"Crabs" and the "Big Fish"

Across an azure expanse of sea. A propeller-driven aircraft painted in ocean blue rested quietly flush against the water, rising and falling with the churning swells like a piece of driftwood. Twin floats had replaced its 20mm autocannons, hugging the aircraft's underside like sled runners. A depth charge fitted with a pressure sensor clung tightly to the belly, resembling a concealed blade waiting beneath the blue. All around lay in utter tranquility, broken only by the rolling surge of the tide. Just then, Feng Qing, who had been resting in the cockpit with her eyes shut, suddenly jolted awake and bolted upright in her seat. Her sudden movement was so violent that her forehead nearly slammed into the canopy, saved from an accident only by the restraint of her harness. Amid a chorus of creaks and groans, the silent aircraft seemed to spring back to life. At almost that exact moment, the characteristically raspy quack of Corps Commander Brother Mosquito crackled through the comm channel. "...The fish took the bait!" A burst of static buzzed across the line. The screen of the VM strapped to her thigh lit up simultaneously, projecting strike coordinates onto its map calculated from friendly positions and relative distances. Unflustered, Feng Qing produced a piece of chocolate from her pocket, tossed it into her mouth, and deftly reached over to flick the switches on the instrument panel, firing up the aircraft's engine. The nose propeller roared to life, pulling the lightweight airframe forward against the cresting waves. Keeping her airspeed right on the cusp of takeoff, Feng Qing was in no hurry to pull up the nose. Her index finger gently tapped out a rhythm against the control stick. The ceaseless rhythm of the tide was drowned out by the surging roar of propellers as the peaceful, serene sea suddenly boiled over. Not just one plane— Fifty of them in total! One after another, W-2/H naval attack aircraft skimmed across the churning swells like racing speedboats, hurtling toward the strike coordinates shared by their allies... ... While the waves churned above the azure sea, currents surged just as violently beneath the surface. Hoarse screeches swept forward like barbed harpoons, driving away schools of fish and mutant species in their path. A swarm of monsters clad in blue scales hugged the seabed, swimming rapidly toward the subsea freshwater pipeline west of Ring Island. Trailing behind this pack of mutants was an immense sea monster. Shaped like a cross between a serpent and a fish, it bore an eerie resemblance to a prehistoric plesiosaur. Its tail, more than ten meters long, was clad in dragon-like scales, while its protruding head resembled the snout of a crocodile. Razor-sharp fangs lined its maw like chainsaw blades, looking capable of snapping a small warship clean in two. Local fishermen called it the Kraken, a name drawn from a ballad passed down across the Southern Sea that meant "Giant Dragon of the Deep." According to the "Law of Mental Influence," a psychic interference device struggled to directly manipulate a mutant species with such a large brain capacity, yet mental faculties were something that could be suppressed through drugs and other methods. For the Church, that was clearly child's play. They had managed to turn the survivors of an entire province into mindless puppets, let alone a beast whose intellect fell far short of a human's. The target drew rapidly closer. One of the mutants peeled away from the swarm, sprinting ahead of its kin, and pulled a palm-sized thermite charge from its back. This, too, was a weapon bestowed upon them by Torch. Once activated, it could burn underwater and even melt through over a hundred millimeters of steel plate! Twisting its revolting face into a clicking chortle, the blue-skinned creature pressed the trigger button on the charge. A thirty-second countdown flashed onto its small display. Yet at that exact instant, when it was less than fifty meters from the subsea pipeline, a faint ripple of displaced water surged into its flank. Something was closing in on it at breakneck speed. The moment it sensed danger and tried to react, a razor-sharp warhead tore through its flank. With a muffled detonation, the blast hurled it upward toward the surface. A hoarse, stifled shriek tore from the mutant's throat as a deluge of air bubbles engulfed its face and the gills beneath its jaw. Losing its balance and wracked with agony, it thrashed its limbs wildly in the water, completely forgetting to release its grip on the thermite charge. Right then, the thirty-second countdown reached zero. A blinding white flash erupted amid a massive plume of bubbles, instantly consuming the creature. That slowly