A Far Cry from the Past

Danier had guessed one thing right. His superior headquarters was indeed in trouble. And that trouble was far from small. At the very moment the Skeleton Corps launched their assault on his position, five Cloud Dragonfly ornithopters had already slipped through the left flank of their defensive line, pushing deeper into the rear. Skimming practically right above the ground in extreme low-altitude flight, the ornithopters went completely unnoticed by Position G40-1 under the blanket of artillery fire, while the radar stations further back were caught utterly unprepared. The moment the five ornithopters finally appeared on radar, the remote-guided missiles they fired slammed down exactly as planned, striking with pinpoint precision into the Legion's antiaircraft positions along the ridgeline of the hills. Flames and shockwaves from the blasts swallowed antiaircraft guns and sandbags in an instant, inflicting devastating casualties on the antiaircraft crews hunkered down at their posts. All along the path from the front line to the command post, twisted steel and blazing emplacements dotted the landscape like scattered campfires when viewed from above. At the exact moment Sector 40's antiaircraft network was paralyzed, twenty H-1 Dragonfly transports arrived over the battlefield right on schedule. Carrying five hundred elites of the Burning Corps, they flew straight over the defensive line manned by the 40th Cohort, thrusting deep toward the legion command post. Fifty W-2 Mosquito ground-attack aircraft took off one after another from the *Heart of Steel*, rendezvousing with the incoming Dragonfly transports to escort them and provide close air support for the airborne troops. Everything went exactly according to plan. Meanwhile, down on the ground blanketed by the shadows of the aircraft, every face was etched with horror and utter bewilderment. A centurion gazed up at the sky, his voice trembling. "Planes! Alliance planes!" Standing not far from him, the logistics quartermaster swallowed hard, a slight tremor in his voice. "Damn it... how can there be so many?!" Only then did the air raid sirens belatedly wail to life. Men scrambled for their weapons and scattered outside their tents, plunging the entire camp into chaos. "Where are our planes?!" "I don't know..." "Damn it!" "What the hell is happening?!" Up until the day before yesterday, the broadcasts had still been regaling everyone with tales of Pangolin's heroic exploits, and the *Triumph Gazette* had bragged on its front page about multiple warehouses overflowing with war trophies. The impression that the Alliance was fragile and incompetent had been ingrained in everyone's minds; no one doubted that as soon as the ammunition arrived, they could drive those natives out of this desert in a matter of minutes. And yet— The reality unfolding before them now completely defied their expectations. Especially the moment the Alliance's planes appeared overhead, many even wondered if they were trapped in a nightmare, not yet awake. Standing at the entrance of the command tent, Tribune Peren stared dumbstruck at the sky, speechless for a long time. Snapping back to his senses, he grabbed his adjacent adjutant by the collar and roared, spraying spit: "Where are our antiaircraft guns?! And what about the ten cohorts on the front line?! Why haven't we heard a damn thing from them?!" White-faced, the collared adjutant's lips trembled for several moments before he finally choked out the words stuck in his throat: "The front... a message just came in. The 1st Century stationed in Sector 1 of our line was shelled by the *Heart of Steel*—" Peren's eyes widened into saucers. Before the adjutant could finish, he bellowed his order: "Tell Danier to hold the line at all costs! Even if he can't hold it, tell him to buy me at least half an hour!" The bitterness on the adjutant's face deepened. Danier? It was anyone's guess whether the man was even alive. From the very start, they had lost all contact with Position 1. According to reports from Position 2, soldiers there saw explosions and fire virtually swallow their neighbor's entire emplacement, and crouching in their trenches, they could feel the earth shudder beneath them. More than that, they had spotted the *Heart of Steel*—previously captured by the Alliance—looming in the sky. Clearly, the Alliance was playing for keeps this time. The adjutant's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice hoarse. "There's no response on the comms. Chances are... they're finished." "Fuck!" Peren spat a vicious curse, shoved the adjutant away, and strode toward the radio inside the command tent, snatching up the headset and clapping it over his ears. *Useless bastards!