Chapter 867 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 867: Charge of Death! On the bridge of the Horn Blower airship, John sat idly in his chair, playing with a shell casing pendant while gazing at the smoke-covered hills in the distance with little interest. Beside him stood a man in a lab coat, whose fervent demeanor sharply contrasted with John's apparent boredom. The man's name was Martin, a biologist from the Western Coast Colonies of the Great Desert, rumored to have been a resident of a shelter. John wasn't particularly fond of this fellow. It wasn't because Martin was a "Blue Ground Mouse," but rather that everything about him felt unsettling. Perhaps due to frequently dealing with corpses, he carried an unmistakable scent of death. Nevertheless, Martin had arrived with a letter of introduction from General Gullion. Even if John disliked him, it wasn't appropriate to rudely dismiss someone like that. Plus, in these times, finding a "Blue Ground Mouse" who favored the Legion wasn't easy. After all, this guy was on their side. "The Death Elixir... Just a bottle cap's worth can wither plants! Cause organ failure! Kill the land! Turning it into a breeding ground for new toxins!" Listening to Martin's eccentric ramblings, John yawned disinterestedly. "...We have at least 20 poisons stronger than that. What makes your 'Death Elixir' more potent?" Martin chuckled sinisterly. "Its strength lies in the after-effects! Like complications, infections, and more! It won’t kill our enemies quickly; instead, it'll torment them, making them struggle in pain and spread it to others." Upon hearing this, John's initial indifference turned into acute awareness, and he sat upright in his chair. "Infection? Why didn't you say that earlier?" As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the soldiers building bridges and crossing the river outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. After all, they were his compatriots. Though clumsy on land, he couldn't just watch them march to their death. "Heh... There's no need to worry," Martin chuckled dryly at the concerned captain before he continued, "That's the expected effect, with high transmissibility—targeting specific groups, infecting humans only." "Those effects aren’t fully realized yet, but we're close... Plus, I’ve controlled the toxin's dosage. With Weiland's immunity, antibodies should form within an hour, posing minimal threat." "Basically." John gave him a meaningful glance, dissatisfied with the vague qualification. "Yes." Martin didn't deny it, nodding earnestly, admitting frankly. "...I can't guarantee 100%, just as I can't guarantee it'll be sunny today, but I can promise 99% certainty. And this probability is acceptable at higher levels." He paused and continued with a fanatical glint in his eyes. "Once we complete the final version of this virus... it'll sweep through the land like the ancient Black Plague, clearing away most of the Borroan people." "And what benefits does that have for us?" John glanced sidelong at him. "We don't need a wasteland—one Great Desert is quite enough." Sometimes he couldn't understand what those high-ranking officials were thinking, including Ryan. Compared to other natives in their colonies, the Borroans were downright docile. They were gifts from His Excellency the Marshal—the loss of them would be wasteful. However, Martin didn’t seem to grasp his meaning and merely smiled. "How would it turn into a wasteland? It already is one! It's more like... giving the wasteland a blood transfusion." The fanaticism in Martin's eyes made John slightly uncomfortable, though he said nothing. On the other side of the river were the 36th Man Brigade's First Thousand-Man Unit, commanded by Centurion Woolf. With significant progress on the Eastern Front, General Gullion had dispatched two more brigades here and sent officers to train a slave army in Lion's City. The 36th Brigade was among the reinforcements, having previously dealt a blow to the Alliance's elite armored division—the Skull Legion—in Riederbur County's west. Major Ryan was leading a large force from the vicinity of Lion's City toward this location, with the Horn Blower airship deployed to the frontline, assisting the 36th Brigade in establishing an outpost across the river. According to Major Ryan's assessment, if the Alliance and Borroan nations planned to target their supply lines, it’d be at the bend of the Yongliu River. Akale County was the most probable target. Regardless of whether Borroan guerrilla fighters lurked on the opposite side, they had to check... At the same time, in Akale County's west, less than 20 kilometers from the Yongliu River, lay an unnamed village now housing the 36th Brigade's command post. Famine seemed to precede the Weiland troops' arrival. The locals had long since departed, leaving behind only empty shanties and dilapidated walls. Though the Borroan Province survivors had red earth to consume, not every place had it. Only densely populated settlements or noble estates had the means to cultivate vast regions of red earth. The key was a large population. Sheer numbers weren’t enough; there had to be ruthless exploitation, making some live like beasts. After all, it wasn't proper food—any chance to eat even a bean would be preferable to swallowing that crude sustenance. Sometimes Woolf felt they weren't here to conquer the natives’ homes but to save these nearly primitive