blossoming flare resembled a mandala flower opening on the sea floor. The surging horde of blue-skinned mutants froze in terror at the gruesome spectacle. Baffled by what had just occurred, panic swept across their faces as they looked around in confusion, desperately searching for the source of the attack. Not far away, iron hulks shaped like crabs lurked silently at the fringe of a kelp forest, their thick, elongated barrels trained on the mutants from afar. Had an Imperial army been here, the sight would have been instantly recognizable. These heavily armored iron beasts were cast in the exact same mold as the King Crab amphibious armored suits that had run rampant across Golden Gallon Port! In fact, they were the exact same machines. The only difference lay in their armaments: the dual 37mm cannons had been swapped for a chainsaw purpose-built for the deep sea, paired with a supercavitating weapon dubbed the "Harpoon." As the name implied, the device utilized the supercavitation principle to reduce hydrodynamic drag. Its rear housed a nitrate ester propellant, while the front bore a warhead packed with tritonal mixed with magnesium powder. Essentially a miniature torpedo, it boasted a 19mm caliber and shared a launching mechanism with the 19mm bolt gun, making it easy to swap ammunition once ashore to continue the pursuit. Unlike the 19mm bolt round, the 19mm Harpoon had an effective lethal range of only 200 meters and a minimum safe arming distance of 10 meters. While this engagement radius proved inadequate against surface warships, it was more than enough to intercept near-surface torpedoes and combat frogmen. Although this was the first time the Alliance's arsenals had tackled underwater weaponry, Boulder Military Industries had quickly overcome several technical hurdles with technical support from the Coral City survivors, mounting the system onto the Alliance's King Crabs. This marked the Harpoon's combat debut. So far, the results were remarkably promising... Watching the fireball sink toward the seabed in the distance and the agitated horde of monsters behind it, Crawling Model Worker, nestled inside his King Crab, grinned from ear to ear. "Who would've thought our Jungle Corps would moonlight as the navy one day?" A teammate chimed in over the comm channel: "In a sense, a kelp forest counts as a jungle too." "666!" "Doesn't matter. Either way, our targets are mutants." There was no need to pull punches against these beasts. They deserved to burn in hell and repent— "Confirmed hit! Fire at will!" Venting a stream of bubbles from the crab hull, Crawling Model Worker maneuvered his King Crab forward. "Don't let our fish get away!" Spirited replies echoed through the comms. "Roger that!" "Awoooo!" With the attack order given, all twenty-two King Crabs fired in unison, launching underwater flares toward the targets located by sonar. Blinding white flares blossomed near the pack of aquatic mutants, instantly illuminating the pitch-black abyss as bright as day. Having long grown accustomed to the abyssal dark, the aquatic mutants shrieked and threw up their arms to shield their stinging eyes. At the same time, trails of bubbling Harpoon projectiles darted through the brilliance, reaping lives like the Grim Reaper's scythe. Within mere breaths, dozens of aquatic mutants had their flesh blown apart, sending plumes of scarlet blood drifting wildly through the currents. Death spread. Fear crept into the heart of every mutant. Unlike the green-skinned brutes on land, these creatures nesting beneath cold, damp reefs had inherited the cunning of fish rather than feral bloodlust and frenzy. Seeing their morale on the verge of collapse, the mutant chieftain lurking within the swarm let out a low, guttural howl. "It's the humans!" "They're down below!" "Charge! Tear them apart!" At their leader's roar, the battered mutants finally rallied some courage and kicked their legs with all their might, plunging toward the seabed below. As the depth increased, the surrounding water pressure climbed, pressing against their bloodshot eyes and muscular chests. Finally reaching the nearly three-hundred-meter-deep sea floor, the blinding glare gradually faded behind them. *Clack!