Chapter 860 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 860: The Reedsburg Meat Grinder Under a bright, sunny sky, a towering cargo ship sat quietly docked at the harbor. Inside the ship's cabin, a man lay unconscious on a bed. Perhaps it was the "cawing" of seagulls outside the window that disturbed his slumber. Suddenly, his tightly shut eyes twitched and opened with a violent cough. "Cough, cough—!" Seeing the man cough suddenly, the doctor put away his stethoscope and turned to Arman, who was sitting nearby. "It seems there's nothing seriously wrong. He just needs some rest." Arman breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the doctor with gratitude. "Thank you." "You're welcome. It's my job," the doctor said, nodding slightly, seemingly unwilling to say much more, and stood up from his chair. He was a local from Ganjaron Harbor, a Boru person, treating a Wyrlander purely out of professional ethics, unwilling to let someone die. If it weren't for that reason, he wouldn't even bother to speak with the person before him. Back when the survivors of the Boru Province revered these big-nosed foreigners as gods, it was a thing of the past. At least in Ganjaron Harbor, the Wyrlanders had lost their divine halo. After seeing the doctor out, Arman returned to the room to check on his fellow countryman, who had now sat up on the bed and seemed dazed as he stared at him, before his gaze wandered outside the small, damp room. In the distance was a picturesque harbor, with elegantly designed marble buildings and a fountain statue in the port square, reminiscent of a "spiritual homeland" he hadn't visited for a long time—Triumphal City. Those designs seemed to be copied straight from Triumphal City. Besides the marble buildings, another row of boxy concrete structures and red-brick buildings displayed an unfamiliar charm. Even more impressive was the bustling streets, as lively and busy as the most thriving ports of the New World. At that moment, a pristine white-feathered bird fluttered down onto the window sill, pecked its armpit, and stared at him in a naively stupid way. Looking into those clear yet foolish eyes, he suddenly had an urge to feed it some fries... This should be a seagull. But then again, what exactly are fries? As if noticing his lack of response, the practical seagull flew away, leaving a feather on the windowsill. Henke finally snapped back to reality and realized he hadn't yet answered the question of his savior. He hurriedly spoke with embarrassment. "I'm much better now. Thank you for saving my life… Oh, right, I'm Henke, from the New World. Could you tell me where this is?" Seeing Henke's embarrassed self-introduction, Arman wasn't bothered. He simply smiled warmly and said. "I'm Arman. This is Ganjaron Harbor. We're here to buy some supplies and see if anyone else wants a ride. By the way, all the others we rescued have disembarked. You were the last to wake up." At first, Henke didn't realize where he was; the name sounded vaguely familiar. But then he recalled a sailor's joke before boarding, warning him not to end up at Ganjaron Harbor, where the locals would cut your nose off. Henke's face turned pale instantly. It wasn't the truth of the rumor that worried him. After all, seeing the bustling port, it was hard to link the locals with savages. However, he was an arms dealer supplying weapons to the locals' enemies. Even if they didn't cut his nose off, imprisonment was likely. Seeing Henke's sudden pallor, Arman could guess what was going through his mind—he saw the fear he once saw in himself. Most who believed they could stay uninvolved were, in fact, already deeply entangled. Fantasizing they could fish in troubled waters, they were swimming in murky waters, blissfully unaware. Momentary luck was merely a matter of time running out. He almost lost everything over a promise that would never be fulfilled. But Arman said nothing. He simply inquired with concern. "Are you feeling unwell?" "Don't worry..." Henke forced a smile, his face still pale as he looked wistfully out the window, his Adam's apple moving decisively. "Can I stay on the ship?" His voice held a tinge of pleading. Arman nodded, speaking gently. "Of course you can. But it will take some time for us to return to West Sail Port, and you'll need to remain on board for a month or two." "No problem!" Henke sighed with relief, quickly adding, "Just let me stay with you. I can help with whatever's needed." Arman chuckled. "Focus on getting better first. We'll discuss that once you're up and moving." Relieved, Henke inquired. "So, what line of work are you in?" Arman pondered a moment before answering. "I'm not sure how to define my business exactly, but my partner calls me a 'snakehead.'" "Snake... head?" Seeing Henke's confusion, Arman nodded and succinctly explained. "We move survivors from here to settlements along the southern coast of the Alliance Province of Eaya. It's pretty straightforward." It seemed much like the slave trade, except they charged the... slaves? But where would slaves get money? Henke was utterly baffled and asked, puzzled. "How much can the locals pay you?" Arman didn't hesitate to explain honestly. "Of course they can't pay now, but they can owe us. We'll help them reach their new home, settle down, and find jobs there. Then we'll deduct a portion from their future