Are You Looking for This?

Yote harbored no doubt. Even the Deathclaws that struck terror into the hearts of countless wastelanders would have had to steer clear of a quad-mount 10mm autocannon. However— When a single quad-mount antiaircraft gun was pitted against "thousands" of Deathclaws, the tables were completely turned. "Aaagh—!" Crouched behind the antiaircraft gun, the gunner clamped down on the spade grips, spewing streams of orange-yellow tracers down the slope in a frantic attempt to keep the beasts from overrunning the crest. Yet against the surging tide of Deathclaws, the tongue of fire leaping from the muzzle was like a candle flame flickering in the dark. As though it could be snuffed out at any moment by an encroaching storm. And so it proved. Before the autocannon's roar had lasted two seconds, a drone tucked its wings and plummeted from the sky. Before the three soldiers manning the gun could react, a thundering explosion engulfed them along with the weapon. A fiery burst bloomed over the high ground. Watching the gun reduce to a twisted heap of scrap, the soldiers in the adjacent trench froze, sheer terror clawing up from the depths of their hearts. "What the hell was that?!" a decurion shrieked, swinging his rifle muzzle wildly across the dark sky. "Suicide drones!" Bloodshot veins instantly spiderwebbed across Yote's eyes, and he roared at the top of his lungs, "Watch out for those buzzing bastards! Don't let them near the AA guns!" The remaining three quad-mount antiaircraft guns began firing into the sky, trying to swat down the shrieking incoming drones. Yet this disorganized, wild spray was utterly futile against drones immersively piloted by Intelligence-type players. Soon, two more guns were obliterated, leaving only a single antiaircraft gun on the entire hill. Just as Yote was at his wits' end, Chiliarch Simond barked at his subordinates from nearby: "Use the EMP shell!" Yote was startled and hurriedly cried out, "But our radar—" "To hell with the radar!" Simond shoved him aside and bellowed toward the mortar pit, "Move!" Having received the officer's command, a decurion dashed over to the mortar position, tearing open an ammo crate and hauling out a shell marked with blue paint. Slamming the primer against the hard ground, he hurled it skyward with all his strength and threw himself flat in the dirt. The entire sequence was executed in one fluid motion. A geyser of dust erupted with the blast, shrapnel whining through the air among the sandbags. The energy of the high explosive was converted through microwave components into a high-power pulse reaching thousands of megawatts! A sharp hum sliced across the battlefield, inducing transient voltage spikes of tens to hundreds of thousands of volts in every conductor, shielded or unshielded. A tiny spark leaped from the camp's central power distribution box, and the entire hill plunged into darkness—only to be re-illuminated a moment later by drifting flares. Simultaneously, the quadcopter drones skimming low that had not yet detonated tumbled from the sky like dumplings dropped into boiling water. Insulation breached, fuses blown, radar screens dead, electronic components scorched, circuitry fried... It all transpired in a single instant. In the blink of an eye, the entire battlefield regressed from the post-Cold War era back to the Second, or even First, World War. Every piece of communications gear died; coordination relied entirely on shouting at the top of one's lungs. In a gully five hundred meters away, Dayan's eyes rolled back as he nearly disconnected. He cursed aloud, ripping off his headset. "Fuck! These bastards play dirty!" He glanced down at his VM. The screen had gone completely blank. Although the Vital Signs Monitor possessed a degree of EMP resistance, that was designed for wide-area EMP weapons or the secondary effects of nuclear blasts. Against an electromagnetic pulse detonated at point-blank range, the strain was severe. At the very least, the fuse was blown. A rookie Intelligence-type player smacked his VM in bewilderment, and seeing the screen completely frozen, muttered, "Holy crap... it wiped out my system interface!" "Probably an EMP. Swapping the fuse will fix it, no big deal!" Dayan unstrapped his VM and tossed it to the ground. "Get ready to charge!" "Even us Intelligence-types are charging?" the rookie stammered. "No shit," Dayan rolled his eyes, scooping his rifle up from the dirt. "Does a summoner quit fighting just because his mana bar is empty? Boys, follow me and charge!" "Awoooo!" Seeing their squad leader plunge ahead, several Intelligence-type players grabbed their rifles, recalled the stances they had learned from Pangolin, and charged toward Hill 330. With all communications down, total chaos engulfed the battlefield. Aside from screams and roars, there was only the relentless crackle of gunfire and the thunder of detonations. Apart from the handful of drone operators, the Wolf Cavalry took the brunt of the EMP. The neural interface gear mounted on the scruff of the Deathclaws' necks had suffered severe malfunctions. However, only a portion were affected. Most of the Deathclaws had already been domesticated