* Dialing through to the legion command, he channeled every ounce of strength into shouting over the channel: "This is the 40th Cohort!" "We are under attack by the Alliance! They've deployed their main force, including the *Heart of Steel* and tanks!" "We can hold for an hour at most! Send reinforcements immediately!" "I repeat, send reinforcements immediately—!" Most of the 40th Cohort's ammunition had been diverted to Sector 53. Peren knew all too well that what little ordnance they had left was nowhere near enough to repel such an intensive Alliance onslaught. Perhaps the Legion would ultimately emerge victorious in the end. But having been singled out by the Alliance, he was almost certainly doomed. Yet try as he might, he couldn't fathom why. Whether analyzed from a strategic or tactical standpoint, Sector 40 was hardly an ideal target. Even if the Alliance took it, breaking through here would scarcely crack open the wider theater of war. Why on earth had the Alliance targeted him of all places?! Still, now was not the time to ponder such questions. His frontline units had been devastated. To breach a defensive line they had spent over a month fortifying in such a short span of time, the enemy must have committed a massive number of armored units. If he couldn't survive this immediate crisis, there would be no future to speak of anyway. Having reported to higher command, Peren immediately rushed to his combat station with his personal guard, rallying his subordinates to reorganize the camp's various combat units. Though the airstrike had caught them off guard, soldiers of the Legion were far better trained than the Falcon Kingdom's levies. Even facing an overwhelming strategic disadvantage, their morale did not collapse into a rout. However— That alone would hardly tip the scales in their favor. Under the gaze of countless eyes, twenty Mosquito ground-attack aircraft broke formation, banked downward, and initiated the attack! "Flight B, maintain escort! Flight A, on me!" "Fire up those sirens, boys! Their air raid horn sounds so weak it's like they skipped lunch! Let's give 'em some extra flavor, haha!" Howling over the comms channel, Mosquito, leading the flight, excitedly flipped the switch on his siren. A piercing wail tore through the air, sounding like the horn of the Grim Reaper. Twenty one-hundred-kilogram aerial bombs tumbled from the sky in sequence, unleashing a rain of death upon the earth below! Most pilots of the Goblin Corps were Agility-type players. Those tasked with bombing runs had largely advanced to Tier 2 in their sequence and unlocked their first talent. Beneath their keen eyes, ground targets moved as sluggishly as ants; they could even make out the terror plastered across the enemies' faces. The bonuses to vision and reaction speed granted by high Agility made flying feel like playing with cheat codes. Every single "express parcel" was delivered with pinpoint accuracy right where it was needed most! More reliable than an AI! Stripped of antiaircraft cover and confronted with bombs falling from above, the battle deteriorated into a one-sided massacre. Deafening roars reverberated across the open plains as plumes of fire and thick smoke blossomed everywhere across the camp. Tents dissolved into infernos in seconds. Scores of clone soldiers were charred to cinders before they even caught a glimpse of the enemy, collapsing with lifeless, unfocused eyes. A decurion struggled desperately to put out the flames engulfing his body, but no matter how violently he rolled on the ground, the fire only burned hotter. Tribune Peren, having miraculously survived, dragged himself to his feet. Noticing a shadow cast across the battlefield, he slowly looked up, freezing in place with dazed, vacant eyes. Unbeknownst to him, the *Heart of Steel* had emerged from the clouds and now hovered directly above the battlefield, a floating fortress like an ominous storm cloud. Watching those massive, elongated gun barrels crawl overhead, a creeping despair welled up within him, making his very soul tremble. Every battle he had ever fought in had been a one-sided victory. As the dominant party in asymmetrical warfare, no adversary had ever lasted more than two rounds against the Legion, let alone ridden roughshod over them from above like this... Just then, his adjutant, leaning on a rifle, stumbled toward him. "Word from the forward outpost... an armored column is advancing from the G40-1 line toward us... They're less than five kilometers away." Pausing, the adjutant added in a strained voice, "Sir... what do we do now?" Peren's throat tightened. His loyalty to His Excellency the Marshal kept him from uttering defeatist words, but the brutal truth lay bare before his eyes... It was over. His shoulders slumped, and he pulled his gaze away from the sky. "...Tend to the wounded first." The adjutant blinked in shock. "B-but—" Peren handed the rifle back to the adjutant's hands and patted his shoulder. Without a word, he limped off toward the blazing ruins of the camp. A single air raid. The two centuries stationed near the command post had already suffered over fifty percent casualties! The remaining hundred or so men were not only critically short on ammo, but mostly wounded. Never mind stopping an Alliance armored thrust—they could scarcely mount any meaningful resistance at all. Fighting on would be no different from suicide... With the arrival of the *Heart of Steel*, the Alliance's diving airstrikes had ceased. Presumably seeing the outcome decided and unwilling to waste ordnance on an irrelevant target, the Alliance dropped no more bombs on their position, choosing instead to press forward. Peren knew he had lost this battle. And he had lost it bafflingly. Aside from roaring prop planes and the bombs plunging alongside them, he hadn't even caught sight of the Alliance's ground forces. Was this really the same Alliance that had lost three thousand men so effortlessly to Pangolin's century?! Gazing out over the devastated camp, his eyes held neither despair nor sorrow, only numbness and confusion. What kind of "natives" were they fighting? Had the Alliance been deliberately playing dumb? Or had the *Triumph