Chapter 874 - This Game Is Too Realistic

**Chapter 874: A Battle of Equals** The news of the 11th regiment, consisting of 3,000 troops, being reorganized into the Northern Field Army quickly spread across the frontline. Reactions varied from top command to the grassroots level. Some breathed a sigh of relief and even felt grateful, especially those with families and the seasoned veterans who've been on the battlefield for a long time. After all, it was clear to everyone with any sense that staying here was nearly a death sentence. However, some couldn't comprehend the decision and were even outraged. These were mostly the young men, particularly the teens in their mid-teens. Having heard about the atrocities committed by the Weyland people in Lion City, they were already seething with anger, eager to fight to the death against those enemies. The retreat of the Horn division sparked a glimmer of hope for them—showing that the Legion was not invincible, as the actions of their allied brothers had demonstrated. But now, with the strategic orders from Absek demanding them to relinquish this opportunity, it felt like a cold splash on their burning fervor! Especially for Jokhale, the commander of the 11th regiment. As one of the key figures behind the victory at Akale County, he leaped from his command desk in fury upon hearing Ishol's recitation of the orders. "I disagree!" Feeling that his tone wasn't strong enough, he followed up firmly after his initial exclamation. "I resolutely disagree! You know the strategic significance of Akale County. If the Legion controls it, their supply lines can reach deep into our southern plains! Switching defenses at this time is playing with the lives of our frontline soldiers as if it's a joke!" After all, the Northern Three Provinces were mountainous, and the Mammoth Nation's army logistics lacked ammunition for the 200mm cannons, and Absek could not possibly relinquish these assets to Lasi. This meant that if the 11th regiment moved north, they would have to leave those 52 self-propelled artillery pieces behind. His soldiers had painstakingly learned how to operate those artillery pieces—now Absek was asking him to give up what they had fought for. How could he agree to such terms? As for death, he wasn't that afraid anymore. Since hearing about Udono's demise, he was ready to embrace martyrdom—so long as he could take more Weyland lives with him, he found the prospect worthwhile. Facing Jokhale's heated anger, Ishol found himself at a loss for words. The strategic importance of Akale County was apparent not just to them but to the Legion as well. Thus, the Legion would doubtlessly concentrate its forces on attacking this location. Even with reinforcements from the Death Corps, it was nearly impossible for them alone to hold the line. The most they could achieve was to deplete the Legion's effective forces as much as possible here, laying the groundwork for future victories. It was like a horse race. Trading a small horse to take out the opponent's stronger horse, hoping to use their own strong horse to beat the opponent's medium horse in the next encounter. The brutal truth was, the losing horse would die. This was not only a military affair but a political one as well. Jokhale clearly hadn't seen the olive branch Absek had extended to him. Ishol could even assert that if Jokhale defied orders, even if they won this battle eventually, he'd end up on the gallows. Though he disliked using rank to pressure people, he was more unwilling to see Jokhale act rashly, so he exerted his authority, ordering firmly. "Commander Jokhale! This is an order! Your duty is to obey orders, I won't say it again!" Jokhale's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what if I don't listen?" Ishol replied expressionlessly. "Then I will have no choice but to send you to a military tribunal." The air within the command tent tensed immediately. Sensing the heightened tension, the guards on both sides instinctively placed their hands on their sidearms. Jokhale's eyes narrowed to slits, staring intently at the impassive Ishol before suddenly turning to his guards and yelling. "What are you doing? Planning a mutiny?" His guards looked bewildered by his outburst, but instinctively moved their hands away from their holsters. Ishol's guards, relieved, followed suit. If given the choice, they'd much rather not have to turn against their own comrades. Since the internal strife of the Celestial Kings began, too many of the Bolor people had died in such conflicts... Walking up close to Ishol, Jokhale stared straight into his eyes, forcing out a reluctant sentence. "…Fine, I'll listen to you." Like his guards, he too would rather fall to the Weylands than to his own people, and he dreaded being labeled a traitor. Yet, his compliance didn't extinguish his anger. What stung him most was that someone who, just a month ago, was a mere company commander, had now surpassed him. When Yanush was still around, he was already a battalion commander! Ishol met his resentful gaze with little reaction, simply nodding. "Then