by the players. Even without the guidance of neural equipment, they were accustomed to obedience and continued executing their handlers' commands. Yet a few lost control due to injury or awakened ferocity. Whenever a mount ran amok, players had no choice—no matter how heartbroken—but to put the beast down on the spot to avoid triggering a chain reaction. "The hill is right ahead!" "Charge—!" Ripping off his dead headset, Brother Edge clamped a trench whistle between his teeth and blew with all his might. The piercing trill cut across the slopes, igniting the fire in every man's blood. "Kill—!" "For the Alliance!" The hundreds of meters of slope vanished beneath their feet in moments. Urging his mount forward, Brother Edge pressed flat against the Deathclaw's spine and spearheaded the charge. Locking eyes on the nearest trench up the slope, he hurled a pre-primed stick grenade into the enemy position. "Grenades!" At the command, the front rank of the Wolf Cavalry lobbed grenades or pulled out Cyclone grenade launchers. Manufactured by Goblin Technology, the weapon used a revolving cylinder modeled after the MGL grenade launcher, capable of emptying all six rounds in three seconds to lay down an instant wave of medium-range suppressive fire. Explosions tore through the trench. Over a dozen Wilant soldiers were blown apart on the spot. A lone survivor scrambled backward in terror, trying to reach the secondary line, but before he could climb out of the half-dug trench, a charging Wolf Cavalryman split his skull open with an entrenching shovel. Staring at the Deathclaws storming up the southwestern slopes, the Wilant soldiers crouching in the trenches widened their eyes in disbelief. "What kind of monsters are those?!" "Deathclaws! It's Deathclaws!" Those demons that roamed the swamps and rainforests... Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined seeing them in a desert, let alone witnessing these apex predators ridden as mounts by barbarians! Yet there was no time left to think—gleaming bayonets and flashing muzzles were already thrust into their faces! A decuria was crushed under the Wolf Cavalry in an instant. And then an entire trench! Rampaging across the rugged ground, the beasts ignored the terrain completely, tearing over the defenses like wall-scaling cuirassiers, each swipe of their razor talons claiming a living soul. And with the riders shielded by armor and exoskeletons, bringing them down was an uphill battle! As the Wolf Cavalry stormed the positions, the firefight rapidly shifted from a medium-range standoff into savage close-quarters butchery. Hearing the charge whistle, the diversionary force pushed toward the chaotic defenses as well. Both sides closed until they could count the hairs in each other's nostrils, grappling across the jagged terrain for every trench, every boulder, and every sandbag breastwork... Tracers whipped through the night like sparks from a roaring bonfire, and almost every extinguished ember was quenched in charred blood. *** Hill 330, shrouded in night, was lit by the raging fires. At the same time, in the night sky north of the hill, fifty Hawk fighters emerged beneath the cloud deck. "Heavy fighting on Hill 330. Both sides are in close-quarters melee. The frontline units are not answering our signals..." Staring at the hill where fighting raged unabated, Akant picked up the radio handset and reported the situation through the onboard transmitter. He was the squadron leader of the Falcon Kingdom's 1st Flight Squadron. The Legion's Army Aviation command had tasked him with leading the squadron to support the friendly forces on Hill 330. Under no circumstances could Hill 330 be lost! Otherwise, the entire 4th Legion would be in grave peril! Akant naturally understood the gravity of his mission. But the battlefield was a chaotic mess where nothing could be clearly distinguished, and the ground troops were deaf to his calls, offering zero response. Command couldn't contact the ground units either, leaving the pilots with orders to assess the situation and provide support at their own discretion. Yet in this pitch-black darkness, he couldn't see anything clearly, let alone provide close air support. "Damn it..." Ending the transmission, Akant was just about to order a descent when he suddenly spotted scattered black specks looming beneath the clouds to the south. Alliance aircraft! Akant's pupils contracted violently. The sight dragged his memory back to the fierce dogfight that had erupted over the City of Abundance. To be honest, the Alliance's planes hadn't left much of an impression on him. Though also propeller-driven, in both maneuverability and firing accuracy, they fell far short of the Hawk fighters the Legion had supplied. Strictly speaking, those craft were slapped together haphazardly—worthless aside from being cheap. However, the pilots flying them had left an indelible mark on his memory. The Alliance pilots fought like devils who feared not death, willing to trade plane and life just to drag an opponent down with them. However— This time, there was no Heart of Steel to provide them cover! Without a shred of hesitation, Akant switched the onboard radio to