people from an ignorant existence. The residents of West Sail Harbor, despite a lack of freedom and dignity, lived far more decently than under Wutoe's rule. Soon, the citizens of Lion’s City would, too. All they'd lose were some wooden shacks and beggars, soon replaced by clean, tidy streets, maybe even sewers they'd never had before. In the command vehicle. The adjutant stared intently at the screen, watching as the repaired pontoon bridge allowed troops to cross the river safely. A slight smile broke through his tense expression. "...The First Thousand-Man Unit has successfully crossed the river. Honestly, perhaps we overestimated them." A nearby strategist frowned, calmly cautioning. "Don't underestimate them. Our adversaries include not just locals, but also the Alliance." The adjutant quirked his lips dismissively, sounding unconcerned. "I know, the Alliance is troublesome, but their number is limited. They can't cover everything." Like in the Lion's City battle, Alliance troops at best caused minor issues beyond the frontlines, and later were rounded up on the plains, turning into shiny medals now adorning his chest. Even if they were to truly face the Alliance, there was no need to fear. Woolf pondered for a while, then a thought crossed his mind. "I recall... the airship's accurate fire requires anchoring before deployment?" The adjutant blinked in surprise, exchanged a glance with the strategist, and cautiously nodded. "Yes, that's the case—why?" The airship's fire-control system operated in two modes: barrage and precise bombardment. Due to recoil and wind resistance among other factors, they needed anchoring for precision targeting. In other words, if their troops drew too close to the enemy, support fire would be difficult to effectively employ. With this in mind, Woolf made a swift decision and ordered the adjutant. "Prepare the support crew; align the firing data with the First Thousand-Man Unit's advance." Although unsure if this was necessary, the adjutant dutifully nodded. "Understood!" Simultaneously with the command being issued, nearly a hundred “Fire Crossbow” self-propelled guns divided into three squads emerged from hidden spots to the nearest bombardment point, readied for action. Meanwhile, the First Thousand-Man Unit under Centurion Taut had successfully crossed the Yongliu River without encountering resistance. It was as if Borroan ground forces were asleep, surrendering their positions gracefully. Peering at the eerily quiet forest, the Decurion in the armored reconnaissance vehicle frowned, pressing his gaze closer to the rangefinder fixed to the electric turret gun. He wasn't alone in his concern; the driver also seemed uneasy, rubbing the steering wheel and maintaining a vigilant expression. "Something’s off here…" Fixated on the scope, the Decurion absently commented. "Have you spotted anything?" "…That’s just it; I haven't seen anything, and that's what's odd." The driver shook his head, gulping nervously, eyes fixed on the dense woods as he continued speaking. "The bend in the river, right next to these hills—there's no better spot for an ambush... Yet they've vanished, leaving us this prime position," the Decurion remarked, suspicion tinting his voice. A soldier in the back seat whistled, grinning as he joked, "Maybe we shelled them out of existence." The gunner sitting beside him chuckled, adding, "Not impossible. I heard these natives don’t even have gas masks." "I can't fathom how our guys up front could get disarmed by these clowns." "You remind me of that poor slug." "Ha, I'd rather not relive that coward's memory—" Before the words could even settle in the air, a tremendous force slammed into the vehicle's side door. A jet of metal tore through the door, and the high-temperature shrapnel obliterated half of the soldier carrying the machine gun. Nearby, a rifleman, horrified, stared at the half-body and the dark blood smeared across half the vehicle, shrinking to the floor in fear. Completely unaware, his pants were soaked; half in his fallen comrade’s blood, the rest his own incontinence. This place was nothing like the Great Desert. In the desert, the worst threats were native Molotov cocktails or roadside remote-detonated bombs—nothing had ever pierced their vehicles' armor. Even recently, their allies learned this the hard way with these new weapons. But due to arrogance, they found themselves caught off guard once more in this very place. The lurching vehicle slammed into a tree, the driver's head nearly smashing against the windshield, throwing everyone inside into disarray. "Damn it—!" "RPG!!! It’s the Alliance!" "It came from the right side!" "Joe's down!" "Get out! Now!" The Decurion swore, sporting a fresh black eye, swiveling the turret-mounted machine gun towards the source of the rocket. Without waiting for a visual, he let loose a spray of bullets. The driver shoulder-barged the door open, and the remaining soldiers tumbled out, finding cover behind the vehicle, returning fire towards the rockets' origin. Then another rocket came soaring in, detonating on the hood. The molten jet punched through the engine, splinters blowing out the driver's window. "Damn it!!!" As he saw the web of cracks spreading across the bulletproof glass, the Decurion cursed, commanding his men to scatter while yelling into the radio for reinforcements. "This is Recon Squad One! We've been ambushed by enemy guerrillas! We need