Arrow on the String

Petra Fortress. Escorted by two light pickup trucks, Count Roskin drove out of the city on a motorcycle shared with his servant, his face ashen. Resting an arm on the truck window, the captain of the castellan's personal guard, sitting in the passenger seat, waved to signal the driver to pull closer. He grinned at Count Roskin outside. "If you need help, shout loudly. We're not so petty that we won't come to your aid." "I don't need your help! I'd thank the heavens if you just stayed far away from me!" Glancing at the machine gun mounted in the bed of the pickup, Roskin's brow twitched violently. Turning his face against the whipping, howling wind, he roared, "Can you put that thing away?! We aren't going there to fight a war... Are you trying to get me killed?" What if their friends from afar misunderstood? The guard captain and the driver exchanged a bizarre glance. Neither quite understood what went through his head, but in the end, they complied with the strange request. The captain reached his hand out the window and tapped the roof. "Stow the machine gun for now." "Yes, sir!" At the captain's order, the gunner in the truck bed deftly dismounted the 10mm heavy machine gun from its pintle. The other pickup followed suit. At the same time, both trucks slowed down, putting distance between themselves and Count Roskin riding ahead on the motorcycle. Seeing the trucks pull back, Roskin finally breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed slightly. Though he harbored grievances over Castellan Sai'en's command, and though he knew those jackals devoured people bones and all, a sliver of wishful thinking still lingered in his heart. What if it was all a misunderstanding? If he could resolve this misunderstanding gracefully, turning cannons into bread, he would undoubtedly become a hero of Petra Fortress—even a savior of the kingdom. The nobility of Petra Fortress had long harbored a dream: to gain republican autonomy like Silver Moon City in the south and break free from the shackles of feudal contracts. The Petra family, loyal to the royal throne, was their greatest obstacle. If he could use this opportunity to broker a friendly agreement with the Legion, perhaps his family's long-cherished ambition could finally be realized! It was fraught with risk, of course. Yet it was also an opportunity. "Drive faster!" Re-emboldened, Count Roskin's face regained its spirited vigor. Glancing at the motorcycle's speedometer, he urged the servant steering the handlebars, "Haven't you eaten? Or did you forget to fuel the bike? Why are we only doing forty?!" "My lord... the road conditions out here only allow for forty. Any faster and we'll take flight," the servant said, caught between tears and laughter. "Useless piece of trash." Roskin cursed under his breath. Knowing that nagging would achieve nothing, he held his tongue. The convoy of two pickups and a motorcycle soon approached the vicinity of Lost Valley. Surmounting ridges of undulating dunes, Roskin watched the valley loom faintly amid the swirling yellow sands, feeling his heart accelerate. "Ahead! Right up ahead!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. The two pickups behind drew closer. The guard captain poked his head out the window and called out to him. "Do you need us to follow?" "No! Wait for me here! I'll be back shortly!" Leaving those words behind, Roskin urged the servant to open the throttle and press forward. Though the thought of the Legion's camp ahead made the servant's shoulders tremble uncontrollably, he dared not defy the count's orders. He could only bite the bullet and twist the throttle. The dust churned up by their tires quickly caught attention on the other side. Before long, two motorized tricycles approached from the distance. Catching sight of the Legion's banner, Roskin's face lit up with joy. Just as he was about to wave and hail them, two sharp cracks rang out from across the sands. Bullets zipped past and struck the sand nearby, startling the servant so badly that he swerved hard, flipping the bike around to flee back the way they came. Roskin was scared out of his wits as well. He had never expected the enemy to fire without so much as a greeting. He hurriedly shouted behind him at the top of his voice. "Don't shoot! I am Count Roskin of Petra Fortress! There might be a misunderstanding between us! Why don't we sit down and talk—" Yet— Only gunfire answered him. Those men did not offer a single word, opening fire the moment they spotted anyone. Closing to within a hundred meters, the gunner riding in the sidecar squeezed his trigger. *Rat-tat-tat-tat—!