Lightning Offensive!

To avoid dampening morale, news of Pangolin's injuries was not made public across the Legion. For once, today's radio broadcast did not report on the glorious exploits of Sector G53-7 either, instead airing trivialities that had nothing to do with the situation on the front line. Position G40. Outside the entrance of a dugout, a large cauldron had been propped up over a fire. Fragrant foam simmered in the broth, while sliced loaves of bread rested on an adjacent rack. Led by their decurions, clone soldiers formed a line as the cook, ladle in hand, barked impatiently at each man in turn. "Next." Most clone soldiers were none too bright, stubborn and simple-minded. Absolute obedience was among their greatest virtues, but the flip side was that without someone giving orders, they did nothing at all. If the cook didn't tell them to shove off, they would just keep standing before the cauldron indefinitely. A ladle of broth, half a sausage, and a chunk of bran bread hard enough to crack open a tin can—that made up a clone regiment's modest meal. Now and then the broth and sausage would be replaced by stew or canned rations, but that iconic bran bread rarely changed. It had to be dipped in broth just to soften; even a rat would chip two incisors trying to bite into it. In a pinch, it wasn't just bulletproof—stuffed into sacks, it could serve as a bunker, or be swung like a bludgeon to bash incoming enemy soldiers. Beside the simmering cauldron stood a wooden pole twice the height of a man, carrying a loudspeaker wired to it with iron twine that was broadcasting today's front-page news from the *Triumph Gazette*. Although newspapers were sent to the front as well, supply trucks didn't arrive every day. Catching the latest updates meant tuning in to the broadcast beside the mobile kitchen. Having collected his mess kit, Danier sat on a small stool beneath the speaker, grabbing another little stool at random to serve as his dining table. Officers born as natives of the Falcon Kingdom rarely paid much heed to manners, but he was a Wilante and a centurion besides; naturally, he had no intention of squatting in the trench to eat like the common grunts. At that moment, his adjutant, Peterson, came over, grabbed a stool to sit opposite him, and pulled out a small bottle of liquor, placing it on the "table." Danier raised an eyebrow, eyeing the bottle of gin with mild astonishment before a spark of pleasant surprise lit up his face. "Good stuff. Where'd you get it?" "Back when the northern trade routes were still open, I bought it from some folks coming out of there. Five hundred dinars a bottle." Peterson grinned and twisted off the cap with a sharp crack. Like a magician, he produced two thimble-sized cups, poured one for his superior, and then filled one for himself. "...Those damned old turtles severed our trade with the Bugra Free State. There's plenty to eat at the front line, but getting our hands on fine, authentic liquor is practically impossible." Danier picked up his cup and took a sip. An expression of sheer bliss washed over his face, and he smacked his lips in appreciation. "Even if you can get it, it isn't cheap. Five hundred dinars... two bottles are enough to buy a slave." Not every officer possessed an estate of his own. Junior officers like decurions generally lived off their salaries—a mere two to three thousand dinars a month. Centurions made a bit more, but if one was young and lacked noble lineage, savings were usually scarce. Though that sum sounded substantial—a month's wages could purchase two or three strapping slaves—in reality, it was just enough to maintain a decent standard of living. Especially in major cities directly governed by the Legion, such as Triumph City, there were strict regulations governing slaves' working conditions and living standards. In remote backwaters like Luoxia Province, nobody bothered to enforce such rules, and the nobles' private domains and estates were another matter entirely. But in Triumph City, one had to provide an eight-square-meter room for each slave, ensure three meals a day, and keep them healthy past the age of fifty—otherwise, steep fines would be levied by the local authorities. Moreover, once a transaction was finalized, the owner could not unilaterally dissolve the slave contract unless the slave refused to obey orders. It sounded more like a form of lifetime employment. While it curtailed personal freedom and remained coercive in nature, it was still considered far more "civilized" than the practice in most survivor settlements