At the exact moment the Alliance players readied themselves for battle, the Southern Legion's 3rd Air Wing had likewise completed all their combat preparations.
One hundred Dagger fighters formed up into attack formations in the sky, aggressively lunging toward the incoming aircraft like a pack of wolves hunting sheep.
The Wilante clearly held nothing but contempt for these Bolo State fighters.
Even if the cost of training propeller aircraft pilots wasn't as astronomical as training jet pilots, it still required at least five to six months of instruction.
And that was merely the bare minimum.
To ensure adequate combat capability, one needed at least ten months of training and a minimum of four hundred flight hours.
Given the Wilante's combat aptitude, their training efficiency was roughly 1.5 to 2 times that of ordinary humans; even so, it took at least three months at fastest to produce an effective fighting force.
In contrast, Bolo State, which had evolved from the Heavenly King Army, hadn't even existed for that long!
Even if they could purchase some civilized equipment from the Alliance, they couldn't possibly round up more than a handful of halfway decent pilots.
It was precisely because of this.
These one hundred Daggers did not hesitate in the slightest. Each firewalled their throttles to maximum speed, pouncing upon that swarm of sky-bound medals for fear that the distant airships or ground-based anti-air units would snatch the first glory from their grasp!
"Die!!"
Bellowing a roar to vent his fervor, Milton locked onto the nearest enemy plane and squeezed the trigger without hesitation, the twin 10 mm autocannons beneath his cockpit spitting thick, lashing tongues of fire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The deafening roar vibrated through the cockpit with crisp clatters, the thick, elongated hail of rounds thrusting out like a spear from his grip!
This would be an effortless, foregone conclusion of a dogfight!
In fact, it could hardly be called a battle at all—it was going to be an entirely one-sided slaughter!
After all, the fellow charging head-on toward him right now might not even be halfway through his flight syllabus. He probably hadn't even found the weapon safety switch yet, and was likely screeching to his wingman over why his guns wouldn't fire.
Though a bit exaggerated, the sentiment wasn't far off.
The corner of Milton's mouth curled into a mocking, vicious sneer.
He could already picture the fiery ball plummeting toward the earth, and the corner of his eye was already scanning for the next target favored by the Grim Reaper.
Yet right at that instant, a scene that left him dumbfounded unfolded.
The plane that should have been torn to shreds suddenly banked sideways.
Just as that long string of tracer rounds was about to shred it apart, the craft tilted like an agile bird, catching the rushing slipstream to execute a wide-displacement barrel roll with the lateral force of aerodynamic drag. It effortlessly ducked the burst of autocannon fire and surged forward without losing a shred of speed.
That smooth, seamless maneuver was like the flourish of a fencing master's blade.
And the lethal intent concealed within had already quietly bared its edge.
Milton stared wide-eyed, his eyeballs bulging like ping-pong balls, cold sweat instantly drenching his back.
This guy was no rookie!
No—
Rather, there was no way in hell that pilot came from Bolo Province!
Such seasoned flight skills and effortless composure under pressure could never be honed in routine drills.
Only by brushing against death countless times and breaking free of the reaper's chains over and over could one forge the technique to dance around death so casually.
That bastard was definitely an ace!
He was in deep trouble!
"Shit!"
Cursing under his breath that he was done for, Milton stomped hard on his right rudder pedal and hauled back on the stick, trying to bring his crosshairs back onto the aircraft's flight path to pump in another burst.
Yet the opponent gave him no such chance.
The moment it finished the barrel roll, the counterattacking W-2 smoothly discharged a short, lethal burst from its autocannon.
The 20 mm armor-piercing incendiary shells traced a deadly arc across the sky, slicing diagonally downward like an overhead slash, sealing off the flight path of Milton's craft.
The victor was decided.
"I'm done—"
With zero chance to evade, Milton could only watch in despair as the fleeting firing window slipped away, before his plane inevitably collided head-on with that lethal burst of cannon fire.
Boom—!
A plume of scalding smoke erupted from the fiery explosion, and a Dagger with a snapped wing spiraled violently down toward the ground.
"First blood secured... Safe travels."
Watching the falling enemy plane, Feng Qing tossed out a casual farewell, then deftly pulled a marker tucked into her pants leg and drew the first stroke of a tally mark inside the cockpit.
Nice try.
Still a bit green, though.
The guy was probably itching for first blood himself, opening fire from such a distance that she hadn't even needed to activate her Agility talent; a simple barrel roll had easily dodged it.
