Chapter 865 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 865: Humanity, The True Future The sky was aflame with fiery rain, like a river of stars falling from the heavens. The rainwater on the ground evaporated, steel melted, and the earth was scorched black. Before such a deadly heat, no living creature could survive. Not even the red soil. It was a more direct damage than radioactive dust. Gazing at the burning land ahead, Wolf, the Centurion of the 36,000, squinted his eyes slightly. A faint smile involuntarily curled at the corner of his mouth, but it quickly vanished. Even if he was certain that the Southern Army would eventually secure final victory, it was hard to explain the current battle as a win. Faced with a joint assault by three divisions, the opponent had audaciously severed their supply line at a high cost. More critically, this was merely one armored thousand-man squad from the Alliance! Even if the numbers were large enough, they barely equated to an "enhanced" unit, far from reaching the scale of a full division. No matter how gloriously victory reports were phrased, it's difficult for battle reports to lie. And who knows if this time the victory reports would serve them as they had in the past. After all, this was different from before. They had offended too many people, and even their eastern allies were not fully on their side. Yet, so be it. He consoled himself with the thought that as long as they achieved ultimate victory, all dissenting parties would eventually realign. But how long until victory? This was just the beginning. They had no idea what else awaited them. As he watched the flames gradually wane, the strategist seated next to him tugged at his lips slightly. "… It's finally over." The tenacity of their opponent was far beyond his imagination. "Hmm." Wolf nodded, saying nothing as he stared expressionlessly ahead. Casting a sidelong glance at him, the strategist spoke softly. "Their technological advancement is faster than we thought. According to intelligence from our eastern allies, they only used one vehicle-mounted railgun as their trump card in previous battles, yet this time, they equipped an entire armored unit." After pausing for a moment, he continued. "I reasonably suspect they have more… This is a threat to us." The Conqueror-10's spaced armor had near-absolute defense against armor-piercing rounds, which were almost the limit of what most survivor factions could achieve with primitive industrial technology. As for kinetic energy cannons, conventional calibers and charges couldn't even reach the spaced armor layer, blocked effortlessly by its sturdy shell. Thus, the impregnable armor of the Conqueror-10 was an unbreakable "wall of sighs" for most survivors. To defend against "free-fall bombs" dropped from abandoned skyscrapers and adapt to peacekeeping battles in urban environments, they had even specifically reinforced the turret tops! However, all those targeted designs became a joke in the face of weapons based on new technical principles. The Alliance’s railguns pierced through with each shot, and electrostatic shells, if they grazed the ammunition rack, burst into a series of brilliant sparks—one reason their armored units were decisively destroyed. Theoretically, the penetration effect of railguns was adjustable; with special warheads installed, they could break air resistance, making their damage potential virtually limitless. Alarmingly, it was rumored that the South Sea Alliance had this technology and used it on battleships. Previously, they hadn’t considered the fishermen of the southern seas a threat, but with the Alliance’s arrival, those seafolk hiding on islands had suddenly sprouted ambition, now beginning to venture out. Once these technologies spread, the advantage the Legion had held for the past century and a half would be gone! To counter this unprecedented threat, they should at least leap beyond the “Conqueror” design mindset and develop new equipment based on “tactical needs.” These preparations should have been completed before the war began, yet he saw none. While their adversaries were meticulously scrutinizing their equipment, the Legion’s high command merely procured a large batch of Conqueror-10s from the Eastern Legion. Perhaps the leadership held other aces up their sleeves, or maybe they never intended to rely on the advantage of armored units for victory, putting their bets elsewhere. However, the current situation indeed gnawed at him with unease. Though he had no doubt that the Velanders would secure ultimate victory, he couldn’t shake off concerns that they might be overconfident, overlooking objective development trends. Even if they paid lip service to it. "… It's just a tactical threat," the adjutant corrected, grinning dismissively. "On the strategic level, it’s entirely different. As of now, regardless of the railguns or any other gizmos, the end result is nothing but a puddle of molten steel. Even if they win ten battles, Lion City is still in our hands." In terms of firepower, no one could match the Southern Army! He was absolutely convinced of that. Even with the strength of the enemy’s railguns, they couldn’t bridge the firepower gap! "That may be, but," the strategist didn’t refute his claim, only questioned, "what if they have more hidden cards?" The adjutant chuckled. "You're talking about phase cannons? Those are indeed