Torrential rain poured from the heavens.
In a ravine five kilometers south of Pine Valley, tanks rumbled through the gates one after another, flanked by marauder infantry as they rushed toward the southern frontline.
According to the battle plan drawn up by Dillon, they would take advantage of the foul weather to smash through the New Alliance's defensive lines.
The New Alliance's aircraft would undoubtedly risk their necks to launch strikes against their armored column, but under the interference of such a downpour, those flimsy planes were hardly a threat.
Quad anti-aircraft guns—both seven-millimeter and twelve-millimeter—were already aimed at the sky.
Popping the hatch, Bagro leaned his upper torso out of the tank's turret. The gunner seated by his feet immediately grumbled.
"Hey, you're letting the rain in!"
"A little water won't kill you..."
Ignoring the man, Bagro raised his binoculars and peered toward the southern sky, deep furrows bunching across his brow.
"Something feels off to me."
It was too bright in the distance.
He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong, but it simply felt different from normal rain.
"What could be off?" the driver said with a laugh. "All we have to do is roll over their trenches, and they'll scatter like cockroaches in a sewer."
"If only it were that simple." Bagro gave a dry, mocking chuckle and slipped back into the tank.
On second thought, the driver wasn't entirely wrong.
What did it matter even if the enemy was up to some trick?
Before the tracks of a tank, any scheme was a joke.
Bagro unhooked the intercom receiver mounted inside the turret and barked toward the other tanks in the column.
"Pick up the pace!
"We need to cover our infantry and take their high ground before this storm lets up!"
Tanks in the Fang clan were typically commanded by a Legion tanker, while the driver, gunner, and loader were trained marauders.
Of course, not every vehicle adhered strictly to this setup.
Twenty-seven tanks were split into five echelons, advancing in an arrowhead formation.
In the intervals between arrowheads, in addition to quad AA trucks, marched an overstrength century of marauders.
Bagro led a seven-tank formation that served as the spearhead. The century trailing behind them was commanded by a marauder centurion named Wabu.
An Awakened with barbarian blood, Wabu had once been a bounty hunter active in the Free State of Bugra, the so-called "City of Sin." Driven by a thirst for blood and plunder, he had willingly joined the banner of the Bone Chewer tribe.
Most of the men under his command were of the same cut.
They were fiercer and crueler than ordinary marauders. Among them were former arena gladiators, personal guards of slave masters, and even caravan escorts. Though their reasons for joining the Fang clan varied, their appetite for primal violence was identical.
Falling into their hands as a prisoner was hardly better than being caught by any other marauder. In fact, many of the Bone Chewer tribesmen's tortures had been learned from these very outsiders.
Bellowing a war song, Wabu led his men forward through the rain.
Just then, a loud *clang* rang out nearby, sending muddy water splashing several meters into the air. The advancing marauders jumped in fright, throwing themselves to the ground in every direction.
The singing cut off abruptly.
Yet the anticipated explosion never came.
Wabu hauled himself angrily out of the muck, wiped the mud from his face, and strode toward the pit gouged out by whatever had landed. He grabbed a nearby marauder by the collar.
"What the hell was that?!"
The seized marauder babbled nervously, "S-Something fell out of the sky."
"No shit, I'm not blind! I'm asking you what the hell it was!" Wabu shoved the man back, sending him staggering, then leveled a thick, blunt finger toward the muddy pit. "Go check it out for me."
Nothing good ever fell from the sky.
He certainly wasn't going to stick his own neck out to look.
If it blew up the moment he walked over, that would be sheer rotten luck.
"Y-Yes!"
Though terrified, the marauder dared not disobey. He trotted toward the crater and saw a crumpled, deformed steel cylinder—or something of the sort—lodged inside.
Out of curiosity, he squatted down and reached out to touch it, only to yank his hand back as if he had received an electric shock.
"*Hsss—*"
Freezing cold!
It had nearly ripped the skin off his fingertips!
Wabu bellowed in a rough roar, "What is it?"
"I don't know! Just an iron canister, about this big, completely empty inside..." The marauder stood up, gesturing its rough dimensions with his hands.
Wabu didn't entirely understand, but his heart settled slightly.
Just a moment ago, he had feared it was a bomb dropped by a New Alliance plane, but now it clearly wasn't.
Come to think of it, how could there be planes in this weather anyway?
