint. The natives here indeed aren’t that impressive, but it's too early to declare victory." Oleut turned to him, intrigued. "You think they still have a chance to turn things around?" McClaren replied in a calm tone. "The Union's envoys are in Tenshu. I doubt they’ll ignore what’s happening." "Heh, the Union... let them come," Oleut scoffed, his face showing disdain. "I'll show them the cost of meddling." "Indeed," McClaren nodded slightly. "There’s no avoiding that cost." After all, ignoring "meddlesome affairs" incurs an even greater expense. Every survivor from the Valley Province knows this deeply... And he himself had a fair taste of what was to come. As Oleut’s forces surged north, the rumbling of propellers approached the skies over Westfan Harbor from the east. They were W-2 attack aircraft! And there were over a hundred of them! Some Velander soldiers stationed in Westfan Harbor instinctively looked up, expressions of surprise on their faces. Their surprise wasn't the aircraft themselves. Rather, it was the fact that this Boros nation, only established for less than three months, possessed pilots!? Where did these bumpkins find the time to train?! Upon spotting the enemy aircraft, the airship Horn immediately ceased its support operations at the front, changing course to aim its arsenal skyward over Westfan Harbor. Not only that, Westfan Harbor’s air units scrambled to the skies, nearly a hundred Dagger propeller fighters launching toward Boros's air force. However, the W-2 planes didn’t dive towards Westfan Harbor. After feigning a shot, they swooped towards the train station and railways north of the harbor. Noticing the planes’ maneuvers, General Gurion in the command post narrowed his eyes, evidently catching on to some details. Simultaneously, aboard the lead Mosquito fighter, an excited shout resounded. "We're stocked up, boys!" "Remove safeties, prepare for battle!!" The communication channel buzzed with enthusiastic chatter, reminiscent of a New Year’s celebration. Like those war-hungry Velanders, they had awaited this moment for a long time. As players, their reason for fighting was far purer than the Velanders'— Finally, they could indulge in an all-out brawl! "Whoohoo!!!" --- Chapter 851: The Blood-Stained Crown "Wait... Isn't the coronation ceremony the day after tomorrow? Please let me see General Gurion... Have you perhaps gotten the timing wrong?" Inside the solemn and dignified Westfan Harbor Court, about a hundred people stood scattered among the audience. Akbar, initially bewildered by the unexpected scene, turned his gaze towards the Velander standing nearby, voicing his dissatisfaction. According to the original plan, he was to be crowned in the presence of his father's old ministers, affirming his uncontested rule over the Boros Province as the new emperor. Yet now, the witnesses to this historic moment were but a few counts and viscounts. More vexing was that some of those present weren't even nobility. Their giddy, naive expressions almost screamed the phrase "never seen the world" written across their faces. These people were clearly commoners. How could such an important event allow these rabble-rousers to partake in the spectacle? What an absurdity! However, Pete, who faced the young emperor's dissatisfaction, couldn't have been less interested in placating him. He simply replied impatiently. "General Gurion has urgent matters to attend to and cannot meet you. It's going to rain the day after tomorrow, so we've moved it up." Rain...? What kind of reason is that? Akbar was at a loss, his mouth agape, unable to utter a word, merely staring blankly at the Velander before him. The audience in the jury seats hadn’t heard the exchange between the two. Apart from those of status—nobles and knowledgeable elders—the audience bore expressions of curiosity, enthusiastically murmuring among themselves. "That young emperor certainly has a regal bearing; such majesty!" "As expected of royalty, he looks so dignified!" "Westernland is saved!" "Come on, get started already!" Standing at the center of the court, Pete glanced at the time, growing impatient. He gave a pointed look to the dazed Akbar. "Are you going to take the throne or not? If not, we'll find someone else." Startled by these words, Akbar, unsure if they were bluffing, hastily replied. "I'll take it! I will... Wait, this throne is mine by right!" "Then hurry up." As if any additional words would be a waste of time, Pete turned his gaze towards the judge standing not far away. The judge wore a mask of irritation but ultimately said nothing. Gurion was doing this on purpose. Hosting this absurd charade in his courtroom was nothing more than an attempt to humiliate him. One had to admit, that guy really held grudges, with principles as low as, well, possibly just a notch higher than the clowns in this courtroom. "The coronation ceremony begins." Speaking with the same solemnity as when opening the court, the judge announced these words and then turned to leave. Pete didn’t bother looking at him, choosing instead to signal an elderly Boros man standing nearby. That elderly member of the lionfolk, working as a janitor at the court, was casually given the title of count and briefed on the tasks he needed to perform. The old man approached with trembling hands, carrying a golden crown, keeping his