* Submerged once more in darkness, the nearly one thousand mutants regained their vision. Roaring to banish their terror, they brandished an assortment of crude weapons and charged toward the source of the assault. As it happened, their opponents had the exact same idea. All twenty-two massive King Crabs switched on their searchlights at once, brandishing multi-jointed crab legs and pincer arms welded with whirring chainsaws as they charged the blue-skinned beasts! Excited roars reverberated across the comms: "Crush 'em!" "Awoooo!" Flesh and blood slammed headlong into cold steel! One King Crab rapidly snapped open an inward-folded mechanical leg, kicking away a mutant that was charging with a thermite charge. Immediately following up, its hulking frame lunged forward as a front foot slammed down, planting dead center on the back of another diving mutant and crushing it against the jagged reef like an ant. Another mutant managed to circle around its flank and tried to pry open the heavy carapace with a crude harpoon, only to fail at even scratching the paint. Just as it was trying to think of another angle, a real Harpoon blew its chest wide open, vaporizing half its torso into a cloud of blood and mangled gore. One mutant after another resembled garlic cloves tossed into a grinder, pulped into mangled sludge in the blink of an eye. Spears hurled from their powerful arms left nothing more than shallow scuffs on the iron plating. They pulled out every trick in the book—harpoon guns, underwater rifles, short swords, daggers, even depth mines and satchels of explosives... yet against armor several times thicker than a split-claw crab's shell, all their efforts proved utterly futile. The glaring searchlights blinded them, while a mere brush from the roaring chainsaws sheared them in half. Nor was it just the chainsaws— Net canisters spewed from those thick gun barrels as well! Sturdy mesh cords unfolded into broad nets, pinning dozens of mutants to the rocks or tangling them tightly to one another. And the more they thrashed, the tighter the nets constricted! In under five minutes, more than two hundred mutants had perished beneath the screaming teeth of the chainsaws. Mounting casualties and a battle with zero hope of victory carved sheer terror across every mutant's face. Even their chieftain could not help retreating in fear. They had never encountered such bizarre adversaries! Yet their enemies—the players nestled inside the King Crabs—knew these scaled brutes inside and out! Ever since Port French Fries captured several aquatic mutants two months prior, the research station set up by the Alliance Institute of Biological Research in Port French Fries had dissected them and quickly unraveled their habits. These creatures were far from the unstoppable terrors of the deep they appeared to be. They faced attacks from mutant species beneath the waves just like cargo vessels traveling without black ironwood or psychic interference devices. To avoid drawing the attention of colossal sea beasts, they usually routed their migrations along shallow waters near land or islands. The water depth along these routes rarely exceeded four hundred meters, an environment colossal mutants avoided to prevent beaching themselves. Furthermore, during long-distance treks, they would sing sea shanties in shifts, deliberately generating noise to disguise themselves as an "extra-extra-large" apex predator and intimidate small-to-mid-sized mutant beasts prowling the shallows. Taking all these traits into account, Port French Fries only needed to deploy a few acoustic listening buoys around the subsea freshwater pipeline to pinpoint their movements and lay an ambush. Technically, this wasn't difficult to achieve. Though satellites were out of reach, sensors installed on the seabed pipeline were more than sufficient to transmit signals back to Port French Fries or nearby players. The mutants had no idea that from the moment they left the Death Coast and entered the eastern coastal waters of Baiyue Province, they had been tracked by the military base at Port French Fries. Watching his kin fall one after another, the chieftain standing amidst the swarm finally panicked and shouted to his minions: "Retreat—!" "To the surface!" Mutants locked in combat with the King Crabs kicked their legs frantically and fled upward. Although the King Crabs were fitted with ballast tanks and high-pressure air cylinders akin to swim bladders, their immense weight and limited internal volume made ascending a slow process, and firing continuously while rising was nearly impossible. Consequently, the twenty-two King Crabs did not pursue toward the surface. Instead, they raised their arm-mounted Harpoon launchers and kept up a steady barrage. Slender trails of bubbles chased the mutants' heels toward the surface. While some were blasted into crimson mist, the majority managed to slip past the sparse net of fire. With only fifty meters left before breaking the surface, the Harpoons chasing them finally lost momentum. These weapons apparently lacked long range. Looking down at the decelerating Harpoons and the iron crabs left far behind on the sea floor, the terrified mutants finally let out a sigh of relief. Yet before they could fully exhale, slender