People Are the Future

The swirling rain of fire across the sky resembled a river of stars cascading from the highest heavens. Rainwater on the ground was boiled away, steel was melted, and the earth was scorched black. Before that fatal, searing heat, no living thing could survive. Not even the red clay. It was a ruin far more immediate than fallout. Gazing out at the burning earth ahead, Wolff, Myriad Commander of the 36th Myriad, narrowed his eyes slightly. A faint smile involuntarily tugged at the corner of his lips, though it vanished just as quickly. Even though he had no doubt the Southern Legion would achieve ultimate victory in the end, it was difficult to frame the battle before him as a victory. Cornered by the joint encirclement of three myriads, the enemy had managed to sever their supply lines despite suffering heavy losses. Worse still, that had been just a single armored cohort of the Alliance! Even if their numbers ran a bit high, at most it counted as a reinforced unit—nowhere near the strength of a myriad. No matter how the Triumph Daily polished the prose for them, casualty and battle reports could hardly lie. And it was hard to say whether the Triumph Daily would help them as it used to. After all, this time was different from the past. They had offended too many people; even their allies to the east were not standing entirely on their side. Still, offended was offended. He consoled himself with the thought that as long as they attained final victory, everyone currently keeping them at arm's length would come around. Yet how much longer until victory? This was merely the beginning. There was no telling what was waiting ahead for them. Watching the slowly dying flames, the staff officer sitting beside him twitched a corner of his mouth. "...It's finally over." The enemy's stubborn resilience had far exceeded his imagination. "Yeah." Wolff nodded. He did not say another word, merely watching with an expressionless face. Glancing sideways at him, the staff officer said in a low voice, "Their technological progress is faster than we imagined. According to the intelligence provided by our allies in the east, they fielded only a single vehicle-mounted railgun as their trump card in earlier battles, yet this time they equipped an entire armored force with them." Pausing, he continued, "I have every reason to suspect they have more... That poses a threat to us." The spaced armor of the Conqueror 10 provided near-absolute protection against shaped-charge rounds, and shaped-charge rounds were virtually the limit of what most survivor factions could manage with primitive industrial technology. As for kinetic cannons, conventional calibers and propellant charges could not even reach the spaced layer; the tough outer hull alone could easily shrug them off. Because of this, the Conqueror 10's impenetrable armor was an insurmountable "Wall of Sighs" to the vast majority of survivors. To defend against improvised gravity bombs hurled from abandoned high-rises and adapt to urban counterinsurgency, they had even reinforced the turret roofs specifically! Yet all these deliberate designs were rendered a laughingstock before weapons developed from new technical principles. The Alliance's railguns punched through every time. As long as the statically charged projectiles so much as grazed an ammunition rack, a brilliant cascade of sparks ensued—one of the reasons their armored formations kept erupting into fiery wrecks. In theory, a railgun's penetrating power was adjustable; fitted with specialized penetrators, it could even overcome air resistance, meaning there was truly no upper ceiling to its destructive potential. Worryingly, word had it that the South Sea Alliance possessed this technology and had mounted it on their battleships. In the past, they had never given those fishermen in the Southern Sea a second thought. But with the Alliance's arrival, those sea stars huddled on the islands had suddenly found their backbone and begun branching outward. Once these technologies spread, the Legion's superiority built over the past century and a half would be completely wiped out! If they wanted to counter this unprecedented threat, they had to break out of the Conqueror series' design philosophy at the very least, and develop brand-new equipment based on emerging tactical needs. Such preparations should have been made before the war started, but from what he had seen, nothing of the sort existed. While their adversaries were carefully studying their equipment, the Legion's high command had simply purchased a massive batch of Conqueror 10s from the Eastern Legion. Perhaps the upper brass held other trump cards, or perhaps from the beginning they had never banked on an armored advantage to win, putting