Dropping bombs from above the clouds?
Hitting anyone like that would be nothing short of a miracle!
Wabu opened his lungs, shouting for the scattered unit to reassemble.
"Probably a dud rocket! Whatever it is, ignore it for now. Stick a branch next to it so the folks behind us steer clear, and keep moving! Onward to victory!"
...
Above the clouds.
An H-1 "Dragonfly" utility aircraft was cruising over the milky-white cloud deck, trailing a celestial plume of white mist.
Looking closely, a layer of white frost had already coated the plane's tail.
Standing by the open rear cargo hatch in a thick winter coat, secured by a safety line tied to his back, Brother Toilet Cable was steadying an aluminum ammunition rack mounted to the cabin's guide rails.
The rack had originally been designed to hold 37mm artillery shells, but right now it was packed with high-pressure steel cylinders, each a full meter long.
These cylinders were lashed down with wire, their valves opened, pouring a steady stream of white solid-liquid mixture out of the cabin.
In plain English: dry ice!
And that was the source of the white mist!
In reality, producing dry ice was quite simple. Pressurizing carbon dioxide or air in Container A liquefied it, and cooling it before depressurizing caused it to rapidly absorb a tremendous amount of heat, which in turn forced the carbon dioxide in Container B to rapidly freeze into snowy solid flakes.
The entire process involved zero chemical reactions—it was pure physics. Generally speaking, anyone capable of manufacturing high-pressure steel cylinders could produce dry ice.
Unsure whether cloud seeding required ten kilograms or a hundred kilograms of dry ice, they had simply brought three times the upper recommended limit—three hundred kilograms—and circled the airspace several times.
"Done... Man proposes, heaven disposes."
With the last batch of dry ice dumped, Brother Toilet Cable cranked the winch with all his might to seal the hatch. Letting out a long breath, he peeled off his gloves and shoved them into his pockets.
Brother Levin stepped up to inspect the ammunition rack, his brow suddenly furrowing.
"Why is there one missing?"
Taking a breather, Brother Toilet Cable looked up. "One what?"
"Damn it! What else? A high-pressure cylinder!"
Brother Toilet Cable froze. "Huh?"
"'Huh' my ass!" Levin couldn't hold back his frustration. "Didn't I tell you to keep an eye on them so none fell out? How did one still drop?"
Brother Toilet Cable rolled his eyes. "How the hell was I supposed to see? The fog was so thick just now! Besides, weren't you the one who tied them down?"
Brother Levin's face fell with worry. "Now what? What if the other side finds it?"
Brother Toilet Cable offered a word of comfort. "Who cares! The dry ice inside was completely spent anyway. Even if they pick it up, they probably won't even know what it is."
Put that way, it made sense.
Brother Levin's heart settled slightly.
Just then, Unprofessional Anti-Mantou called out from the cockpit.
"What are you two bickering about back there? Done dumping the dry ice? Need another pass?"
Returning to his seat and strapping in, Brother Levin shouted, "All done! Head home!"
"Roger that."
The fuselage banked to one side.
The H-1 Dragonfly turned its nose around and began its return flight.
For this "Torrential Rain Plan," the New Alliance operational command had prepared two approaches: one using rockets to disperse silver iodide, and the other using aircraft to spray dry ice.
If neither worked—
Then so be it.
In this world, nothing was guaranteed to happen, and nothing was guaranteed not to.
Maybe the massive storm clouds wouldn't react at all; maybe the rain would fall, but achieve nothing; maybe the enemy wasn't waiting for the weather to change in the first place... None of these possibilities could be ruled out.
Every plan was built on speculation drawn from limited intelligence.
Chu Guang hadn't been one hundred percent certain that upon seeing this downpour, the enemy would immediately push all their chips "all in."
However, judging from the low-altitude footage captured by the reconnaissance drones, Chu Guang knew he had won the gamble.
Twenty-seven Conqueror No. 10 tanks had poured out of their blast shelters, followed closely by fifty modified anti-aircraft trucks.
The 100mm artillery deployed to their rear opened up in a simultaneous barrage against the New Alliance positions, unleashing over a hundred shells in just a few minutes.
It looked like retaliation for the previous rocket strikes, but in reality, it was suppressing fire covering the main body's advance.
The Fang clan had staked everything they owned.
And on the New Alliance's side, preparations had long been complete.
