Western front of Bolo Province, Sulak County.
After returning to the forward operating base, Pete first settled the wounded, then reported the situation of the friendly forces who had been shelled to his superiors.
The matter should have been concluded there, and he was just preparing to head back to the barracks to sleep, when gunfire rang out in northern Sulak County. He had no choice but to lead his men to the assembly point once more, following the centurion into an open-topped armored personnel carrier parked by the farmhouse gates.
Sitting in the vehicle, the young men rubbed their fists in excitement.
"Judging by the gunfire, it's at least a century."
"...Eighty percent chance it's the Mammoth State resistance! Word is those guys are elites, equipped with Alliance exoskeletons."
"We have those things too."
While there had been no shortage of battles back in the Great Desert, there were virtually no hard fights.
This was especially true given that the 17th Myriad led by Olette had been stationed at Evernight Port.
There they had an air force, artillery, and monitors providing inshore support, while their opponents were either native rebels armed with pipe rifles or tribes of gray-skinned mutants.
Many of the boys had won before they even caught sight of the enemy once the first round of artillery fire died down.
As for the mutants hiding among urban ruins, they usually didn't bother going out of their way to harass them.
After all, conquering land deep within the interior of the Great Desert offered no profit. Even if the Legion craved land under the sun, they didn't want just any scrap of earth.
Regardless, having the chance to finally clash with a somewhat decent opponent left both the rank-and-file grunts and their officers eager to test their mettle.
Yet while the group chatted away, an older veteran suddenly knit his brow.
"...This gunfire sounds a bit familiar."
Pete also sensed something amiss.
The gunfire that had been ringing out all this time seemed to be coming entirely from their own side's weapons.
"Could be routed soldiers from the State of Brahma, or maybe Mammoth State guerrillas... Hard to say."
Though Mammoth State's army was built to Alliance standards, they also held some equipment captured from the Gray Wolf Army.
The crackling gunfire rattled on for some twenty minutes before finally falling silent just moments before their arrival.
"The firefight is due north! Dismount! Everyone move fast!"
Halting before a grove of trees, Pete led his squad out of the vehicle and set off on foot through the woods, reinforcing the direction where the shots had come from.
Sprinting about two hundred meters, Pete finally reached the scene, only to find the battle had already ended.
Scattered haphazardly through the dense vegetation lay over a hundred corpses.
Their deaths were gruesome in the extreme; many were riddled with bullets, and some even had their throats slit. Beside the bodies lay scattered Ripper rifles, PU-9 submachine guns, and other weapons.
Just as he had guessed, this force had been using Legion equipment.
The centurion who had earlier entrusted the wounded to him stood nearby. Spotting Pete at a glance, he walked over and grinned crookedly.
"You're late. We already handled it ourselves."
Surprised that this centurion would initiate conversation with him, Pete glanced at the bodies on the ground and asked casually, "Who are these people?"
"Probably guerrillas—the ones calling in fire coordinates for those artillery crews... Dammit." The centurion spat onto the ground, looking like he still hadn't vented his anger.
Here lay not only the corpses of Bolo people, but also some Wilante.
"How are your men holding up?"
"Not bad, though a dozen of our brothers were killed... Of course, they lost far more."
Pete didn't speak. Looking down at a face smeared with mud and blood, he felt a flicker of familiarity.
Just then, his own centurion arrived with the rest of their men. The friendly centurion immediately walked away from Pete, offering his superior a cigarette, and the two began chatting and laughing.
The fighting was over and everyone was relaxing, yet Pete noticed the friendly soldiers maintained taut, tense expressions, showing not the slightest hint of joy at having avenged their fallen.
Puzzled, he looked down once again at that seemingly familiar face on the ground.
And in that very instant, he suddenly remembered where he had seen it.
It was earlier this afternoon.
At the time, he had been watching a group of gaunt, sallow-faced men swinging shovels, burying their supposed compatriots from the Heavenly King Army.
Pete's Adam's apple bobbed. Compelled by some inexplicable urge, he squatted down beside a man who looked to be a tenant farmer, reached into his pocket, and indeed pulled out some blood-flecked clods of earth.
It truly was those people!
For a long time, Pete said nothing. In silence, he wiped the blood and dirt from his hands and pulled them back from the corpse.
