Thanks to the Ancestors' Bounty?

Beneath the rolling waves, a swarm of scaly blue mutants swept past with the ocean current. From a distance, they looked like an azure mudslide churning under the sea. With shrill howls, they intimidated any mutants that tried to approach, carving a path forward with their harpoons as they followed the coastline west, then veered south. Guided by the will of their ancestors, they had drifted for a full week, resting only a few times along the way. When hungry, they snatched up sea fish, shellfish, or seaweed to fill their bellies; wherever they passed was left as murky and ravaged as if stripped by a plague of locusts. Yet even when starving and famished, their morale had not dropped in the slightest. If anything, the bloodlust burning in their pupils only grew fiercer. Temporary hunger was merely emptying their stomachs for the banquet about to begin. Soon, by their ancestors' blessing, they would feast to their hearts' content, reveling in the shrieks and wails of their prey. Seeing that they were about to reach their destination, the lead mutant suddenly straightened up, treading against the current to arrest its forward momentum. "Krk—!" The blue-skinned mutants trailing behind fanned out one after another. Over a thousand strong, they stood upon the jagged, rocky seabed like a ghost-haunted forest of kelp. "Ship!" Opening its mouth, it let out a piercing shriek, looking up ahead before glancing indecisively toward the coastline on its right. The human village prophesied by their priest lay to their northwest, yet a few kilometers due west, two freighters were steaming straight toward them. It swelled its chest and took a deep gulp of the chilly seawater, dense bubbles rolling from the gills on both cheeks. As if catching a scent, a bloodthirsty gleam gradually flared in its eyes. "Humans!" "Cattle!" "So many!" Soon it was not just the leader; over a thousand pairs of cloudy pupils reflected that same bloodthirsty light and craving for slaughter. Feeling that urge boiling in its veins, it threw back its head and let out a shrill screech. "Sink them!" That raspy screech sounded like the horn of attack, answered by cheers and screams that crunched like crushed seashells. "Kaka—!" Like runaway seahorses, the thousand-plus blue mutants surged forward again with even greater speed. A mutant bearing a torpedo broke away from the ranks first, driving the firecracker—as thick as a bucket—deep into the seabed before pulling the pin. A dense stream of bubbles floated upward. Covering its ears, the blue-skinned mutant kicked its legs and darted away from the primed torpedo. With a muffled thud, a thick column of white bubbles shot diagonally toward the surface, propelling the massive torpedo straight into the lead freighter. These civilian freighters carried no specialized underwater sonar. The people on board had no inkling of an underwater attack, taking a direct, solid hit in total ignorance. The blast's shockwave brought the entire freighter's forward momentum to a sudden halt. As the milky cloud of bubbles cleared, a gaping, inward-dented breach appeared on one side of the bow, and several unlucky humans plunged into the water. Watching the freighter slowly capsize, the blue-skinned mutants screeched in excitement, clattering their weapons against turtle-shell shields and nearby reefs like savages banging forks and knives while waiting for a feast. And just as they hoped, as the freighter tilted further, more and more crew members plunged into the sea like dumplings dropping into boiling water. Yet that staggering number completely caught every mutant off guard. Normally, when they sank a ship, they netted twenty or thirty prey at most. Now, a single freighter had dropped over a hundred prey, and the number was still rising. The mutants felt as if they were looking upon paradise, their cloudy pupils glowing green with ravenous hunger. Praise the ancestors! With no time to thank the ancestors for their bounty, the lead blue mutant spat out a mouthful of bubbles, let out an excited squawk, and charged forward with leveled harpoon. "Kill!" Under its lead, the mutants lurking along the seabed kicked their legs in unison, grabbing their weapons and surging toward the drenched wretches who had fallen into the water. Like wolves diving into a flock of sheep! "Kill!" Before the imperial soldiers choking on seawater could comprehend what was happening, harpoons and speargun bolts impaled their chests. Blood dyed the ocean red in a ghastly, horrifying smear. Screams and wails rose and fell with the swells, like a living hell on earth. In mere breaths, nearly a hundred lives were snuffed out! The survivors, having no clue what was going on, could only dog-paddle desperately toward shore. Evidently, for imperial soldiers stepping outside Bolo Province for the first time, these blue-skinned monsters were a bit too "far ahead of the patch." And for the feasting mutants, the feeling was mutual. These humans came with their own peculiar seasoning, tasting distinctly different from the ones they usually devoured. Not that it mattered. To creatures that had starved for an entire week, it made no difference; all they wanted was to gorge themselves on this feast of death and slaughter! The Xilan Empire soldiers who had not yet jumped saw clearly what was swimming in the water, terror stamped across every face. That blue skin looked eerily