cylinders plunged into the water above, raining straight down on their heads. At this moment— their true nightmare had only just begun! Staring at the cylinders sinking lazily before their eyes, expressions of bewildered shock spread across every scaled face. As if sensing the lethal peril, an inexplicable dread seized every mutant's heart. Before they could react—without even a chance to react—shattering fireballs and water geysers erupted, engulfing their sinful lives in an instant. Watching the sea of fire blossom near the surface above them, admiring voices piped up from beneath the King Crab carapaces. "Damn, that's punchy..." "ASW really is the air force's job after all." "Hell, those green-skins on land could at least take a beating. These scaled bastards are like loaches—fold in one hit!" "So who gets the MVP?" "If we edit out the explosion footage, it's totally ours." "Brilliant idea." While everyone babbled away, Brother Mosquito's voice crackled into Crawling Model Worker's ear: "Bombs away! How are things on your end?" Recognizing the familiar raspy voice, Crawling Model Worker answered immediately: "Oh! We're doing great! Zero casualties—" Mosquito: "Who the hell cares about that?! I'm asking if you got it on video?!" Crawling Model Worker: "...Fuck! You're really that shameless?" Mosquito: "Wait, no time to shoot the breeze... I'm picking up a signal from a psychic interference device! The source is about three hundred meters from the blast zone, at a depth between fifty and a hundred meters. Keep an eye out for anything else down there." Something else down here?! Crawling Model Worker froze. Almost the moment Brother Mosquito's words fell, a long, low wail echoed into everyone's ears. *Ooooom—!* The sound resonated like a freighter's foghorn, vibrating through the surrounding water. Everyone looked up, sweeping their searchlights toward the surface, only to spot a massive shadow dozens of meters long looming directly over them. "What in the world is that?" Horrified, bewildered faces looked on as Crawling Model Worker swallowed hard. A teammate's voice squeaked over the comms: "Holy crap... there's a big boy." The psychic interference device began radiating unstable interference pulses; the wailing behemoth seemed to have sustained injuries. The ocean churned violently as surging currents scattered drifting corpses and frightened away curious aquatic mutant beasts. Anchored on the seabed, the King Crabs were forced to shuffle their legs backward against the turbulent wash. "Mosquito! Do you guys have any ammo left?!" Clinging tightly to his rattling control sticks with both hands, Crawling Model Worker roared into his headset. Static hissed over the line before an embarrassed voice answered: "Out... We only had one bomb each. Stripped our autocannons just to drop this thing for you guys. You're on your own." "%¥#@!" After a flurry of curses, Crawling Model Worker switched to the squad channel and bellowed to his teammates: "Prep for a boss fight!" Unlike his tense apprehension, excited roars erupted through the squad channel: "Awoooo!" ... Meanwhile, roughly a hundred kilometers from the blast center, a destroyer belonging to the Archipelago Federation was anchored at sea. At that moment, the bridge was in total disarray. "Underwater detonation detected one hundred kilometers due west! Location is near the submarine volcanic zone—that's in our minefield!" "The minefield?!" "Damn it... did those planes do it?" "What's the deal with those planes?" "Could it be Shelter 70?!" What threw the sailors into such disarray was not merely the sudden underwater explosion, but the fifty aircraft that had abruptly appeared on their radar! Those planes seemed to have materialized out of thin air over the boundless sea, without the slightest warning! Stranger still, there was no aircraft carrier or airfield anywhere in the area—not even a single fishing boat was in sight. Captain Dongwen stared out the bridge windows at the azure sky and rolling ocean swells, his brow tightly furrowed in thought. Seeing his superior remain silent for so long, the first officer standing beside him drew a deep breath and said in a grave voice: "I recommend reporting this situation to Naval Headquarters immediately!" Just as the crew was whispering, those planes could very well be the work of Shelter 70. And the location of the explosion happened to be in the minefield laid to intercept Shelter 70 submersibles and protect Ring Island from threats. Although the entrance to that shelter was under blockade by the Federation fleet, no one could guarantee that the shelter lacked alternate emergency exits. Yet after a moment's contemplation, the captain beside him gave an unexpected response: "Negative. Maintain observation." The first officer blinked, staring at him in bewilderment. The captain had no intention of elaborating, simply instructing him to keep watch before turning and leaving the bridge. Back in the captain's quarters. Dongwen casually hung his peaked cap on the coat rack, pulled open a drawer, and took out a compact communicator. Flicking the mechanical keypad with his thumb, he carefully dialed a string of numbers and pressed the device to his ear. Before he could speak, an anxious voice spoke from the other end: "What's the situation?" The man on the other end was none other than Mr. Zhalas, Chief of Naval Staff and Chief of Staff to the President, the leading figure of the navy's hawkish faction. Although breaking free from Shelter 70's control was a consensus among most Federation citizens, opinions had been sharply divided on whether to resolve the conflict through moderate or radical means until the destruction of the ocean current power station. Due to his steadfast stance and radical agenda, Zhalas enjoyed broad support among naval officers, including Dongwen himself. Lately, however, troubling rumors had begun making Dongwen doubt whether following this path was truly in the Federation's best interests. To be sure, some actions taken by the Alliance—a faction that had sprung out of nowhere—raised legitimate suspicion, but the slogan they championed, "Survivors, unite," hardly made them a mortal threat. Humankind on this planet had once been a united whole. Moreover, they were genuinely putting their slogan into practice, setting an example for wastelander factions still engaged in fratricidal slaughter to bring an end to the Wasteland Era. Take Golden Gallon Port recently: no matter what sophistry the slavers there spun, the Alliance had undeniably severed the nooses around the slaves' necks. Or take the freshwater pipeline to Ring Island: while they certainly turned a profit, the end result was that water had indeed become cheaper for the locals. Those people had never claimed to be running a charity. If they jacked up prices maliciously down the line, that was a matter for the future. One could hardly borrow an accusation from tomorrow just because they weren't giving away handouts for free today. At least in his eyes, the Church fanatics, who babbled on all day about "evolution," "the future," and "for humanity," seemed far more suspicious. Those zealots indeed charged no money—the psychic interference devices provided to the Federation had been given away for free—yet who could say they weren't scheming for something far larger? Like Coral City. Hadn't they been itching to seize it all along? He supported moderate cooperation with the Church of the Torch, provided it brought real benefits to the Federation—even long-term benefits that offered no immediate gain but rewarded future generations. For instance, sacrificing an ocean current power station in exchange for a unified Federation was undoubtedly worthwhile; future generations would thank their ancestors for enduring brief hardship. Except... Where was the benefit in blowing up a freshwater pipeline? In the past, he could convince himself, even rationalizing Mr. Zhalas's decisions on his behalf, but now he genuinely had no idea how to keep justifying it. Still— now was not the time to dwell on that. Collecting his thoughts, Dongwen spoke slowly: "An explosion... did occur." Hearing a sigh of relief from the other end, he paused before continuing: "However, there are discrepancies. The blast did not happen on the seabed, but near the surface... Also, did you dispatch those planes?" Silence hung over the line for a few seconds before a hesitant reply finally came: "Planes?" "Yes." Dongwen paused and continued: "A swarm of planes suddenly appeared on our radar, dropped what appeared to be torpedoes or depth charges into the sea, and then we picked up the explosion signal... I cannot confirm whether the pipeline was destroyed, but I want to know whose planes those were, and what they were bombing—" To his surprise, upon hearing this, Mr. Zhalas, normally so mild-mannered, jumped like a seal spotting a penguin. "That is none of your concern! Captain, order your crew to return to the nearest port immediately—no, return to Anle Island due east!" Dongwen froze. "Mr. Zhalas?" Seemingly aware of his improper tone, the sound of steadying breaths came from the phone. "Apologies... I lost my composure. An official order will come through command channels shortly. You may return to the bridge and have your subordinates prepare." After a brief pause, a lamenting sigh came through the receiver. "It's just awful... A single water pipe was enough for those treacherous ingrates to betray their original