As he rose to his feet, he noticed the friendly soldier beside him was staring at him nervously.
"Nice shooting."
Meeting the young man's eyes, Pete patted his shoulder and walked away without another word.
He didn't doubt the righteousness of the war, nor had he any interest in seeking justice for a bunch of pathetic wretches, yet his chest felt suffocatingly tight, and he couldn't help wondering what any of this actually meant.
Right around then, his superior finished his cigarette and concluded his conversation with the friendly centurion.
"...Thanks. Thanks to you taking out the eyes nearby, we can finally get a good night's sleep."
"Haha, don't mention it. Your reinforcements were timely as well."
Exchanging a few pleasantries, the centurion waved his hand and led his men back toward where they had dismounted.
Before boarding the vehicle, Pete approached his commanding officer and lowered his voice.
"Those people didn't look like Mammoth State scouts... Who would send an entire century on reconnaissance?"
Even if there were centuries designated for reconnaissance, they wouldn't bunch up as a whole century in one spot.
He phrased it diplomatically—not because he intended to expose friendly forces slaughtering innocents to claim merit, but primarily out of concern that letting the real scouts slip by would invite massive trouble.
Yet no sooner had his words left his mouth than his superior gave him a meaningful look.
"Pete, everyone makes mistakes sometimes. Especially in pitch-black conditions like this, misidentifying a target is unavoidable... We're all on the same side, and we see each other every day. Do you catch my drift?"
Meeting his officer's gaze, Pete held his breath involuntarily.
He wasn't a fresh recruit anymore and had spent a fair bit of time in the barracks, yet he realized he understood nothing at all.
Suddenly, he thought of that green recruit whose collar he had grabbed earlier.
After quite a while, Pete let out his breath and nodded.
"Understood... I was just worried there might be other reconnaissance units. After all, if we let our guard down and let them discover our deployments in Sulak County..."
Hearing this, the officer smiled and patted his shoulder.
"That's a certainty. There's bound to be more than one recon team operating around us. A big fish just bit earlier; if I were them, I'd definitely drop by our side to see if there's any fresh stock—"
Before he could finish, gunfire echoed from the direction of central Sulak County.
Both men froze at the sound.
This time, the gunfire wasn't purely the sound of Legion weaponry; mixed in were distinctive Alliance-style cracks.
A moment later, the centurion's expression turned odd.
"...Looks like our fish took the bait too."
...
In a sense, that centurion's guess was entirely accurate—the 171st Millennium stationed in Sulak County really had reeled in a big fish.
At a granary on a farmstead in central Sulak County.
An entire century had the warehouse surrounded so tightly that not even water could slip through. A decurion holding an assault rifle stepped forward, shouting aggressively:
"Surrender! You're surrounded!"
Hearing the shouts from outside, Jerking Dog glanced at the LD-50 carbine in his hands, then looked at the dense clusters of bullet holes riddling the wall, feeling his scalp tingle with dread.
"Fuck my life! Are these Wilante hackers or what?!"
After guiding friendly artillery strikes earlier, he had intended to scout around inside Sulak County, never expecting this county to be far bigger than he had imagined.
Without satellite navigation, with his drone's battery depleted, and with all the surrounding farms and fields looking virtually identical, he had wandered until he was thoroughly lost. Not only had he forgotten the way back, he had run straight into a Wilante patrol.
At the time, he had assumed they were locals, intending to walk up and ask for directions, even calling out a greeting.
When both sides came face-to-face, each froze on the spot.
Realizing he had approached the wrong people, Old Dog reacted first and bolted for dear life.
The other side was startled for a moment by his sudden flight, but quickly recovered their wits, racked their weapons, and gave chase.
A fierce firefight broke out across the open fields and groves.
Because the Legion possessed night-vision equipment while he had only a carbine and just two spare magazines, he suffered a swift, hopeless defeat. After ditching his VM and drone, he was forced into taking refuge inside this granary.
Pushed to his wits' end, Old Dog, like most noobs, instinctively blamed enemy hacks rather than his own terrible play.
Still, grumbling about it now was pointless.
He was currently agonizing over whether to destroy his own body and wipe the evidence, or let himself get taken down by a scripted event and captured outside.
