Rushing flustered and breathless, Battlefield Guy finally reached the front line.
He pulled out his binoculars and glanced toward the opposite side. Catching a faint glimpse of the man approaching, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.
*Thank goodness.*
*It's I'm the Darkest.*
*Looks like Storm Corps is the one attacking this time.*
Compared to those reckless brutes in Death Corps, this wave would at least put on a convincing show.
Roughly a hundred people were lying prone over five hundred meters away. Taking advantage of the undulating terrain for cover, they dug into the dirt with shovels to carve out foxholes, clearly intending to entrench and advance step by step.
Seeing his brothers putting so much effort into their acting, Battlefield Guy decided he had to demonstrate some real skill as well. Turning to Beaufort beside him, he issued a stern order.
"Hold your fire! Don't shoot until they get closer!"
"Yes, sir!"
Beaufort nodded in acknowledgment, though inwardly he couldn't help grumbling. Just yesterday, who was it that started rattling off bursts from way too far away?
Yet before Beaufort could fully relax, his boss kicked the machine gunner in the butt.
"Get out of the way. Let me."
The gunner froze for two seconds, then scrambled to his feet, vacating the centuria's sole heavy machine gun.
Seeing his superior once again stepping out of line to take the machine gunner's post, Beaufort felt caught between tears and laughter and wanted to talk him out of it. But before his hand even brushed Battlefield Guy's shoulder, two loud cracks rang out.
Two plumes of dust kicked up in the distance.
Beaufort stared dumbfounded at his commander.
"...Sir?"
Looking down at the smoking barrel, Battlefield Guy coughed softly and explained with mild embarrassment,
"Ahem... Just checking the feel of it. It went off accidentally."
With that, he glared at the machine gunner nearby.
"Why wasn't the safety on?"
Rebuked right to his face, the machine gunner wore an aggrieved expression, holding back his frustration for several seconds before finally letting it out.
"Sir, you told me yesterday to flick the safety off the moment I saw anyone."
Battlefield Guy paused.
"Did I say that?"
Machine gunner: "..."
Beaufort: "..."
Even though it was only two stray shots, the clone soldiers in the trench reacted as if they had heard a signal. One after another, they rested their rifles on the trench edge and pulled the triggers toward the enemy, oblivious to the sheer distance.
A chorus of sharp cracks echoed across the position, rattling like firecrackers on New Year's Eve, full of sound and fury but signifying nothing.
These clone troopers weren't particularly bright to begin with, and their long-range accuracy was practically hopeless.
For that very reason, hardly any officer ever issued automatic weapons to clone infantry—it was pure logistical torture.
Even so, when over a hundred men opened fire in the same direction simultaneously, the resulting wall of lead still carried considerable intimidation.
Bullets suddenly whistled overhead, startling I'm the Darkest as he scraped away at his foxhole. He hurried to tuck his head lower, terrified a stray round might send him straight to the respawn screen.
The greenhorns beside him, however, were an entirely different story.
Though equally startled, their reactions came from a completely different universe.
A round struck less than half a meter from his head.
Stung by flying grit, Rest in Peace reflexively pulled his head in, but excitement immediately washed over his face.
"Holy crap, this is crazy intense!"
Far from being scared, he reached out toward the impact crater and felt around, actually digging up a warped slug embedded in the dirt.
Rest in Peace's eyes went wide as saucers, looking as if he had just discovered a new continent.
"Holy shit! You can actually find the deformed bullets in this FPS!"
And it was still piping hot!
Just for this level of detail, he was ready to sing its praises to the heavens!
A Nie glanced at him from nearby, instantly spotting something amiss.
"Bro, where's your rifle?"
Rest in Peace gave an embarrassed grin.
"Didn't manage to grab one!"
A Nie was utterly stunned.
"What the hell! Then what did you come here for?"
"Don't I still have a shovel?" Rest in Peace winked, his eyes darting to the gun strapped to A Nie's back. "No worries. Once you kick the bucket, I'll take yours."
A Nie: "???"
