Chapter 917 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 917: The Southern Legion's "Unique Strategy" "Due to recent weather issues, the Alliance's administrators have adjusted their visit schedule to the southern regions of the Alliance…" In the restaurant located in the harbor area of Settlement Number One, a radio broadcasted the day's news. It was four in the afternoon, and while the restaurant was open, it was far from its busy hours. Sitting by the window, Yalman occasionally glanced outside, as if waiting for someone. Just then, the door chimed as it opened, drawing his gaze to meet Greg's eyes. "I knew you'd reach out to me." "Why do you say that?" Yalman raised an eyebrow slightly. Greg winked at him, continuing in a humorous and lighthearted tone. "Isn't it obvious? Loyalty to the Marshal is ingrained in every Velantrian from birth. We're ready to lay down our lives for honor and loyalty, even if our feet are far from Triumph City. The Alliance would be gravely mistaken if they thought they could buy us off with petty favors." Pulling out a chair, Greg sat opposite Yalman, beaming at the approaching waitress. "Just a black coffee, please." "Certainly, sir." The young Lunar woman smiled brightly and gracefully floated back to the bar. Yalman took a deep breath, looking around anxiously. "Should we find a more secluded place?" "No need. The open view here works in our favor. You'll soon realize that discussing things openly can be safer than behind closed doors—walls have ears, after all…" Watching the waitress return with the coffee, Greg nodded politely till she retreated to the bar, then turned back to Yalman. "The radio is loud enough to mask our conversation." "Alright, I only mentioned it for caution's sake. Since you have no objections, let's get to the point…" Yalman spoke hurriedly, sipping lemon water to hide his nerves. "As you wish." From his pocket, Greg retrieved a piece of paper, placing it lightly on the table. Caught off guard by Greg's openness, Yalman followed his gaze to the paper, his expression growing increasingly surprised. "This is…" "The Tsunami Plan," Greg explained leisurely. "The Alliance is transporting aid through the Bayue Strait and Silvermoon Bay to the Poluo Province. Capturing the Bayue Strait will handicap them severely." Yalman looked at him, shocked. "But wouldn't that mean—" "A declaration of war against the Alliance, right?" Greg smiled slightly. "I know your concerns, but it's part of our strategic deployment. Opening a second front on Alliance soil is essential to draw our allies into the conflict." Looking at this audacious individual, Yalman swallowed, his voice hoarse. "…Are you working for the Southern Legion's Intelligence Bureau? The infamous Second Bureau?" "Indeed, surprise you, does it? And it's not just the Second Bureau; the General Staff is involved too." Using his finger, Greg poured water onto the paper. The ink began to dissipate like melting snow. Yalman had already taken a photo of the contents, uninterested in his attempt to destroy evidence. With his intentions revealed, Greg spoke in a steady tone. "Our inspiration came from the residents of Eternal Night Port. If the Alliance is so open to Velantrians, why not use the opportunity to infiltrate real soldiers… and then, boom." As he spoke, Greg opened his clenched fist like a blooming firework. With a bright smile, he spoke merciless words. "…They'll explode into bits like a firework." Listening to this insane plan, Yalman felt like a demon sat across from him. If the plan succeeded… The Velantrians would become globally notorious. But that would play into the Southern Legion's hands. Ironically, while legions bind Velantrians with honor, this Velantrian-composed organization cares little for such honor. In fact, they welcome the stench upon Velantran names. The worse their reputation, the more dependent Velantrians become on the legion—like dung beetles to their ball of dung. Yalman gulped. "…A brilliant plan." Greg smiled softly. "You're too kind." Yalman: "But what about your own business? Won't it be affected?" Unsurprised by Yalman's question, Greg chuckled, lowering his voice. "It's just a front, besides… Don't worry about business impacts. We reward those who work for us. When the plan succeeds, I can assure you a thirty percent stake in Fryport's trade and a centurion title… No more wandering for you." A façade, it seems, like the so-called mutual aid society. Yalman sipped his lemon water to calm down, displaying interest. "How