Great Victory at Pine Valley!

It took a full hour before Dillon finally set foot on the southern ridge of Pine Valley. Even after smoking an entire cigarette, he still could not fathom how the New Alliance had held out for a whole hour against a siege by two thousand-man units with fewer than two hundred men. What bewildered him even more was that they hadn't captured a single prisoner. The New Alliance soldiers' resistance had been ferocious to an abnormal degree. Time and again, his men had breached the trenches, only to be repelled by bursts of firepower that seemed like dying flares of defiance. Those soldiers seemed possessed of endless strength and courage. When their bullets ran dry, they fought on with bayonets, rifle butts, entrenching shovels, and even loose rocks grabbed from the dirt. To kill a single New Alliance soldier, his forces often had to pay five—or even more—casualties. And that was when the enemy was down to their last scraps of ammunition and supplies. As for prisoners, it was an utter impossibility. Those unyielding warriors always saved their last grenade for themselves, burning through their final seconds of life in a reckless charge—even when they could just as easily have thrown it. Even standing on the opposing side, Dillon had to admit they were formidable, respectable foes. "We found a total of five hundred... I mean, two hundred and seventy bodies," the hulking Bear Fang muttered nervously, stooping slightly as he looked at his silent commander. It wasn't that he hadn't considered inflating the number—in fact, that was an old tribal tradition—but Dillon had ordered every corpse dragged out and laid in the open, which left Bear Fang no wiggle room. Dillon said nothing. Pulling out a matchbox, he quietly lit a second cigarette. Tumen, standing off to the side, didn't dare make a peep. He took the initiative to tally their own casualties, crossing the trench while summoning a centurion, ordering him to take a few men and scour the trenches for any leftover explosives or landmines. They had suffered from that before and were genuinely terrified of the blue gophers' devious tricks. If an artillery strike came later and they dove into a dugout only to find it packed with explosives, they'd truly be done for... Tallying the casualties took some time. Returning to Dillon's side, Tumen instinctively offered a Legion salute and reported with a heavy expression. "...We have seven anti-aircraft trucks left." Without looking at him, Dillon asked, "Casualties?" "Casualties stand at 2,410... We have 3,122 men still combat-effective." Hearing that number, Dillon's heart sank. Only three thousand-odd men left... Casualties were nearly fifty percent! The losses from this battle had far exceeded his expectations. An hour ago, Dillon wouldn't have hesitated to give his troops a brief breather before marching straight on Qingshi County. He would have knocked out the New Alliance's artillery positions with lightning speed, seized the railway along the way, and driven straight into the northern outskirts of Qingquan City in a single push. Yet now... Staring at the devastated, littered battlefield before him, he could not summon an ounce of that earlier optimism. The enemy had suffered fewer than three hundred casualties to hold off an armored column and five thousand-man units... How steep a price would they have to pay for Qingshi County ahead? A grim shadow fell across Dillon's face. To attack gave them only a thirty percent chance of victory. Not to attack would preserve strength, but he himself would be as good as dead. Before the operation began, he had promised Golden Fang that at the cost of at most ten tanks, he could take Dawn City. Yet now... Forget Dawn City. They hadn't even caught sight of Qingshi County. "We can't explain this to the chieftain..." Bear Fang murmured beside Dillon. "He'll fly into a rage and feed us to the hyenas." Dillon glanced at him. "At least you know." Trembling, Bear Fang stammered, "Then... then what do we do?" Dillon replied decisively, "Push south." Bear Fang stared at him in astonishment and gasped, "Are you out of your mind?! Push south?! We left over eight hundred corpses on this ridge alone! What are we supposed to take Qingshi County with?!" "With our lives." Dillon glared at him, enunciating every word. "If you want to live, this is the only way. Or you can go back alone and tell Golden Fang everything that happened here." At those words, Bear Fang instantly shut his mouth, though his gut churned with bitter regret. If only he hadn't made that boast back then. Take Qingshi County in ten days? Right now, he only wanted to get as far away from those demons as possible. Seeing Bear Fang's constipated scowl, Dillon paused, then continued, "Look at it optimistically: we still have a chance. Those fifty planes were likely their entire reserve... Our losses were heavy, but so were theirs. Use your brain: if they had enough manpower, why would they place only three hundred men on this ridge?" "Well..." Bear