Right then, a sharp *whizz* zipped past his left ear, the scorching air practically grazing his earlobe.
The bullet didn't hit him.
Instead, it slammed into another player roughly twenty meters behind him.
"*Aaargh!*"
An exaggerated shriek echoed across the open ground. A bloody hole blossomed on the player's shoulder. His body convulsed violently, and he contorted in agony, writhing across the ground like an earthworm wearing a mask of pure suffering.
After wriggling for quite a while, he noticed everyone around him staring blankly. Unable to keep up the melodrama, he stopped and chuckled sheepishly.
"Hehe, I totally forgot pain is disabled... Anyone got a bandage? Blood's squirting everywhere here."
I'm the Darkest rolled his eyes and looked away.
A bandage? Really?
He was about to die anyway; why the hell would he need a bandage?
Listening to the relentless crackle of gunfire up ahead, I'm the Darkest drew his pistol, fired a shot toward the front, and roared at the top of his lungs,
"Brothers! Get those shovels moving! Dig hard! Don't stop—!"
*Damn it all!*
*That bastard Battlefield Guy is completely inhumane!*
Feeding him free kills felt like giving the guy way too cheap of a deal.
He had to show him what's what!
I'm the Darkest's eyes darted around, an idea suddenly striking him. Cupping his hands, he hollered,
"The boss of Sector G53-7 is right up front! Find that guy named Pangolin, kill him, and you'll get a bounty of a thousand silver coins!"
The moment they heard "a thousand silver coins," the prone rookies went wild!
Several nearly jumped to their feet, but barely had their shoulders risen half an inch before enemy suppression drove them flat again.
Yet amidst the reckless bunch, there were also more level-headed players. One shouted over to I'm the Darkest,
"Big boss, how do you turn on nameplates?"
The question left I'm the Darkest completely baffled.
"What? Nameplates?"
The rookie replied as if it were obvious,
"Yeah! Showing player IDs! Otherwise, how am I supposed to know which one is Pangolin?"
Realization dawned on I'm the Darkest.
*Right.*
*The newbies have never seen that guy.*
"Never mind the details! Just look for the ugliest bastard with a flat nose and beat the crap out of—"
Before the words finished leaving his mouth, a cloud of crimson mist exploded from I'm the Darkest's forehead. Without even a grunt, he disconnected on the spot.
Seeing their commander drop dead, the rookies stared in shock.
"Holy crap..."
"Big brother?"
His head had shattered like a watermelon; he was clearly as dead as could be.
A Nie turned bewildered toward Rest in Peace beside him.
"What... what do we do now?"
Rest in Peace swallowed hard.
"Don't ask me... I need a moment of peace."
The truck that had brought them here had already driven away.
All that remained was a small motorcycle leaning sideways in the rear—evidently the commander's personal ride, likely intended for a charge.
A Strength-type player gritted his teeth. Unable to stomach the humiliation of being pinned down, and even less willing to shovel dirt endlessly, he let out a furious roar.
"Brothers! Charge!"
"Avenge Brother Darkest!"
That single cry instantly rallied countless comrades. One by one, players scrambled up from the ground.
Those with rifles fixed their bayonets; those without gripped their shovels tightly. Accompanied by a tsunami of roars, they launched a fearless charge.
"Charge!"
"*Awooooo!*"
"Drop your loot, you bastard!"
As it turned out, a hundred people charging while spread out was marginally more effective than bunching up.
Furthermore, these greenhorns weren't completely devoid of brains.
Seeing comrades shredded by machine gun bursts, the others quickly adapted, zig-zagging in wild evasive patterns.
Unfortunately, such common FPS tactics proved utterly useless in a hyper-realistic virtual reality environment.
That was a machine gun firing six hundred rounds per minute!
Not to mention the man behind the trigger was a Tier 3 Agility Awakened veteran.
In just one brief minute, until the last recruit fell fifty meters from the trench line, the entire centuria was wiped out.
As this batch of novices went offline en masse, post-mortem debrief threads began popping up one after another on the forum back in the real world.
"Sigh, turns out we really should've stuck to digging trenches..."