the squadron channel and barked into the mic: "Enemy formation spotted due south!" "Prepare to intercept!" They could not let these planes reach Hill 330! Before supporting friendly ground troops, they had to dispose of this nuisance! Meanwhile, opposite the Falcon Kingdom's 1st Flight Formation: Watching the enemy aircraft bearing straight down on them, Mosquito felt no fear whatsoever; instead, his eyes sparkled with excitement. Earlier, the Legion's Saber fighter had circled around the Heart of Steel before returning to base, neither side able to get the better of the other. The cautious Administrator had deliberately waited until the enemy had flown far off and burned through most of his fuel before launching the airship's parasite fighters. Mosquito had assumed this escort mission would be a bore, since the Legion's mobile radar station stationed at Oasis No. 3 couldn't detect them beyond visual range anyway. Yet— The damn devs hadn't let him down after all! Shoving the throttle forward, Mosquito snatched his radio and shouted with glee: "All squads, heads up! Hostile fighters spotted due north! Flight A, maintain escort! Flight B, on me! Boys, let's tear 'em apart!" Acknowledgments came promptly over the channel: "Copy!" Forty W-2 Mosquito ground-attack aircraft peeled off from the formation immediately, rocketing forward to meet the Falcon Kingdom's 1st Flight Formation without looking back. Like lancers couching their spears, both sides aimed straight for the other's vitals. No one flinched, and no one banked away to evade. Whoever chickened out now—even a fraction of a second's hesitation, nudging the stick off-course— would be handing their six right over to be chewed up! Closing to effective range, both sides squeezed their triggers almost simultaneously! Blistering tongues of muzzle fire boiled through the cool evening breeze, thick lines of tracers blanketing the dark sky and ripping the night's silence to shreds. In an instant, over a dozen planes trailed black smoke or burst into flames, and the jousting head-on pass swiftly dissolved into a churning dogfight. A rain of burning iron poured from the heavens, as if the inferno on the ground had spread into the sky. Over half of the forty detached W-2 Mosquitos were shot down or crippled in short order, yet the Falcon Kingdom's 1st Flight Formation fared little better—fifteen of their fifty Hawks were dragged down with them. Gazing at the dozen bullet holes punched through his wing and canopy, Akant gritted his teeth, wrestling his bucking nose back under control with all his strength. Looking back into the dark sky behind him, he was just searching for his next target when something odd caught his attention in the formation still cruising ahead. The enemy hadn't committed all their planes to the brawl. A contingent had already slipped behind them, continuing northward. Was their target not Hill 330? "Something's wrong... There's something fishy about those planes." Akant furrowed his brow. By the moonlight piercing the thin clouds, he could barely make out the shapes of several large aircraft shielded at the core of the formation. Those silhouettes... Transports?! He froze for a fraction of a second, dread creeping across his face. Without hesitation, he snatched up his mic and bellowed: "Command, report! Enemy transports spotted!" "...The enemy formation has bypassed Hill 330 and is heading directly toward the 4th Legion's command post!" Switching to the squadron channel, he roared: "Enemy transports are breaching our sector!" "Stop them! Intercept them now!" Evidently having realized the danger, the Falcon Kingdom's fighters abruptly broke off their duel with the Goblin Corps, scrambling in frantic pursuit of the Alliance transports. Yet it was already too late. At Mosquito's command, Flight A turned about and plunged toward the pursuing Hawks. At the same time, the transports leveled off and swung their cargo doors open. Red jump lights flared. Exoskeleton-clad players rose from their seats along the cabin walls, parachutes strapped to their backs, forming orderly lines at the door. Howling wind rushing into the cabin rattled their angular armor plating, while outside, muzzle flashes from autocannons and streaks of heavy tracers flickered against the void. Not a hint of fear could be seen in those eyes. Only blazing battle lust! This was their stage. Standing by the door clad in Dragoon power armor, Lao Bai projected his booming voice across the comms: "Watch your maps and watch your drop zones!" "Our target is the 4th Legion command post! Don't snag yourselves on an AA gun, and sure as hell don't step on our Death Corps brothers' heads!" "Once we clean up the trouble down below, we'll go give them a hand!" "Jump—!" The crisp shout merged with the rushing wind. Lao Bai stepped out first, leading his squad of players armed to the teeth as they plunged into the hail of fire. Compared to that dusk when they boarded the Heart of Steel— this degree of fire was nothing. Parachutes blossomed across the sky like burning dandelion seeds, drifting down under cover of night. Below them, the dimly lit encampment served as a beacon in the storm, guiding their