their chips on other hole cards instead. Still, the current battlefield conditions filled him with a creeping unease. Though he likewise had no doubt the Wilante would prevail in the end, he could not help worrying whether they had grown overly confident, even blinding themselves to the objective laws governing the course of events. Even though they never tired of paying lip service to them. "...Merely a tactical threat," the adjutant corrected with a smirk, dismissively continuing. "At the strategic level, it's an entirely different story. Just like now—whether railguns or whatever else, all that's left in the end is a puddle of molten scrap. Even if they win ten times over, Lion City is in our hands right now." In terms of firepower, the Southern Legion would bow to no one! In this, he had absolute confidence. Even if the enemy's railguns were slightly superior, that could not bridge the chasm in overall firepower! "That's all true," the staff officer replied without contradicting him, merely asking in return. "But what if they have other cards to play?" The adjutant chuckled. "You mean phase cannons? Those things are indeed a threat, but it's not like we're unprepared." The staff officer shook his head. "I'm afraid it's something else." "Like what?" "I don't know." At this ambiguous answer, the adjutant blinked in surprise. "You don't know?" The staff officer nodded, his expression grave. "Not knowing is the most terrifying part... Haven't you noticed yet? Our opponents know us, but we have never tried to understand them." He constantly had the feeling that the Alliance had already infiltrated their ranks. This was hardly surprising. Plenty of Wilante harbored hostility toward the Alliance, but just as many harbored goodwill. People like that were the easiest to turn. In fact, no bribery was needed; they were willing to help out of their own convictions. Whether the Legion admitted it or not, such people existed in their ranks. And as the Legion's actions grew more unhinged, this current of resistance only swelled. By contrast, on the Legion's side, forget about bribery—even trying to hire a brewmaster from Dawn City to work in Avente was an uphill battle... *** The roaring fire had reduced the enemy to ash and finally dissolved the fury smoldering in their hearts. Not only did the officers inside the command vehicle ease their furrowed brows, but the soldiers of the 36th Myriad also loosened their taut shoulders and lowered their raised muzzles. It had truly been a vicious battle; the sudden arcs of electricity flashing through the dark and the turrets sent hurtling into the sky had become a lingering nightmare in their minds. The distant flames gradually died down. Just as everyone was preparing to pack up and pull back, a stumbling figure suddenly appeared across the pitch-black wilderness. His arms were bound tight with rope. He staggered through the muddy ground with wild, unsteady steps, looking ready to pitch forward face-first at any second. The forward reconnaissance team spotted him first. The Wilante soldiers standing beside the recon vehicle exchanged glances, surprise plain in every pair of eyes. Someone was actually still alive?! "Captain, there's a survivor!" "...Looks like one of ours." Sitting inside the vehicle, the decurion frowned, peering through the optical sight of the remote-controlled machine gun. The man was caked in grime, his face bloody and bruised, trousers soaked through with a huge wet patch, looking like a stray dog rolled out of a mud pit. Yet both the prominent bridge of his nose and the uniform he wore declared his identity. The fellow was his compatriot. Even if he wished with all his heart that weren't so. "Halt!" Once the man drew closer, the decurion stepped down from the vehicle himself and aimed his weapon, signaling him to stop. "I... cough, cough! My name is Quincy... I'm on your side!" Panic was written all over the young man named Quincy. His eyes were as hollow as coal briquettes, his dirt-smeared face making him look like a miserable slug. He hadn't wanted to look like this. Yet he had been utterly terrified. Not only because that earlier bastard had made machine-gun noises with his mouth while mock-spraying a whole magazine at him, but even more so because of the barrage falling from the sky. It was entirely unlike what he had seen in exercises. He hadn't been charging alongside artillery fire; a deluge of shells had rained straight down on him. The burning white phosphorus had almost grazed the heels of his boots. Barely escaping the jaws of death, he had nearly perished at the hands of his own comrades! "Unit designation." The decurion stared unblinkingly at him, scorn gleaming in his eyes at the sight of the sniveling wretch. "34th Mechanized Infantry Myriad... 