convictions. They don't even realize they're willingly slipping a noose handed to them over their own necks. They've tasted two days of freedom and are already rushing to sell themselves off for a good price." "Mr. Zhalas," Dongwen asked with a furrowed brow, "perhaps it is not my place to ask, but... what does this have to do with selling oneself off for a good price?" Zhalas snorted coldly. "Isn't that exactly what they're doing? We just slipped the noose Shelter 70 put around our necks, and now they've picked up the noose from Shelter 404—" "Then I would like to know: what exactly is this noose you keep referring to?" Dongwen couldn't help asking. "Could you be more specific, rather than using abstract metaphors?" The line fell quiet for several seconds before a soft cough came through. "We've strayed far off topic... In short, our friends in Haiya Province would not want us getting too close to the Alliance. Those lunatics may be no good, but for now we need their power to resolve our issues. In any case, that pipeline is a problem... If someone could take care of it, every citizen of the Federation would thank him." Detecting the expectant note in his tone, Dongwen drew a deep breath, kept his composure, and chose his words carefully: "Mr. Zhalas, if it were any other concern, I could handle it for you—including silencing those who need to be silenced, and making disappear those who need to disappear. But this matter... goes too far." Pausing, he added: "I am afraid I cannot solve this dilemma for you. Perhaps you should address this trouble through more legal, legitimate channels. I suggest you speak with the President." Zhalas said with pained urgency: "That's far too slow! And the residents of Ring Island won't understand our perspective." Dongwen replied immediately: "Then let it be slow... There is nothing wrong with being prudent in matters like this." The reason he had resented the people of Shelter 70 was precisely because they were arrogant and obstinate, never deigning to communicate with wasteland survivors outside their vault, hiding behind their blue jackets the moment they failed to explain themselves. Only now did he suddenly realize that he had nearly become the very kind of person he despised most. A long silence hung over the receiver before a resigned sigh broke through. "You're right... Taking it slow isn't a bad thing. It was my lack of consideration. Please forget what I said just now." Dongwen nodded, inwardly letting out a quiet breath of relief. Perhaps Mr. Zhalas had realized it too. He had no doubt that the gentleman's intentions were grounded in the Federation's interests, but just as other captains could occasionally become overly aggressive, why wouldn't the Chief of Staff be susceptible to the same flaw? He would continue to support him as always... After the call ended, Dongwen returned to the bridge. His first officer approached and snapped a salute. "...Naval Headquarters just transmitted an order directing us to proceed to port at Anle Island due east for replenishment and rest." Having already heard this through private channels, Dongwen nodded and walked straight to the bridge console before halting. Yet just as he was about to give the order to turn east, a thought stirred in his mind. He turned to the officer beside him and commanded: "Advance eighty kilometers west!" Surprise rippled across the officers' faces, especially the first officer who had just relayed the command. "B-but..." Hesitation evident on his face, the first officer took a step forward to remind him, only to be cut off by a raised hand. "Headquarters did not order us to make an immediate U-turn." Gazing out at the churning, tide-swept sea, Dongwen lightly adjusted his peaked cap and spoke slowly: "Taking a slight detour isn't explicitly forbidden, is it?" ... Beneath the clear azure sky. Piloting her seaplane, Feng Qing completed a turn over the sea and was about to head back when she suddenly spotted a warship approaching from due east. Surprise flashed across her face. Wiping her chocolate-smudged hand against her clothes, she flipped the switch on her onboard radio. "This is Feng Qing. Spotted a Federation warship, looks like a destroyer... heading toward the Jungle Corps' little crabs." "Hostility unconfirmed, haven't fired on me yet... Ah, looks like they're trying to hail me on the radio... Should I take it?" Brother Mosquito's voice promptly crackled through the channel: "Take it! Why the hell not?! Ask those bastards what they think they're doing here!" Hearing his bravado—sounding for all the world like he still had plenty of ammo—Feng Qing made a helpless face, stepped on the left rudder pedal, and banked her course toward the destroyer. "Roger that."