Death Charge!

On the bridge of the airship Clarion, John sat in his chair, toying with a cartridge-case pendant in his hands as he stared with utter boredom at the smoke-shrouded hills in the distance. A man in a white lab coat stood beside him. The manic fervor radiating from the fellow stood in stark contrast to the boredom written across John's face. The man's name was Martin, a biologist hailing from the West Coast colonies of the Great Desert. Rumor had it he was also a shelter dweller. John didn't particularly like the guy. It wasn't because he was a blue mole rat, but because the fellow was unsettling from head to toe. Perhaps from dealing with corpses so often, he carried the unmistakable stench of a dead body. Still, the man had arrived with a letter of recommendation from General Gulion himself. Even if John disliked him, kicking him off the ship so disrespectfully was out of the question. Besides, finding a blue mole rat favorably inclined toward the Legion wasn't easy these days. At the end of the day, the guy was on their side. "The Death Agent... Just a bottle cap's worth can wither vegetation! Cause organ failure! Kill the soil! And turn the ground into a breeding ground for new toxins!" Listening to the half-mad, feverish muttering, John yawned with utter disinterest. "...We have at least twenty kinds of toxins stronger than that. What makes this 'Death Agent' of yours any better?" Martin let out a sinister chuckle. "Its strength lies in its aftereffects! Complications, contagion, and the like! It won't grant our enemies a quick death. Instead, it tortures them, leaves them writhing in agony, and spreads to infect even more of their numbers." John, previously indifferent, started at once, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "Contagion? Why the hell didn't you say so earlier?" As he spoke, his gaze locked onto the soldiers outside the floor-to-ceiling observation window who were throwing up pontoon bridges to cross the river. Those were his own countrymen, after all. They might be land-bound fools, but he couldn't just watch them march to their doom. "Heheh... There is no need for concern, Commander," Martin said with a dry laugh, watching the Myriad Commander react as if facing a mortal threat. "Those are merely intended effects—such as hyper-infectivity, being effective solely on humans, and targeting only specific populations. "Those capabilities have not yet been realized, though we are getting close... Furthermore, I have carefully calibrated the dosage. With Wilante immunity, antibodies will develop within an hour. You will be practically immune to this toxin's threat." "Practically," John repeated, giving him a pointed, meaningful glare, thoroughly dissatisfied with the ambiguous qualifier. "Yes." Martin made no attempt to deny it. He nodded candidly and owned up to it without hesitation. "...I cannot guarantee one hundred percent, just as I cannot guarantee today will remain clear. However, ninety-nine percent is a certainty, and high command considers those odds entirely acceptable." Pausing, the fanatical gleam in his eyes flared once more as he continued. "Once the final version of this virus is completed... it will purge the vast majority of the Brahma people from this land, just like the ancient Black Death." "And what good does that do us?" John glanced sidelong at him. "We don't need another wasteland. One Great Desert is more than enough." Sometimes he truly couldn't fathom what high command was thinking—Ryan included. Compared to the natives in their other colonies, the Brahma people were extraordinarily docile. They were practically slaves bestowed upon them by His Majesty the Marshal. Purging them was nothing short of a waste. Martin, however, completely missed his point, replying with a breezy smile. "How could it become a wasteland? This place is already a wasteland! If anything... we are merely giving the wasteland a complete transfusion of fresh blood." The feverish zeal flickering in those pupils unsettled John, though he chose to hold his tongue. Across the distance, the troops crossing the river were the 1st Cohort of the 36th Myriad, under the command of Myriad Commander Wolff. Thanks to the massive progress achieved on the eastern front, General Gulion had dispatched two additional myriads to this theater, alongside a cohort of officers sent to Lion City to train auxiliary forces. The 36th Myriad was one of those reinforcements. They had recently dealt a heavy blow to the Alliance's elite armored division—the Skeleton Corps—in western Reedpur County. The main body of troops led by Myriad Commander Ryan was currently advancing toward this area from Lion City. The airship Clarion had deployed ahead of schedule to support the 36th Myriad in establishing an outpost on the opposite bank. According to Myriad Commander Ryan's personal assessment, if the Alliance and the State of Brahma intended to strike their logistics line, they would inevitably seek an opportunity where the Yongliu River curved. Akale County was the most likely spot. Regardless of whether Brahma guerrillas were lurking across the river, they had to cross over and inspect the ground... *** At the same time, in an unnamed hamlet in western Akale County less than twenty kilometers from the Yongliu River, the command post of the 36th Myriad was encamped. Famine seemed to have arrived ahead of the Wilante army. The local villagers had fled long ago, leaving behind only empty hovels and dilapidated adobe walls. Although the survivors in Brahma Province had red clay to subsist on, red clay was not available everywhere. Only densely populated settlements or aristocratic estates possessed the foundation required to cultivate vast beds of red clay. A large population was