a threat, but we are not unprepared." The strategist shook his head. "I'm worried about something else." "What?" "I don’t know." Hearing this ambiguous answer, the adjutant was taken aback. "Don't know?" The strategist nodded, his expression grave. "Not knowing is most terrifying... Haven't you noticed? Our opponents understand us, but we have never tried to understand them." He had this lingering feeling, as though the Alliance had already penetrated their ranks. That wasn’t surprising. Many Velanders harbored enmity towards the Alliance, but just as many held affinities. These were the easiest to buy off. Some didn’t even need coercion, volunteering to aid the enemy of their own volition. Whether acknowledged or not, this faction existed within the Legion, and as their actions grew more reckless, the resistance swelled. In contrast, the Legion couldn’t even hire a brewer from Dawn City to work in Avalon... ... The blazing flames had reduced the enemy to ash, finally quelling the anger within them. Not only did the officers in the command vehicle relax their furrowed brows, but the soldiers of the 36,000 also eased their tense shoulders, lowering raised muzzles. It had been a brutal battle. Flickering arcs in the dark and turrets shooting skyward had haunted their memories. The distant fire gradually ebbed. As everyone prepared to pull back, a stumbling figure suddenly appeared on the pitch-black wasteland. His arms were securely bound by ropes, walking clumsily over the muddy terrain as if he might collapse at any moment. The frontline reconnaissance team was the first to spot him. Several Velander soldiers standing by the scout car exchanged glances, uniformly displaying astonishment in each other’s eyes. Someone was actually alive?! "Captain, there’s a survivor!" "... Seems like one of ours." The decurion in the vehicle frowned, observing through a magnified thermal scope. The figure was caked in mud, marked with injuries, and sporting pants wet with mud, looking like a wild dog dragged out of a pit. Despite his identity indicated by a distinctive nose and uniform, his hope dwindled that this person shared his heritage. "Stop!" As the figure approached, the decurion personally stepped off the vehicle, motioning with his gun for him to halt. “I… *cough cough*! My name’s Quincy… I’m one of us!” The young man named Quincy looked terrified, his eyes hollow like lumps of coal. Covered in grime, he resembled a snotty slug. He hadn’t meant to look like that. But he was genuinely terrified. Not only by the guy who had fired a burst at him, but also by the sheer bombardment from above. What he had witnessed was nowhere close to drills—shells rained down, not sparing any daring advance. Burning phosphorus had nearly set his shoes aflame; he narrowly escaped dying at the hands of his own team! “Your regiment number.” The decurion stared at him unblinkingly, eyes lined with contempt at his pitiful state. "The 34th Mechanized Infantry Division... Third Battalion..." "Third Battalion, what? Have you forgotten how to speak your own unit number?" The decurion stared at him coldly, lowering the muzzle of his gun. "And your exoskeleton, your gear, where the hell did it all go? Did you hand it over?" "...It's probably in the fire," Quincy swallowed hard, avoiding mentioning that it might have been picked up by guerrillas. The decurion didn’t care, only sneering at him with disdain. "Oh, really? Then why aren't you in there with it?" "I..." "I’m ashamed you’re one of us, being such a spineless coward." The decurion pulled a confiscated pistol from the belt of an underling and threw it at the feet of the wild dog-like figure, disgust evident in his tone. "We have no room in the 36,000 for someone as feeble as you. We'd rather die on the battlefield than surrender." He had said nothing explicitly, yet everything was clear, as he silently regarded the terrified young man before him. The other Velanders around felt the same. Initially, they had a shred of sympathy for the poor fellow, but after hearing their leader's words, that pity faded. Was this pitiful creature truly a Velander? He sullied their noble lineage! Better perhaps to die by the enemy's hand, at least then he'd be considered brave. Quincy trembled as he picked up the pistol from the ground and pressed it under his chin, but his trigger finger was heavy, shaking so much that he couldn't muster the courage to pull it. He looked around at his compatriots, hoping someone would stop him, only to find they were watching mockingly, as if urging him on. Why had it come to this? He fought so Velanders could live under a brighter sun, yet as a survivor of the battle, he was now the enemy. Something inside him shattered, and he suddenly shouted in agony. "Aaahhh!!!" Finally, mustering the courage, he pulled the trigger with a steely resolve, only to be met with a sharp "clink." The sound, like a donkey kick to his skull, left his head ringing. There were no bullets in the chamber... They had played him. Even if he were dense, Quincy realized then—this group of veterans had toyed with him for their own amusement. Baffled, he stared back at them as the strength left his body, and he collapsed with a thud to the ground. The Velander soldiers eyed the coward one last time, laughing disdainfully, before turning away, getting back into their vehicle, and driving off with engines roaring. The