A rational analysis suggested the latter offered higher returns—he might even be able to scout out the Legion's frontline deployments.
Naturally, the most critical factor was that he had been operating alongside Eagle for several months without saving his progress.
If he died here, he'd drop two full levels at once, which would be a catastrophic loss!
Seeing no movement from the scout holed up inside the granary, the Wilante decurion exchanged a glance with his centurion a short distance behind him, then unhooked a white phosphorus grenade from his belt.
Just as he was about to pull the pin and toss it inside, a rifle was flung out from the granary.
"I-I-I su-su-surren..."
Dammit.
How the hell did you say "surrender" in the Human Alliance language again?
With his hands behind his head, Old Dog emerged from the doorway, caught between laughter and tears upon realizing he had completely forgotten the word.
The Wilante soldiers guarding the entrance looked at one another, exchanging bewildered expressions.
"Is there something wrong with this guy's head?"
"...Could it be a trap?"
They sent this thing out as a scout?
Has the Alliance run out of people?
The decurion clearly felt the same, but this was neither the time nor the place to debate it.
Scowling, he gestured with his hand.
"Take him away!"
A nearby soldier snapped to attention with a salute, then ignored the prisoner's protests, pulled out rope to bind him tightly, hoisted him up, and tossed him onto the carrier outside the granary.
"Fuck, can't you be gentler?!" Old Dog bared his teeth and cursed as a wave of pain shot through his back.
Seeing him act up, the soldier leaping aboard slammed a rifle butt into him.
"Shut the fuck up and stay still!"
Taking the strike with a muffled groan, Old Dog's head spun in dizzying confusion; he almost disconnected on the spot.
The soldier sat right beside him, reached outside the truck bed, and slapped the plating hard.
"Roll out! Back to base!"
"Copy that."
The armored personnel carrier's engine roared to life, swinging through a wide turn before rumbling down a bumpy dirt road toward a nearby village.
Lying in the darkness, Old Dog tried to memorize the route, but soon remembered he didn't know the local roads to begin with and had no clue where he even was, forcing him to give up in defeat.
Jolting through the dark all the way, the carrier finally reached its destination.
The Wilante soldier beside him grabbed the collar at the back of his neck, hoisted him out like a chick, and hurled him onto the muddy ground.
"Get up!"
With a mouthful of mud, Old Dog cursed internally. Remembering that discretion was the better part of valor, he swallowed his anger and squirmed to his feet.
Just you wait!
Once I find out where you guys are, I'll call in the one-five-fives to blow you to kingdom come!
The soldier paid him no heed, merely prodding him with the rifle muzzle to hustle him forward.
This was likely a temporary forward base with next to no amenities; tents were pitched beside civilian houses, while other civilian dwellings had simply been requisitioned outright.
Before he could finish surveying the base, Old Dog was shoved into a pitch-black room, and the door was slammed shut behind him.
Silence fell outside, leaving only the croaking of toads and the rustling drone of insects.
After who knew how long, just as Old Dog was debating whether to log off for now, footsteps finally sounded outside.
With a rattle of iron chains, the sagging wooden door was hauled open.
Looking at Millennium Commander Ross walking in from outside, Old Dog's expression froze.
He never could have imagined such absurd luck—running into an acquaintance in the middle of a warzone! He could only pray silently that this guy didn't remember him.
That wasn't entirely impossible.
Since his Human Alliance language was abysmal, he had mostly kept quiet, only interjecting a couple of words here and there. The man might very well have dismissed him as an insignificant attendant and forgotten all about him.
Yet whatever one feared most was sure to happen. Standing at the threshold of the dark room, Ross narrowed his eyes slightly, then snapped on his flashlight and shone the beam right into his face.
Blinded by the sudden flash of light, Old Dog squeezed his eyes shut, inwardly screaming that he was screwed.
Sure enough, a sneer reached his ears.
"I recognize you. You're an envoy of the Alliance."
Knowing the gig was up, Old Dog gave a quiet sigh upon hearing the word "Alliance," forcing an awkward grin.
He wanted to argue that he was just an impostor, only to suddenly realize he had no clue how to say that sentence.