of clamping slaves in chains. This was among the rare few edicts instituted personally by His Majesty the Marshal. "Enough for me to drink at the tavern on 70th Street in Triumph City for half a month," Peterson said with a grin. Danier chuckled heartily, a wistful yearning appearing in his eyes. "The tavern on 70th Street? That really is a fine place. You can smell the scent of pine drifting from it from a block away... I used to drink there all the time when I was at the non-commissioned officer academy. Damn it, I haven't been back in five years." "Sometimes I can't help wondering what on earth we came out here for," Peterson said, swirling his thimble-sized cup with a melancholy look. "Sure, there's plenty of food here, but the oasis is barely the size of a palm. It would hardly even feed the population of Triumph City, to say nothing of the great desert separating us... Getting home is hard enough for us, let alone hauling grain that needs human backs to carry." "That isn't our concern," Danier cut in, shaking off half his slight buzz and shutting the topic down at once. Peterson realized his slip as well. His gaze drifted toward the loudspeaker, veering away from thoughts of home and the future. "...Strange, though. Not a single word about 537 today." The corners of Danier's mouth curled into a smirk. "Looks like even those savages can feel fear." It made sense when he thought about it. They had already thrown away three thousand lives against a single position, while the garrison holding it was merely a century cobbled together from retinue officers and clones. If the enemy commander ever discovered what kind of force he had been matching wits and valor against all this time, he would probably blow a gasket in sheer fury. Awakened like "Pangolin" were few and far between, but centuries like the one garrisoned in Sector G53-7 were a dime a dozen in their ranks. A pity they lacked sufficient ammunition. Otherwise, there would be no need to waste time here at all—they could just advance the entire army en masse and trample those natives underfoot in minutes! Finishing off the food on his plate, Danier returned it to the kitchen and took Peterson on a patrol around the front-line positions. Today, the front line remained as calm as ever. Though the soldiers had few rounds left in their pouches, the Alliance was tied down at Sector 53, so he wasn't worried about any trouble arising. Raising his binoculars, he swept his gaze across the distance. Seeing not a speck on the horizon, Danier decided to head back to the dugout to rest. Yet right at that moment, an imposing silhouette slowly breached the heavy cloud cover, looming motionless in the air without warning like a gleaming blade. Catching sight of that majestic prow and forward gondola, Danier froze for two whole seconds before a flicker of terror crept onto his face. The *Heart of Steel*! The sirens wailed simultaneously, reverberating across the skies of the entire position. Danier roared at the top of his lungs, sprinting toward the dugout. "Enemy airship!" "Everyone, take cover!" Almost the instant the words left his mouth, twelve muzzle flashes flared beneath the clouds, trails of white smoke drifting outward to blend into the overcast sky. Trailing orange-yellow tracers, twelve 155mm heavy artillery shells crashed down like thunderbolts onto the positions of Sector G40-1. Aside from the blaring siren, there was not the slightest warning as explosive flames bloomed across the position like scattered blossoms. Because the bombardment struck with such abrupt ferocity, many clone soldiers were still leaning against the walls eating their meals, unable to react the moment the alarm sounded. Caught completely unprepared, over thirty men were killed instantly. With others wounded by shrapnel and shockwaves or buried under churned earth, fully half of the 120-man century was rendered combat ineffective. The survivors wore expressions of utter shock, staring panickedly at that patch of distant sky as fear gradually overtook their eyes. "Fuck..." A decurion stared upward, his pale lips and the hand clutching his rifle trembling uncontrollably, his expression looking as though he had seen a ghost. "Are those 100mm guns?!" "No way in hell!" "I heard about this! The Alliance refitted that airship! Guys coming back from the front said they rebuilt the forward gun gondola and swapped in larger-caliber artillery—" Before his words had finished settling, the second salvo rained down upon their heads, spraying mud and gravel straight toward the decurions' mouths. Danier, who had managed to evade the first barrage by sheer luck, was not so fortunate this time. A shell slammed down right near the entrance of the dugout. *Boom—!