backup!" Static hissed in his ear before a calm voice responded. "Copy that, report enemy numbers and position!" "Unknown! Damn it! They’re right on our noses!" The Decurion retorted, panic lacing his words, as he fired the powered turret machine gun, trying desperately to discern their assailants' location. The situation on the ground was chaotic. Bullets flew from all directions—even their rear. That terrain had been scouted—where had they emerged from?! As if perceiving the urgency, the previously composed voice over the radio grew more serious. "Roger, reinforcements are en route to your position, hang tight!" "Copy!" The Decurion shouted back in acknowledgment. Almost simultaneously, the overheating machine gun barrel was forced into inactivity. Muttering curses, he grabbed the rifle hanging nearby and scrambled out of the vehicle. Just as he vacated the turret, another RPG came rocketing in. This time, it hit directly on the fuel tank, igniting a towering inferno that flipped the vehicle over. The Decurion was flung to the ground, and a soldier, unable to evade in time, was crushed beneath the upturned vehicle, silenced before any cry could escape his lips. As the scout car exploded, terror etched across everyone's faces. Panic ensued; they were at a complete loss. "The captain's down!!" "Damn it! Someone get him up?!" "I can't get over there!!" "@#%!" Cursing, the gunner passed the machine gun to a nearby comrade and sprinted toward their fallen commanding officer. Unluckily, just as he stepped out, a bullet found him, piercing his helmet. With a silent fall, the machine gunner hit the ground, plunging the soldiers around into chaos. "It’s a sniper!" Meanwhile, 200 meters away, on a hill, a player steadied their sniper rifle, taking a deep breath before aiming for the next target. "The gunner’s down! Someone's taking his spot!" Another player placed a hand on the sniper’s shoulder. "Don’t wipe out all of them, leave some as bait." The player with the sniper rifle fired, taking out the soldier stepping in. "Got it! I’m counting." At the same time, four armored transport vehicles, led by an infantry fighting vehicle, charged from the riverbank toward their embattled comrades. 20-mm cannons and 10-mm machine guns unleashed a storm into the forest, briefly suppressing the fire targeting the recon squad. Yet the Weiland soldiers didn’t notice the whispers beneath the trees and bushes beside them. As they raced to reinforce allies, two anti-tank and light machine-gun squads maneuvered to their flank, completing their setup. Watching the approaching Weiland forces, Laplace raised his hand slowly, then clenched it into a fist. "Fire!" The moment the command was given, ten rockets trailed fiery tails, hurtling toward the speeding IFV and armored transports. Caught at the edge of their safe zone, they had no time to react as the rockets collided directly. The most unfortunate was the IFV, where an RPG pierced the driving cabin, accompanied by a deafening explosion as it careened to a halt beside an old tree as thick as a man’s thigh. Of the four armored transports, two had their engines blown, one was hit squarely on the compartment. One flipped from taking a sharp turn yet, in misfortune, found fortune and avoided taking an RPG hit. Stunned and disoriented, the Weiland soldiers dismounted, but before identifying the RPG source, they were again thrown into disarray by gunfire. Tracer rounds traced deadly nets through the trees like wildfire. "Disperse! Move!" The centurion shouted, leading the dismount, then ducking behind a wrecked APC, attempting to assess the battlefield. But bullets from every direction made it impossible to distinguish concentrated areas. Relying on just one APC couldn’t stem the onslaught; he had no choice but to flatten himself into the dirt. Powerful fire engulfed them from all sides, leaving Weiland soldiers disoriented, hugging the ground, firing back blindly at the gunfire’s echoes. Amidst the chaos, only the crackling gunfire and sporadic explosions could be heard—never a sight of their enemies. Realizing the dire situation, the centurion beside the armored car snatched his shoulder radio, yelling into the comms channel. "This is Unit One! We’re ambushed by snipers!" "Their firepower’s overwhelming! At least a full thousand-man unit surrounds us!" As those words left his lips, a sudden screech howled from the distance. Before he could even process it, an explosive brilliance bloomed on their position. Two Weiland soldiers caught directly in the blast rolled to the side, their exoskeletal bodies lifeless. Barely lifting his head, the centurion scanned the field, panic finally staining his gaze. "Goddamn it! Mortars!" At the river’s edge of Yongliu. Taute, the centurion on frontline command, listened intently to the distress over comms, his heart pounding with urgency. His combat instincts were sharp, preventing chaos in his ranks. The enemy was entrenched in the forest! And likely had at least a thousand-man unit in scale! Possibly even Alliance regulars! He didn’t hesitate for a moment, immediately connecting to the airship’s communication channel. "This is the First Thousand-Man Unit of the 36th Man Brigade! We are under heavy enemy fire, requesting artillery support!" Taute shouted into the communication device as he relayed the coordinates for the artillery strike with urgency. After a brief burst of static, a response crackled