"Yeah... leaving cover was dumb as hell."
"Even if we charge, we need proper timing... I noticed their rifles weren't very accurate at all, but that machine gun was brutal!"
"Next time we need to rig up an improvised cannon and at least take out that machine gun!"
"Who the hell shouted for that charge?"
"Pretty sure it was some Strength-type meathead."
"Fuck you! Who are you calling a meathead?!"
"You, dumbass! Meathead!"
"%#@!"
***
Unlike the howling rookies, Battlefield Guy had thoroughly enjoyed himself this time.
The batch of 'deliveries' Indebted Big Eye had sent earlier lacked any sincerity, but these novices not only knew how to dig foxholes, they even put on an entertaining show for him. That was genuinely heartfelt.
To express his gratitude, he found a safe spot, logged off, and hopped onto the forum to drop a few words of praise. But the moment he opened the page, he nearly spat out his cola.
*Holy hell.*
*They're treating me like a dungeon boss! Hauling bounties off me?!*
God knew who started it, but rumors were running rampant across the forum that killing Pangolin yielded a thousand silver coins.
Watching the players' discussions grow increasingly heated and wildly unhinged—someone even suggested concocting a sugar-based Tsar Bomba—sweat broke out on his palms.
He hastily switched to their private group chat and tagged several Alliance commanders.
"What's going on with you guys? Didn't we agree you'd feed me kills? Why did it turn into farming me for coins?!"
I'm the Darkest: "Holy shit! You bastard finally showed up! Did you have to shoot so ruthlessly? I hadn't even finished my line!"
Battlefield Atmosphere Group: "Ahem... I saw you take a shot and thought you were urging me to send you on your way faster."
Brother Mole: "Hahahahaha!"
I'm the Darkest: "@#%#!"
Battlefield Atmosphere Group: "Setting your issue aside for a moment, someone go rein in those greenhorns! If you're feeding kills, do it properly! Don't mess up my gig!"
Commander Spring: "Why rein them in? I think it's great. Didn't you complain yesterday's run was too obvious? Pulling out all the stops—now that's authentic! (smirk)"
Indebted Big Eye: "Exactly! I just realized that walking straight into bullets is way too stupid."
I'm the Darkest: "+1. Besides, you're a level twenty-something badass, are you actually worried a few newbies will roll you?"
Seeing these bastards egging each other on, Battlefield Guy nearly choked. He typed at lightning speed,
"Holy shit! Have you seen what they're discussing?!"
Commander Spring: "Relax, I won't give them anything overpowered. Just a few surplus rifles from the bottom of the crate... Worst case, you hide in a dugout and let the clones handle it."
Battlefield Atmosphere Group: "..."
Brother Edge: "Suddenly I'm in the mood. By the way, is it our turn tomorrow? (smirk)"
Youth, Construction Site and Bricks: "I'll lead the charge! (smirk)"
Staring at those smirking emojis, Battlefield Guy felt his stomach twist in knots.
Realizing he had been offline for over ten minutes, he cursed, shut down his PC, strapped on his helmet, and dove back into the game.
***
That evening.
At the Sector 53 command post, Korwei finally received a report from the front lines.
The moment his eyes scanned the document from Sub-sector 7, he froze.
"...Sub-sector 7 ran out of ammunition?! What happened?"
He had personally inspected the place just yesterday, taking particular care to verify their supply reserves. By all accounts, a standard issue allotment should have been plenty.
It hadn't even been forty-eight hours—how could they already be empty?!
Were they snacking on bullets like peanuts with their liquor?
The reporting officer maintained a solemn face as he continued,
"Over the past two days, the Alliance has launched two consecutive raids with small detachments against Sub-sector 7."
Korwei didn't suspect Pangolin would falsify such matters, but he couldn't help asking,
"Is this verified?"
The officer nodded.
"I sent men to inspect the forward positions personally... The bodies left outside the trenches don't lie. According to their battle report, over the past two days they wiped out more than two hundred and fifty enemy combatants, captured over two hundred and forty rifles, one pistol, and nearly six thousand rounds of ammunition."