His next move had been easy to predict too: having missed his initial strike, he would definitely try to correct.
All she had to do was lead her autocannon to cut off the enemy plane's flight path just as his twin cannons tried to lock onto her.
Because the enemy had underestimated her, her firing window had been plenty generous.
Right at that moment, Gui Gui's voice came through the comm channel.
"Ohoho! Nicely done, Feng Qing!"
"Haha, it was alright, alright..."
Feng Qing smiled shyly, offering a modest reply before expertly acquiring her next target.
Ever since the Goblin Corps was founded, she had been flying planes. Not only had her flight time surpassed a thousand hours, but the time she'd spent waiting to respawn exceeded that by a wide margin.
Countless deaths had long since ingrained every piloting technique deep into her muscle memory.
It was no exaggeration to say that the aircraft she piloted felt like an extension of her own body; she could even feel the airflow washing over the flaps.
Just then, a flustered, exasperated voice sounded over the comms.
"Fuck! Stole my first blood!"
Gui Gui: "Hahaha! Better step it up, Regiment Leader, or one of these days the rookies are gonna overtake you."
WC Really Has Mosquitoes: "Heh! Not a snowball's chance in hell."
Rookie One: "Heheh, you never know! Want to make it a contest, Boss?"
WC Really Has Mosquitoes: "Contest my ass! You haven't touched a plane half as many times as I've crashed one! Focus on your own mission and stop fixating on kill counts! Drop your bombs on target before you start talking shit!"
Rookie One: "Damn! Mosquito is discriminating against rookies! I'm calling you out on the forums!"
WC Really Has Mosquitoes: "%#¥@!"
Rookie Two: "Awoooo!! Long live the Administrator!"
Rookie Three: "Holy shit!! Isn't this way more thrilling than War Thunder?!"
Gui Gui: "Uh, is it just because we have more people now? Feels like the new guys are getting more and more unhinged..."
Able to picture her friend facepalming, Feng Qing didn't know what to say and could only chuckle.
"Ahaha... but I feel like the Regiment Leader actually likes them."
In the overcast sky, the first fireball blossomed.
A parachute drifted out of the burning cockpit, descending toward the ground along with the pride of the Southern Legion's 3rd Air Wing.
Watching their comrade shot down on the very first pass, the Wilante pilots were dumbfounded.
None of them had expected the very first casualty of this battle to come from their side.
What shocked them even more was how crisp, clean, and decisive the enemy's strike had been.
"...They're Alliance pilots." The air wing commander's face darkened, a ferocious glint burning in his narrowed pupils.
No matter how dull-witted he was, he had caught on by now.
The planes flying the banner of Bolo State weren't being piloted by survivors from Bolo Province at all!
They were Alliance personnel!
Those boiling flames were like a stinging slap across the face of every pilot in the 3rd Air Wing.
Still, they were a race born for warfare.
Instead of being terrified by the sudden casualty, the pilots in their cockpits felt their battle lust ignite, thoroughly shedding their arrogance and complacency.
As for the Alliance joining the fray, the entire Southern Legion had long prepared for it, so their jaws didn't hit the floor in shock.
At most, they hadn't anticipated the enemy's response would be this swift, playing for keeps right from the get-go by deploying their own planes and pilots together.
Still, this worked out fine.
Rather than constantly guarding against an enemy lurking in the shadows, it was better to have a good, proper brawl!
"...If you want to die, I'll gladly grant your wish!!"
The air wing commander roared, his autocannons spewing fire as he lunged toward the closest W-2 aircraft.
A kilometer's distance vanished in a blink, and both sides rapidly descended into close-quarters dogfighting.
The roar of autocannons inundated the entire battlefield, tracer fire crisscrossing across the sky.
The blazing ballistic trails clashed above and below the low, dark clouds like lances wielded by cavalrymen.
Planes continually tumbled from the heavens.
Among them were the Legion's Daggers and the Alliance's Mosquitos.
The combat strength of these Wilante pilots was by no means weak; they were far superior to the auxiliary pilots of the Falcon Kingdom.
The same went for their aircraft—they were completely different from the simplified export models modified for easier production used by the Falcon Kingdom's air force!
Even if both utilized propeller propulsion, there remained a vast disparity between them; whether in maneuverability or speed, they weren't on the same level.
After shooting down four planes in succession, Feng Qing began to feel the strain.
Her port wing had sustained moderate damage, the leading-edge slat seemingly snapped, and her remaining ammunition was running low... Yet none of these was the most critical threat.