like the jumpsuits of vault residents. Neither human nor fish, brandishing harpoons, clubs, and even fishing nets, they emitted piercing, blood-curdling shrieks and cackles as they swiftly reaped one life after another that fell into the water. Within a few breaths, corpses floated everywhere, and every spray of surf splashing against the gunwales was stained with gruesome crimson. Even more horrifyingly, the monsters did not seem content with simply executing their quarry. Now and then they hauled a drowning soldier to the surface, only to shove him back under before he could gasp for air, tormenting the prey until he was exhausted, dying, and unable to fight back, before finally slitting his throat to feast upon his flesh. Listening to the soldiers' screams in the water, the men crowded along the railings who had not yet jumped turned deathly pale, their eyes filled with dread and helpless despair. Some shouted at the men in the water, trying to haul them back aboard the sinking freighter; others raised their rifles to fire into the churning waves or lobbed grenades into the sea. Unfortunately, it was all futile, accomplishing nothing... Just as Mogavi was frantic as an ant on a hot pan, his peripheral vision caught sight of Chiliarch Dhiraj and several of his personal guards jogging out of the cabin, dragging a raft. While the mutants were busy feasting in the water with no time to pay them heed, they threw the raft into the sea without a word and rowed toward shore for all they were worth. Seeing a glimmer of hope for survival, Mogavi scrambled into the cabin as well. Sure enough, in the corner lay several spare rubber dinghies and wooden skiffs. Knowing his own meager strength would not cut it, he did not try to haul them out alone. Instead, struck by inspiration, he dashed back onto the deck and bellowed at the men who had not jumped because they could not swim: "There are lifeboats in the hold!" "Hurry and drag them out!" Hearing his shout, the crowd swarmed in a panic to grab those lifelines, while he seized the chance to slip onto one, finally escaping before the freighter sank completely. Total chaos reigned over the water, punctuated by dying wails and the desperate thrashing of those fighting back. Watching the boats—and even washtubs—rowing past overhead, the drowning soldiers reached out desperately, clawing to grasp anything. Yet the dozen-odd "craft" were already packed to bursting, nowhere near enough to carry nearly a thousand men in the water. Some softer-hearted men saw familiar faces and could not bring themselves to be ruthless to their comrades; they allowed them to cling to the gunwales, not stopping them so long as they did not try to climb aboard. But the ruthless ones showed no mercy, paying no mind to camaraderie. Seeing their speed to shore dragged down, they lashed out with rifle butts, bayonets, and boot heels, doing whatever it took to shake off these dead weights and reach the shore faster to save their own skins. Witnessing this living hell, Mogavi shrank in terror inside his skiff, dreading that they would toss him overboard to make room for their drowning comrades. To his astonishment, however, those vicious thugs did no such thing. Perhaps because he had spent the last few days standing alongside high-ranking figures, these low-status Wolf folk naturally assumed this kidnapped outsider must also be an important official. In any case, thanks to being overlooked, he escaped that stretch of bloody, lethal water without further incident and grounded safely on the beach alongside the skiff. Crawling out of the skiff with every ounce of strength he had, he scrambled forward over a dozen meters, flopped onto his back in the muddy sand, and gasped greedily for fresh air, his mud-caked face still etched with lingering terror. Just then, hearing a familiar voice nearby, he glanced over. A soaked man was limping ashore, leaning on a Ripper rifle with a gruesome wound across his shoulder. It was Singh—guard to Captain Achim, and one of the very first to obey the chiliarch's order to abandon ship and jump into the sea. To think he actually survived! A flicker of astonishment crossed Mogavi's face. And when he heard the fellow's first words upon landing, his jaw nearly dropped to the ground. "...Fucking hell, played by those blue gophers!" Spitting a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the sand, Singh cursed through gritted teeth. Dishonorable bastards! Who knew those blue gophers only looked honest on the surface, but were so sinister and cunning underneath, having seen through the Empire's plan long ago! But that was fine too... Since the blue devils were tied down at sea, their land defenses had to be empty—and dry land was the Xilan Empire's home turf. So long as he rallied the troops that made it ashore, even if it was only a century or two, they could still accomplish their mission and take Port French Fries! Seeing that lunatic marching his way, Mogavi hurriedly shut his eyes to play dead. But barely two seconds passed before he was hauled off the ground by his collar. "Get up! I know you're not dead!" Trembling, Mogavi opened his eyes, and before his wits even settled, he was met by that demonic, contorted face. "M-My lord..." Singh glared at him viciously, squeezing words out from between his teeth. "Take me to the Alliance camp! Now!" Mogavi's mouth fell wide open. He looked at the soldiers sprawled