The players hunkered down on the frontline were rubbing their hands together, braced and ready for action!
...
Inside the bomb shelter.
Listening to the deafening blasts outside, Indebted Big Eye, crouched against the wall, couldn't help clicking his tongue.
"Holy crap... When did these bandits get so rich?"
In the past, the Fang clan's bombardments were stingy, lasting two or three volleys before cutting off.
Not like today—volley after volley, pounding for ten straight minutes without the slightest hint of stopping.
Due to the rain, some runoff had seeped into the shelter, but fortunately, the players had factored the weather into their plans beforehand, digging drainage ditches throughout the trenches and shelters. Even though the downpour was heavy, it caused little real trouble.
Lying beside the shelter's observation slit, holding his viewing scope, Edge Slacker suddenly spoke up with excitement.
"Enemy tanks spotted on the opposite ridge! Seven of them!"
Here they came!
Those marauders truly couldn't sit still!
"Seven? Wasn't it twenty-seven?" Construction Site Youth and Brick, clutching his rifle, counted on his fingers.
Seated beside him, Indebted Big Eye rolled his eyes. "Are you dumb? Twenty-seven is their total count. They aren't stupid—why would they bunch all their tanks together and ram them down our throats at once? Aside from causing a traffic jam, their infantry wouldn't be able to keep up."
Construction Site Youth and Brick nodded in realization. "Makes sense!"
Indebted Big Eye was already slipping on the headset connected to his neural interface, practically itching to go. "Should I launch the drone?"
Edge Slacker said in a low voice, "No rush! Wait until all their tanks are in range before we hit them! We'll aim to wipe them out in one go and leave them no chance to retreat!"
Indebted Big Eye cheered, "On it!"
Stationed on the southern ridge of Pine Valley was the Death Corps.
After nearly a month of continuous fighting, the Death Corps had climbed to Level 21, and its roster cap had increased to three hundred players.
Raising a corps' level was far easier than leveling an individual character's sequence, especially during wartime when merits accumulated quickly.
As the first line of defense north of Qingshi County, the southern ridge of Pine Valley was the ideal spot to ambush the enemy's armored forces.
Command had issued a clear directive: destroy the enemy tanks at all costs and prevent the Fang clan marauders from taking the heights.
Edge Slacker's ambitions were even more aggressive.
He didn't just want to stop those charging iron coffins here; he wanted to bury every single marauder charging alongside them as well!
Opening his VM, Edge Slacker placed artillery support coordinates on the map, keyed his radio, and yelled:
"... This is Death Corps, calling for fire support! Coordinates: central Pine Valley, five-round covering barrage!"
A calm voice replied over the comms:
"Command copies. Fire mission relayed."
The transmission ended.
The shellfire battering the positions began to taper off.
The enemy armored unit had advanced into engagement range.
Edge Slacker switched the channel to team voice and looked back at his comrades.
"Listen up, everyone! Grab your machine guns and anti-tank weapons and get to your fighting positions immediately!
"The enemy tanks are right on top of us, but victory will be ours!
"Let the forest at the foot of our hill become their graveyard!"
What answered him was a ragged chorus of shouts:
"Copy that!"
"Let's get 'em!"
"*Awooooo!*"
At the same time, at the airfield north of Dawn City, sirens wailed violently.
"Mount up—!"
At Mosquito's command, the little players of the Goblin Corps flight group sprinted toward their respective aircraft.
A total of fifty W-2 ground-attack planes rolled out of their hangars and onto the runway one after another.
With their prominent 10mm autocannons and signature 100-kilogram aerial bombs, even the torrential rain could not conceal their lethal glint.
Seated in his cockpit, Mosquito donned his flight cap, checking his weapon systems and instrument panel while glancing toward the massive machine parked not far away.
The H-1, a three-engine propeller plane, was the latest product from Steel Mill No. 81.
He had heard the bastard next door had specifically christened the thing "Dragonfly," clearly taking a dig at him.
Still, truth be told, compared to that twenty-meter-long airframe, the little plane between his legs really did resemble a fly.
Not that Mosquito was envious.
So what if it was big?
In the sky, that thing was just a flying coffin board.
In dogfights, speed was king!
"Heh, just you wait!"
Mosquito had already made up his mind.
Once his W-3 was built, he would name it "Frog Style"!
Take a dig at me, will you?
Too young, too simple!