* Pots, pans, and utensils from the mobile kitchen were blown skyward. Scalding broth splashed in all directions, scattering bits of bone and shredded meat across the ground. Scarcely had the deafening roar registered in his ears when the expanding shockwave struck his back like a sledgehammer. Blood surged into Danier's throat, and he coughed violently, yet he dared not halt his stride for a second. Tumbling alongside the rubble and smoke kicked up by the blast, he rolled headlong into the dugout. "Motherfucker!" Once the dust settled, Danier cursed as he scrambled to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth with a sleeve, his face pale with lingering terror. Peterson, beside him, was equally covered in grime and soot. Though he had survived by luck, not a trace of relief or joy could be seen on his features. "What... what is going on?" Danier swallowed a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva and replied in a shaking voice, "I don't know..." The *Heart of Steel*! Ever since they captured that behemoth from Macklen, it had served as the spearhead of the Alliance's main force... But why would the Alliance's main force show up here?! They suffered losses along the Sector G53 defense line—shouldn't they be trying to get back up where they fell? Why had they targeted this place of all spots?! Bombardment was all it was right now, but Danier knew full well that shelling was merely the prelude to an assault. Soon enough, Alliance ground troops would follow up, sweeping over this earth plowed by artillery fire. At that thought, Danier's face turned grim. Earlier, their ammunition had been siphoned off to supply Sector 53. He didn't know how the cohort stood, but he knew his own century inside out. The clone soldiers couldn't scrape together twenty rounds per man in their packs, and the entire century possessed just five Panzerfausts! He gritted his teeth and looked toward Peterson. "I'm going to the radio to call for reinforcements... You wait here. Once their barrage stops, take the survivors and hold this position no matter what!" Peterson nodded, steeling himself. "Yes, sir!" Having issued his orders, Danier hurried deeper into the dugout to locate the century's sole radio. Slapping the headset over his ears, he yelled: "This is Sector G40-1! We are taking artillery fire!" "The Alliance is assaulting our position! We need reinforcements—!" There was no reply from the other end of the channel, only an incessant busy signal. There were only two possibilities— Either the enemy had employed direct or indirect methods to jam their communications, or command was facing a crisis of its own and had its hands completely full. Cursing under his breath, Danier slammed the headset down onto the radio, seized the rifle propped nearby, and marched briskly back toward the entrance. Fortunately, the racket raised by the enemy's artillery was massive enough. Forget the cohort command twenty kilometers away—even the legion headquarters a hundred kilometers off would detect the commotion over here. Maintaining a tempo of one salvo per minute, the bombardment lasted a full five minutes, dumping at least sixty shells onto their position! Danier waited silently until the shelling subsided, then led Peterson through the winding tunnels, keeping low until they reached the observation slit near the dugout. Alliance ground forces had already appeared in the distance. Billowing clouds of dust surged from the edge of the horizon. Danier involuntarily gripped his rifle tighter, his heart leaping into his throat. He was a well-trained officer who had fought alongside General Griffin all the way here, a seasoned veteran of countless engagements. A display like this wouldn't scare him witless. His mind raced, calculating how to weather this wave of assault—he needed to hold out at least until friendly forces from Sectors 41 and 39 arrived to support them. The *Heart of Steel* was certainly troublesome, but airships couldn't land to capture ground. As long as he held out like Pangolin, ultimate victory would still be theirs— Yet right in the middle of those thoughts, his eyes caught a looming silhouette through the sky-blotting dust. That glimpse alone froze him dead in his tracks, draining every last drop of color from his pale face. Tanks! Over a hundred of them! Their thick, elongated barrels gleamed with a chilling luster under the scorching sun