Swords Drawn!

It wasn't just the Burning Corps and two Overlord transport planes heading for Golden Gallon Port. Across the surging Bolo Sea, uniform transport ships stretched out in a long line, steaming directly toward Golden Gallon Port. Alongside this transport convoy sailed an escort fleet from the South Sea Alliance! Draped over their broad decks were uniform digital-camo nets, beneath which sat formidable rows of menacing armor! Among them was veteran gear that had won renown for the Alliance, such as the ZJC-1 Chimera armored vehicle, as well as brand-new equipment fresh off the assembly line. Such as the Type 3 Tank, jointly developed by Factory 81 and Boulder Arms! If the Type 2 Tank still showed traces of being an artillery piece slapped onto a truck chassis, the Type 3 Tank could truly be called a main battle tank in every sense of the word. From its low-slung hull and sloped-armor turret to its positive-pressure full-protection system, it shared countless similarities with real-world main battle tanks, yet retained its own distinctions. As for the main gun, it remained at 155 millimeters, without major modifications compared to the Type 2 Tank. A larger caliber meant lower ammunition capacity, but that hardly bothered the players at the controls—bigger and heavier firepower was all that mattered! The same held true for the Type 3 Tank's Model B "tank destroyer" variant. Aside from a redesigned turret, a Dove vehicle-mounted missile launcher, and more standardized parts, the main armament remained the Type 60 railgun boasting 60 megajoules of muzzle energy. Besides upgrades of older designs, the cargo ships also carried entirely new models. Like the FK-1 Defender anti-air vehicle. Previously, most of the Alliance's air defense assets had consisted of anti-air trucks mounted with quad autocannons and rudimentary radars, alongside exoskeleton-clad players toting man-portable anti-air missiles. The Defender, designed by North Island Heavy Industries, combined the tactical doctrines of both, mounting the system onto a stripped-down chassis of the Chimera armored vehicle. Yet stripped-down chassis or not, its firepower was nothing to scoff at. Mounted atop the hull was a 20mm Red Dot rapid-fire autocannon patterned after the close-in weapon systems of South Sea Alliance destroyers. Driven by electromagnetic acceleration, it worked in tandem with a North Island Heavy Industries vehicle radar and surface-to-air missiles. Whatever weight was saved on armor was fully made up for in ammo racks packed with tandem kinetic rounds. It was practically a destroyer sailing on land! Though it bore only a single tapered barrel, in an instant it could unleash a barrage rivaling the combined salvo of four quad-barrel 20mm cannons! Whether engaging high-altitude fixed-wing aircraft or swarms of quadcopter drones skimming the deck, it performed with lethal efficiency! Furthermore, the two anti-air missiles installed below the fire-control radar were also adapted from naval destroyers, specifically calibrated to take on the Legion's "equivalent-tier" supersonic jet fighters. Beyond the cheap mass-issue filler gear, the Legion also fielded advanced, high-tech weaponry that cost an exorbitant fortune to maintain. Objectively speaking, the South Sea Alliance filled the gaps in the Alliance's cutting-edge technologies, particularly in microelectronics. Prior to this, although the Alliance possessed abundant technical reserves, manufacturing high-tech hardware still required the Enterprise's assistance. In return, the Alliance's relationship with the South Sea Alliance was hardly a one-way street. The Alliance's vast technical repositories—especially in materials science and biology—coupled with economies of scale in industry, logistics, and commerce, neatly complemented the South Sea Alliance's weaknesses across multiple sectors. Through this win-win cooperation, both sides achieved mutual progress across diverse fields. The FK-1 Defender was a crowning achievement of this trend—yet it was only one of many. Looking beyond state-led military industries, civilian cooperation of this kind was even more prolific. This close partnership involved not merely hundreds of thousands of jobs and the profits of countless manufacturing plants, but the foundational logic of human civilization: the division of labor and cooperation. Such an unbreakable bond could only be superseded by a more advanced mode of production. It could not be built simply by throwing money around, nor could a mere battleship shatter it. Wutuo, however, would never have the chance to understand this—and even if he did, it was far too late. Incompetence wasn't an