Right now, the team voice channel was an absolute mess.
"Coach! Are you sure this piece of—I mean, are you sure this plane can really fly in the rain?" Luo Yu, sitting in his cockpit, shouted nervously.
"No problem at all! I waterproofed it!" Mosquito replied offhandedly.
"B-But what if a bullet hits the battery..."
Hearing such a foolish question, Mosquito chuckled.
"Have a little confidence. Even on a clear, sunny day, if your battery takes a burst, you're just as screwed."
Luo Yu: "Damn it!"
Mosquito casually muted the team channel, and the noisy chattering vanished at once.
Clearing his throat, Mosquito shouted at the top of his lungs in his raspy, drake-like voice:
"Stop overthinking it! Follow me, stomp the throttle to the floor, and just get it done! *Oligie!*"
Propellers chopped the fine rain into mist.
With the throttle floored, Mosquito gripped the flight stick, pulling back on the nose the moment his speed crossed the threshold.
One W-2 ground-attack plane after another lifted into the air behind him, streaking due north toward the airspace above Pine Valley.
Upon reaching their assigned altitude, Mosquito patched into the allied channel via his VM.
"... This is Mosquito! We're en route! What's the situation on the front?"
The comms channel was pure chaos.
Booms of explosions echoed through the static.
Hearing the mayhem, Mosquito clicked his tongue.
*Damn.*
*They're already going at it!*
After a flurry of chaotic noises, Brother Edge's voice soon came through.
"... This is Death Corps! Enemy tanks have entered engagement range, they're firing on us! Dammit, how much longer until you get here?!"
"Soon, soon!"
"Give me a concrete time!" Edge Slacker roared.
"Twenty minutes! We're flying full tilt!" With the throttle pinned, Mosquito yelled back, "Hold on!"
...
The southern positions of Pine Valley.
Below the heights, the tanks elevated their barrels. Their 100mm main guns pounded the ridge continuously, suppressing the defensive fire above.
The Fang clan's armored spearhead had fully entered the battlefield.
The first echelon struck the frontal defenses, while the second and third echelons fanned out to the flanks, preparing to launch an assault from three directions simultaneously.
The New Alliance's artillery barrage struck the battlefield at that very moment.
High-explosive 100mm shells rained down from above, kicking up churning dust in the forest and inflicting heavy casualties on the marauders trailing the tanks.
However, these shells were far too weak against the Conqueror No. 10s. The blast fragments and shockwaves did little more than scratch their armor.
Anti-tank obstacles scattered along the edge of the forest restricted the tanks' avenues of advance, but relying solely on these barricades was obviously insufficient to stop heavy tanks like the Conqueror No. 10.
Yet the players defending this ground had prepared other surprises for them...
A tank rolled along the treeline, covering a decury of marauders as they flanked toward the left side of the New Alliance position.
As the vanguard of the assault, they were slated to be the first to charge up the ridge and seize the trenches dug by the New Alliance.
Suddenly, from the muddy ground not far from the tank, a wooden board covered in turf was kicked open, and a mud-caked figure leapt out.
Explosives were strapped around his waist, and he was drenched in muck from head to toe, looking like a ghoul emerging from a swamp. The surrounding marauders froze, utterly confused by what was happening.
The first to react was the decurion leading the squad, who swiftly raised his submachine gun.
Yet by the time he pulled the trigger, it was already too late.
The mud-caked man stared at the tank as if he had laid eyes on a mountain of treasure. Without a second word, he pulled the fuse on the explosives and threw himself recklessly toward the tank's tracks.
Even with a mouth full of mud, he couldn't resist yelling excitedly:
"*Munieniu—!*"
*Boom—!*
A plume of fire erupted into the sky!
Caught completely off guard, the decury marching beside the tank was cut down like wheat, suffering horrific casualties!
The tank serving as their mobile cover was spattered with flying flesh and gunpowder residue.
With a screeching crunch, the right track slipped off the road wheels. The rolling tank listed sideways, its chassis plowing straight into a tree trunk.
Staring at the wiped-out squad and the immobilized tank, Wabu, who was supervising the assault from behind, was stunned speechless before cursing furiously:
"Dammit! What the hell was that thing that jumped out of the ground?!"
A subordinate clutching a rifle stammered, "I-It looked like a person."
"A person?!" Wabu's eyes widened, his face the picture of utter bewilderment.