What was truly lethal was that the airship wheeling back to defend was drawing closer and closer, and the ground-based anti-air batteries had successively completed their firing preparations.
The enemy fighter wing was systematically shifting northward.
If they pursued them, they would enter the airship's crossfire in five minutes at most. But if they didn't press in close, ground-based anti-air fire would soon lock onto them.
Gazing at several bullet holes puncturing her cockpit, Feng Qing took a deep breath, readied herself to respawn, and shouted into the comm channel:
"...Regiment Leader! This distance is good enough! Let's begin Phase Two of the operation!"
Evidently, Mosquito felt the same way.
After a brief burst of static, a decisive voice came through the comm channel:
"All units, listen up! The operation has entered Phase Two! Remember your objectives! Before you crash, make damn sure you empty every last round of your ammo!"
"See you all on the forums!"
"Awooooo!!"
Having said that, Mosquito himself let out a battle howl first, pitching his nose down from its climb and diving toward the train station obliquely below.
That impassioned roar ignited the blood of every player. Feng Qing felt the blood burning in her veins, and normally demure as she was, she joined in the shouting.
The remaining sixty-odd W-2 aircraft suddenly scattered like a burst of fireworks, reversing direction and swooping toward the ground, catching the Daggers—who had been dogfighting while dragging the fight northward—completely off guard.
The 3rd Air Wing commander's heart seized. Remembering headquarters' orders, he roared into the comm channel in shock and fury:
"Stop them!"
His order was hardly necessary. The moment those well-trained Wilante pilots sensed the Alliance pilots' intentions, they broke off their cat-and-mouse game, swung around, and gave chase.
Yet it was already too late!
The planes plunging recklessly toward the earth seemed to have no intention whatsoever of pulling up. As they dove, they engaged their sirens and pushed their throttles all the way to the firewall.
"Wuuu——!"
A shrill, piercing wail echoed through the sky like a horn blown by the Grim Reaper.
Picking their respective targets, they dumped the final few dozen rounds remaining in their autocannons.
A curtain of fire rained from the heavens. The Wilante soldiers stationed near the train station jumped in fright, scrambling for cover.
The stevedores were no different; the second the ear-splitting shriek sounded, they dropped whatever they held and fled headlong away from the station.
One of the planes slammed straight into a warehouse. Before long, sympathetic detonations ripped through the structure; dazzling flashes erupted through the roof, crackling explosions going off like firecrackers.
These planes were powered by fuel cells based on solid hydrogen. With safety protocols disengaged, the fuel cell itself was a bomb, boasting an energy density vastly higher than any delicate lighter that explodes on impact in real life.
And these soaring flames were merely the opening act!
Apart from the W-2 attack aircraft dumping their cannon ammo, several planes carried 100-kilogram aerial bombs beneath their bellies!
Metallic hydrogen was far more vicious than pure solid hydrogen, not to mention the other additives mixed in to enhance its blast yield.
And the planes piloted by these "Goblin rookies" all had clear targets, heading straight for the locomotives parked inside the station.
Along with the railway lines heading north and the bridges spanning the waterways!
Halting the steel flood charging northward was unrealistic.
Yet by striking at their logistics, they could stall the offensive pace of the Legion's 17th Myriad, buying more prep time for the Moon Clan Resistance in the north.
A plane carrying an aerial bomb barreled straight into a train laden with cargo, disarming the bomb's safety only a split second before impact, ramming home together with the ordnance.
The Wilante pilot chasing right on its tail was completely dumbstruck; watching the flames rush toward his face, he could only grit his teeth and yank back on his stick.
These guys are lunatics!
The rolling explosions lasted for five full minutes, every blast causing the Wilante soldiers sheltering nearby to bleed inside.
Sixty aircraft burned themselves up like fireworks, inflicting catastrophic damage on West Sail Port and its surrounding thoroughfares and strategic facilities, while the Daggers chasing behind could do nothing but watch helplessly.
"Damn it!!"
Staring at the sea of flames engulfing the train station, the commander of the 3rd Air Wing slammed a furious fist onto his thigh, only to tear open a freshly bandaged wound on his arm, grimacing in agony.
Earlier, an autocannon shell had punctured his cockpit. Though it missed him directly, the spalling had grazed his arm, nearly severing an artery.
Furious as he was, he had no other options. He could only check in with the airfield control tower before issuing the order for the rest of the wing to return to base.
Meanwhile, four Sabre jet fighters scrambling from the direction of Eternal Night Port arrived too late. After circling the airspace without finding any enemy aircraft, they had no choice but to head back in frustration.