* A thick tongue of muzzle flash erupted, and bullets zipped wildly across the sand dunes. Though their aim was poor, the sheer volume of lead was relentless. A searing jolt of agony tore through Roskin's leg. His entire body shuddered, nearly blacking out from the shock, and he slumped forward across the servant's back. "My lord? Are you alright—" Staring at his left leg gushing blood, Roskin forced out half a sentence in a trembling voice. "Run... run!" The tricycles' off-road capability lagged behind the two-wheeled motorcycle, and they failed to catch up. Having heard the gunfire, the guard captain brought his men to provide timely support. The heavy machine guns were slammed back onto their pintles. Both pickups pulled up atop the nearest dune. The gunners racked their bolts with practiced ease and unleashed heavy machine gun fire at the tricycles cresting the sands. Plumes of dust sprayed across the desert, and the lead tricycle was instantly riddled like a sieve. The driver was killed on the spot. The two passengers leaped off, using the vehicle as cover to return fire with their rifles toward the pickups on the dune. But unable to withstand the ferocious heavy machine gun barrage, they soon followed their driver into death. The other tricycle managed to scramble back behind the reverse slope of a dune. Taking advantage of the pursuers being pinned down by suppressive fire, Count Roskin's servant throttled the bike, carrying his master in a desperate flight toward the two pickups. Yet the master draped across his back had already fallen silent. Just moments ago... His master's back seemed to have caught another bullet. A signal flare soared from the reverse slope across the desert. Sitting in the pickup's passenger seat, the guard captain frowned, thrusting his right fist out the window and waving it backward. "Retreat!" *** In the camp not far away. Watching the flare ascend into the sky and listening to the distant chatter of gunfire, General Maclen stood by the airfield runway with a furrowed brow. He raised his binoculars toward the west, but could see nothing. It was too far. He turned to the officer standing beside him. "What's the situation over there?" The officer clearly had no idea either, but his reflexes were sharp enough as he answered immediately. "That sector falls under Centurion Wisd's responsibility. It should be his men patrolling the area today." General Maclen lowered his binoculars. "Summon him." "Yes, sir!" The officer turned and hurried off. Before long, a burly, formidable man strode over, snapped to attention, and saluted. "Reporting! Two pickups and a motorcycle appeared in the west, likely a caravan from a nearby oasis. They killed three of our retainers... I have already dispatched men to pursue them." Hearing that only a few retainers had died, General Maclen pressed no further. Over the past couple of days, blind peddlers had continually wandered in this direction. "Leave the peddlers be. Tell your men not to chase too far, and maintain strict patrols within your sector. The planes will be arriving soon." "Yes, sir!" Wisd snapped another salute, turned on his heel, and jogged off. Watching his retreating back, General Maclen frowned faintly. For reasons unknown... A profound sense of unease kept creeping into his heart. Yet that groundless premonition soon dissolved into nothingness as a sleek silver silhouette emerged in the distance. The makeshift control tower beside the runway received a landing request. With a fuselage over ten meters long and a wingspan spanning dozens of meters, the silver aircraft approached the runway, dropped its landing gear, and touched down amid swirling billows of dust. The aircraft came to a halt on the apron. Ground crews promptly swarmed around it with forklifts and refueling trucks. Such precious jet aircraft would never be entrusted to the Retinue Army; every pilot was a noble Wilante. Two pilots descended the gangway ladder and marched up to General Maclen, offering crisp military salutes. One of them squared his shoulders and threw out his chest. "Squadron Leader of the 11th Army Aviation Squadron, 1st Myriad, and chief pilot of the H-55, Kolen, reporting for duty!" General Maclen returned the salute, then turned his gaze toward the aircraft beside them, his face brimming with delight. The H-55 "Hurricane" bomber! Powered by twin jet engines and forged from specialized alloy steel, its maximum speed could reach Mach 2! Though Army Command designated it as a tactical bomber for front-line support, its heavy armor, durability, and breakthrough capability granted by high-output engines allowed it to execute strategic bombing missions as well. Men called it a flying tank! Or the butcher's scalpel! Touching down alongside the Hurricane bomber was its escort—or rather, a decoy wingman meant to draw fire: an H-44 "Saber" fighter. Compared to the Hurricane, it was noticeably more compact. It featured not only a single jet engine, but a lighter fuselage crafted from titanium alloy. Although designed to contest air superiority and eliminate high-threat targets beyond the reach of propeller planes, the Saber had been conceived by a research institute under Army Command, endowing it with respectable ground-support capabilities as well. The 20mm autocannon mounted in its nose boasted an