many people do you have?" "Two ten-thousand troop teams." Greg held up two fingers. "Most of the Alliance's elite forces are in Poluo Province; 20,000 men are enough to capture the Bayue Strait." "Twenty thousand?!" Yalman's jaw tightened, incredulous. "Are you joking? I only have twelve ships; 5,000 is my transport limit." Greg laughed, reassuring him. "Worry not. We've specially acquired five container ships through our channels for this. Soldiers and weapons will be packed in containers, and your team will cover their arrival in Fryport. When customs opens them, our soldiers will pop out and surprise them." He continued, "Fryport has a stockpile of military aid for Poluo Province. These will become our resources. We seize Fryport, block the Bayue Strait, and with the Western Legion's cover, move in with shallow-draft gunboats, establishing a front in Bayue Province to advance along the coast to Death's Coast… The Alliance will unravel before us." Yalman rubbed his temples, frustrated. "I feel your plan is riddled with problems… And why are you confident a landing will turn the tide? You've seen their unity." "I'm aware," Greg replied with a smile. "Since arriving in the Alliance, I've studied them… including their vulnerabilities." His mysterious smile intrigued Yalman. "I remember he's still quite young." "Then perhaps an unfortunate accident could occur." Adding sugar to his coffee, Greg stirred, nonchalant. "While he's united many, he's also amassed enemies, lingering like shadows… ready to strike. Alone, they may wait lifetimes for a chance, but with our help…" Yalman stared in shock, grasping Greg’s plan. "…You want to replicate the Jawbone Uprising?" "The Jawbone Uprising?" Greg sneered. "The Eastern Legion's downfall lay in indecision. We won't falter that way. We plan, command, and equip… everything guaranteed. Their arrogance will be their undoing." As Yalman seemed poised with more questions, Greg coughed, cutting him off before he could continue. "Enough, are we getting off track? The decapitation operation is handled by someone else. Let's return to our 'Tsunami'. Your job is simple: just get our people ashore, and leave the rest to the professionals." As Greg finished speaking, he fixed his gaze on Yalman, waiting for his response. Yalman knew all too well that knowing this much and refusing could mean he might not live to see the moon tonight. Despite the bitter laugh in his heart, he maintained a calm facade, contemplating seriously for a moment before slowly nodding. "Leave it to me." Greg's face broke into a radiant smile at the expected reply. "Congratulations on choosing the right path." With those words, he stood up, gently patted Yalman on the shoulder, took the damp paper, and slipped it into his pocket before heading to the restaurant's bar. He hadn't taken a single sip of the coffee he'd loaded with an entire dish of sugar, which was likely sickeningly sweet. As Greg left after settling the bill, Yalman let out a bitter laugh and took another sip of his lemon water. Watching the waitress come to clear the table, he removed the button from his collar and delicately placed it on the table. "You’ve heard everything, right? Do you need anything else from me?" The Lunar woman smiled warmly, tidying up the table, even collecting any stray hairs. "No need, sir. We'll handle the cleanup. You can continue with your plans for the day. Thank you for supporting our business, and have a pleasant life." Yalman made a helpless gesture. If he could avoid getting involved, he certainly would have preferred it, and initially, that was his plan. The Security Legion hadn't forced him to cooperate; he could have simply promised confidentiality and avoided further contact with anyone related to the mutual aid society. However, recalling the West Sail Port massacre quickly dispelled any notion of remaining uninvolved. No one can truly remain uninvolved. Once an issue finds you, you've already stepped into the fray. Pretending it's unrelated won't make you or your family safer. He couldn't wait until everything happened, only to explain, like others from Poluo, to the allied survivors— "Not all Poluoans are like this." Such a feeble explanation offers no comfort… The "Tsunami" targeting Fryport was already in motion, with container ships loaded with soldiers departing from Eternal Night Port. Thanks to Greg's efforts, a batch of weapons was already loaded on a cargo ship at Settlement Number One, labeled as military aid for countries in the Poluo Province, en route