unforgivable sin in itself; being hopelessly incompetent yet utterly addicted to gambling was. The Empire wasn't lacking in shrewd people, but without exception, those who saw clearly feigned ignorance. They joined hands with half-baked frauds to fleece clueless fools, ultimately squandering every last chip they had plundered from honest folk. At first, the fishermen of the South Sea Alliance were only after wealth, not lives. To the Empire, that slight pain wasn't even suffering—at most a mild itch on the skin. As luck would have it, however, the Legion—bent on taking both wealth and lives—had also set its sights on them. Even if the Alliance hadn't planned to step into the ring, it now had no choice but to push its chips onto the table... Standing at the deck's edge, Elven King Fugui squinted westward into the oncoming sea breeze. After a long silence, he suddenly blurted out: "...I hear the brothers in the Burning Corps have already arrived?" Irena smiled. "Yeah, saw it on the forums." Elven King Fugui: "Dammit! Why couldn't we take a plane?" Irena gave him a wry look. "...That's what happens when our gear is this heavy. *cue doge face*." While the two chatted and laughed, Mole sat inside the cabin, studying a map of Rowell State. Two corps were deployed to Bolo Province this time: the Burning Corps and the Skeleton Corps. Setting aside the support companies, maintenance companies, logistics companies, and guard companies manned primarily by NPC soldiers, the Skeleton Corps' players were largely distributed across five battalion-level combat units. Two of these were mechanized infantry battalions, comprising 6 companies, 18 platoons, and 54 squads. Factoring in 2 battalion command vehicles and 6 company command vehicles, they operated a total of 62 Chimera armored vehicles! The other three were armored battalions, divided into 9 companies, 27 platoons, and 81 squads. With 3 battalion command vehicles and 9 company command vehicles added, that came out to 93 Type 3 Tanks! While this arsenal didn't form an endless serpent stretching to the horizon, out in the open plains it was an undeniably majestic torrent of steel. Per the manager's orders, the Rowell State border was the final red line. If Legion soldiers dared cross it by a single step, they would coordinate with the Burning Corps to launch a full-scale offensive against the Legion. Then again, red lines were just guidelines. If the Legion truly launched an all-out invasion of Bolo Province, they were hardly going to sit twiddling their thumbs until the enemy touched that line. After all, they were players, not NPCs; the manager had granted him some leeway to act at his discretion in emergencies—provided he consulted thoroughly with the Burning Corps first. With Brother Fang Chang around, Mole wasn't particularly worried about misjudging the situation. What worried him far more was Bolo Province's transportation infrastructure. From Golden Gallon Port to the capitals of Tiger State and Leopard State, there were only a handful of roads. And among those, barely any could support the rapid transit of armored columns. "...Good thing the warlords in Leopard and Tiger States spent money paving a few roads. Without them, our tanks probably couldn't even drive out of Golden Gallon Port." After agonizing over it for half the day, Mole cursed under his breath and tossed his pen onto the map. Standing beside him, the staff officer also frowned, rubbing his chin as he mused in a low voice, "The road conditions in Bolo Province are indeed abysmal... and the rainy season begins in a few months. Road conditions along both banks of the Everflowing River will only become more treacherous." This staff officer happened to be a Wilante named Vides. Like Vannus, he hailed from the Expeditionary Force, enlisting within months of him. But his fortune hadn't been as kind as Vannus's: he first served under Myriarch Dillon as a "bandit," and was later captured by Vault 404. Yet just like Vannus, his subsequent choices followed a similar path. When the Battle of Sunset concluded, he didn't return home with the other prisoners of war, choosing instead to remain with the Alliance. Given the likelihood of a direct clash with the Legion, the Alliance Army General Staff assigned him to the Skeleton Corps as a frontline staff officer, tasked with providing advice and operational planning. Mole harbored no doubts about his loyalty, simply treating him like any normal NPC. "...True enough, but for a force like ours focusing on counterattacks from a defensive posture, that might not be such a bad thing. If they truly push the front to our doorstep, their supply lines will be the ones mired in