Gazette* been lying all along...? ... The bridge of the *Heart of Steel*. Standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chu Guang gazed down upon the smoke-shrouded battlefield. This was the best vantage point around; from where he stood, the positions of both friend and foe stretched out below in clear view. "They've surrendered." Watching the white flag rise above the enemy command post, a hint of mild surprise surfaced on Vannus's face. The ferocity of the Alliance's firepower was one thing, but he hadn't expected them to fold in under ten minutes. It seemed that compared to the expeditionary force sent against the Great Rift Valley, these clone cohorts newly rotated from the rear to the front line were noticeably inferior... "The operation went even smoother than planned." Glancing at the time on his VM, Chu Guang smiled faintly and added, "Our troops achieved their objective a full hour ahead of schedule." Under the original plan, the Burning Corps was supposed to storm the 40th Cohort's command post under the Goblin Corps's cover, coordinating with the armored units that breached the front line to wipe out the 40th Cohort in one fell swoop. Now, however, it seemed their plan had been far too conservative. Such caution was only natural, of course. After all, the vast majority of veteran players in *Wasteland OL* remembered the Legion's clone forces from the campaign a year ago. Those fearless, bloodthirsty clone soldiers had left an indelible impression on players still in the early progression stage. Even the crew of the *Pioneer*, equipped with exoskeletons and power armor, had suffered bitterly against that crushing superiority in numbers and firepower. Had the *Pioneer* not deployed a tactical nuclear warhead to clear the field at the end, the ultimate outcome might well have hung in the balance. Most corps commanders had lived through that era. Whether it was Brother Spring or Brother Mole, both had been exceptionally cautious when drafting plans in the chat, even preparing contingencies to urgently scramble the Death Corps's Wolf Cavalry if the airborne assault ran into trouble. Yet they had probably forgotten that back then, let alone planes and tanks, the Alliance had to borrow automatic rifles from their allies and treated any captured bolt-action rifle like a treasure. Nor were their allies professional soldiers—merely employees of the Silverwing Group's overseas operations department who had picked up some worldly experience during their travels, but had hardly ever seen a real battlefield. How could that compare to now? Every soldier in the Alliance army was equipped with an automatic rifle, every player was an Awakened, and the squad leaders were battle-hardened veterans. The Legion's clone cohorts were still the same clone cohorts. But the Alliance, boasting over a dozen corps, was a far cry from what it used to be. The Legion's 40th Cohort had hoisted the white flag under the Goblin Corps's bombardment before the Burning Corps even had a chance to deploy. At that moment, the Skeleton Corps was still four kilometers away in a direct line. Dropping the Burning Corps now would accomplish nothing, only creating the hassle of picking them up and packing them back onto transports at the airfield. So Chu Guang decisively called off the eager Burning Corps paratroopers and ordered Flight B of the Goblin Corps to escort the transport formation back to base. Standing beside Chu Guang, Vannus stared at the ground in thought for a long moment before speaking up. "Since the enemy was caught completely unprepared, we might as well be bolder. Before they can organize a defense, we can push our advantage—advance our armored units a hundred kilometers forward and coordinate with airborne troops to raid the 4th Legion's command post." Chu Guang's lips curled into a smile. "My thoughts exactly." With that, he tapped his helmet. "Notify the Death Corps. They're cleared to move." Xiao Qi's energetic response promptly rang in his ear: "You got it!" Watching Vannus offer strategic counsel beside Chu Guang, Finode swallowed hard in the corner, his face full of disbelief. He had assumed Vannus was just like him, serving the Alliance only out of bitter necessity. He never imagined that he alone was compromising his pride to survive, while this man was genuinely plotting strategies for the Alliance. Was this guy... truly a Weilante? ... At the very moment the 40th Cohort suffered a total rout, the 4th Legion's command post in the rear was in a frantic scramble. Staring at the red arrow on the strategic map, Sovt's brow furrowed tightly, his face shifting between astonishment and solemnity. He was the legate of the 4th Legion, having arrived in Sunset Province just a month ago. With no stars on his shoulder boards, he ranked below Maclen and was roughly two grades beneath Griffin. Though unfamiliar with the Far East, years of warfare had left him more than capable of reading a map. That Sector 40 would be attacked by the Alliance—and by their main force at that—was something he had never anticipated. This meant the Alliance had exposed their supply line directly beneath the power projection of Sectors 41 through 49. Without even needing the neighboring 3rd or 4th Legions to intervene, he would only need to redeploy two cohorts from the depth of his lines to cross the front and drive into the rear of the Alliance's spearhead, plunging their frontline units into a hopeless dilemma. However... He