like lances in a charge. Desert-camo steel armor blended seamlessly into the horizon and the swirling sands, resembling an advancing rampart of solid iron! And not just tanks— Over a hundred armored trucks welded with steel plating followed close behind, churning forward amidst the billowing dust thrown up by tank treads, combining with the lead armor into a roaring steel torrent. Murderous Alliance soldiers sat in the truck beds, their steel helmets lined beside automatic rifles far superior to anything the Legion carried. At most, another minute— —and they would collide head-on with this steel torrent! Witnessing the spectacle, Danier felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head; a marrow-chilling frost raced down his spine all the way to the soles of his feet, pinning him firmly to the spot. He suddenly realized that earlier bombardment had merely been an appetizer. The main event had only just begun... "Damn it..." Peterson forced out between trembling lips. "Did they send every single tank they have straight at us?!" Apart from models he couldn't recognize, this surging steel torrent included roughly fifty Conqueror 10s and Conqueror 5s. He knew all too well: the shaped charges fired by Panzerfausts could not penetrate the armor of a Conqueror 10 tank. In other words, they possessed no means whatsoever to hold back this tide of steel, doomed to watch helplessly as their defense line was torn to shreds. In fact, that was already underway. Over a hundred tanks fired in unison, sending another dazzling barrage blooming across the Legion's trenches. Following the direct-fire bombardment, more than twenty trucks surged forward out of the formation, driving right up into the century's face under the covering fire of roof-mounted machine guns. "Infantry, dismount! Find cover! Fast!" Leaping down first from the back of the truck, Elaina led the charge with an LD-50 submachine gun in hand, spraying a volley into the trench directly ahead of the wheels and sending the clone soldiers trying to scramble to their feet straight to the afterlife. "Aaargh!" A clone soldier hiding behind sandbags suddenly vaulted out, howling shrilly as he charged Elaina with a bayonet-fixed rifle. To Elven King Fugui nearby, however, those clumsy movements were as sluggish as a mosquito stripped of its wings. Unhurriedly chambering a shell in his shotgun, he blasted the clone right back behind the sandbags with a resounding *bang*, sending him to meet his Marshal. Seeing Alliance soldiers breach the trench, a decurion holding the line roared an order for his clone soldiers to fix bayonets. Immediately after, he pulled the pin on a smoke grenade, kicking up a "smoke screen of self-deception" in the trench in preparation for a last stand. "Tsk, doesn't look like many survived..." Activating his Thermal Vision, Brother Fugui scanned the smoke-filled trench and quickly spotted two campers crouching in a corner. Clutching their rifles and waiting for an opening, they clearly had no intention of surrendering. Without hesitation, he switched to his LD-47 and swept a burst across, harvesting both kills. "The artillery and tanks did all the heavy lifting. All that's left for us is mopping up the battlefield," Elaina said with a trollish grin. Having prepared for half a month, after all, the operation went far more smoothly than anticipated. The Legion hadn't anticipated an Alliance offensive at this moment, much less at this location. While they fortified Position 53 into an iron citadel, the Alliance's armored spearhead had already flanked around, ripping open a breach at Position 40. From the Legion's perspective, this was the least likely place to be attacked. An offensive here meant the Alliance's supply lines would be stretched by at least two hundred kilometers. Not only would every meter of those two hundred kilometers be a vulnerability, but Positions 39 and 41, flanking Position 40 in a mutually supportive triangle, could quickly dispatch reinforcements. Even if the Alliance completely seized Position 40, reinforcements from 39 and 41 would close like a drawstring bag, trapping the dagger plunged inside. That was precisely why they had prioritized siphoning ammunition from Position 40 to supply Position 53 under attack. When drawing up the operational plan, Brother Spring had clearly seen through their complacent confidence and exploited it decisively, turning their own calculations against them. The Legion would never guess that the Alliance, committed to a full-scale offensive, had no intention of leaving itself an