impressive five hundred rounds of ammunition, while two expensive TV-guided bombs hung beneath its wings. As for why it carried no air-to-air missiles? Because Sunset Province lacked even propeller aircraft to oppose it. Had the Legion known in advance that an Alliance existed in the River Valley Province, or that the Pioneer land fortress planned to venture into the Great Desert in search of Vault 0, they might well have arranged to ship some over from the west. Alas, there were no 'what-ifs.' General Maclen extended his right hand, giving both burly pilots a vigorous handshake, his expression glowing with satisfaction. "The stage has been set for you! Show those vermin what living hell truly looks like!" Kolen grinned, returning the unlucky general's handshake with a firm pump. "That's precisely what I'm here to do." Even though Griffin had not briefed Maclen on the plan in its entirety, they had worked together for decades. One twitch of that sly skunk's tail was enough for Maclen to know what foul stench he planned to release. The payload loaded into the Hurricane bomber was, without a shadow of a doubt, a nuclear weapon— A three-phase thermonuclear bomb yielding a megaton! Just then, sporadic gunfire echoed from afar. Kolen, still shaking General Maclen's hand, instinctively glanced over his shoulder toward the west. "What was that?" General Maclen chuckled. "Probably local wastelanders. We're close to Oasis No. 4, so pay them no mind... Those cowards wouldn't dare interfere with our business. By the way, before I came here, I snagged a few bottles of red wine from that stu... old fellow Griffin. Would you like a taste?" Kolen waved his hand dismissively, smiling as he declined. "No, thank you... We have a mission tonight. We'll save the wine of victory for our return!" The Heart of Steel departing the River Valley Province offered the perfect window for a strike. Yet that did not mean the mission was entirely without risk. In the southern reaches of the River Valley Province lay a veteran survivor faction called Boulder City, which was reportedly part of the Alliance now. Various relics left behind by the Post-War Reconstruction Committee were deployed there. Their combat strength remained a question mark, and it was hard to say whether they could pose a threat to the Hurricane bomber. Only a single nuclear bomb had been transported across tens of thousands of kilometers. To ensure absolute success, they intended to wait for nightfall and carry out the bombing run under cover of darkness. A nuclear strike differed from tactical precision bombing. It required neither pinpoint coordinates nor visual ground confirmation; one only needed to fly to the approximate area, flip the switch, and floor the throttle. Hearing that the mission would proceed tonight, Maclen grew overjoyed and let out a knowing belly laugh. "Then I shall await your triumphant return!" At the thought that the vermin crawling all over his airship would soon be incinerated by the blast wave of a nuclear detonation, his spirits soared. What a shame. He wouldn't get to see their trembling faces before the apocalypse fell upon them. *** Meanwhile. Outside the gates of the heavily guarded prison in Petra Fortress. Accompanied by several guards, a muscular, grime-streaked man passed through the towering stone gateway, having finally been released. "Remember to keep your mouth shut. You won't be so lucky next time." Giving the hulking man a warning glare, the bearded guard captain waved his hand and led his subordinates away. The heavy iron gates slammed shut. Only after the footsteps faded into silence did the man spit onto the dirt, muttering curses as he turned around. Yet the moment he turned, he froze upon seeing two girls and a bear standing at the intersection nearby, his expression instantly contorting with awkwardness. After a beat of hesitation. Scratching the back of his head, he bit the bullet and walked up to greet his employers, mumbling in a gruff voice. "Sorry, boss... I screwed up the job..." "It's fine." Glancing over his disheveled appearance, Sisi raised an eyebrow, looking past him toward the prison. "Did they rough you up?" The man replied sheepishly. "Uh... no, these were from before." A trace of disappointment crossed Sisi's face. What a pity those bruises hadn't been inflicted during custody; otherwise, they could have wheedled a tidy sum of compensation out of the castellan. Then again, it didn't really matter. Contented people lived longer. Nodding to acknowledge his answer, Sisi continued. "What are your plans from here?" The man gave a bitter smile. "I plan to try my luck in Silver Moon City to the south... There's no way I can stay here anymore." After he was locked up, the brothers in his mercenary band had quickly pointed him out as the ringleader. That brotherhood was thoroughly dead. In truth, they had never been real brothers to begin with. They were just pooling their efforts to scrape together a living, a crew of