to Fryport. Simultaneously, Yalman's fleet also set sail, heading for West Sail Port. They would rendezvous at West Sail Port and then make their way through the Poluo Sea towards the Bayue Strait. Everything proceeded as planned. The Alliance's attention was entirely focused on the Poluo Province…at least in the eyes of the Southern Legion's leadership, their plan seemed flawless. Once their forces could seize control of Fryport, the entire Poluo Sea could become the Southern Legion's playground! On another front, the operation codenamed "Guillotine" was quietly progressing as well. As Greg worked on expanding his network at Settlement Number One, another notable figure from the Southern Legion, Centurion Wyatt, arrived at the border between the Maritime and Horse Leap Provinces—amidst a ruin nestled in the mountains. This was the old site of Rock City, about a hundred kilometers from the coast and equally distant from the Alliance’s Settlement Number Ten. Two centuries ago, it had been a thriving coastal city, now reduced to rusted steel skeletons and crumbling concrete shells. Rock City wasn't large, akin to Lakefront West City, focused more on leisure and tourism, thus lacking the skyscrapers of Spring City. During the Torch War, the Company's 101st Mountain Division had stationed in the area but withdrew shortly after the war ended. With their departure, the place quickly reverted to a haven for mutated creatures and raiders. "We're almost there… No roads lead up, so we'll park here and proceed on foot." Looking at the broken overpass ahead, the driver, having shut off the engine, respectfully addressed Wyatt in the back seat. "Alright, this will do." Comparing the map's contours with the surroundings, Wyatt nodded, giving a curt response before stepping out with two exoskeleton-clad attendants. As they parked, two transport trucks pulled up behind, unloading two exoskeleton soldiers and two mountain-sized Velantrians armored in sleek black metal. In the legion, such disproportionately built Velantrians were often failed awakeners, their unstable DNA segments bestowing them with superhuman strength and resilience, allowing them to fight relentlessly, ignoring pain and injury like mutants. The Eastern Legion typically placed them in cleansing squads, serving as the assault core in large-scale operations. But in the Southern Legion, such units were specialized forces, with these giants often equipped with expensive implants and deployed to other regions as needed. Especially behind enemy lines. These formidable, unyielding soldiers functioned like human-shaped nuclear bombs, capable of unleashing the power equivalent to several squads by themselves. Unlike Greg, who was with the Army Intelligence Bureau, Wyatt and his team belonged to the Southern Legion's General Staff, ranked as Centurions. His military background not only made him skilled in intelligence but also well-versed in operations command. He had been involved in planning the West Sail Port massacre orchestrated by the General Staff. In the subsequent Janusz Uprising aiding Abusaiyk’s Grey Wolf Army remnants, he helped devise the operation plans. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Janusz's swift conquest of Tiandu owed at least a third of its success to this man whom Janusz never met. Even Janusz, unaware until his assassination on the throne, remained in the dark. Now, to open a second front against the Alliance, the Southern Legion's General Staff had deployed Wyatt to the Maritime Province to plot against the Alliance's leader. The plan was foreseeably risky; should the leader fall, they'd undoubtedly face rampant retaliation from the entire Alliance, making escape near impossible. But for the legion, the success of the "Tsunami" plan, the Marshal, and ultimate victory, his personal sacrifice was a price Wyatt was willing to pay. As the group entered Rock City, eyes filled with greed and lust watched from the shadows. Most were raiders who lurked following the migratory survivors' paths. The Alliance broadcast drew away their prey, hunted them in the wild, so they hid among the city ruins away from settlements. The Alliance’s influence hadn’t reached these regions yet, so they nested in the Alliance’s shadow. They targeted passing survivors or caravans for plunder and sometimes cobbled together engines to launch seafaring raids. Their loot was usually sold to black market merchants for silver coins to buy supplies. The Alliance never ceased its relentless pursuit and crackdown of