wages to repay the debt." You could do business like that?! Henke was astonished. "Your business model is impressive!" If the ticket costs, say, one million dinars, couldn't you fleece someone for life? Arman, knowing Henke misunderstood, merely smiled and didn't bother explaining. Debt couldn't grow indefinitely; the Alliance's laws and regulatory bodies weren't foolish. But explaining that required a long discussion, including what he was currently doing. While it seemed like just transporting people, there was an entire essential process behind it. "It's not bad. Although it can't compare with arms dealing, it's safe. The Southern Legion doesn't bother us; the population in West Sail Port is surplus to them, and they don't need so many people. The Alliance provides some assistance when they see us. They're undertaking massive projects in the southern seas, and they need manpower." Hearing about arms dealing made Henke feel the sting of losing three ships' worth of goods, valued at at least 30 million dinars—not to mention the ships themselves. Although he'd insured both cargo and ships, being sunk by torpedoes... he wasn't sure if that was covered. The worst part was if the war continued and more insured ships got sunk, the insurance company could go bankrupt right there. By the time he returned to the New World, it was uncertain whether the company he insured with would still exist. Henke had little hope of recovering those funds. For now, he had to take things one step at a time... ... While an unfortunate arms dealer considered his odds with Arman's fleet, betting on the Alliance's territory, an unprecedented battle erupted on the lands of Boru Province. The 30th Regiment of the Southern Legion was the first to breach the west side of Reedsburg County, engaging in combat with the 3rd, 4th, and 5th Regiments of the Boru Kingdom, stationed along the western edge of Sunrise Lake. Before reaching Reedsburg County, the Southern Legion's 30th Regiment had already lost an armored battalion, the troop disparity was staggering. Especially since, before the Southern Legion mobilized, the Shizhou War District commander of Boru Province had ordered extensive tunneling and "rat holes" in Reedsburg County. If the Southern Legion's 30th Regiment opted for a full frontal assault, even with two-thirds of their tanks and ample armored personnel carriers remaining, they'd still pay dearly. Theoretically, at least. The moment the Southern Legion's airships arrived at the frontline, the Boru Kingdom Army's advantage vanished. A deluge of bullets poured down like locusts. As if showing off their firepower, the Wyrlanders even equipped their indirect fire shells with tracers. "Take cover!" Watching the approaching death, the centurion of the Boru army stationed at the front issued a desperate shout. The soldiers, lying prostrate in the foxholes, pressed their foreheads into the earth, clenched their fists, or held tightly to tokens from loved ones, silently praying in their hearts. The whistling storm of bullets approached. Before the shells reached the ground, they exploded with a thunderous roar, scattering into finer, dense rains of light, covering every inch of the field indiscriminately. Explosions plowed across the battleground, turning rubble scorching hot and launching dust into the air. Thin, wispy smoke rose as the noisy earth fell silent. That was cluster munitions. After being hit by those, not even a blade of grass would survive, let alone a living soul... Back in the command vehicle, kilometers away. Commander Ryan of the 30th Regiment, the Eastern Line Commander, stared grimly at the holographic screen. The images were captured by an aerial drone from the Hornet airship. The land scoured by artillery fire showed no human figure, not even a complete corpse could be found. Yet soon enough, new heads began to emerge in one corner of the screen. Seeing this, Ryan's eyes slightly narrowed. The Boru army's positions had been bombarded again and again, yet their soldiers seemed endless, pouring in wave after wave. He was about to order another barrage when the communicator on his shoulder vibrated twice. Ryan pressed the communicator, and soon an annoying voice came from the other end of the communication channel. "...Dear Commander, though I hesitate to disturb your enjoyment, I must remind you that we have expended one-third of our ammunition." The speaker was the captain of the Hornet airship, a First Star Centurion from Avant. Ryan frowned, displeased. "Didn't we just purchase a batch of munitions from the Western Legion?" Captain of the Hornet: "That's correct... however, the word I've received is the transport convoy scheduled to arrive yesterday has only four of its ten ships now." Ryan: "...What does that mean?" Captain of the Hornet: "You can probably guess. Clearly, the Alliance's doing. Word is their submarines are attacking our allies' convoys, though they claim it's the Rakkens' fault. While our supply situation remains adequate, the future is uncertain. Perhaps we should conserve a little... What do you think?" Due to issues over command authority, relations between the air force and the ground forces were strained. This situation wasn't unique to the Eastern Legion; it was the same across the other three legions. Even if they belonged to the same faction and shared similar