like dead dogs across the beach, then back at the man clutching his collar. He wanted to ask, "Are you fucking insane?", but his jaw had opened so wide that it dislocated, rendering him unable to speak. Fortunately, he did not need to speak. Less than two seconds after Singh's words fell, a sharp crack of gunfire echoed from the distant forest. The crack of a Ripper rifle! And the instant that shot rang out, gunfire showered across the beach and the woods like rain, sparking a fierce firefight! Singh immediately let go, dropping the half-sitting Mogavi back onto the sand. Chambering a round, he roared at the soldiers struggling up from the beach: "Prepare for battle!" ... Rewinding thirty minutes. At the beachhead position northwest of Port French Fries, total darkness and silence reigned. Unless looking closely, one would not even spot the helmets concealed behind sandbags and earthen pits, or the gun barrels hidden beneath camouflage netting. Initially fifty men held the position. After several shift rotations, about thirty remained by nightfall. Lying prone beside an emplaced "Whirlwind" grenade launcher, an exoskeleton-clad player could not help yawning, muttering under his breath: "Damn it, did those mutants swim to Antarctica?" "Why haven't we seen hide or hair of them after all this time?" The in-game time was already 8:00 PM; in reality, it was time to wake up and eat breakfast. Another player crouching beside him made a helpless face. "Hell if I know. We don't even know if mutants will show up—might just be a couple of crabs crawling ashore." Hearing about crabs to eat, the yawning player perked up and swallowed hard. "Wouldn't that be great? A nice midnight snack." "Pfft—" A player nearby who had stayed silent nearly snorted with laughter, his shoulders trembling continuously. Seeing these newbies getting increasingly undisciplined, the squad leader watching the beach finally had enough and slapped the back of the snickering goofball's helmet. "Keep it the fuck down! Chuckling like a damn Hanbagui—you afraid they won't know we're here?" What if those bastards heard them and decided not to land on this beach? How was he supposed to farm kills then! The player who took the smack chuckled sheepishly, and the rest felt embarrassed too, quickly sobering up and turning their attention back to their watch posts. Just then, from a foxhole nearby, a head crowned with a clump of grass poked out. Vaguely hearing his name called, the player looked over, totally bewildered. "Captain, you called me?" Squad Leader: "..." This time, not just the easily amused guy, but all the newbies buried their heads and shook with silent laughter. And that easily amused guy took it even further—banging his head onto a sandbag, he logged off just so he could laugh freely. Glaring at the clueless blockhead peeking out, the squad leader was about to chew him out when a stern voice came over the comms channel. "Position 4, what's your status?" Hearing his superior's inquiry, the squad leader snapped to attention, glared fiercely at the grass clump as it pulled back, and hurriedly reported in a low voice: "Reporting, all clear for now!" Killing Dagger: "...Roger. Stay alert. We'll be rotating shifts in a few minutes, hang in there a little longer, boys." The squad leader replied awkwardly: "Yes, sir." There were not many veteran players at Port French Fries; most were level 10 to 20, with some being barely level 10 newcomers trying their luck, so being a little goofy now and then was normal. The community vibe in Wasteland Online was pretty good overall, and most veterans were lenient toward noobs—after all, they had all been there once. Silence returned to the position, a sharp contrast to the nearby ebb and flow of the tide. Yet looking out over those peaceful, gentle waves, Fang Chang held his binoculars and furrowed his brow with deep concern. Two hours into the night already. Did they really have to wait until afternoon? Or was this so-called raid just him overthinking things? "...Could they not be coming?" Just as doubt crept into Fang Chang's mind, Aoao Sesame Paste's voice suddenly came over the comms. "...Scout team here. We heard gunshots coming from the water to our southwest." "Gunshots?" Hearing that report, Fang Chang felt a jolt of excitement and immediately opened his VM map without another word. But when he saw the green dot blinking west of the camp, he paused in surprise. Even further west? How far off course did they get? And in the brief second he hesitated, a comms request popped up on his VM screen—this time from Chen Jianhong, captain of the Dolphin. Telling Sesame Paste to stand by in the area, Fang Chang quickly accepted the call, and Captain Chen's voice came through. "...Our sensors detected two consecutive explosions in the waters near you. I'm not sure if you noticed. Did you run into some trouble?" Fang Chang frowned slightly. "Explosions? We didn't see anything from here, though someone heard gunshots. Can your side determine the rough bearing of the blasts?" Chen Jianhong: "East of us, and... er, about five kilometers west of you. I'll send you the coordinates." Fang Chang: "Copy that. Maintain radio silence and refrain from contacting us unless necessary." Chen Jianhong: "Understood." After ending the call, Fang Chang switched back to the VM map and soon saw the coordinates synced from the Dolphin. It even included estimated blast