mud. After that, it's a job for the air force." Although the Goblin Corps hadn't been deployed to the front as an organized unit for this operation—with only a few "ace pilots" flying the Alliance's next-generation fighters to the military base at Golden Gallon Port to contest air superiority against the Legion's advanced jets—that didn't mean they lacked air support entirely. The authorities of Golden Gallon Port had procured a massive number of W-3 propeller planes, forming a full five air wings dedicated exclusively to tactical bombing, strategic strikes, and close air support. These propeller craft produced by Goblin Tech had minimal runway and logistics requirements and were extremely easy to pilot. While hopelessly outmatched in air-to-air dogfights against supersonic jets, their exceptional cost-effectiveness and ground-attack capabilities made them formidable assets for close air support! At this point, Mole suddenly noticed Vides's prominent nose and smiled. "I almost forgot to mention—we might end up trading blows with your countrymen this time. If you feel uncomfortable, say so early, and I can reassign you to logistics." "Comfort has nothing to do with it." Vides gave a faint smile and replied casually, "The mistakes of the Wilante must be corrected by the Wilante, just as the mistakes of the vaults must be corrected by vault dwellers. I know exactly what I am doing... But what about you? Doesn't seeing my nose frighten you?" Mole burst out laughing. "You underestimate me." No sooner had he spoken than the telephone on the command desk rang. Cutting off the idle chatter, Mole reached for the handset, his tone turning crisp and serious. "This is the temporary command post of the Skeleton Corps." A voice answered promptly from the other end. "...This is the escort fleet. Golden Gallon Port lies five hundred kilometers ahead. Sonar and radar detect no hostile vessel activity in nearby waters. We will continue along our designated patrol route; the remaining distance is yours to cover." Mole nodded. "Understood. Good luck to you." "And to you." With that brief exchange concluded, the escort fleet led by the cruiser Harpoon parted ways with the Alliance transport fleet. The transports would press onward toward Golden Gallon Port on Bolo Province's east coast, while the warships would cross a broad expanse of water to take up station in the western reaches of the Bolo Sea. Although the Alliance had voted in favor of freezing the Xilan Empire's seat in the Slime Mold Community, it had not abandoned the survivors struggling in this land. If those bastards dared set fire to West Sail Port today, tomorrow they would repeat the massacre in Silver Moon Bay or Port French Fries—just like the horrors that had unfolded in River Valley Province. Every early citizen of the Alliance was a survivor of that catastrophe. If diplomacy could no longer resolve the issue, then it was time for the surgeons to go to work. Though the Alliance maintained a measure of restraint, merely matching the Southern Legion's escalating moves tit for tat, its allies were visibly spoiling for a fight. Take the Honey Badger Kingdom. Five divisions had already massed along the border, glaring hungrily across at the neighboring Falcon Kingdom. Their previous war had ended far too frustratingly: barely had they liberated their own territory when the enemy surrendered. As for the Lion Kingdom, the most populous of the desert nations, it had also mobilized three divisions. Unlike the "honey badgers" of the Desert Spirit, the Lion Kingdom was universally laid-back. Over-secularized and pleasure-seeking, its people wanted nothing to do with war. The reason was simple: before the Legion could push to their royal capital, the Alliance had driven them back. Thus, their hatred for the Wilante was nowhere near as visceral as the Honey Badger Kingdom's, and their grudge stemmed mostly from the big-noses detonating a nuclear warhead over a derelict "Miracle." Yet having learned from the previous conflict, they harbored no illusions that anyone could remain unscathed once the powder keg ignited. This time, they would not grant the Wilante any openings. The instant a nuke entered the eastern Great Desert, they would eliminate the "risk" before anyone else could. As for the Camel Hump Kingdom and the Golden Lizard Kingdom, their stance was largely identical to the Lion Kingdom's. Suddenly finding itself once again the thorn in the side of the desert realms, the Falcon Kingdom—cowering in a corner licking its wounds—was shivering in terror. The nobles of the Falcon court cast pleading looks toward the Eastern Legion, praying those big-noses would see how