head bowed low, avoiding eye contact with the prince. "Your Majesty... please be crowned." His voice quivered slightly, and he slowly knelt on the ground. Akbar didn’t recognize the so-called count in front of him, but he couldn’t find fault with his respectful manner. "Hmm." He responded with a nasal hum, then reached out to take the gold crown, solemnly placing it upon his head. Except for the Velanders, everyone present immediately dropped to their knees, foreheads touching the ground. Whether commoner or noble. They all shouted in unison. "Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty!" "Long live the Emperor!" "Long live Westernland!" The chorus of cheers echoed within the solemn courtroom, an uncoordinated but reverberating symphony. Akbar, however, could barely contain his delight, the sullen demeanor he wore moments ago melting into an irrepressible smile. This was the burden his father bore. His chest swelled with an overwhelming emotion. This feeling was simply... Exquisitely delightful! Akbar extended his hands forward, raising them slightly in a gesture of benevolence. "Arise, my loyal subjects!" Practiced countless times before the mirror, he finally had the chance to do it before everyone! ... "Take cover!!!" At the boundary of Westfan Harbor and Bull State, searing flames blazed across the scarred earth of the trenches. The centurion lying on the ground shouted at the top of his lungs, urging his comrades behind him to hit the dirt. Thirty seconds earlier, a deafening explosion had echoed from the direction of Westfan Harbor. By the time everyone reacted, the blinding white light and seething flames had already descended upon the Boros frontier troops' positions. Against the 902-mm heavy artillery, the trenches dug by the Boros soldiers were like toothpicks, flung skywards along with the surrounding earth. As the first cannon blast subsided, rows of 100-mm artillery joined the symphony of destruction. Explosive flames raged across the position while shrapnel rained down like hail, covering the entire depth of the defensive line. The barrage persisted for a full ten minutes before ceasing. What was once a solid defensive line was now riddled with holes, the soldiers huddled in trenches suffering over fifty percent casualties, their faces etched with terror and confusion. They hadn’t even realized what had happened before the legion’s artillery struck unexpectedly. Sheltering within an anti-artillery bunker, Isher gritted his teeth, sifting through a chaotic heap of debris to retrieve the fallen telephone. The line connecting to the front was severed, cutting off communication with his hundred-man unit at the front. Fortunately, the connection to the rear command remained intact. Without hesitation, he dispatched a courier to assess the frontline conditions, swiftly contacting headquarters to report the situation along the border. "This is the 111th company on the northwest defense line! We've come under artillery fire from Westfan Harbor's direction! Repeat, we're under artillery bombardment from Westfan Harbor's direction!" Following a brief crackle of static, the voice of the rear-line operator came through immediately. "What’s the current situation? Have you spotted any legion troops?!" The operator’s voice was frantic and inexperienced, clearly unprepared for the unfolding events, as was the command post. Cursing under his breath, Isher continued to shout into the phone. "The line's down, I can't reach the front units! Those big-nosed bastards are using heavy artillery—it's more than just intimidation!" In the background, a chair scraped. The operator spoke urgently. "Understood... I’ll report your situation immediately." Isher shouted louder. "This is war! I'm not joking—send reinforcements immediately! If you’re late, you’ll be recovering our bodies!" On the most exposed section of the northwest defense line: The originally full-strength century of 120 was now uncertain how many survived. As Dummt regained fragile consciousness, he picked up the rifle beside him. The soil smoked and was scorching to the touch. Yet he dared not rise from the ground, clenching his teeth to endure the heat that could fry eggs. "Where’s our radio operator?! Get this situation to HQ!" Though he believed the uproar could be heard even by the deaf, he still shouted towards the communication soldier. The operator, still alive, hunched in the trench, working frantically on the radio. But witnessing his sweat-drenched visage, Dummt felt a sinking premonition. Just as he expected, the operator raised his head in despair. "The radio’s destroyed!" "Damn it!" Dummt pummeled the ground, cursing towards Westfan Harbor. Luckily, the shells landed at some distance. Even so, he felt his insides jumbled from the concussion. Stifling the pain in his abdomen, Dummt surveyed the ruined field behind him, his voice ringing out fiercely. "Prepare for battle, everyone! Don’t let those big-nosed bastards take another inch from us!" Since the Velanders set foot on this land, his fellow countrymen had been in a constant bloodletting. Each report in the Survivor Daily, each account of families massacred, fueled the fire in his chest. Now those Velanders aimed to advance further, spreading their hell to the heart of Boros Province... No matter how Abusik tried to appease them, he would not