In truth, he usually relied on VM subtitles and couldn't speak the Human Alliance language at all; he recognized only a handful of words, probably knowing less of it than Japanese.
Without his VM, he was instantly deaf and mute—incapable of speaking, unable to comprehend anything beyond basic words.
Ross, however, misinterpreted his silence as an attempt to play dumb, letting out a mocking scoff.
"I advise you to cooperate and confess everything. It might spare you some physical suffering."
"..."
Watching the NPC's expression turn frosty, cold sweat broke out across Old Dog's forehead.
Oh crap.
Skipping the dialogue backfired hard!
He figured the guy was trying to interrogate him, but he couldn't understand a single syllable of this bastard's gibberish.
How the hell was he supposed to talk his way out of this?!
"Speak!"
Seeing that the man refused to utter a word, Ross suddenly raised his voice in a roar, glaring into his eyes.
"I'll ask you one last time—why are 'official personnel' of the Alliance on the front line?! What are you here for?!"
Jerking Dog: "??"
"Playing dumb, are we? ...Very well."
Ross sneered and nodded, then turned to the murderous Wilante soldier standing at the side.
"I don't care what methods you use, pry his mouth open... Just remember, keep him breathing."
Jerking Dog: "???"
A savage grin spread across the Wilante soldier's face, his eyes fixed on the prisoner like a tiger eyeing a lamb.
Cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop, he gave a ruthless nod.
"Sir!"
That word Old Dog actually understood—and it brought total despair.
Seeing Ross turn and leave the dark room while the NPC soldier strode menacingly toward him, the tension on his face cracked into sheer panic.
"W-Wait a second..."
Holy shit!
This game isn't going to be *that* realistic, is it?!
...
Perhaps owing to lingering historical traditions, the Wilante were skilled not only in warfare, but also in the arts of torture.
In a mere ten minutes, an utterly humiliated Old Dog voluntarily disconnected. Tossing his helmet onto the bed, he hopped onto the group chat with a wailing face to rally backup.
"Daddies save me! I got captured by the big-noses!"
Seeing Old Dog's message, Eagle, Stick, and Wolf, who had logged off not long before, all jumped into the chat together.
Battle-Hardened Wolf: "Holy crap, didn't I tell you to go check where their front line is? How the hell did you get captured?!"
Jerking Dog: "I did go check the frontline position! I saw the artillery wipe out a whole century of theirs, so I thought I'd push forward a bit further. Who knew I'd bump right into their patrol?!"
Shit-Stirring Stick: "You all laugh at Old Dog for being useless, but I say it's quite the opposite. This guy doesn't make a move often, but when he does, it's breaking news. (funny)"
Farsighted Eagle: "The trouble is that we showed our faces in West Sail Port, and even posed as Alliance envoys... *Hiss*, did they recognize you?"
Jerking Dog: "Not initially, but I ran into that Ross guy! Isn't he Battlefield Guy's brother-in-law? Can he put in a good word for me? QAQ"
Battle-Hardened Wolf: "We're doomed. An acquaintance, of all people."
Shit-Stirring Stick: "Not necessarily doomed. Old Dog just needs to deny everything to the grave. What good is their unilateral identification? It's just self-gratification on their part."
Jerking Dog: "I didn't admit a thing! I couldn't even understand what the hell that guy was saying... Brothers, can I still be saved? QAQ"
Farsighted Eagle: "Don't panic yet. Can you confirm your current location?"
Jerking Dog: "...No idea. Maybe west of the shelling point? Within a fifty-kilometer radius? I remember there was a farm nearby. QAQ"
Shit-Stirring Stick: "Be specific! Sulak County has two to three million mu, half of which is farmland. Which farm are you talking about?"
Jerking Dog: "I... I don't know."
Battle-Hardened Wolf: "...Hopeless. Off yourself."
Shit-Stirring Stick: "Sigh! Tough luck. At most we can help recover your VM, assuming some local hasn't looted it."
Jerking Dog: "Don't do this to me, bro... I haven't saved my progress in months! T.T"
Farsighted Eagle: "That really hurts. We'll think of something... You try to brainstorm too. See if you can break out. If all else fails, gather some intel before you bite the dust."