*Were these people suicidal?!*
The damaged tank adjusted its posture, turning its nose toward the heights. The turret hatch opened, and the commander coughed as he poked half his head out, shouting back toward the infantry:
"Our track is brok—"
Before he could finish, bullets whistled down the slope, frightening the commander into ducking back inside the turret.
Armor clanged as rounds struck the hull. Enraged, the tank swiveled its turret, its coaxial machine gun raking the slope while the main gun fired a 100mm high-explosive shell.
Yet the defenders there had already relocated; aside from tearing away a patch of turf, the shot hit nothing.
Leaning half his torso out of his own turret, Bagro used the hatch cover to shield the back of his head and roared at Wabu behind him:
"Wabu, tell your men to watch their feet! Those blue jackets dug tunnels under the ridge! There are probably plenty of them hiding down there!"
Hearing the shout from armored column commander Bagro, Wabu snapped back to his senses and bellowed at his men:
"Everyone watch your step!
"If you see anything suspicious, stab it with your bayonets!"
More than one tank was immobilized. Soon, more figures burst out of the earth, charging recklessly toward the nearby armor.
Five of the seven tanks in the first echelon were disabled in an instant. The remaining two dared not advance further, forced to halt in place and provide covering fire for their comrades.
The marauders who had followed the tanks to the foot of the ridge were pinned behind cover, enduring sweeping machine-gun fire and relentless mortar barrages from above.
Standing on the northern ridge, Dillon held his binoculars, glaring forward with tightly knitted brows.
In just ten minutes, the infantry advancing alongside the tanks had suffered forty percent casualties, and tanks in the first echelon were losing their tracks one after another.
The New Alliance likely knew they couldn't penetrate the Conqueror No. 10's armor, so they were targeting the relatively fragile tracks—even resorting to suicide attacks.
The fighting spirit of these people was astonishing.
Yet expecting to stop his armored spearhead with such childish tactics was far too naive.
He had a full twenty-seven tanks, fifty anti-aircraft trucks, and five millenaries standing by on the field.
Once they broke through the southern ridge of Pine Valley, his armored forces could strike straight into urban Qingshi County, or even push through in a single breath to take Yuanxi Town, a mere twenty kilometers from Dawn City's northernmost edge.
When that happened, the New Alliance would have no natural barriers left to defend!
Grabbing his radio, Dillon barked in a heavy voice:
"Fourth and fifth echelons, move up! Assault along the first echelon's route!"
With that, he turned to Bear Fang standing beside him.
"Prepare the second wave! Have your infantry keep pace!"
Bear Fang nodded eagerly. "Understood!"
Ten tanks waiting on the northern ridge began to roll out, accompanied by twenty anti-aircraft trucks and five centuries.
Suffocating bloodlust permeated the rain.
Dillon narrowed his eyes slightly.
He could already envision the New Alliance's positions ground to dust under the treads of his tanks.
Just then, the droplets rolling from the brim of his cap suddenly stopped.
Dillon froze, looking up at the sky. His pupils shrank violently.
Right through the center of the dark clouds, which had been thick as a heavy quilt, an opening seemed to have been torn apart. Only a gossamer veil of thin mist remained, revealing the azure sky behind it.
That glimpse of blue looked like a fissure etched into a stone slab.
Vaguely, Dillon thought he saw a rainbow...
Whispered chatter rose from his subordinates nearby.
"Why did the rain stop?"
"It's only been an hour..."
"Pouring like that, and it just stops on a dime..."
"Come to think of it, usually when it rains that hard there's heavy wind, but there's barely a breeze today."
A cold bead of liquid slid down Dillon's forehead.
He could no longer tell whether it was cold sweat or rainwater.
Cloud seeding...
*It was artificial rain!*
He had fought the Great Rift Valley in the north for an entire year and seen every tactic in the book, but encountering such a bizarre scheme was a first. The enemy had predicted his plan and played right along, gifting him a storm...
He had been careless!
In the distance, framed against that rainbow, Dillon vaguely made out a cluster of black specks emerging from the edge of the clouds in tight formation, diving toward the positions below.
A flicker of dread gripped his eyes, the composure on his face vanishing completely. Tearing off his radio receiver, he screamed at the top of his lungs:
"AA convoy! Watch your heads!
"Hostile aircraft incoming!!"
Chapter 323