retreat a single step! "Fight them to the last breath!" "Take down those big-nosed bastards!" Roars erupted along the shattered lines; he wasn’t alone in these thoughts. Hearing the spirited cries, a gleam of satisfaction spread across Dummt’s face. Thank goodness. It seemed many brothers were still alive. His expression grew serious once more; he yelled back. "Sound off, everybody!" As the words left his mouth, voices echoed from the rear. "1!" "2!" "...!" "Report! Team 1, five left!" "Team 2, seven left!" "Team 3, only two remain!" "..." Dummt calculated silently, realizing fifty-seven of his original hundred-man company remained. If it came to it, they could likely buy the rear five precious minutes. While pondering this, he noticed a figure at the edge of a distant field. Raising his rifle, Dummt targeted the person, realizing they weren’t Velander. But a Boros native. "Listen up, you there!" The man halted at the field's edge, hurling his voice toward the positions. "General Gurion’s forces are off to fight rebels in Dog State! If you don’t want to die, clear the way for the legion now!" "The earlier artillery barrage was just a warning! If you persist, don’t blame us for blindly falling shellfire—" His speech was abruptly interrupted by a sharp crack of gunfire. The bullet struck the ground by his feet, kicking up a spray of dust. Startled, the man stumbled and fell but quickly scrambled to his feet, fleeing without a backward glance. Gritting his teeth at the sight of the treacherous collaborator, Dummt roared furiously. "Bastards! You’re the ones who need to leave!" Disgraceful scum! He wished he could crush his teeth in anger but refrained from shooting the fleeing figure. His compatriots' blood had already flowed enough. Perhaps the man was coerced... Dark clouds crept unnoticed across the sky, obscuring all light, a low rumble emanating from their depths. The wind picked up intensity as if rain were imminent. Yet Dummt remained unmoved, his gaze locked on the distant field, rifle raised and ready. He held no hope of surviving this battle. But if it cost him his life, he aimed to take one with him before falling! At that moment, the rumble from the clouds grew closer. It didn’t seem like thunder. But something else entirely. Subdued gasps of surprise reached Dummt from behind. He looked skyward. In that instant, his burning gaze froze in place. A colossal flying whale unfolded its wings, lined with massive propellers. The roar emanated from those propellers, vast blades tearing through clouds. More startling were the cannons embedded in its mighty steel armor. Cannons outnumbering the guns in their hands. "Dear God..." Dummt murmured in despair. What in the world is that?! With no time to think, tracer rounds streaked from the hovering fortress, splitting mid-air into innumerable projectiles. This barrage was far more intense than the previous, the explosive roar drowning out Dummt’s shouts. In mere moments. He and his company, along with their positions, were wiped from the earth. The long-anticipated "thunder" finally reached Isher, leaving him stunned. In a blink, three of his companies were obliterated, severing all communication. His hand trembled on the phone, his mind racing for solutions but finding none. Unlike in Westfan Harbor, he faced not indecisive adversaries but bloodthirsty demons. The disparity in strength was staggering, rendering all strategies futile... Continuing the fight would lead only to death, serving no purpose! Isher wasn’t one to fear death. Had he been, he wouldn’t have bravely rescued innocents that fateful night. But, even ready for martyrdom, he had to consider the comrades entrenched with him. They shouldn’t die here. They should survive, preserve their strength, and take what they've witnessed at the front line back to others, to devise strategies to counter this threat together. Even if they must die... It should be for a greater cause! "Damn it..." Through gritted teeth, he cursed, switching the channel to reach all units at the front, yelling into the phone. "All units, listen up! Retreat from your positions immediately! Move southeast!" With the order issued, Boros soldiers began to leave the trenches, withdrawing in an orderly fashion during lulls in the artillery barrage. Their faces bore shame, but they knew staying meant certain death and nothing more. Their ratfolk commander made the hardest, yet the most prudent decision. Against such foes, trench warfare had lost all effectiveness. Perhaps mobile warfare was the way forward... ... The same thundering rumble reached Ross. Standing at the edge of Westfan Harbor, he gazed expressionlessly towards the northwest. An officer approached him, speaking in a low voice. "The 111th Boros Company has retreated." Ross narrowed his eyes slightly, a faint, rarely seen grin tugging at his lips, barely perceptible. He imagined a mouse. A cunning mouse. But against overwhelming strength, cunning alone wasn’t enough; one had to sharpen their teeth and claws. Gazing at the smoke-filled battlefield in the distance, Ross impassively issued his command. "Advance the first armored company and the second infantry company!" The officer before him straightened, saluting with enthusiasm. "Yes, sir!" The moment had finally come! He and his subordinates had awaited this day for too long! They would