get to it." ... Changing the defense was now an immutable decision. The day following his meeting with Commander Jokhale, Ishol oversaw the gallant march of the 50th, 51st, and 53rd regiments to the defensive outpost at the bend of the river. Though these young men were of short stature and seemed as thin as poles, their morale was high, and their spirits were unyielding. Furthermore, they were all equipped uniformly with LD-47s on their shoulders, combat shovels akin to those of the Death Corps at their waists, and occasionally one or two carried RPG rocket launchers. Such fine armaments stirred the envy of the 11th regiment's soldiers. For they were largely Udono's old guard, and the equipment they held was reclaimed at great risk from the enemy. Yet here these newcomers were, blessed with "fully-geared" arsenals from the start, and about to "inherit" fifty-two self-propelled cannons to boot. Near the logistics depot, a few veterans stood by the ammunition storage, looking on enviously at the rookie soldiers who were "test-driving" their gear, unable to hold back their grumbling. "Damn, leaving this top-notch gear in the hands of rookies is such a waste." "Heh… says the long-distance running champ we got stuck with." "I recall that guy was in Lion City. General Udono stayed, and he fled." "Haha, cowards flock together, no wonder he got the promotion while our leader didn’t." "Ugh, it's an affront to have this gutless wonder inherit the Third Regiment's banner! It's an insult to Commander Metal!" Commander Metal was the leader of the Third Regiment and the first commander at the rank of battalion commander to die in combat since the war began for Bolor. His unwavering spirit inspired many, particularly the rank-and-file soldiers. The murmurs hushed suddenly when they spotted Commander Ishol approaching from a distance. Despite their dissatisfaction, they saw no need to make trouble for their superior. Though they tried hard to conceal their discontent, it wasn't lost on Ishol. Regardless, he was not a petty man and saw no reason to squabble with the rank-and-file. After completing the handover of equipment, he headed straight back to the Third Regiment’s position. Unlike the brothers of the 11th regiment, the newly reorganized Third Regiment was entirely his own direct line. Everyone from the company commanders down to the rank-and-file were his people. Absek intended for him to use the formation of the Northern Field Army to bring Jokhale into his fold. Given Jokhale's previous lack of cooperation, Ishol held little hope for Jokhale's voluntary collaboration. He planned to promote a few mid-level officers to act as advisors or instructors for the 11th regiment. This way, regardless of whether Jokhale understood his struggles, it would at least be justified nominally. He didn't want to see such a promising officer fall in any battle outside of combat. Too many of their brothers had been sacrificed to that already… After finishing the personnel arrangements, Ishol took his guards to patrol the perimeter. As they were set to leave here tomorrow, he wished to gaze one last time upon the places he’d once fought, and perhaps clear his mind. As he passed an anti-aircraft position, he noticed several helmets poking out of a foxhole, huddled together over something. During the safety meeting, he had emphasized multiple times to his officers that, without necessity, no more than three people should occupy a single foxhole. But with a quick count, it seemed the entire squad was crammed in there! Ishol approached quietly and glanced into the foxhole, spotting a small booklet at the center. Suddenly, he spoke up. "What are you looking at?" Startled by the voice above, the soldiers quickly stood, passing the booklet from one to another until it ended up in the hands of a young lad of about sixteen or seventeen. The boy looked earnest, likely a farmer's son. With just a stern glance from Ishol, he stammered and confessed everything in one breath. "R-reporting, sir! It's...it's a 'Family Letter'..." Ishol paused, confused. "What?" The young man scratched his head nervously. "I don’t know exactly. It was seized from the Weyland people. I've heard it's a banned book in West Sail Port." Why would the Weyland people have banned books from West Sail Port? Ishol wondered, but then he remembered the Weyland special privileges in West Sail Port and shrugged it off. The Legion followed the laws of Kachin City, while the laws of West Sail Port were meant to restrain the Bolor people. Moreover, the book might not have belonged to the Weyland people; perhaps it was confiscated from local farmers or citizens. But curiosity piqued Ishol's interest in what made this book so fearsome to the Weylands. "Didn’t I say in the meeting never to take anything from the captives? Didn't your commanders teach you this?" The young man, looking wronged after the reprimand, quickly explained, "I didn’t take it...they left it behind." "Let me see it." "Yes, sir!" The young man immediately handed over the booklet, holding it above his head. Ishol took the booklet, flipping