3rd Cohort..." "3rd Cohort what? Can't you even recite your own unit designation?" The decurion glared coldly, lowering his muzzle slightly. "And where the hell are your exoskeleton and equipment? Did you give them away as gifts?" "...In—they're probably in the fire." Quincy swallowed hard, not daring to say the guerrillas had probably scavenged them. The decurion didn't care either way, simply regarding him with open contempt. "Oh, really? Then why aren't you in there too?" "I..." "I'm ashamed of you. To think a spineless bastard like you is our compatriot." The decurion pulled a captured pistol from the belt of a nearby subordinate and tossed it onto the ground before the dog-like wretch, speaking with utter disgust. "Our 36th Myriad doesn't have pathetic cowards like you. We'd rather die on the battlefield than surrender." He said nothing more, yet he had said everything, quietly watching the terror-stricken youth. The other Wilante around him wore the same expressions. At first, they had felt a twinge of pity for the poor fellow, but after hearing their squad leader's words, that sympathy evaporated. This sniveling wretch was a Wilante? What a disgrace to their noble blood! He'd be better off shooting himself. Dying by his own hand or in enemy hands, he could at least pass for a brave man. Trembling, Quincy picked up the pistol from the dirt and pressed the barrel under his chin. Yet his index finger felt as though it were filled with lead; he shook for what felt like an eternity without finding the courage to pull the trigger. He looked pleadingly at the compatriots standing around him, hoping they would stop him, only to find them watching with amused smirks, as if urging him to hurry up. Why was it like this? He had fought so that the Wilante could live on land bathed in sunlight. Why had his narrow escape turned him into an enemy of his own people? He felt something shatter inside him, and suddenly, he broke down, howling into the night. "Aaaaargh!!!" Summoning every ounce of resolve, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger—only to hear a sharp click. Clack. The hollow snap left his head buzzing as if kicked by a mule. The chamber was empty... He had been played. No matter how slow-witted he was, he realized these veterans had treated him purely as entertainment. Quincy stared blankly at them. In an instant, the strength was sapped from his body, and he collapsed onto the muddy earth with a thud. The Wilante soldiers cast one last derisive look at the coward, said nothing, climbed back into the vehicle, and roared off into the distance. The soldier in the driver's seat had been watching the entire spectacle. Glancing at the figure receding in the rearview mirror, a faint look of pity crossed his face. "Are we really leaving him behind?" Before the decurion could speak, another young man beside him sneered. "Do you want to share a ride with that mud-man?" The gunner carrying the machine gun chimed in with a laugh. "He ran all the way here, so let him keep running. Who knows, maybe he'll run all the way back to Triumph City." "Hahahaha!" Uproarious laughter filled the cabin. The boys of the 36th Myriad returned to camp crowned with the glory of having annihilated an Alliance elite cohort, even if that tough battle had forced them to leave quite a bit behind. *** Meanwhile, on the other front to the north of Sulak County, the 17th Myriad stationed there had finally linked up with reinforcements from the rear and launched another invasion toward Dog State, one of the three northern states! The Moon Clan resistance forces stationed along Dog State's border put up only limited resistance before withdrawing from the battlefield. Just as planned, they chose mobile warfare to counter the Legion's offensive. Their strategy was to stretch the enemy's supply lines as far as possible, then use artillery and guerrillas to grind down their effective fighting strength—much like their tactic against the Gray Wolf Army along the border of Mammoth State. However, this made their battle reports look rather dismal, with the front line appearing to crumble upon first contact. Compared to the unflappable Laxi, Absaik was visibly far more restless. If the Alliance's elite forces hadn't already arrived in Tiandu, he might well have followed Shahrukh's lead and slipped away. Tiandu offered routes in every direction: south lay his homeland of Wolf State, and east lay Elephant State, blessed with favorable weather and fertile lands. If he wanted to flee, there were plenty of places to go. In the worst case, he could live out his days in exile as a gentleman of leisure in Golden Gallon Port. Panic gripped the entire city of Tiandu. Yet right when everyone wanted to flee, someone