break the final shackle binding the Velanders—shredding the "humiliation treaty" witnessed by the War Construction Committee's "remnants." From this point on, nothing would hinder their advance. The frontier of the Velanders lay at the solar system's edge—or perhaps the galaxy's fringe! And this moment signified the prologue of a grand epic. Their descendants would forever cherish this moment, eternally grateful from the depths of their hearts! As the command was given, ten tanks at the field's edge roared to life simultaneously. Exhaust pipes belched thick black smoke, their menacing armor advancing towards the shattered trenches under the watchful gaze of the massive airship! Following the tanks were squads of armed ten-man teams, pressing forward closely. Crossing the artillery-plowed battlefield, they meticulously examined every trench, every crater, every body, dispatching suspected survivors with caution. Witnessing the relentless steel tide and the tracks imprinted on the fields, the man cowering at the field's edge wore a flush of excitement. His name was Chetri. Like Centurion Isher, he was also of the ratfolk, though evidently a different breed of rat. He had approached with intentions to broker peace, only for his earnestness to be mistaken for betrayal, nearly costing him his life. Fortunately, the shooter's aim was poor, and he escaped unscathed. Observing the devastated battlefield, he felt satisfaction, eager to applaud the big-nosed invaders. Retribution, indeed! "...You worthless fools, the Velanders were only asking for passage, not coming to fight you. Taking peace for surrender? Serves you right!" Spitting on the ground with relief, Chetri stomped on it before leaving the tumultuous scene. In the distance, tanks rolled unimpeded through the Boros defenses, a storm sweeping across tropical plains, surging towards Dog State in the northern tri-states. During this period, Boros launched various attacks, yet without exception, they were defeated by the legion's horizontal and vertical barrage without even laying eyes on their adversaries. The legion forces barely glanced at them, passing through the gore-drenched mud without pause. Commanding the main assault was Centurion Oleut's 17th Myriad Troop. Their mission was to carve out the northwest corner of Lion State, establishing a strategic corridor from Westfan Harbor to the northern tri-states on the northwestern flank of the Boros Province. Spearheading the advance was Ross's 171st Mechanized Company, supported by the airship Horn. The front line advanced rapidly, almost by the minute, leaving the Boros army battered and in disarray. In the command post, Centurion Oleut smiled down at the map with satisfaction. "An obvious victory... I expected these natives to be smarter than the desert freaks, but I gave them too much credit. They're worse than those who fight with iron rods." Equipment is one factor in combat, but not everything. Their folly lay in believing they could win against the legion through trench warfare. Before the southern legion's Horn and 902 mm heavy artillery, the shovel-dug trenches were nothing but jokes, and staying put only increased casualties. Beside him, McClaren chuckled softly. "I agree, these natives aren't much, though it's too early to celebrate." Intrigued, Oleut looked at him. "You think they still have a chance to turn the tide?" McClaren replied in measured tones. "The Union's envoys are in Tenshu. I doubt they’ll turn a blind eye." "Heh, let them come," Oleut sneered with distaste. "I’ll show them the price of meddling." "Indeed," McClaren nodded slightly. "That price is inevitable." After all, the cost of neglecting "meddlesome affairs" is much greater. Every survivor from the Valley Province knows this deeply... And he himself had ample experience with what was to come. As Oleut's forces surged north, the rumbling of propellers approached the skies over Westfan Harbor from the east. The W-2 attack aircraft! Hundreds of them! Velander soldiers stationed at Westfan Harbor instinctively looked up, surprised expressions spreading across their faces. Their surprise wasn't at the aircraft themselves. But the fact that this newly founded Boros nation actually had pilots?! Where did these bumpkins find training time?! Upon spotting the enemy aircraft, the airship Horn immediately halted its support at the front, altering course to direct its artillery skyward over Westfan Harbor. Simultaneously, Westfan Harbor's air units scrambled into the sky, nearly a hundred Dagger propeller fighters launching to engage Boros’ air force. However, the W-2 planes didn’t target Westfan Harbor directly. After feigning an attack, they veered towards the train station and railways north of the harbor. Noting the aircraft's maneuvers, General Gurion in the command post narrowed his eyes, clearly recognizing the strategy. Meanwhile, aboard the leading Mosquito fighter, an enthusiastic and clear shout resounded. "Load up, boys!" "Release safeties, prepare for battle!!" The communication channel buzzed with spirited chatter, reminiscent of New Year's excitement. Like those war-hungry Velanders, they too had awaited this moment for a long time. And as players, their reason for fighting was far purer than the Velanders'— Finally, they could indulge in an all-out brawl! "Whoohoo!!!" To be continued...