Pausing briefly, he added,
"The captured weapons have already been sent to logistics... Some need maintenance, but with quick repairs they should be fully operational."
Korwei heard none of the latter remarks.
The moment he registered "more than two hundred and fifty killed," his eyes widened, and he shot out of his chair with a start.
*Good heavens!*
*Over two hundred and fifty men!*
Even if two myriads deployed across a front line and traded shots all day, they might not achieve that kind of tally.
His initial thought wasn't that Pangolin was a tactical genius, but rather: *Has the Alliance commander lost his mind?*
Once he cooled down, he turned his gaze to the strategic map. After prolonged contemplation, a glimmer of comprehension surfaced in his eyes.
"...Could they be using this method to purge internal dissidents?"
The officer beside him hesitated momentarily before nodding.
"It cannot be ruled out."
The Alliance was not a monolith. When General Griffin delivered his ultimatum, their leadership was bound to fracture into pro-war and pro-peace factions over whether to enter ceasefire negotiations.
Korwei could even guess their reasoning.
The peace faction would argue that the Alliance stood isolated and weak, minuscule compared to the Legion. If this escalated into total war, they might not last three days.
And that was indeed the reality.
Whether it was the expedition to the Great Rift Valley, the seizure of the Pioneer, or the subsequent push into Luoxia Province, none of it represented the Legion's collective will.
Likewise, the Enterprise's aid to the Alliance was merely a trivial footnote among countless corporate endeavors.
If total war truly erupted, whether the Legion or Enterprise held the upper hand remained debatable, but he had zero doubt that a tiny speck like the Alliance wouldn't survive a single round.
Even so, hawkish voices certainly existed within the Alliance.
After all, while the Legion's exact supply state was difficult to deduce, guessing that they had logistical troubles wasn't hard.
Based on that reasoning, if he were part of the Alliance's peace faction, he would confront the hawks with something like:
*"If you're so confident in winning the second half, take your own men to the front. Or at least bring proof that the Legion is genuinely exhausted."*
That would explain why the Alliance had resorted to such a clumsy piecemeal tactic.
Staring down at the strategic map, Korwei narrowed his eyes, a faint smirk playing across his lips.
"Too bad they picked the wrong opponent and crashed straight into a fierce warrior under my command."
With that, he turned to the officer.
"Divert half the ammunition from Sectors 6 and 5 to Sector 7! We must not let them see through our true strength!"
The officer hesitated.
"But... what if they adjust their tactics next time and strike elsewhere?"
Korwei chuckled with complete self-assurance.
"Since they are probing our strength, they won't scatter their efforts randomly. They will strike a single point to break our line. I'd bet they'll return within two days!"
No matter what, corpses didn't lie.
Spending a modest amount of ammunition to grind down the enemy's most determined fighting force was an incredible bargain no matter how you sliced it!
What was more, this was sustaining the war through war itself.
The enemy couldn't very well show up empty-handed; the captured weapons and ammunition could all be recycled and repurposed!
"Hold off on sending the captured gear and ammo to maintenance. Once I draft the combat report, forward everything together to high command! Have them find a way to divert more ammunition our way!"
The officer's eyes lit up.
*A brilliant move!*
With an army of a hundred thousand spread across the front, there were always units holding low-priority sectors or stationed farther back where attacks were unlikely.
Once high command recognized the situation here, they would certainly divert ammunition!
At that thought, the officer snapped to attention, saluted crisply, and answered enthusiastically,
"Yes, sir!"
***
Layer by layer, the news traveled up the chain.
Two days later, it reached Griffin.
He was hardly surprised that the Alliance was probing their lines with small forces.
Strategic caution and tactical boldness were not mutually exclusive.
Furthermore, his ultimatum was merely a unilateral notice, not a formal ceasefire agreement. He had never expected the Alliance to be cowed into submission by a mere slip of paper.
Were he the enemy commander, he too would deploy small units to test the waters and see whether the opponent had the teeth to back up their threats.
What did pique his interest, however, was that centurion named Pangolin.