Battle-Hardened Wolf: "...I'll log in and ask if there are guerrillas operating in Ox State. If I recall correctly, that Ross is a confidant of Myriad Commander Olette of the 17th Myriad. Wherever he's based might very well be a critical strategic area."
Jerking Dog: "I definitely saw a bunch of tents!"
Farsighted Eagle: "Try to gather more intel, or bribe some locals... if the opportunity arises."
...
Having wiped out an entire Mammoth State reconnaissance company in the Sulak County theater and captured an Alliance soldier, the morale of the Southern Legion's frontline troops soared!
Myriad Commander Olette even visited the front lines in person to award a medal to the meritorious centurion, encouraging the frontline forces to keep up the momentum and achieve even greater distinctions.
In truth, Olette was well aware of the embellishments in the battle report, but right now that didn't matter in the least.
Since they had launched this war, they needed to build momentum and public sentiment around it; only then could they win more supporters.
And the best way to drum up enthusiasm for a war was to manufacture war heroes.
It wasn't just the reconnaissance company annihilated on the front lines.
Even the hundred-plus W-2 planes that carried out suicide attacks during the day were credited to their battle records.
The squadron leader who led the air force to meet them was even awarded an ace pilot medal for "shooting down" ten enemy Alliance aircraft.
Meanwhile, Golden Gallon Port's *Survivor Daily* published a headline story the next day:
*155mm Artillery Shows Its Might! An Entire Legion Century Annihilated!*
Below the headline was a photograph: an artillery gun deployed in the woods belching a thick plume of fire, with the Moon Clan Resistance battalion commander standing side by side with an Alliance volunteer.
Virtually as soon as the newspapers arrived at the kiosks, they were snapped up clean.
In a noodle shop in the port district, a group of patrons crowded around a copy, sighing and debating animatedly.
"That Absaik fought so pathetically—two divisions being chased all over the place by a single regiment!"
"Laxie's the real fighter after all!"
"Sigh, we misjudged him before! Whether someone's a hero or a coward, you really only find out once fists start flying!"
"...It's too early to say! The State of Brahma's army has almost entirely withdrawn from Ox State. I'd say holding Dog State won't be easy for Laxie either—chances are he'll lose it in the end! How is that any different from Absaik?"
"Still, this Legion airship isn't that impressive either. They hyped it to high heaven, but I haven't seen it do anything spectacular."
"You can't say that! You haven't seen its raw firepower—"
"Have you seen it?"
"Uh... well, not really."
Beside the newsstand outside the noodle shop, Eugene held a newspaper, deep worry etched across his face.
Following that earlier disaster, the Family Association in West Sail Port had been suppressed by the Legion. Not only had Zayed and the rest of the leadership vanished without a trace, but Eugene himself had been expelled by the Legion and forced to relocate to Golden Gallon Port.
Although his friends in the Workers' Association urged him to leave this hotbed of conflict for the time being, he could never let go of his suffering comrades, and so remained reluctant to depart.
Every day, he bought a copy of the *Survivor Daily*, partly to stay abreast of the war's latest developments, and partly to gather news concerning the Family Association.
In all honesty, he wasn't particularly fond of that fellow Zayed.
Not merely due to Elisa's warning, but because his own intuition constantly reminded him that the man inside might be completely different from his outward persona.
However, he was no child; he couldn't arbitrarily judge someone based purely on personal preference.
At least so far, every word that man spoke and every action he took was genuinely aimed at uniting the suffering survivors.
Moreover, unlike Laxie, who sold his own compatriots off to the Southern Sea for labor, Zayed truly went down to the grassroots level—teaching them classes, sharing their hardships, and calling them family.
Eugene asked himself: Lovett couldn't do such things, and even Sberg lacked that ability.
And in the end, he possessed no power to slice open a man's heart and peer into what lay hidden inside.
What was more, no matter what kind of person Zayed was, the united laborers were certainly worthy of their help.
As well as the family members who had finally come together...
Flipping to the back of the newspaper, Eugene finally spotted the news he had long been waiting for on the final page:
[President of the State of Brahma and Chairman of the Union, Absaik, Meets with President of the Family Association]
"...So he's in Tiandu."
Eugene breathed a sigh of relief.
It seemed he hadn't died that night.
In any case, as long as he was alive, that was enough...
Chapter 855