through it. It mostly contained platitudes about moral teachings, akin to sermons from the Silver Moon sect—nothing overtly alarming. It reminded him of the texts from the Silver Moon faith. He couldn’t grasp why the Weylands would fear something like this enough to ban it outright. Or was there more hidden within the pages? What intrigued Ishol wasn’t the book's content but the phonetic markings above the text lines. These notations were valuable. When Mr. Melgio taught them to read, it was the phonetic symbols first, followed by everything else. The common language was actually quite simple. Understanding recognition came easily led to writing. Flipping from cover to cover, Ishol asked the anxious-looking young man, "Can you understand any of this?" The boy looked baffled, glancing at his fellow soldiers. They exchanged looks of confusion before shaking their heads. "No, sir..." "I can only write my name..." "I just know a few phonetics...I can guess at some of it." Most of the Bolor Army were kids from impoverished families; joining the military was both a rash decision and a reluctant necessity of life. Despite that, they held a vague sense that learning more could only benefit them. The recent big examinations were a testament to that. Even though the exams took place in the capital, news had reached the front lines, inspiring many, especially the youth. They longed to change their fate. This fervent desire mirrored the earnestness in their hearts to change the fate of their homeland. Seeing their eagerness to learn, Ishol felt a faint swell of emotion. "You’ll learn more than guessing. When we head north, I’ll teach you!" "Really?!" The young lad's face lit up with excitement. The other soldiers shared his enthusiasm, thrilled by the prospect of General Ishol himself teaching them to read. "Of course," Ishol nodded with a smile, waving the booklet. "I’ll borrow this for a bit. I’ll return it to you soon." The boy grinned sheepishly. "No need, sir. We have more here. Please keep it." More? Ishol was momentarily surprised but simply nodded, not dwelling on it. Just then, the distant hum of propellers filled the air, and silhouettes of steel airships began emerging from beneath the clouds. There were five grand steel fortresses! As predicted, the Southern Legion had placed all their bets on the Eastern front! Nearby, Risko, sitting on a small stool at the edge of a foxhole, was fiddling with his rifle. Seeing the light through the trees dim, he instinctively looked up at the distant sky. His eyes narrowed slightly as he set his rifle aside. "They're finally here." ... It wasn't just the five airships reaching the battlefield. There was also the 30th regiment, led personally by Ryan, along with the newly reorganized and reinforced 34th and 37th regiments sweeping across the horizon. Dust billowed as tanks and armored vehicles began to shape themselves on the open plains—clearly, this time, the Legion meant business. The moment two airships brought the east bank of the Eternal River within firing range, they immediately dropped their hefty anchors, ready for combat. On the ship's bridge, Captain John peered through the landscape windows at the adjacent forest, expressionlessly waving a hand. His adjutant immediately grabbed the communicator, shouting loudly. "Fire!!!" At the same moment his words dropped, the barrels erupted with long tongues of flame. A deluge of artillery cascaded like locusts, accompanied by the whistling sound of projectiles slicing through the air into the dense forest. "Boom!!!" The explosion's flare filled half the mountaintop, and the yellow-green smoke nearly swallowed the entire forest across the river. The coverage and firepower density of this artillery barrage far surpassed that of the last battle led by the Horn division. The thunderous bombardment rang out for five full rounds, seemingly determined to erase the alliance's and Bolor's positions from existence! After this fierce onslaught, the toxic smoke all but baptized the forest, causing the vegetation to wither at a visible rate, gradually revealing hidden positions. While chemical weapons were used in the previous battle with the Horn division, the effectiveness paled compared to now. The enhanced results this time were simple to explain. The front-line field research division of the Southern Legion had improved the composition and deployment method of the "Death Agent." Standing by the large window, Martin, clad in a lab coat, gazed fervently at the withering forest, wishing to press his nose against the bulletproof glass. As the director of the war research institute, the "Death Agent" project was his brainchild. Once the bombardment ceased, Martin turned to Captain John, sitting in his chair, beaming. "…What do you think? Satisfied with my research, honored battalion commander?" "It’s alright." With his right arm resting on the chair's armrest and his chin on the back of his hand, John replied in a bored tone. In truth, he preferred fire over gas. Unfortunately, nestled in the tropics, the climate’s humidity and frequent rains