obedient they had been and dispatch several more legions to protect them. Meanwhile, guild representatives representing the common citizens were secretly colluding with the Alliance one after another, swearing on their honor that if the Legion dared show up, they would deliver the Legion's base locations and logistics lines on a silver platter—begging only that innocent civilians be spared when the time came. It was they who had helped the Alliance's Guards Corps uncover the details of the arms shipment sent to West Sail Port. Backstabbing was their bread and butter; after all, nobles weren't going to drive the trucks, haul the cargo crates, or dig the frontline trenches themselves. Fighting was out of the question. No matter who they fought, they would never fight the Alliance. If anyone wanted to go to the front, let the nobles go themselves. Ever since Griffin went all-in, the Falcon Kingdom had practically lost an entire generation. And once Bist Town took off, it acted like a black hole sucking away the kingdom's labor force, leaving behind little more than women, the elderly, and children. The few remaining able-bodied men couldn't even fill the ranks of a single division. West Sail Port, situated at the center of the storm, tugged at the raw nerves of survivor factions across the wasteland. At the very least, every settlement ringing the Great Desert felt the tremors to some degree. And as tensions continued to mount across Bolo Province, three distinct groups quietly slipped into the Empire's rotting "heart." Among them were "envoys" from the Legion and "envoys" from the Alliance. Though both titles deserved quotation marks, as both had their legitimacy heavily watered down. The only authentic ones were the mercenaries from the Free State. True mercenaries they were, but their professional competence was somewhat lacking—likely the result of subcontractors hiring subcontractors until the job ended up in the hands of random wastelander outfits. It was hardly the first time this had happened. In any case, Battlefield Guy had no idea what they were doing in this godforsaken place; he only knew that several corpses with distinctly foreign features were dangling above Tiandu's North Gate. After asking around at the gate, he learned that the men claimed to be Free State mercenaries. They wore exoskeletons and carried rapid-firing guns that went chug-chug-chug, looking just like the "Iron Men" from the east. According to a vendor selling mush near the city gate, the two sides had clashed in the streets near Tiandu's North Gate. The brawl had been an absolute bloodbath, far more thrilling than the showdown between the Imperial Guards and the Heavenly King Army. For the price of a silver coin, the vendor spun his yarn with vivid flourish, chattering away until his face flushed red. Judging by his wildly gesturing hands, you would think the combatants had leveled the entire street. All told, nearly a hundred Heavenly King soldiers died, while only two mercenaries fell. Eventually, probably after running out of ammo, the "Iron Men" began to retreat, but six were captured in the end. "...They didn't keep the prisoners alive?" Watching the vendor grow increasingly worked up, Battlefield Guy couldn't help but ask. The vendor froze, then shook his head like a rattle-drum. "Keep prisoners? The Heavenly King's men never keep prisoners! Fast and ruthless, slaughtering people like chickens." Come to think of it, it made sense. These fanatics had seen so much red they didn't care whether their captives came from the Free State or a slave state; they probably hadn't even heard of that wretched place. Battlefield Guy's Adam's apple bobbed. He gave the mush vendor a closer look. "...If they butcher people like chickens, aren't you afraid of getting blood splattered on you doing business here?" The vendor chuckled, a cheerful grin splitting his soot-blackened face. "Now you're joking, sir. Where in this land isn't butchering people like chickens? Would going to Lion State or Elephant State be any better?" Battlefield Guy couldn't help prying further. "Then why haven't you gone to... Golden Gallon Port? Surely it's not like this there." The vendor waved a dismissive hand with a chuckle. "Agh, easy for you to say, sir. I bet you've never tried swimming across the Everflowing River. Never mind the ones who never made it ashore—even among those who crawled out, who knows how many ended up dead ghosts drowned in the reed marshes?" Looking at the silent customer, he sighed and added: "If I had no ties, maybe I'd take my chances in the river. But I've got an entire family of young and old to feed. If I leave, who feeds them? Dead or