descent. Catching sight of the airborne descent, the last remaining antiaircraft gun on Hill 330 tried to swing toward the Burning Corps, but before it had fired for even two seconds, charging Wolf Cavalry blasted it into oblivion with rifle grenades. Meanwhile, in the sky over a hundred kilometers away, a jet streaked through the air. It was the Saber that had earlier returned to base. Having just refueled and rearmed at the forward airstrip, Yukar had barely stepped down from the cockpit before receiving orders to scramble once again. Watching the sparks of gunfire glittering in the distant night sky, Yukar curled his lips into a sneer inside the cockpit. Propeller planes... For slow little bugs like that, holding down the cannon trigger for even a tenth of a second longer felt like wasting ammo! Pity he hadn't spotted any ornithopters. Those five little flies had shown their faces during the day and scurried right back into the airship. Not that it mattered. Whatever the Alliance pilots were flying, he would teach them with their own flesh and blood how to spell "death"! Yukar calmly shoved the throttle forward. The jet exhaust flared instantly, his airspeed breaching Mach 3 as he accelerated toward the battlefield a hundred kilometers out. Yet in that very split second, alarm bells screamed in his mind. Almost purely on instinct, he banked his stick. A streak of flame flashed beneath the clouds. Before he could even register what the plane looked like, the deafening crack of a sonic boom tore through his eardrums. So fast! His heart hammering after the near miss, Yukar glanced at his silent onboard radar, then whipped his head back—only to find nothing. Just moments ago, a plane had whistled past him at point-blank range; the air compressed by its wings had violently jerked his jet to the left, nearly shattering his canopy! That speed had to be at least Mach 3! At a closure rate of Mach 6, that was two kilometers per second! He was certain the other pilot had intended to ram him and take them both down together—and to avoid giving away his position early, hadn't even fired! What kind of insane tactic was this?! "Is this guy... fucking insane?!" Without a doubt, his opponent was flying a jet too. Through the canopy glass, he caught a glimpse of a faint blue glow flickering below the clouds—an engine's afterburner flame! Stifling his racing pulse, Yukar banked right, straining to locate the fighter while trying to slice in from the right to get on its tail. Yet his opponent was clearly a veteran! Just as he pulled a high-G turn, the enemy reacted almost simultaneously—deploying speed brakes in a defensive break turn, pitching up toward the inside of his turn radius, and cutting inside him at a lower airspeed. Brrrrt—! Autocannon rounds shrieked past, practically clipping his wingtip. The distant thrum of the cannon sent a cold sweat breaking out across Yukar's back. "Fuck!" Just a hair, and his bird would have been turned into scrap metal! Over the past eight years, almost every opponent he had faced flew propeller planes. Even when he occasionally encountered oddities burning coal or crude oil, supersonic jets capable of breaking the sound barrier were virtually unheard of. He could tell that the enemy jet's performance wasn't exceptional; in both maneuverability and top speed, his own aircraft had the clear edge. Yet— the enemy pilot compensated for that gap with exquisite flying, seizing upon his momentary opening with surgical precision. Unlike Yukar, who spent his years conducting airstrikes against primitives, that pilot clearly knew how to fight an opponent who possessed superior maneuverability. To have encountered an equal match over this desolate wasteland stirred a surging thirst for battle within Yukar's chest. "Come on, then! Show me what you've got!" Muttering under his breath, he pulled back the throttle and popped his airbrakes while hauling the stick hard in the opposite direction, aiming to reverse and bite onto the enemy's tail. The Falcon Kingdom's squadron was on its own. Let's hope they don't fold like paper... At the same time, inside the cockpit of the Lingyun, Luo Yu clicked his tongue. "A 10G pull... Is this guy an Awakened too?" Not just the pilot, either... The plane's specs were downright ridiculous! Knowing the performance gap made a standard dogfight an uphill battle, he had originally intended to trade one-for-one and take out the clearly more expensive jet. Who would have thought his brute-force ramming attempt would actually be dodged! What was more, while still burdened with two unfired TV-guided munitions and with Luo Yu locked onto his tail, the guy had pulled a hard turn and dodged an autocannon burst fired with Luo Yu's awakened talent activated! On maneuverability alone, in reality, not even an F-22 could hold a candle to it. Still, that such a capable airframe was paired with such abysmal radar and stealth coating, unable to even field an air-to-air missile, was absurd in its own right. Seeing his opponent abandon any illusion of supporting his friendly squadron and turn his nose around to finish him off first, Luo Yu drew a deep breath, battle lust kindling in his chest. Just