These jets required high-grade runways and ground support environments; there wasn't even an airfield here capable of landing or servicing them.
Watching the blips on the radar screen vanish at a visible rate, General Gulyon's expression turned as bleak and dark as the overcast sky.
He didn't even need to ask his subordinates to know how catastrophic the damage from this air raid was.
The adjutant standing beside him swallowed hard and said with great difficulty:
"A suicide strike... Have those blue gophers lost their minds?!"
Throwing away their lives for a bunch of survivors they have zero connection to!
He couldn't comprehend what those people were thinking.
Didn't they have families of their own?!
General Gulyon, his face grim, did not make a fuss like his adjutant. He merely narrowed his eyes, keeping them fixed on the map.
"The general staff previously speculated that the Alliance likely possessed some sort of remote-controlled cloning technology... It seems their assessment was probably accurate."
This was a theory the Legion's general staff had formulated back during the encirclement and suppression of the Church of the Torch.
Based on reports from frontline troops, they had observed that while Alliance soldiers suffered continuous casualties, the number of their elite units never diminished.
There was only one explanation.
Namely, a portion of the Alliance casualties—especially among their elite units—were actually clones or something similar.
Though it sounded bizarre, it was seemingly the most plausible explanation.
Furthermore, this also explained why the Alliance's vault dwellers rarely appeared outside of communications coverage, and why the Alliance spared no effort in peddling their cables everywhere.
From this, he could draw an initial deduction:
that the clones piloted by the vault dwellers could only operate within a communication radius.
Beyond that radius, they had to risk sending their real bodies, and if they died, they were dead for good.
Like the four blue gophers who had visited West Sail Port previously.
Hearing General Gulyon's deduction, the adjutant paused, a hesitant expression crossing his face.
"But... if that's the case, why didn't our signal jamming shells have any effect?"
He still felt that "remotely controlled clones" sounded far too far-fetched; even "the Alliance's vault dwellers are actually androids" sounded more plausible.
General Gulyon shook his head, holding firm to his theory.
"Electromagnetic waves aren't the only transmission medium. Have you forgotten those mutant slime molds? To this day, we still haven't fully figured out what that psychic signal actually is."
He had heard that long ago, the Human Alliance discovered some sort of planetary consciousness on Gaia, drawing inspiration from it to develop the psychic interference device.
The device could repel low-intelligence creatures and communicate with higher-intelligence minds; academia back then had once considered it the optimal medium for communicating with extraterrestrial civilizations.
After all, linguistic communication was far too inefficient—deciphering took ages, and misunderstandings were rampant.
Whether a creature could be swayed by the psychic interference signal served as a touchstone to test whether its intellect was worth conversing with, and what strategies should be employed.
However, even though psychic interference technology had been developed in the Human Alliance era, even now in the Wasteland Era, no one had truly deciphered what that psychic signal fundamentally was.
The Alliance was obviously no exception, but that didn't stop whoever possessed the technology from using it.
Looking at his stunned adjutant and the other officers, Gulyon spoke in a resolute tone:
"...Regardless of the medium they use to operate their clones, the signal must ultimately reach the front line via cables or signal towers. And those facilities can be tracked!"
With that, he turned to an officer standing before the command table and issued an order:
"...The physical differences between us Wilante and the locals are too stark, making it impractical for us to operate behind enemy lines. I need you to train a special unit composed of Bolo people to infiltrate deep behind enemy lines and launch targeted raids against their communications infrastructure!"
The officer snapped to attention and saluted.
"Sir!"
Looking back at the map spread across the command table, a cold smile gradually touched the corners of General Gulyon's mouth.
He conceded that this airstrike had caught him off guard, and the Alliance's reaction speed had exceeded his expectations.
However, if those bastards thought such crude tactics could derail his grand plan, they were being far too naive.
This war was only just beginning.
Since the Alliance Air Force had entered the fray ahead of schedule, the equipment specially prepared for the Alliance could likewise be deployed early.
While expensive missiles weren't warranted against the natives, they were well worth using against the Alliance.
No matter how cheap those clones were, aircraft equipped with plasma engines and fusion reactors were anything but cheap; trading any number of missiles for them was worth every penny.
Besides aircraft, there were also their ships.
Putting away any remaining complacency, Gulyon stared intently at the waters in the southwestern corner of the map.
If nothing went awry...
The South Sea Alliance's fleet should have arrived by now...
Chapter 851