through the channel, though it brought no comfort to Taute. "This is the Horn Blower. We can’t approve your request... The airship is currently in transit, and we can’t execute a precise strike. If we fire now, it’ll cover you as well. If you still want support, maintain at least a one-kilometer distance from enemy units." One kilometer?! That would mean retreating to the other side of the river! Taute silently cursed the ancestors of his adversaries, contemplating a glance toward the far bank, but quickly refocused. Why should they retreat? The opposition was merely a ragtag band, managing to pin down only his recon and one hundred-man unit. From forward reports, the enemy consisted of, at most, a thousand-man unit. If he pushed his troops forward, they could squash those bothersome attackers in minutes! Retreating now would tarnish his reputation with cowardice. With priorities sorted, Taute no longer hesitated, seizing the comms device and barking orders. "All infantry dismount! Second and Third Hundred-Man Units, support the First from both flanks!" "All combat units advance into the forest! Exterminate every enemy you encounter!" The Weiland soldiers on the riverbank roared with renewed vigor upon hearing their commander’s orders. "Affirmative!!" "Oooohhhh!!!" A grand force surged toward the forest: seven hundred-man units advancing in a straight line toward the hills’ heart, while two more units flanked the embattled field like a pincer. Such maneuvers were calculated, as Taute suspected additional ambushes within the woods. And indeed, he was right in his assumptions. However, he grossly underestimated the ambushers' numbers. Stationed here was not just a mere thousand-man unit; they faced the Alliance’s Death Corps and the Borroan Third Man Brigade! Throwing in merely a thousand-man unit amounted to sending them to their doom... "Ha, the Weiland forces are playing ‘save the grandpa’ with reinforcements now," chuckled Debtor Large-Eye, hidden behind cover, clicking his tongue in amazement at the advancing troops. "Piecing reinforcements slowly is the bane of military tactics. These big noses weren’t this stupid before, were they?" Construction Site Guy puzzled, murmuring aloud. "They’re too confident. We might reel in a big one this time." Suppressing his excitement, Lurker edged closer to the frontline, snapping the rifle safety off and announcing into the comms. "Group One Artillery, open fire! Advance the creeping barrage to the riverbank, hit their pontoon bridge hard!" "Group Two, lay smoke! Retreat after three volleys!" "Brothers of the First Battalion, charge with me!" Clenching the whistle hanging from his neck, he blew it hard, the piercing sound streaking through the trees like an arrow. The advancing Weiland soldiers jumped, startled by the whistle, especially as the accompanying artillery booms sent a shiver through Taute as he followed the forward units. Supporting artillery!! This wasn’t just a thousand-man unit! But realizing this came too late. The tidal wave of battle cries and explosions hit Taute and his men simultaneously! "Charge!!!" It was as if they had materialized from thin air or as if trees themselves had become animated. They wore plain uniforms, gas masks strapped on, wielding bayonets and rifles that gleamed ominously. "Open fire!!!" Taute bellowed through the comms. In truth, his men had already responded at the whistle’s blast, engaging the combatants emerging from the forest. Gunfire crackled through the woodland, joined by a cascade of death. Their numbers seemed endless. Like a tsunami crashing ashore, the enemy swiftly engulfed several of Taute’s hundred-man units. The recon squad that had called for help moments ago went silent; even the two supporting units met unexpected ambushes en route and found themselves retreating haphazardly. Cry after cry echoed in the radio chaos; Taute’s face finally registered fear. Who were they really fighting against?! "Gas masks...?" He gulped, swallowing hard. Could it be... The Death Corps?! The shock wasn’t exclusive to the Weiland forces. Isher, along with the Third Man Brigade’s officers, watched in mute astonishment from the distance. Their awe was not solely for the Alliance's combat power but for the warriors' sheer courage and morale. As if life and death were immaterial, at the whistle’s shriek, everyone surged from the trenches into the fray. But this wasn’t a mindless suicide rush. They exploited their enemies’ vulnerabilities with razor precision, delivering deadly blows with bayonets. Even if the airship noticed the Weiland troops' predicament, it was powerless to assist at such proximity. Beside Isher, a centurion whispered in disbelief. "...Thank goodness they’re our allies." If given a choice, he’d rather face Weiland men than these fearless warriors. After all, even fighters as formidable as the Weiland might surrender. But against such relentlessly fierce opponents, they’d fight to their last breath—daunting for anyone. Isher remained silent, eyes locked on his comrades in fierce combat. An officer, moved by the sight, couldn’t help but ask. "Shouldn't we join the fray?" Isher shook his head. "They said it’s not our time yet." For now, they were to observe, waiting for their turn. Then, suddenly, thunderous artillery roars came from a distance. This time, from ground artillery. The watching officers’ expressions turned grim. "It’s Weiland artillery!" To be continued.