Fang froze. He hadn't considered that. "Collect the ammunition. We move in half an hour." Giving this muscle-bound, brainless brute one final glance, Dillon shook his head and walked toward the logistics team cataloging the spoils of war without another word. Although the New Alliance soldiers had tried to destroy the remaining supplies before their line collapsed, a portion had still been captured. This included twelve mortars with a dozen-odd rounds, a dozen 20mm heavy anti-armor rifles, and Panzerfaust-like rocket launchers. The reserve forces on the northern ridge had already relocated to the southern ridge. He planned to set out immediately after tallying the loot. Just then, a thunderous boom erupted across the position. Startled by the sound, his frayed nerves made him reflexively dive into a nearby trench, even though the blast was dozens of meters away. "What happened?!" That explosion seemed merely a prelude. Before he could make sense of it, whistling roars descended from above, and flashing bursts of fire and deafening blasts tore through the position in rapid succession. The marauders sorting through the loot were caught completely flat-footed. Flying shrapnel scythed down a swath of them on the spot, while the survivors scrambled frantically into trenches to escape the carnage. The trucks parked beside the trenches were not so fortunate. Shells falling from above struck them dead-on; two hit the quad 12mm machine gun in the bed, and another smashed through the cab, wiping out the crew and gunners in an instant. Artillery?! No— The firepower didn't quite match standard artillery. A jolt of shock ran through Dillon. He snapped his head up toward the low, dense clouds and caught sight of a cross-shaped silhouette circling faintly beneath them. The shells were coming from there! "Fuck... How does the New Alliance still have planes?!" "Didn't we wipe out all their sparrows?!" "And what the hell is that plane doing? Why can it fire while flying sideways?!" The marauders who had leaped into the same trench had clearly spotted what was overhead, huddling against the trench walls in terror. The plane circling above filled them with utter dread. Particularly those streaks of tracers plunging from the sky. Across the entire position, nowhere offered cover except fully enclosed dugouts! Cold sweat broke out on Dillon's forehead. Thinking on his feet, he grabbed his walkie-talkie and roared, "Disperse the vehicles!" "Anti-aircraft units, engage the aircraft!" Supply trucks scattered for cover, and the blindsided anti-aircraft trucks finally reacted, swiveling their barrels to return fire. Without early warning radar, however, the opening barrage had taken out three anti-aircraft trucks, leaving the Fang clan with only four. To make matters worse, at least half of those were quad 7mm peashooters. Firing seven-millimeter rounds into the sky could manage an interception against low-diving light aircraft thanks to sheer rate of fire and volume, but past a kilometer, the bullets scattered like particles in Brownian motion. Never mind hitting anything; even if a round landed, it had zero stopping power. Unless miraculous luck struck and damaged a propeller. Against an aircraft circling a thousand meters in the air, only the 12mm machine guns stood any chance. Yet there were far too few of them. Before they could do any good, the circling gunship picked them off one by one, punching armor-piercing incendiary shells through their weapons and cabs. Dillon raised his binoculars and peered anxiously into the sky. A medium-sized "door" had opened on the aircraft's side, and two dark gun barrels protruded from the cabin. At that sight, he was struck dumb. Mounting cannons on the side of a plane? You could do that?! ... *Thump-thump-thump!* Hot casings ejected from the fuselage. With a volley of curt thuds, an anti-aircraft truck reversing in panic was pierced through by armor-piercing incendiary shells plunging from the sky. Moments later, flames of secondary explosions flared up. Its ammo magazine had likely been hit. Flashing pops and crackles erupted around the anti-aircraft truck like a string of firecrackers. Nearby marauders clutched their heads and scurried into the trenches, fleeing frantically toward the dugouts. "Beautiful!" Peering through the optical sight at the scrambling marauders, Brother Fire and Ice pumped his fist from the gunner's seat. The twin 37mm ground-attack autocannon was nothing to sneeze at! While its rate of fire wasn't as dense as a quad 20mm cannon, its lethality and armor penetration were vastly superior. Never mind a few flimsy anti-aircraft trucks— even if it were a Sherman, he was confident he could set it ablaze! With the last anti-aircraft truck wrecked, the Fang clan's frontline forces lost all anti-air capability. Without armor or anti-aircraft weapons to shield them, the remaining three thousand-odd infantrymen were fish on a chopping board. The southern ridge had nowhere near enough trenches to shelter three thousand men. The Death Corps had only three hundred troops to begin with, and the fortifications they dug could hold a thousand at most. The thirty-odd dugouts were packed full in no time. The remaining marauders either bolted down the northern slope toward the pine woods or hugged the dirt in trenches and beneath vehicle chassis, praying for mercy. Looking down at the dense cluster of heads, Brother Fire and Ice grinned ruthlessly. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger and emptied the remaining half-belt of armor-piercing incendiary shells. With a series of rapid booms, shells trailing orange flames slammed into the ground, kicking up rolling clouds of dirt. The sprinting marauders were mowed down in swaths like wheat before a scythe. Standing nearby, Brother Toilet Cable's hands itched at the sound of the cannon fire. He couldn't resist chiming in, "Move, move, let me have a go." Having the time of his life, Brother Fire had no intention of giving up the seat. Half his face remained glued to the optical sight as he snapped without looking back, "What's a Strength-type doing touching this? Can you even hit anything from this high up? Quit yapping and reload! Give me high-explosive!" "Motherfucker, you think you're ordering from a menu?!" Cursing under his breath, Brother Toilet Cable did as told anyway. After all, he was the one who had hired this weapons tester. And the new gear's performance on the battlefield would determine their quest payout and future production orders. In unstable high-altitude air currents and with no fire-control system, taking out seven anti-aircraft trucks with 120 armor-piercing incendiary rounds was already an impressive feat. Nimbly reloading the twin 37mm ground-attack autocannon, Brother Toilet Cable walked to the front, patted the cockpit door, and called out, "Brother Bun, the AA is done for! Drop her down a bit!" The pigman sitting in the cockpit grumbled, "My handle is Unprofessional Anti-Bun! You can call me Anti-Bun, or you can call me Unprofessional, but what the hell is 'Brother Bun'?!" "Sure thing, Brother Bun." "%#$@!" The aircraft began descending, dropping from a kilometer up to around five or six hundred meters. With its port-side gun station facing the earth, it continued circling counterclockwise. At this altitude, firing was child's play. Having dialed in the trajectory, Brother Fire switched straight to burst fire, picking off crowds wherever they bunched together. Pouring down from above, the fire left virtually no blind spots to hide in. Unprofessional Anti-Bun adjusted the flight stick angle, grunted as he bent down, grabbed a steel bar he had scavenged near the airfield, and wedged the control stick firmly in place. Then he leaned back against his seat and toggled into spectator mode. According to the lore, the New Alliance's micro-drones could provide players in designated battle zones with a zoomable, fixed-perspective view. Rumor had it that veteran players had seen the drone—a tiny metallic sphere—though he had never spotted one himself and took it for mere background dressing. Streaks of orange-yellow tracers rained down, and bursts of dirt and fire blossomed across the earth, tearing flesh and bone apart around every impact point. Clutching his VM as he watched the show, Brother Bun felt a pang of envy. "Holy crap... dumping HE shells must feel amazing." With all enemy AA down, coming out of this without a 200/0 K/D ratio would just mean you were absolute trash. A 300 K/D was a bare pass; after all, ammo was limited, and once the routed troops made it into the pine woods down the slope, harvesting kills wouldn't be as easy. After emptying over a dozen magazines in succession, Brother Fire said with unsatisfied glee, "Thirty-seven millimeter is still too small. If you guys could slap a 105mm howitzer on this thing, I'd level that whole damn forest for them!" Hearing this nitpicking, Brother Toilet Cable rolled his eyes. "Keep dreaming." As if it were that easy! The large-caliber artillery currently used by the New Alliance consisted mainly of captured or reverse-engineered 100mm guns. Whether reducing recoil and chamber pressure to mount a 100mm gun on an aircraft or designing a dedicated large-caliber autocannon from scratch, both required time. Moreover, weapons were shaped by battlefield demands and reality. Without a reliable fire-control system and airframe capable of pinpoint precision, an overloaded, large-caliber cannon was far less practical than a smaller caliber with sufficient punch. The latter could carry far more ammunition, and more importantly, if one round missed, you could walk a whole burst on target, using tracers to correct trajectory in real time and eliminate soft targets hunkering behind cover. As for smashing fixed fortifications, leaving that to the dive-bombing light planes produced by the plant next door was more than enough—cheap and practical. Once the New Alliance had deeper pockets, their factory's H-1 utility aircraft would only need minor modifications to