principles, that didn't make them brothers. Whether they turned their necks toward more extreme right-wing factions, there were always those who leaned even further or not quite as much. The captain's voice carried a hint of sly amusement, while Ryan's expression darkened even further. The Alliance was vicious. Instead of confronting them directly, going after supply ships! "...Shall we continue?" Listening to the voice from the communication channel, Ryan hesitated for a moment before issuing an order. "Launch a round of white phosphorus shells, then leave the rest to the infantry." The captain of the Hornet quickly acknowledged. "Roger." Shortly after the order was given, a series of thundering booms echoed from beneath the low-hanging clouds. Flames wrapped in thick smoke cascaded towards the heated battlefield like an avalanche from a mountain peak, devastating all in their path. The reinforcements from the Boru Kingdom barely filled the trenches when they were drenched in a scalding downpour of fiery rain. Those flames were unquenchable. Even contact with the slightest ember could transform a soldier into a blazing figure. "Ahhh!" "My arm—!" Screams erupted one after another, as the scent of seared flesh filled the trenches—resembling a hellscape. Some soldiers, unable to endure the acute pain, sought mercy from their comrades or turned their weapons against themselves. And this was just the beginning. The lethality of white phosphorus wasn't solely in the flames; the noxious gases released were equally deadly. For Boru soldiers without gas masks, burying their faces in the earth seemed their only defense, hoping the soft soil would filter the toxic air. Yet such improvised methods were only sporadically effective. The poisonous gas from the white phosphorus shells inflicted heavy casualties nonetheless. Glaring at the charred and contorted bodies, the soldiers crouched in the trenches clenched their teeth. Eyes wide with hatred and rage, vengeance was their sole desire. They no longer cared about making it out alive. All they wanted was to avenge their fallen comrades and repay the Wyrlanders with their agony. Standing behind them, their officers felt the same. Amidst a crackling radio, Commander Metal of the 3rd Regiment crouched in an artillery bunker, heart aching as though bleeding. In barely an hour, he'd deployed three thousand-men regiments to the frontline, without ever sighting a single Wyrlander! It was like trading his men's lives for Wyrlander shells! Thankfully, the Wyrlander ammunition wasn't infinite. The rain of fire seemed to be their final act of madness. When the flames and smoke had mostly dispersed, a thousand-man unit from the Southern Legion was deployed to the frontline. These soldiers bore a striking resemblance to one another in height and build. From their uniforms to the contorted expression of their features, everything seemed eerily uniform. They wielded Assaultor rifles, their fixed bayonets glinting coldly in the light. Watching the ferocious battalion, the Boru soldiers gulped. That was the Legion's clone battalion! Brave and relentless as hyenas, the clones supposedly could fight until their dying breath, even with their guts spilling out. Though brothers in the Alliance mentioned that clones were somewhat flawed with lesser physical prowess. The Boru soldiers, however, wryly noted these "flawed" beings seemed more whole than themselves. At least they had some flesh on their bones. "...Damn, our rations and gear aren't even as good as those clones," muttered a bandaged soldier, eyes filled with both envy and anger. A nearby comrade grinned, jokingly replying. "Who cares? My compensation's already at home. My kid will definitely grow stronger than them." "Didn't you say your kid was seven and a half pounds?" chimed in an old guy, skeptical. The soldier chuckled, pride in his eyes. "That's the truth! Weighed him myself! That boy will definitely outgrow me." The old man was even more envious but couldn't help asking. "What did you feed him to grow so big?" The soldier gave him a sideways glance, joking back. "You're almost in the ground. Why do you care?" The elder stiffened, glared, and snapped. "I can ask for my son's sake, can't I?" Laughter erupted. Many recalled he once mentioned having no son at all. "Doesn't matter what you're eating, as long as it's not dirt, you can grow." Setting the broken LD-47j light machine gun on the trench, a gunner with one eye blinded by the smoke took a deep breath, pressing his charred face against the scorched stock. "Abushek said we won't have to eat dirt anymore, nor will our descendants. Hope that bastard keeps his word...or I'll haunt him even as a ghost!" He pinned his life on that promise. He had no other demands, only hoping Abushek's promises weren't just lip service. Watching the jovial soldiers bantering, the centurion barked quietly. "Cut the chatter; keep your eyes ahead. Those big-nosed folks are coming!" "Alright, alright!" With a loaded rifle, the bandaged boy shouted energetically, "Bring it on, you bastards!" As they said, they had nothing left to lose. With a sharp whistle, the tranquility before the storm was utterly shattered. The centurion marching alongside the unit drew his saber and blew the shrill whistle hanging by his lips. "Whistle—!" The piercing sound cut across the battlefield like an arrow