what I wanted! Gripping the stick with both hands, he locked his gaze onto the flickering black speck outside the canopy and ground out between his teeth: "Look at me—you little bastard!" *** The two jets entered a horizontal turning fight, their engines tracing scissor patterns in the night sky as their cannons snapped at each other in a relentless duel for position. Not far away, the dogfight between the Alliance fighters and the Falcon Kingdom's squadron remained undecided, the remaining dozen-odd fighters still locked in a ferocious melee. Hill 330 had turned into a bloody meat grinder, the Wolf Cavalry charging over the summit and butchering the fleeing infantry at will. Though Simond still led the directly attached cohort of the 4th Legion in a stubborn last stand, without any effective air support arriving, the scales of victory had tipped decisively in the Alliance's favor. Yet the Alliance seemed unsatisfied with just three concurrent battles, swiftly opening a fourth theater tonight! Under the sky illuminated by tracers, a canopy of parachutes drifted down, mirrored in every pair of eyes on the ground. The guard units stationed in the camp raised their rifles and fired into the sky, but against the black expanse and gliding parachutes, their shots were hopelessly ineffective. Even a lucky hit could scarcely penetrate the exoskeleton armor. The drop of several hundred meters ended in a flash. A suit of power armor suspended beneath three parachutes was the first to hit the ground in the center of the camp. The wearer utterly disregarded the storm of bullets clattering against him, slicing through the riser cords with practiced slashes of a combat knife, then smoothly unslung the light machine gun mounted on his armor and unleashed a chattering spray across the camp. "Get down if you want to live!" he bellowed through his armor's external speaker, suppressing the defenders as he pushed forward. With the power armor deployed, hundreds of exoskeleton-clad troops landed in quick succession all across the camp. Dropping alongside the paratroopers were over fifty Y-2 "Balisong" quadcopter drones with under-slung submachine guns. The guards, who rarely saw front-line combat, were nowhere near a match for these monsters. In virtually the first clash, their lines collapsed into a rout. Standing at the entrance of his command tent, General Sovt stared blankly at the camp boiling with gunfire. Paratroopers... The Alliance's elite... A brief daze flickered in his cloudy eyes, only to harden into profound despair. The entire camp held only six centuries of troops. And among those six centuries, more than half were logistics units like communications, transport, and combat engineers. The only forces with actual combat capability were likely a single guard company and an officers' guard unit. Neither the guards nor the officers' unit were front-line combat troops; how could they possibly withstand the Alliance's elite? How was he supposed to hold?! His shoulders and lips trembling uncontrollably, Sovt's weathered face flushed crimson. Clenching his fists, his composure broke completely into enraged curses: "...That damned skunk!" If that skunk hadn't bypassed the chain of command and requisitioned his directly attached cohort, how could he have ended up in this wretched state! "That idiot must bear full responsibility for this entire battle! When I get back to Triumph City... I'll lodge a formal complaint with the Legion Commander if it's the last thing I do!" Seeing General Sovt fuming with rage, the adjutant—who in his panic had lost his cap somewhere—grabbed the general's arm and pleaded, "General, now isn't the time! The Alliance dropped at least five hundred—no, over a thousand men here! We have to pull out now!" Sovt's face froze, his Adam's apple bobbing. Although he loathed the thought of abandoning his subordinates and fleeing alone, he knew full well that falling into Alliance hands would be far worse. Listening to the gunfire crackling from every corner of the camp, he lowered his trembling voice: "The maps and documents... burned?" The adjutant nodded frantically. "All burned! I even blew up the radio table!" "Good... I'll remember this debt, and I will repay it!" Gritting his teeth, Sovt turned to his adjutant. "We fall back!" "Follow me!" Guiding Sovt at a jog, the adjutant scrambled into the jeep parked outside the barracks. But just as he went to start the engine, the key was nowhere to be found. "The keys... Weird, where did the keys go?" Weren't they right here a moment ago? Sweat poured from the adjutant's forehead as he rifled through the driver's seat. Sovt glared wide-eyed at this utterly incompetent fool. Just as he opened his mouth to call him an idiot, a soft cough came from behind them. Both men whipped around to look behind the jeep. An exoskeleton-clad soldier stood by the side of the road. A sniper rifle rested on his right shoulder, while his left hand casually tossed a set of car keys up and down, a cheeky grin plastered across his face as he looked at the pair in the jeep. His broken Human Alliance language sounded like an open mockery of their pathetic performance: "Are you looking for this?"