limited the destructive scope of incendiaries. Receiving the affirmative answer, Martin's face lit up with a chilling smile as he continued enthusiastically. "The toxicity can be further enhanced...but I'll need some bodies, mainly for research." John replied bluntly. "I'll pass your request to Commander Ryan. Clearing the battlefield is the army's task." "Many thanks!" Martin bowed deeply before nonchalantly leaving the bridge. He had seen enough—now he just needed the Weyland people to deliver the bodies to his lab. John did not stop him. If anything, he was relieved to see the corpse-reeking man leave. The adjutant watched the door close, glanced at John seated in his chair, and couldn’t help but remark. "It's astonishing such a guy is a shelter resident...I'd believe it if you told me he was a mutant in human skin." Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the land ravaged by artillery, John chuckled softly. "I’ve never thought the shelters protected saints. Good and evil are nebulous concepts, and they’ve never been the shelters' criteria." Not to mention, not all shelters executed their protective duties normally. Amidst the twisted experiments and potential disasters borne from time's fermentation, the tactical advisor finally spoke while observing the advancing troops outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. “This war is practically decided; there’s no suspense left,” he declared. It was hard to imagine anything that could stop this unit. Not even a nuclear bomb seemed capable. Just then, a support fire request came through the communications channel from the ground forces. John glanced at his adjutant, who immediately understood, grabbing the communicator and shouting loudly. “Switch to white phosphorus rounds!” As soon as the order was given, the cannons were swiftly reloaded. After confirming each artillery crew was ready, he continued to roar out the command. “Fire!!!” Meanwhile, on the west bank of the Eternal River, Ryan sat in his command vehicle, smiling as he watched the sky's flashes of fire from the window. With such intense firepower, no carbon-based life form could possibly survive on the enemy positions. But then, an urgent exclamation came through the communications channel. “Rockets! It’s the Alliance’s rockets!” Hearing this, Ryan's pupils shrank. He quickly activated a holographic screen, connecting to the observation cameras on the vehicle roof. Almost simultaneously, rockets trailing fiery tails rose against the descending rain of fire, launching from the distant mountains toward the sky. Were they aiming for the airships? Were they crazy?! Ryan was momentarily at a loss, unable to comprehend their intentions. However, the explosions in the sky soon clarified his confusion. Though the rockets didn’t reach the airships, the explosions' debris and burning materials were actively sucked into the rows of outward-spinning propellers. Realizing the Alliance's strategy, Ryan’s expression changed abruptly, and he shouted into the intercom. “Shut down the propellers!” In truth, he didn’t need to issue the command; the captains had already realized the issue and ordered the propellers shut down. Unfortunately, they were a step too slow! The fuel-ignited propellers became fireballs, with flames spreading rapidly along the extended wings toward the airships. Out of the five airships, three had their wings set ablaze! While the deflective shields could block explosive debris, they were powerless against the engulfing flames. With no choice left, the three unfortunate airships had to jettison their wings, allowing the burning appendages to plummet to the ground. Though wing damage wasn’t fatal to the Legion's airships, losing mobility in three airships simultaneously was embarrassing enough for them. Commander Ryan's fury reignited, his jaw clenched, wishing he could grind his teeth to dust. “Horn, Rolling Thunder, heed the command! Target their counterattack positions and blast them!” The communications channel quickly responded. “Understood… but commander Ryan, the enemy’s rocket artillery positions are beyond our effective range!” “Then haul the anchors and move closer to engage!” Ryan commanded, not pausing for a moment. “30th, 34th, 37th regiments, advance towards the riverbank! Eliminate anything alive in your path! "Crush them!!!" Meanwhile, on the east bank of the Eternal River, indebted Dae Eye stood up with his gas mask on. Though their rocket artillery had dealt a blow to the Legion, the bombardment had also inflicted significant casualties on their side. This included the battlegroup leader, Edge Brother, who perished in the earlier shelling. But really, it didn’t matter much. For the Skeleton Corps, sacrificing the leader was a rare occurrence. But for the Death Corps, such losses were just part of the standard operation. Without hesitation, Dae Eye assumed command, bellowing orders. “Brothers! These big-nosed foes aren’t giving up—let’s teach them a lesson!!!” The communications channel soon resounded with spirited roars and shouts. “Awooo!!!” ...To be continued.