six or seven men at most. Coming together was easy; scattering was just as swift. Sisi nodded, unsurprised, and continued. "If you have nowhere to go, work for Old Buma. The White Bear Knights' station needs security... Well, if you're interested, you can be the head of security there." The castellan of Petra planned to allocate an estate to the White Bear Knights, making it easier for them to carry out their charitable deeds for the refugees. To be fair, much of that stemmed from a misunderstanding; for instance, she had originally just wanted to use this rare opportunity to make a quick buck for the group. Yet spilled water could not be gathered again, and it was too late to take her words back. *"Guided by the gods, they have arrived here to deliver those poor souls"*—those words had come out of her own mouth, after all. The instant he heard the offer, the man froze, staring at the young lady before him in sheer disbelief, his voice cracking with emotion. "You... you still want me?" Seeing the burly man step forward, Sisi took a step back in disgust, shooting him a sidelong look. "Don't say such weird things, or I might change my mind." "No, not at all, I meant no disrespect, my lady!" Terrified that a slip of the tongue might cost him this newfound job, the mercenary leader hurriedly stammered out an explanation, tripping over his own words. "I just... I don't understand. I clearly bungled the task you entrusted to me—" "Everyone has a first time; everyone goes from clumsy to skilled," Sisi cut him off, watching the grateful fellow as she continued. "Of course, you've already used up your first chance. If you bungle things again next time—" "You can shoot me! No, you won't even need to lift a finger—I'll dig my own grave and bury myself right in front of you!" The mercenary leader wore an expression of utmost devotion, his tone earnest and deferential. "You may no longer recall my name, my lady. I am Jordy! It is my honor to continue serving you." Regardless of whether that loyal expression was feigned or genuine, Sisi nodded in satisfaction. The White Bear Knights' regional reputation would likely reach its zenith following this war; in fact, they had already secured the local castellan's trust. However, they couldn't remain here indefinitely to manage real estate they couldn't take with them. They had agreed to journey to even more distant lands. Thus, the best option was finding a reliable local to oversee things in their stead. Old Buma, for instance, was a fine choice—honest, capable, devout in faith, and owing them a life debt. Even so, she remained unwilling to test human nature with money, refusing to place every responsibility into a single pair of hands. It was always safer to keep the money and the guns under two separate people. Later, she would hire an NPC from Dawn City's Merchant Guild to manage the books, making it convenient to check in on local operations whenever she wished. Since this game advertised one-hundred-percent realism, she naturally had to do everything in her power to ensure nothing went wrong. Hearing the mercenary's name, Tail suddenly piped up. "Oh! Jordy! Have you ever considered changing your name?" The mercenary responded instantly. "Please bestow a name upon me, my lady!" Having waited for that exact response, Tail's eyes shone brightly as she gave a thumbs-up. "From now on, your name is Jojo!" The mercenary looked utterly bewildered, but nodded nonetheless. "Yes, my lady... Jojo it is." Rou Rou: "..." Sisi wore a nuanced expression. "A-Tail's naming sense really rivals the Administrator's." Tail looked at Sisi in surprise. "Eh?! Am I really that good at naming?" Sisi raised a hand. "Oh! Super good!" Caught between laughter and tears, Rou Rou urged, "At any rate, the business is done. Let's hurry back. Leaving Sesame Paste there all by herself is too pitiful." Regardless of whether the castellan and his nobles fully bought into Sisi's nonsense, that white-robed old priest had been thoroughly duped. Word was that he even intended to write a letter to the royal capital, informing the revered High Priest and His Majesty the King. *The Goddess of the Silver Moon has manifested a miracle to protect her people!* Could anything be more exhilarating than that? For followers of the Silver Moon Sect, it was indeed thrilling, but for them, perhaps not so much. She harbored an ominous premonition. The real trouble was yet to come... *** At the same time, Count Roskin, having set out on his diplomatic mission to Lost Valley, was carried back by the captain of Castellan Sai'en's personal guard. Shot once in the leg and once in the back, Roskin lay on the stretcher barely clinging to life, his excessive blood loss rendering his face ghostly pale. Inside the castellan's court. The gathered nobles fell silent. Even the loudest among them was stunned into silence by the gruesome sight. Seated upon his stone chair, Sai'en took great satisfaction in savoring the expressions of these cowards, a