alive, barely anyone who dives into that river ever comes back. "Besides, I doubt that place is as wonderful as the rumors say. Whatever Golden Gallon Port has, didn't West Sail Port have it too? Factories? Docks? Those bastards slaughtering people like chickens came straight out of those docks and factories. If they could survive, why would they rebel? Did they have nothing better to do on a full belly?" He shook his head again. "Seems to me those ports and factories aren't anything great either. I've only ever seen freefolk starve, tenant farmers starve—I've never once seen a slave starve to death." Right then, Penny, who had remained silent behind Battlefield Guy, couldn't hold back any longer. "...Then why do you support the Heavenly King?" Hearing such treasonous words, the vendor leaped in fright. He quickly glanced left and right, and seeing no one with the yellow patches nearby, he turned to the speaker. The figure wore a thick scarf that wrapped almost her entire face, leaving only a pair of eyes visible. Over her shoulders was draped a desert-colored robe, swaddling her tightly so that her origin was impossible to discern, though she appeared to be a woman. He had never seen a woman with such an exquisite figure. The vendor gave an embarrassed chuckle, turning somewhat bashful as his dark, grimy hand scratched the back of his head. "Lady, what kind of question is that... When he rebelled, he didn't exactly ask for my permission." Penny was struck dumb. Beside her, Battlefield Guy pulled her back, caught between tears and laughter, and shot her a furious glare. *Have you lost your mind?!* Knowing she was in the wrong, Penny lowered her head and mumbled an apology. Her professional habits as a reporter had gotten the better of her, slipping out before she could think. Once her wits returned, she realized just how dangerous a thing she had done. Seeing her contritely admit her fault, Battlefield Guy couldn't bring himself to berate her further. He gave her a stern warning glare before turning back. It was truly bad luck. He had originally planned to move together with Far-sighted Eagle's group. After all, their names clearly sounded like an organized team, and people with a team were undeniably more reliable than lone wolves. Yet as fate would have it, right after he made contact with them, he ran into Bannote's daughter, Penny, at the port. The moment she learned he was heading to Tiandu as an envoy, she insisted on coming along, going so far as to disguise herself as his servant. Battlefield Guy had tried to dissuade her, but it was futile. He had even entertained the thought of knocking her unconscious and locking her inside a tent, but feared that once she woke up, her stubborn streak would flare up and she would strike out on her own. People who worked as war correspondents were usually daredevils who laughed at death. Others might just talk big to vent, but she might actually carry it out. Rather than let her take risks alone, it was better to keep her with him; at least that offered some security. As for Myriarch Bannote... he had only himself to blame for gambling on such massive stakes. If a Triumph Gazette journalist was hell-bent on bringing the truth home, he couldn't stop her. Eyes darting between the two, the vendor grinned at Battlefield Guy. "Care for two bowls, sir? I've been selling this mush for eight years—the flavor will knock your socks off!" Battlefield Guy watched in horror as the hand that had just scratched the back of the vendor's greasy head dipped right back toward the pot of mush. His stomach churned violently, and he forced out: "No thanks... I already had lunch." He had no doubt the flavor would knock anyone flat. After all, the scalp oil dripping into it was enough to fry another dish... Tossing a few more silver coins onto the stall, Battlefield Guy didn't dare linger. Taking Penny by the hand, he hurried away, deliberately weaving through several alleys before ducking back into the inn where they were staying. And just as he anticipated, moments after he left, the vendor reported their exchange to the patrol at the city gate. Amusingly, the patrolling city guards didn't bother listening to the vendor's explanation. The second they heard about silver coins, greedy glints lit up their eyes. Armed with clubs, several guards beat the vendor to a pulp, sure enough turning up several silver coins from his person. With both thief and booty in hand, even if they hadn't caught the ringleaders, the label of "spy" was slapped firmly onto his head. The city guards hoisted the trembling vendor and delivered a harsh lecture until his face drained pale and he dared not utter another word