who actually had a way out chose to stay. Inside the office of the Supreme Commander's headquarters. Isher stood before the desk, looking at Absaik seated behind it, and said, "I want to go to the front." Absaik paused his pen and looked up at the young man. He had some impression of him—he seemed to be one of that slippery bastard Anwo's men. A few days earlier, Anwo had cabled asking to transfer his former subordinate to Golden Gallon Port to assist him. Absaik had no reason to obstruct such a trivial request; besides, he needed someone in Golden Gallon Port to plead poverty on his behalf, so he had approved it with a wave of his hand. To his surprise, on the day he was set to depart, Isher refused to leave. "The front? Going to the front at a time like this—have you really thought this through?" Looking at Absaik's half-smiling face, Isher nodded firmly. "I have." "Fine, you've got guts! Then I won't hold you back. Go with the Alliance folks." Pausing, Absaik's eyes darted slightly, and he added, "Your rank is too low; it doesn't match your abilities. As of today, you are promoted to Myriad Commander, tasked with rebuilding the shattered 3rd Myriad!" Isher straightened his back and pressed his right fist against his chest. "Thank you for the promotion, Supreme Commander!" Absaik waved his hand with a grin. "It's no glamorous job. Don't run yourself ragged. Just get those green recruits familiar with how things work... Never mind, I trust you understand. Take care of yourself." Isher knew what he meant, and he knew why Absaik had suddenly promoted him to myriad commander and dumped a bunch of fresh recruits on him for training. And under the resurrected designation of the 3rd Myriad, which had suffered the most heroic sacrifices. Though the Supreme Commander was deeply dissatisfied with Anwo taking matters into his own hands in West Sail Port, deep down he still regarded them as his own subordinates. In other words, he looked out for his people. Everyone knew the front line right now was a raging fire pit—one that swallowed endless firewood without ever being quenched. Absaik had at least dropped hints not to go, and when he saw he couldn't dissuade him, he devised a way to keep him safe. Isher nodded, expressed his heartfelt thanks, and turned to leave the office. Watching the young man walk out, Absaik, who wasn't particularly old himself, sighed with the weary cynicism of an old veteran. "...So we aren't all slippery opportunists after all. There are still a couple of good lads." A pity, though. On the soil of Brahma Province, decent men rarely met good ends. A few months wouldn't change that; a few years wouldn't either. It would take decades, maybe even a century. Only when scoundrels like him were held at gunpoint by truly good men would the State of Brahma genuinely be saved. Absaik chuckled and shook his head, picking up his pen to bend over the desk and continue writing. [...To Kabaha, Education Commissioner.] [I think this university idea of yours has real merit, but the treasury of the State of Brahma simply has no spare cash. You'll have to give me a couple of years of breathing room; consider this money my debt to you.] [Besides, I've heard that Mr. Rat established a Mammoth State University in Mammoth State, recruiting students from across the entire Brahma Province. Since that's the case, why don't we borrow their classrooms and desks first, run a "joint program," and use their grounds to teach our students?] [You educated folk should talk more amongst yourselves, just like how Laxi and I get along. If you can swallow your pride and ask, I'm sure Mr. Rat won't turn you down. Cursing me out won't magically squeeze silver coins out of my pockets anyway.] [Right now, Tiandu is engulfed in war and gunfire, hardly a place to educate young minds. Besides, it'd be a tragedy to build nice school buildings only to see them blown to rubble; better to build them after the fighting is over.] [Consider the university approved on my end. Start selecting eligible students of the right age. The current budget isn't enough to erect big buildings, but it's plenty to organize a few exams and scrape together travel stipends and living expenses. Be sure to pick out true talents and send them to Mammoth University to learn under the teachers there. Once they graduate, they will be our teachers. I'm not worried they won't come back; I'm worried they'll end up marching into the trenches alongside rough bastards like us and never make it back at all... Whether in the State of Brahma or Mammoth State, people like that—those talents—are our future.] [You will be the sole gatekeeper on this. If any slippery bastard tries to slip someone through the back door, come find me, and I'll flay his hide off!]