moonlight as level bombers for carpet bombing. Wouldn't that be far sweeter than any oversized aircraft cannon? "How many rounds do we have left?" "I brought 1,200 reserve rounds. Shoot to your heart's content," Brother Toilet Cable replied casually as he loaded another feed. At that, Brother Fire was stunned. "Holy shit?! That many?!" Chuckling, Brother Toilet Cable glanced at the rows of aluminum ammo racks beside him, raising an eyebrow with pride. "What did you think?" "You think our ten-plus-ton maximum payload is just hot air?" ... While the H-1 gunship rained hellfire, harvesting the marauders fleeing the southern ridge, Chu Guang, clad in power armor, had arrived at the edge of the battlefield leading nearly a thousand players. The entire operational plan was divided into three phases. Phase one was for the Goblin Corps' flight wing to exploit the lull when the artificial rain stopped, striking the tanks and anti-aircraft trucks behind the Fang clan's front line. Wiping out all the tanks was ideal, but if not, forcing the survivors into the woods and neutralizing over half their anti-air fire was enough to count as mission accomplished. Phase two had the Intelligence-type players of the Death Corps pilot swarms of IED-toting hexacopter drones to launch surprise ambushes against the tanks at point-blank range. Because hexacopters were paper-thin and easily brought down by rifle fire, this phase required the enemy armor to get close enough, their infantry screen to have taken heavy losses, and the armor to have moved outside dense air-defense umbrellas... As for phase three—the counterattack—the enemy, blinded by bloodlust, would predictably have captured the ridge. At that point, they would face two choices: either push south immediately to breach Qingshi County in one go, or expand fortifications while taking a breather to advance methodically. Whichever they chose, the gunship produced by Factory 81 would arrive over their heads on schedule. Faced with shells plunging from above, the marauders on the ridge would instantly splinter into two groups: one diving into the limited fortifications, and the other breaking into a rout down the slope. Or lying flat where they were to await death. At this stage, the outcome was beyond doubt. In truth, according to the battle plan drawn up by headquarters, the defenders on the ridge were clear to abandon the position once phase two concluded— unless there were still tanks left unblown that required them to charge in and blow the tracks. If the corps were made of ordinary humans, Chu Guang wouldn't have hesitated to issue a strict order commanding every soldier on the ridge to pull back. However, since they were players, Chu Guang considered gameplay value and gave the Death Corps two choices: fall back to the rear to rest, or stay behind and test themselves. What if? What if Brother Edge and his hundred-odd remnants managed to wipe out thousands of the enemy? The chances of that happening were slim, but not entirely impossible; otherwise, where did the epic victories recorded in history books come from? Even if they failed, there was no loss. Every death only made these unkillable players stronger. Through the Hummingbird drone deployed above the battlefield, Chu Guang gazed down upon the entire scene. In a corner of the southern ridge, mangled corpses lay scattered across the ground. Even though the marauders had stripped their helmets, gas masks, VMs, and even their clothes, Chu Guang could still recognize their identities. "The Alliance will remember your sacrifice." *—Later, I'll have Xiao Qi edit the battle recording and upload it to the official site.* After offering a second of silent mourning for the players who couldn't log in for three days and were doomed to lurk on the forums, Chu Guang slowly raised the warhammer in his hand and swung it forward. Amplified by his speaker, his voice echoed along the edge of the woods. "All units—" "Advance!" Twelve 100mm artillery shells crashed into the ridge in unison. Towering plumes of smoke erupted from the earth, and searing shockwaves churned across the position. At the same time, the charge horn sounded. Over a dozen corps large and small mobilized at once. The eager players surged forward with deafening battle cries, launching a thousand-man charge against the ridge ahead. First to storm the ridge was once again the Skeleton Corps, champions of the "doctrine of mobile warfare." The single armored truck the corps had originally possessed had expanded to six. Besides two armored trucks carrying quad 20mm autocannons, two others bore Factory 81's newest product—an 88mm low-pressure smoothbore gun. Though the barrel production line had been converted from an 88mm mortar barrel line, the two were entirely different beasts. As for the remaining two trucks, they were armored personnel carriers with a 10mm heavy machine gun welded to the roof, rated for twelve passengers each— though in reality, packing twenty inside was no trouble at all. "Ignore the infantry