exit. And the vanguard of this offensive—the Skeleton Corps, the first to storm Position 40—had no thought of tapping the brakes either. This tide of steel would push straight ahead, cleaving the entire battlefield in two! Corps Commander Brother Mole's voice came over the comms channel. "Clear the trenches and dugouts! Find the Legion command post! Look for radios and maps—you can't miss it!" "Round up all surrendering prisoners in the dugouts! We aren't staying here long—our allies from the Lion Kingdom will guard them for us." Just as the order was given, combat in the trenches was essentially over. The "armored grenadiers" fighting on foot were all veteran players; the newcomers recruited recently were mostly drivers and gunners. They required little directing. A little time to get reacquainted with this familiar gear was all they needed. Leading a squad at the vanguard, Elaina quickly pinpointed the enemy's forward command post. A bomb crater marked the entrance to the dugout, flanked by shattered pot stands, mess kits, and scorched food debris strewn across the ground. Clearing his throat, he shouted into the shelter in broken Human Alliance language: "Hey! Anyone alive in there? If not, we're tossing in Molotovs!" There was indeed someone inside. At those words, the people cowering within reacted instantly, crying out in a panic: "Don't! Don't shoot!" "We surrender!" Seeing how cooperative they were, Elaina smiled happily and fired two shots into the air. "Then get out here right now! Don't waste our time—you've got ten seconds!" Surrender was easy enough. Prisoners were worth far more than corpses. Hearing Elaina's ultimatum, the two men scrambled out of the dugout on hands and knees, held at gunpoint by the players as they squatted in the corner with their hands clasped behind their heads. "Well, look at that—two centurions, commander and second-in-command, squatting side by side," Elven King Fugui clicked his tongue in surprise, eyeing their uniforms. Elaina chuckled as well. "Saved us some time, at least." In under three minutes. The first sector of defense line 40 was captured, leaving the entire flank of the 40th Cohort exposed to the guns of the Skeleton Corps! However— that was not their objective. Allied forces could handle mopping up the battlefield and eliminating stragglers. What they needed to do now was press onward, rendezvous with the Burning Corps airdropped ahead, and wipe out the 40th Cohort's forward command post! Just as the two centurions surrendered, the Skeleton Corps' tanks rumbled onto the position. The turret hatch popped open, and Brother Mole poked the upper half of his body out. Sweeping his gaze across the fully secured position, he gripped his walkie-talkie and issued orders to his squad leaders: "Leave the prisoners where they are! All infantry, mount up!" "Leave this place to our allies! We push forward!" "Move fast!" Crisp, unified responses echoed over the comms channel. "Copy that!" Without the slightest hesitation, the armored grenadiers who had dismounted scrambled back onto the trucks. Armed to the teeth in steel, the Skeleton Corps was back on the move in no time, pressing forward along the temporary dirt road constructed by the Legion. Allied forces were barely a kilometer behind them and would arrive shortly. The prisoners left behind had already lost any will or ability to resist; even without being tied up, they posed no threat. If they dared to act up, they'd simply get beaten down again. Watching the billowing dust kicked up in the wake of the steel torrent, the dozen or so abandoned prisoners stood dumbfounded, sheer bewilderment plastered across their faces. Less than ten minutes from start to finish. Before they could even grasp what had occurred, it was all over. Peterson swallowed hard and said in a trembling voice, "...Are these people really just natives?" Gazing after the receding steel torrent, Danier was equally dumbstruck, unable to comprehend what those people were planning. Yet right then, a thought flashed through his mind, and in a hazy way, he seemed to understand. Pulling his gaze back from the silhouette blending back into the horizon, Danier let his tense shoulders drop and exhaled a soft sigh. "It's over." Seeing the look of resignation on his commander's face, Peterson paused. "What do you mean, 'over'..." Having completely worked it out, Danier's expression grew noticeably lighter in an instant. Without looking at his adjutant, he muttered to himself: "Nothing... If everything goes smoothly, it won't be long before we can go home."