about what had happened earlier. Only then did they let him off with a token threat, pocketing the coins and swaggering away with clubs swinging. All joking aside, they were the ones patrolling this beat—how could they not know trouble was brewing? Just a few days ago, mercenaries from some Free State had popped up. Rumor had it that over a hundred Heavenly King brothers died just to bring down those six miserable bastards. A man only had one head on his shoulders. Naturally, one picked the softest persimmons to squeeze; no one was eager to invite trouble upon themselves... ... Outside the city, inside the inn. Watching Pangolin shut the door and walk over to peer through the window, Penny, seated on the edge of the bed, pulled off her stifling scarf. Seeing his tense demeanor, she whispered: "Why don't we just declare our identity outright? Tell them... that we are envoys of the Legion." Battlefield Guy answered offhandedly: "Your father didn't even dare send a Wilante envoy here. Can't you guess why?" If they weren't acting under someone's direction, how would they dare slaughter the entire port without sparing a single captive? In other words, since they were acting on orders, what difference would one more dead envoy make? Cross-referencing intelligence on the forums, he was now virtually certain that Absek was the mouthpiece for the Southern Legion's interests, while Janusz was the scapegoat pushed onto the center stage. Once fully prepared, the Southern Legion would march on Tiandu and wipe out the Heavenly King Army. When that time came, old subordinates like Absek would merely need to switch banners. Whether they called themselves the Bolo Legion or whatever else, so long as they severed ties with the Janusz Empire—or even turned around to strike the Janusz Empire at the decisive moment—the Southern Legion would smoothly hand the empire over to them, like a backdoor stock listing... Or at least, that was how Absek and his circle envisioned it. However, the scapegoat named Janusz was clearly unwilling to meet such a messy, ignominious end. He might have already sensed that traitors around him were looking to jump ship halfway through, leaving him with no choice but to use increasingly mad methods to bind them firmly to his war chariot. As for settling scores over betrayal, that could wait until after the civil war was won. Absek likely wouldn't mind negotiating terms with an envoy from Triumph City, but Janusz would never leave his subordinates an escape hatch. Thus, Battlefield Guy had reached an understanding with the Far-sighted crew. They would make first contact with Janusz, while he would proceed to negotiate with Absek. There was no future in collaborating with the Southern Legion. Inviting jackals into the house was no "circuitous path to salvation"; the ravenous wolf would swallow them whole. And take down everyone standing beside them as well. Persuading Absek would naturally be ideal; if that failed, they would have to find another way. In any case, once everything was over, he would provide the relevant leads to Penny. As for whether the Triumph Gazette would publish the full account of the affair, that was beyond his knowing. After hearing Pangolin's rhetorical question, Penny remained quiet for a long time, her thoughts dwelling on something entirely different. "...Is that why he sent you here?" Battlefield Guy paused, then replied bluntly: "That's right. Although I belong to the Legion, I'm not a Wilante. If the Heavenly King's men give me trouble, I can still pass myself off as someone from the Alliance." "..." Penny bit her lip, her expression fraught with complex emotion. Glancing at her conflicted look, Battlefield Guy adopted a softer tone. "If you're pitying me, don't bother. This is just my job—" "I'm worried about you!" Penny stared into his eyes, a flicker of sorrow suddenly welling up. She couldn't explain why, but an ominous foreboding gnawed at her heart. It was precisely because these men repeatedly treated others as expendable collateral, forcing outsiders to shoulder the duties and burdens that rightly belonged to the Wilante, that things had spiraled to where they were today. Her father hadn't reflected on anything... That man was merely lamenting that he had lost his gamble; he had never once considered making amends for his mistakes. *Then you shouldn't have tagged along and jacked up my quest difficulty, dammit...* Looking at Penny's sorrowful face, Battlefield Guy had no inkling of what strange thoughts were running through her head, only grumbling inwardly. Just as he was about to speak, a soft knock came from outside the door. "...Excuse me, is this Mr. Pangolin's room?"