Griffin had reviewed his file.
Though promoted by that fool Macklen and originating from the Retinue Army, the man's combat prowess and loyalty were beyond reproach.
He had single-handedly slain a two-story-tall Mother Deathclaw, and upon their defeat, he had escorted his superior across the desert, cutting through enemy encirclement to reach friendly lines.
Both his loyalty and bravery were so impeccable that even Griffin couldn't help admiring him.
Wasting such talent on the front line seemed almost criminal.
Had the man been a Wilante, or even half-Wilante, Griffin would have already transferred him to lead his personal bodyguard.
Yet the Wilante's innate distrust of outsiders was deeply ingrained, rooted back in the early days of the wasteland era.
"Could this man be compromised?" Griffin's adjutant asked hesitantly. "I can't shake the feeling... that his victories come a bit too easily."
Griffin tapped his forefinger lightly against the desk.
"It cannot be ruled out. Even a Wilante might betray us, let alone an outsider. But so far, aside from an enormous appetite, I see no flaws in him. I will not arbitrarily discipline a man of merit based on intuition."
Ever since Pangolin brought Korwei back, Griffin's agents had kept him under close surveillance. Aside from eating heavily and taking unusually long trips to the latrine, the man displayed no anomalies whatsoever. He hadn't even stepped out of the camp gates.
If someone like that was considered suspicious, then half the army belonged on the watchlist.
After a moment's reflection, Griffin made up his mind and looked at the officer by the tent entrance.
"Send a dispatch to the front: priority must be given to Sector G53's ammunition needs! The Alliance is very likely preparing a retaliatory strike against Sub-sector G53-7. We must not allow them to detect any logistical strain!"
"In addition, dispatch war correspondents to G53-7."
Pausing, a thin smile curved Griffin's lips.
"Such heroic deeds should not stay confined to headquarters. Broadcast it to the entire army!"
"Everyone needs to know!"
***
For the allied forces of Falcon and the Legion, smarting from their defeat against the Alliance and the loss of Oasis No. 9, the heroic exploits of Pangolin in Sector G53-7 were like rain after a long drought.
Though many junior officers doubted the figures, once they saw the photographs taken by the correspondents, no one could raise any objections.
The facial features and physiques clearly didn't belong to Luoxia Province locals; at least this glory wasn't fabricated by massacring civilians...
Inside a barracks in a certain sector, several soldiers huddled together, discussing the radio broadcast they had heard over their meal and the latest newspaper delivered to camp.
"Did you hear? Sector G53 wiped out another centuria yesterday!"
"That Pangolin guy, right? I know him! Word has it that when he served under Macklen in southern River Valley Province, he killed a five-story-tall Deathclaw with his bare hands!"
"Bare hands?! I heard he had weapons!" a heavily muscled soldier blurted, his face filled with disbelief.
He was known as a tough bastard in his unit, yet his greatest achievement was barely bringing down a two-man-tall deathclaw.
And that was with guns and traps.
The soldier spreading the tale curled his lip.
"Doesn't matter! What weapon isn't a toothpick in front of a monster like that? Even the Heart of Steel couldn't finish it off, but he took it down! The Alliance? Hah, no matter how many they send, it won't be enough to satisfy his blade."
A soldier who hadn't spoken the entire time let out a heartfelt sigh.
"Truly terrifying..."
Meanwhile, Comrade Pangolin, stationed at Sector G53-7, was far from sharing in the joy. In fact, he couldn't smile at all.
It wasn't because he was killing his own allies.
While he spared them a momentary silent tribute, reaping kills behind a heavy machine gun was genuinely exhilarating. Moreover, since he was on an undercover assignment, nothing he did would draw punishment from the Administrator, nor did he need to pull his punches against the greenhorns.
Other undercover agents might aim an inch higher to spare lives, but he struck with lethal intent—and often pumped extra rounds into the corpses just to be thorough.
Yet before long, he noticed the Alliance's assaults growing increasingly fiercer.
Or more accurately:
The newcomers were growing up.