yields. The two flashing question marks were roughly five kilometers west of Port French Fries, almost hugging the strait's northern shore, catching Fang Chang by surprise. Good grief. Are these mutants trying to play tactics with me? But flanking around to the west makes no sense... The Burning Corps and Jungle Corps were stationed on the high ground northwest of the camp, which offered an unobstructed, commanding view. Paired with Agility-type and Perception-type players spotting and calling out targets, a few machine guns and mortars could pin those bastards dead on the beach. Straightforwardly coming up from the southern docks would have offered a far better chance. Even if only a slim one. Just then, Killing Dagger, who had just finished handing over the sector to the relief squad, walked over. Before the man could say a word, Fang Chang looked at him and said: "Sha Bi, take some guys to check out the west." Killing Dagger blinked, swallowing the questions he had been harboring about whether those mutants were even coming, and asked in confusion: "West? Where?" "Explosions went off in the water roughly five kilometers to the west. I've already updated the rough coordinates on your map. Just follow the coastline heading west." As he spoke, Fang Chang tapped the screen with his index finger, finishing the mission waypoint path. Seeing Brother Fang Chang's serious expression, Killing Dagger immediately perked up, his boredom vanishing without a trace. "Roger!" Replying without hesitation, he dashed over to the recently dismissed squad members and rallied the thirty-odd players back together. "Boys, we've got work! Follow your daddy west—I'm taking you to see the world!" Hearing that there was work, the listless crew instantly energized. Grabbing their gear, they followed close behind this level 30+ big shot, chattering questions as they strode out of the position. "Boss! Who's the enemy?" "Are they mutants?" "Heard they're blue-skinned!" "Do their drops sell for good money?" Seeing how wide-eyed these rookies were, Killing Dagger chuckled. Funny thing was, he had not seen them either. But no matter—they would see soon enough. "Cut the chatter. Two explosions went off five kilometers due west of our position. Whatever's coming, we're gonna make those idiots regret picking a fight with us!" Rushing along the edge of the rainforest, the group finally reached the coordinates and immediately spotted the sodden wretches crawling ashore on the beach. Seeing that drenched bunch in the distance, Killing Dagger did not even need to ask; he had already pieced together what had happened. These guys were probably just sailing through the strait and had the rotten luck of running right into the mutants heading here to cause trouble. What godawful luck! Conscience prevailing in the end, Sha Bi held back his laughter and yelled toward the beach: "Hey, folks up ahead! Get away from the water, we're here to help you!" Scrambling ashore in utter disarray, Dhiraj grew instantly alert at the shouting from the forest. He swung his gaze toward the nearby treeline and raised his rifle. "Who goes there!" Killing Dagger yelled again, "We're from the Alliance!" The Alliance?! Hearing that word, Chiliarch Dhiraj's expression twisted violently. Flicking off his rifle's safety, he roared: "It's the Alliance!" "Prepare for combat!" The guard beside him reacted even faster, snapping his rifle up and firing into the pitch-black woods before ushering his commander behind cover. Startled by that sharp crack, Killing Dagger saw the round whiz past and thought someone had an accidental discharge. He hurried to shout: "Holy crap, we're humans! Mutants are the ones attacking you, not us! Take a good look and put your safeties back on—" But the soldiers were not listening to a word. Before he could finish, another shot cracked, this one homing in on his voice and striking the tree trunk right beside him. As if on cue, gunfire erupted across the beach. Forty to fifty men who had made it ashore fanned out to both sides while opening fire. Dropping prone to scrape out foxholes or rolling behind boulders for cover, completely heedless of their bedraggled state, they assumed attack formations and laid down suppressive fire into the woods against the players. The medley of gunfire came from Ripper rifles, Legion-standard "Blade" assault rifles, and PU-9 submachine guns. Now Sha Bi understood—this was no accidental discharge. These bastards were deliberately picking a fight. More and more soldiers who had fallen into the water swam ashore or landed in escape boats. One after another, looking just like an amphibious assault force, they did not even brush the mud off their trousers or care who was nipping at their heels in the water, just blindly hammering fire toward the treeline. Sha Bi, who had originally intended to lend a helping hand, flared with rage, abandoning any care for misunderstandings. Every single one of these bastards was packing a firearm, had an ammo roll slung across their back, and carried an entrenching shovel at their hip. Calling them passing civilians was stretching it beyond belief. They were bad news through and through! Seeing more and more men coming ashore, swelling to one or two hundred, Killing Dagger roared to the thirty-odd brothers behind him: "Dammit!" "These dipshits not only don't appreciate the help, they dare fire on us!" "Pound the living shit out of them!!"