crouching in the trenches! Our target is the kills fleeing north!" "Hold on tight, Skeleton Corps brothers! Drivers, pedal to the metal! Armor, don't stop—keep pushing forward!" "We're driving straight to the northern ridge to harvest kills!" Seated in the passenger seat of an APC with a headset on, Brother Mole had all-chat open and roared excitedly into his mic. Once the Skeleton Corps breached the ridge, they shifted instantly into drag-racing mode, paying zero mind to the marauders hunkering in the trenches. The heavy machine guns on the APCs chattered continuously. Under the cover of suppressive fire, the six armored trucks blasted through the ridge in less than two minutes. Down below in the pine woods lay a corridor blasted clear by artillery fire, which had served as the main advance route for the Fang clan's tank units earlier. Wrecked tanks and anti-aircraft trucks were stranded by the wayside or leaned drunkenly against the pine trees. Seated in the passenger seat, Brother Mole felt a pang of heartache as he looked out at the heaps of scrap metal. "...What a waste to blow them all up." If only they could have salvaged one! As the Skeleton Corps broke through the ridge, player units like the Jungle Corps and Storm Corps poured onto the high ground in succession. Less than an hour had passed since the marauders took the southern ridge. They hadn't had time to dig south-facing trenches, much less imagined that the blue gophers would dare leave Qingshi County's fortifications to launch an active assault against them. With the relentless pounding of the gunship and 100mm artillery, the shell-shocked marauders hadn't even realized that New Alliance troops were charging them. By the time they finally did, the fastest players were already at the edge of the trenches. A bloody trench brawl erupted. Fewer than a thousand marauders remained in the trenches. Facing an equal number of players who held the upper hand in both physical stats and equipment, these thugs—fresh from a grueling battle—were practically dragged through the dirt and pummeled into the mud. Confronted by the overwhelming firepower of Scythe assault rifles, the marauders—only half of whom had submachine guns and automatic rifles—were quickly driven into the few dugouts. And that was when the flamethrowers prepared earlier for repelling the Tide proved useful once again... "Nobody go in! Leave it to me!" Hauling a hundred-kilogram fuel tank and clad in a green-painted KV-1 exoskeleton, Piltover Paratrooper jogged over with glee. Grinning at his Jungle Corps buddies nearby, this fellow swaggered right up to the dugout entrance and raised the nozzle, ready to get to work. "You guys inside! Surrendering or what?" Midnight Chicken Slayer yelled toward the entrance below, leveling a heavy shotgun. No response. Midnight Chicken Slayer didn't waste another breath and gave a curt wave. Capturing prisoners awarded points, but time was precious. Surrendering was great; refusing just meant not wasting anyone's time. The teammate shouldering the flamethrower pulled the trigger without hesitation. A thick serpent of flame belched from the nozzle and surged into the dugout. "Aaaagh!" Screams echoed from the dugout in agonizing waves. Within seconds, all was silent. Watching the flaming stick figures tumble from the dugout, Prone Model Worker suddenly remembered something and spoke up: "Wait, didn't you just shout that in Mandarin?" Midnight Chicken Slayer blinked, only then realizing the NPCs couldn't understand him. "Oh yeah... Why didn't you say so earlier?" "Whatever. Sucks to not know the language. Next dugout!" Piltover Paratrooper, in it purely for the fun, chuckled and strode toward the adjacent dugout with the flaming nozzle in hand. The entire position reeked of scorched flesh, and bodies littered the ground. By the time Chu Guang, clad in power armor, set foot on the ridge, the Battle of Pine Valley was essentially over. Only sporadic gunfire and explosions echoed from the northern ridge where the Skeleton Corps had pushed through. Faced with a pincer attack and mounting casualties, the marauders fleeing into the pine woods threw down their weapons and surrendered in droves. In truth, even if they hadn't, the handful of survivors couldn't have withstood another few rounds of autocannon fire. The Skeleton Corps' armored trucks had already cut off their retreat, leveling their quad anti-aircraft guns to wait for them ahead. Anyone emerging from the woods with a weapon in hand was greeted with a volley of high-explosive rounds until they completely gave up resisting. Having expended all its ammunition, the H-1 gunship turned back toward base. The various corps that had completed their capture objectives began tallying their casualties and prisoners. In just ten minutes, the New Alliance had retaken the southern ridge of Pine Valley and practically wiped out every marauder holding it. After this battle, the Fang clan had lost every last trump card to stand against the New Alliance. A great victory!