soldier in the driver’s seat had observed the whole incident. Watching Quincy's disappearing form in the rearview mirror, his expression showed unease. "We're just going to leave him?" Before the decurion could answer, a young man beside him sneered. "You want to share a ride with that mud-caked coward?" The gunner carrying the machine gun also jested with a grin. "He managed to run all the way here, let him keep running. Maybe he'll make it back to Triumph City." "Hahaha!" The laughter on the vehicle was unrestrained. While the young soldiers of the 36,000 basked in the glory of defeating the Alliance's elite forces, a hard-fought victory had cost them dearly. Elsewhere, in Northern Surak County, the 17,000-strong unit finally linked up with reinforcement troops, launching a renewed invasion into the Northern Three Counties' Dog County. The Moonfolk resistance stationed along the frontier offered limited resistance before retreating. As planned, they opted for mobile warfare to counter the Legion’s offensive. Their strategy was to stretch the enemy’s supply lines as much as possible, then use artillery and guerrillas to eliminate enemy forces. It was a tactic drawn from battles with the Wolf Legion on the Mammoth County border. Yet, this made for unflattering battle reports, portraying near-instant retreats on the frontline. Compared to the steadfast Lasi, Abocek was noticeably more impatient. Had the Alliance's elite forces not already reached Sky Capital, he might have fled like Sharuk. Sky Capital, with routes leading south to his homeland Wolf Province, east to prosperous Elephant Province, and eventually to Port Jingaloon for refuge, was a nexus of escape. Everyone was anxious to leave. Yet, when one who could have left chose to stay. In the commander's office, Ishar stood before the desk, watching Abocek, who was seated and writing. "I want to go to the front lines." Abocek paused his pen, casting a gaze at the young man before him, whom he vaguely remembered as Annwo’s sly subordinate. Recently, Annwo had sent a telegram requesting the transfer of former subordinates to assist at Port Jingaloon. Abosec wasn't one to obstruct such matters, especially since he needed someone at Port Jingaloon to garner sympathy, so he readily approved. Unexpectedly, the day Ishar was to leave, he opted not to. "To the front? Have you thought this through at a time like this?" Watching Abocek’s half-smile, Ishar nodded solemnly. “I have thought it through.” "Alright, that's the spirit! I won’t hold you back then. Go along with the Alliance forces." Pausing, Abocek's eyes twinkled as he continued. "Your rank is too low for your ability, effective immediately, you're promoted to Centurion, tasked with rebuilding the scattered Third Division!" Ishar straightened, planting his right fist firmly against his chest. “Thank you, Supreme Commander, for the promotion!” Abocek waved off the thanks with a smile. "It’s not exactly a great job. Don't overexert yourself, just familiarize those recruits with the basics... But never mind, I trust you to handle it." Ishar knew what Abocek implied and why he was promoted; given command to train recruits under the regiment numbering the bravely sacrificed Third Division. Despite Abocek’s displeasure at Annwo’s unilateral decisions at West Sail Port, he still regarded them as his own men. In essence, he was protective. Everyone knew the frontline was a fiery pit, a maw consuming all it could, yet Abocek at least hinted not to go, and if he couldn’t dissuade, would find a way to ensure safety. Ishar nodded, expressed sincere gratitude, and turned to leave the office. Watching the young man depart, the not-so-elderly Abocek heaved a world-weary sigh. "...Not all of us are sly. We still have a couple of good lads.” What a pity though. On Bolo Province’s soil, good people seldom met good ends. Months weren’t enough, nor were years; it might take decades, even centuries. The day people like him were pointed at by the righteous was when Bolo’s salvation would come. Abocek shook his head with a wry smile, returned to his desk, and resumed writing. [To Kabaha, Education Commissioner.] [I see potential in the university, but the Bolo national treasury is truly bare, give me two more years to gather the funds—it’s an IOU.] [Moreover, I hear Mr. Mouse has established Mammoth Provincial University, serving the entire Bolo Province. If so, why not use their classrooms and desks in a "joint-education" venture, while they teach our students.] [Cultural interchange like we have with Lasi, if you lower your diplomacy, Mr. Mouse surely won't refuse. Chasing me with complaints won’t produce silver.] [In the midst of constant bombardment, this is no place for education. Better wait till the guns fall silent to rebuild.] [For the university, take my word, begin selecting candidates now. While budget constraints hinder building, organizing exams and minor allowances for travel and subsistence are still doable. Ensure you pick true talent, sending them to learn at Mammoth University, where they shall return to teach ours. Worry not about them not returning, fear rather they follow us into the trenches and never return. Be it Bolo or Mammoth, these promising individuals are our path forward.] [Trust you alone to oversee it. Should any sly interloper try to squeeze in, you bring them to me, I’ll have their hide!] To be continued.