cold sneer tugging at the corner of his lips. Look upon him. That was the fate of cowards. Roskin's lips trembled as he squeezed out words laced with terror and fury. "The Legion... they have no intention of negotiating with us! Those barbarians! No, they are beasts! You cannot communicate with them in the language of civilized men!" Rising from his stone chair. Sai'en walked down the dais, glanced at Roskin lying on the stretcher, and said nonchalantly. "You ought to thank that young lady for giving you the chance to return alive." Had he ridden a horse. He wouldn't have stood a ghost of a chance of escaping. Humiliation was written all over Roskin's face. Turning his head toward the woman standing in the corner of the crowd, he squeezed the words through clenched teeth. "Thank you..." Sisi shrugged without speaking, her expression entirely unchanged. In truth, she had simply wished to avoid wasting time on an irrelevant NPC; his life or death clearly bore no consequence on the game's unfolding storyline. Yet riding a horse out there would have taken considerable time, and by the time Petra Fortress discovered his corpse, two or three days would have passed. "What did you see out there?" Sai'en looked toward his guard captain. Dispatching the captain alongside Count Roskin had been less about ensuring the fool carried out his duties and more about scouting the situation at Lost Valley. Long before Roskin rode out of the fortress, he had already ordered the garrison troops to prepare. The guard captain saluted. "Their force numbers roughly a myriad. Construction on the northern side of their camp has halted, likely completed. Before we departed, I noticed an aircraft approaching from the northwest. It appeared to land there." "An airplane?" Sai'en's brow furrowed. A stir swept through the surrounding crowd. Faces flushed with dread, anxiety, and shock. Even those who had previously doubted the prophecy wore stunned expressions. "An airplane... They built an airstrip out there?" "Those men truly intend to attack Petra Fortress!" "Has the Lion Kingdom fallen?" "By the Spirit of the Sand Sea... those greedy barbarians truly are insatiable!" "We shouldn't have waited this long! We should have struck earlier!" Listening to the righteous indignation echoing through the hall, the members of the White Bear Knights looked equally astonished. Tugging at Rou Rou beside her, Tail whispered, "Did the official website say they were building an airfield?" She had spent all her time making posts. She hadn't paid much attention to reading them. Rou Rou had spent plenty of time lurking on the forum, but after wracking her brain, she had no recollection of it either. She shook her fluffy head. "Doesn't... seem like it." Tail gasped. "*Giao!* Could it be... they've already found the treasure?!" Rou Rou said, caught between tears and laughter, "How on earth did you reach that conclusion?" With a solemn face, Tail gestured with her hands. "Think about it! The armor of the Sky God... must be massive! A hunk of metal that big couldn't possibly fit on a truck, right? Maybe they built the airstrip specifically to haul the treasure away..." Listening to this wild conjecture, Rou Rou's face gradually gave way to realization, her expression turning equally solemn. "*Hiss*... That might actually be possible!" Standing nearby, Sesame Paste was caught between tears and laughter. "I think if it really were the Sky God's armor, let alone an airplane, not even a train could haul it away..." Paying no heed to her teammates' whispers, Sisi furrowed her brows in thought. Although she hadn't seen any discussion regarding that airfield on the forums, her intuition told her it wasn't that simple. Oasis No. 9 hadn't fallen yet. Moreover, the Administrator had recently led the Heart of Steel and the Storm Corps to reinforce the Lion Kingdom. Powerful as the Legion and the Falcon Kingdom were, they wouldn't recklessly fight a two-front war. Unless... A glint of realization sparked in her eyes as a thought dawned on her. "That 'scepter'... could they have actually found it?" Eyes turned toward her. Sisi looked at Castellan Sai'en, speaking with grave solemnity. "The scepter that fell from the sky sealed the evil god and devastated the oasis. The unholy ritual has likely entered its final phase... We have no time to hesitate. You must make a decision at once!" A genial smile appeared on Sai'en's face. "It seems our thoughts align." With that, he looked upon the assembly of nobles and officials in the court, all amusement vanishing from his expression, replaced by solemn majesty. "I have heard the call within the yellow sands. The great will is summoning us; our kingdom faces the gravest trial in its history. Whether our enemy is the Legion or ancient demons, Petra shall stand as the realm's sturdiest shield!" Drawing the saber at his waist, he looked toward his guard captain and the grim-faced officers beside him. "Rally your men—" "Prepare for battle!"