raiders, but like a shadow eluding a shoe's footfall, raiders have endured since the War Commission days, never eradicated by any survivor group. Wherever lawless wastelands remain, they sprout like weeds. Notably, the Alliance’s crackdown on raiders is unprecedentedly fierce. It's this sustained pressure squeezing their living space that makes raiders despise the meddlesome "Blue Gophers." Wyatt's group, entering Rock City, was instantly mistaken by local raiders for Alliance refugees due to their gear. After all, in their world, only Vault residents would be adorned with such expensive and cumbersome implants. As for the legion? Many raiders from Horse Leap Province had never even heard of it, though their titles of Ten Captain and Hundred Captain were borrowed from the legion. Sensing the threat lurking in the shadows of the ruins, one of the giants stepped in front of Wyatt, shielding him with his towering, metallic frame. "Threat ahead," came the deep, mechanical hum from beneath the thick armor. Wyatt merely smiled at the warning, unfazed. "That means we’ve come to the right place." With a nod, signaling his men to step aside, he raised his voice, addressing the desolate, concrete jungle before him. "Do you wish to live as cowards forever, rotting away in this rat hole, or will you muster the courage to charge into the homes of so-called civilized people, seize their riches, claim their women, and take enough wealth to last a lifetime?" His booming voice echoed through the ruins, yet no reply came. Undeterred, Wyatt raised his voice even further. "Think about it. Or go home and take a good look in the mirror at the pathetic coward you've become. The Alliance chases you like cockroaches, and you think hiding in ruins will save you? I assure you, if you don’t unite and stand tall, there will soon be no place left to hide!" "Right now, the Alliance is tied up on the western front. You still have a slim chance to strike back—" Before he could finish, a figure leapt down from the ruins. Muscular like a leopard, but with disheveled, flea-ridden hair, and with skin creased like a bald hyena, the man's appearance was unsettling. The worst was his blackened teeth, as if forgotten by a toothbrush for years. The man growled, glaring at Wyatt's group standing before the ruins. "Who are you?" he challenged, his voice low and menacing. The soldiers flanking Wyatt frowned in unison, but Wyatt’s expression remained unchanged. "Wyatt, Centurion of the Legion. What's your name?" "Claw, Chieftain of the Ghoul Tribe," the man declared, his eyes fixated on Wyatt, then drifting to the giant beside him, greed gleaming openly in his gaze. Wyatt paid no mind, scrutinizing Claw with approval. "Claw… a fitting name. I’ve already thought of the perfect implants for you." Producing a stylus, he tapped it twice. A bluish hologram appeared, depicting a warrior with clawed arms. The apparition startled Claw, but he was quickly captivated by its mechanical allure, unable to look away. "How do I get it?" Claw asked, eyes brimming with greed. Wyatt replied without hesitation. "Simple: work for us." Claw knew well the kinds who sought out raiders. "Who do you need dead?" "The Alliance’s leader," Wyatt said with a smile. Hearing this, Claw’s eyes widened, fear etched clearly on his face. Recognizing the trepidation beneath his gaze, Wyatt patiently continued. "He's just one person, and we are many. We won’t send you alone; we’ll provide weapons, strategize your attack, and even fight alongside you." "You only need to bring your courage and stand with us. Leave the rest to us." Hearing such promises, the fear in Claw's eyes was soon replaced with greed. "You’re aiming high… Killing him means being ready to wage war with the settlements." "Then we wage war," Wyatt stated, his gaze steady. "Tell me your answer." A ruthless smile curled Claw's lips as he nodded decisively. "Deal! But you must supply weapons and ammo! A pair of claws won’t cut it, you’ll need to outfit two or three thousand men… If you can promise that, not just the Ghoul Tribe, but every tribe in this city will heed your command!" Wyatt beamed with satisfaction. Though the numbers were fewer than hoped, they would suffice. The objective of "Guillotine" was solely the leader; real conflict awaited "Tsunami." The Alliance would never anticipate an assassination involving thousands. And by the time they did, it would be far too late. Locking eyes with the eager Claw, Wyatt extended his right hand with a smile. "Deal." To be continued...