had a better plan. Just then, a dispatch runner jogged in from outside the tent, saluted, and reported: "Urgent telegram from the 40th Cohort! The forward command post is under Alliance airstrike, requesting air support!" Sovt did not look up. Tracing the road network on the map with a calloused index finger, he stopped at a ravine where the contour lines converged and tapped firmly. "Tell Peren they don't need to hold out stubbornly. Fight a delaying action and fall back to Hill 330, luring the Alliance deep into our rear!" "Also, telegraph the 43rd, 45th, 47th, and 49th Cohorts to pull back immediately toward Hill 330 and pinch the Alliance's attacking force from the east and west!" "The vacated Sectors 43, 45, 47, and 49 will be jointly overseen by split detachments from the 42nd, 44th, 46th, and 48th Cohorts! Guard against Alliance reinforcements arriving from other directions!" A flash of excitement crossed Sovt's brow as he clenched his right hand into a fist and brought it down heavily upon the red arrow on the map. "Crush this worm that dares bore into our lines right on this highway!" Hill 330 was approximately eleven kilometers from Oasis No. 3. The surrounding terrain was dominated by rolling hills with densely packed contour lines, and several main roads wound along the mountainsides. Given its proximity to the oasis, vegetation was relatively lush compared to other areas, offering natural cover to evade aerial surveillance from airships. It was a textbook ambush site. The Alliance commanders would surely recognize this as well. Yet even knowing that, the Alliance forces would have no choice but to advance along this route. No matter how decrepit that road was, it was still a passable road. Otherwise, deep in enemy territory and stripped of mobility, they would truly be finished. A self-satisfied smirk curled Sovt's lips at his ingenious plan. Though the Alliance had come with aggressive momentum, looking as if they were concentrating all their might on a single point, he saw nothing worth panicking over. A mere dirt mound had cost those barbarians three thousand lives, to say nothing of facing a full legion now standing in their way. Acting out of wounded pride would only hasten their doom. After this battle, the Alliance would surely suffer a crushing blow. A sense of smug elation welled in Sovt's chest. To think that having just arrived in Sunset Province, he would stumble upon such immense merit. It seemed it wouldn't be long before another star was added to his shoulder boards. "Yes, sir!" The dispatch runner saluted and jogged out of the tent. The staff officer standing to the side furrowed his brow, studying the map for a long while before speaking up. "The 40th Cohort is critically short on ammunition, and with the Alliance committing even the *Heart of Steel*, they will likely find it difficult to withdraw on their own." "No matter," Sovt said dismissively. "The 40th Cohort isn't crucial to the plan anyway. It doesn't matter if they fail to retreat, so long as they buy us a little time." "If that fellow Peren pulls it off, all the better; coordinating with reinforcements converging from both flanks, we can trap the Alliance on the hillside and pummel them." "If he fails, then we cede Hill 330 to the Alliance and pin them down on the high ground!" A look of surprise crossed the staff officer's face. It truly was a sound strategy. And yet, an ominous premonition lingered in his mind. "What if the Alliance forces arrive before the units falling back into ambush?" Hearing the staff officer's question, Sovt paused briefly, then retorted without hesitation: "Impossible!" "Even if Peren failed to buy a single second, the route from Position 40 to Hill 330 is thirty kilometers longer than from Sector 43!" "No matter how fast their armored units advance, they can't possibly outpace our troop trucks!" The staff officer pressed on with a grave expression. "Under normal circumstances, yes... The road from Position 40 to Hill 330 is indeed longer than from the adjacent Sector 43, but the straight-line distance is the exact opposite—less than one hundred and fifty kilometers." "I've heard that the Alliance is equipped with large quantities of exoskeletons supplied by Enterprise. If they detach infantry from the road network to advance cross-country in a straight line, they could reach Hill 330 in just one day." "Splitting forces deep behind enemy lines? Infantry advancing straight cross-country?" Sovt smirked with amusement, as if hearing an absurd joke. "Do their exoskeletons run without batteries? You might as well say they're coming by airship." Transporting troops by airship was indeed a headache, given that antiaircraft guns couldn't pierce an airship's shields. Yet that was all. EMP shells could disable the airship's external components, such as the propellers extended along its flanks, causing the immobilized *Heart of Steel* to drift or stall. And trying to lower elevators right under their noses was pure fantasy. Antiaircraft guns might not pierce the airship, but could they really miss a giant elevator? Before the staff officer could respond, Sovt continued: "Not to mention that this one-hundred-and-fifty-kilometer straight line requires crossing at least ten mountains, with our outposts and antiaircraft positions along the way." "Even if every last one of them were mutants, there is no way in hell they could reach Hill 330 before our redeployed forces!" "Not a chance!"