Especially those who had died once. After enduring the agonizing "three-day withdrawal" cooldown, they had learned firsthand just how precious life was.
Unwilling to get sent back to the lobby at lightspeed, they finally adopted a serious attitude. Under the tutelage of veteran players, they rapidly acquired essential battlefield survival skills.
Though still unpolished, when an entire group got serious, it caused Comrade Pangolin considerable grief.
Where one burst once sufficed to take a man down, it now took at least two.
Worse, he had to stay constantly alert for their dirty tricks.
During their latest assault, the newcomers had actually deployed gas-canister mortars. A single shot from an improvised cannon nearly blew his machine gun nest sky-high.
Fortunately, beyond making a colossal racket, the makeshift bomb had little going for it, only killing a few clone troopers and a decurion.
Spring's explanation on the forum had been: *"The greenhorns crafted it themselves using spare munitions from the depot, kitchen sugar, gas cylinders, and fertilizer bought from local farmers."*
He had almost believed it!
If there wasn't a veteran mastermind directing them from behind, he'd eat a steaming pile of shit on the spot!
As the novices grew stronger, Battlefield Guy felt the strain mounting.
To his dry amusement, he realized that not only were the rookies farming him like a dungeon boss, but the Alliance commanders were treating him like a military drill instructor, dumping all their recruits on him to whip into shape.
*Unbelievable.*
*I'm practically doing three jobs all by myself!*
*Getting paid a single salary is highway robbery!*
Inside the dugout.
Observing his captain's gloomy scowl, Beaufort swallowed dryly and asked nervously,
"Captain, over the past few days... how many men have we killed?"
Irritated, Battlefield Guy replied offhandedly,
"Around a thousand or so. What about it?"
Beaufort's face fell.
"Captain, our boys' ammo is completely tapped out. Even what was diverted from the cohort is nearly gone! If more supplies don't arrive soon... I'm afraid we'll have to charge them with bayonets."
Battlefield Guy was just about to snap back that they should fix bayonets then.
Just then, a sentry burst in breathlessly, face beaming with delight.
"Report, sir! The supply trucks are here!"
Battlefield Guy froze, the dark clouds on his face instantly vanishing. He bounded up from his chair in sheer jubilation.
"See? Ammunition's here."
Beaufort was equally stunned, staring at his captain in disbelief. His gaze turned utterly reverent.
The entire army was rationing munitions, yet someone had managed to scrape together a shipment for this place.
*Could this guy be the illegitimate son of some high-ranking grandee...?*
Battlefield Guy grinned, scooped up his officer's cap, and set it on his head.
"Come on, let's go check out our spoils—ahem, our supplies!"
The group stepped outside the barracks. Over a dozen trucks were parked along the road, their beds stacked to the brim with ammunition crates.
Watching the decurions excitedly hauling the crates down from the trucks, Beaufort's worries evaporated, replaced by vibrant excitement.
"...This has got to be enough ammunition for an entire cohort!"
The corner of Battlefield Guy's mouth ticked upward. Clearing his throat softly, he put on airs.
"It seems high command values us greatly."
Beaufort promptly offered a flattering smile.
"Of course... You're a war hero now, sir! Yesterday's broadcast was praising your heroic deeds! Word has already spread through the entire army. For all we know, the battle report has reached Triumph City itself."
Not taking the praise to heart, Battlefield Guy simply laughed.
"Hahaha, you all share in the credit!"
Patting his adjutant on the shoulder, Battlefield Guy stepped forward and inspected two random crates, suddenly catching sight of the serial numbers painted on their sides.
*G40-1, G40-2...*
*Wait...*
*Are these sector numbers?*
Realizing something, a glint of deep interest flickered in his eyes.
Quietly leaving the truck, he strolled toward the vehicle at the rear of the convoy, randomly picking two crates to open like mystery boxes.
What a coincidence.
The suffix numbers were also 1 and 2.
Yet the prefix had changed to G41.
Seeing that, Battlefield Guy's jaw dropped.
*Holy hell.*
*They came in consecutive sequence?!*
Chapter 460