of command. Almost in unison, the clone soldiers marching in orderly steps raised their rifles and fixed bayonets, charging forward into the smoke-filled battlefield under the lead of their decanus. "Attack!!!" The shouts of battle roared like thunder! The charging clones resembled anthropomorphic wolves, bayonets pointed forward as their sharp fangs, attacking like human-speaking predators. The centurion, having dropped the whistle, still held his saber aloft, barking orders with a booming voice. "Push forward!!" "Use your rifles, your bayonets, fists, teeth, and nails—anything you can use! Make your prey cease their filthy breathing!" "You are the bravest warriors! Those weak mice won't stand a chance against you—!" The rousing shouts invigorated the clones' morale. For those born into this arena, that coarse-voiced man was akin to their father. But their father had misled them; these feeble mice weren't so easily crushed. As they closed to within 200 meters, a centurion of the Boru army lying in the trenches also blew his whistle, firing his pistol forward. "Fire at will!!!" The soldiers, barely able to contain their simmering rage, pulled their triggers from the trench edges. Gunfire ripped across the battlefield as orange tracers sketched grim paths through the corpse-strewn land, marking the scythe's trail of the Reaper. Clone soldiers fell under the hail of machine-gun fire, and even some Wyrlander decani were cut down. The Boru soldiers in the trenches met a similar fate. Behind a makeshift LD-47j machine gun that had seen two gunners fall was now a thirteen-year-old boy. The bandaged young man, who cried out earlier, had his head blown off, lying silently on the ground. And the man whose son was rumored to be over seven pounds also fell. The old man who bantered with him never pried out the secret for "having a big son" before he died. Not that he needed it anymore. One hundred-man unit after another was wiped out, replaced by the next wave in rapid succession. Then came the thousand-man battalions, escalating up to entire divisions! The jagged front lines, like the teeth of a beast, consumed the incoming flesh and blood. The weight of a mere hundred pounds that should have been a family's pillar turned feather-light on the sprawling battlefield. The bloodshed wasn't one-sided; the storming Wyrlanders paid in blood as well. Even though the clones weren't counted among the regimental ranks and their deaths omitted from casualty lists, each squad of clones had a Wyrlander decanus leading them into the fray. Within a mere morning, the Southern Legion's 30th Regiment routed the three Boru Kingdom divisions positioned on the western Sunrise Lake hills, advancing the front by ten kilometers! Faced with a direct assault, Commander Metal refused to retreat, his personal command covering the withdrawal, falling heroically against the Southern Legion's mechanized strike. Thus, Boru Kingdom's 3rd Regiment met its demise as a complete unit! Over twelve thousand soldiers and officers almost completely wiped out, with no survivors! The 4th and 5th battalions also suffered colossal losses, forced to retreat. In stark contrast, the Southern Legion's 30th Regiment tallied just 300 casualties. Following the loss of an armored battalion, Commander Ryan finally regained his honor on the battlefield. Even at the cost of nearly twenty thousand expendable clones and tens of thousands of shells. The western section of Reedsburg County had fallen, with the Southern Legion's grip tightening around the old lion of Lion City. The 31st and 32nd Regiments sliced into the battlefield from the southwest and northwest. With them came an ammo-laden armored train and a formidable 902mm artillery piece! The Alliance's fearless aerial assaults kept the Southern Legion's logistics on edge, moving only beneath armored airspace. Yet, if they thought all threats were airborne, they'd be gravely mistaken. In the southeastern "Li County," rolling plumes surged across the open plains. Under the cover of 62 Chimera armored vehicles, a formation of 93 "Type-3" heavy tanks surged forward along the legion's southern flank. Their target was the Southern Legion's 34th Regiment. According to intelligence from Pangolins gathered in West Sail Port, it was a reserve regiment. Penetrating the 34th would bring them right on Commander Ryan's heels! The skull legionnaires had waited eagerly for this battle for a long time. Especially since seeing their comrades in the Inferno Legion's feats displayed on the forums, the anticipation was palpable. When even airdropped infantry could destroy armored regiments, surely they—true professionals—would make the Wyrlanders regret ever challenging them. Moreover, they were not the lone regiment in this fight! After five days, their goblin brothers had returned to the front aboard Bawang transports, with their rides flown in by Ganjaron pilots to the skies over Tiandu. Additionally, pilots of Thunder fighters like the Luoyu brothers would join the fray. They had no reason to lose! Mole, perched atop a Type-3 tank, yelled into his communicator with fervor. "Brothers," "The Southern Legion's 34th Regiment lies just twenty kilometers away!" "It's time to show them what a real steel flood looks like!" No sooner did his words finish than excited howls echoed through the comms. "Yass!!" To be continued...