essential. Yet numbers alone weren't enough; the exploitation had to be sufficiently ruthless to reduce part of the populace to living like livestock. After all, it was hardly proper food. If a person could scrounge up even a mouthful of beans, no one would willingly stomach that stuff. Wolff sometimes felt they weren't invading the homelands of the native inhabitants, but rather delivering these primitives—who had practically devolved into savages—from their lives of ignorance. No matter how thoroughly the residents of West Sail Port lacked freedom and dignity, their lives were far more decent than under Wutuo's reign. The residents of Lion City would soon experience the same. All they lost were a few wooden shacks and beggars; in return, it wouldn't be long before they enjoyed clean, orderly streets, and even sewer systems they had never known before. Inside the command vehicle. The adjutant stared fixedly at the monitors. Watching the completed pontoon bridge and the troops crossing safely to the far bank, the tension in his face finally relaxed into a smile. "...The 1st Cohort has crossed the river without incident. Heh, it seems we gave them too much credit after all." A staff officer beside him frowned and offered a cool-headed warning. "Do not underestimate the enemy. Our opponent isn't merely the locals; the Alliance is here as well." The adjutant curled his lip, waving the concern aside. "I know. The Alliance is troublesome, but their numbers are limited. There are bound to be blind spots they cannot cover." Just like the battle at Lion City, the Alliance forces had merely caused a bit of mischief outside the primary front for Myriad Commander Ryan's troops, only to be wiped out on the plains later and turned into brand-new medals pinned to Ryan's chest. Even if they truly were about to clash with the Alliance, there was nothing to fear. Wolff pondered in silence for a long time, an idea suddenly stirring in his mind. "If I recall correctly... the airship's precision fire support can only be deployed after dropping its anchor chains, correct?" The adjutant blinked in surprise, traded a glance with the staff officer, and gave a cautious nod. "That is correct, sir. Is something the matter?" The airship's fire-control system operated in two modes: dispersion barrage and precision bombardment. Due to recoil, wind resistance, and a myriad of other factors, it usually required dropping the anchor chains to establish the stability needed for precision strikes. In other words, if their troops got too close to the enemy, fire support would be exceedingly difficult to employ. With that realization, Wolff made his decision without hesitation and looked to his adjutant. "Order the artillery support unit to prepare. Pre-align the firing parameters along the route of advance for our 1st Cohort." Though puzzled as to whether such a measure was necessary, the adjutant dutifully saluted. "Understood!" The moment the order was relayed, nearly a hundred Fire Crossbow self-propelled artillery pieces split into three groups, rolling out from concealed positions to the nearest firing points and completing deployment. Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, the 1st Cohort led by Cohort Commander Tote had crossed the Yongliu River without meeting any resistance. It was as though the army of the State of Brahma had fallen asleep, yielding the entire position without firing a single shot. Gazing at the silent forest, the decurion riding in the scout vehicle furrowed his brow, leaning closer to the sights of the power-operated machine gun. He wasn't the only one who sensed something amiss. The driver felt it too, his palms rubbing the steering wheel, his expression guarded and tense. "Something about this place feels wrong..." Keeping his eyes glued to the sight, the decurion asked offhandedly, "Spot anything?" "...It's precisely because I haven't spotted a damn thing that it feels wrong." The driver shook his head, swallowed hard, and stared into the dense woods. "A river bend flanked by hills—there isn't a better ambush site anywhere... Yet it's like they've vanished into thin air, handing this prime position straight to us." A soldier in the backseat let out a low whistle and chuckled derisively. "Maybe our bombardment blew them all to kingdom come." The machine gunner sitting beside him chimed in with a laugh. "Can't rule that out. I heard these primitives don't even have gas masks." "I really don't get what the boys up front were doing, getting disarmed by a bunch of trash like this." "You're making me think of that pathetic slug." "Haha, I'd rather not remember that useless loser—" The words had barely left his lips when a massive impact slammed into the side door. A jet of molten metal drilled through the vehicle door in an instant. White-hot shrapnel tore the machine gunner apart, obliterating half his torso on the spot. The rifleman beside him was scared out of his wits. Staring at the half-mangled torso and the dark blood splashing across half the cabin, he collapsed onto the floor, curling into a ball. He didn't even notice that his pants were soaked—half with his comrade's blood, and half with the urine he had failed to hold back. This was nothing like the Great Desert. In the desert, the deadliest threats were native Molotov cocktails or remote bombs buried by the roadside; they had never faced weapons capable of penetrating their armored hulls. Even though their friendly units had suffered setbacks against this very equipment not long ago, their arrogance had led them to stumble into the exact same trap. The veering nose of the vehicle slammed violently into a tree. The driver's forehead nearly shattered against the windshield, and everyone inside was thrown about violently, dazed and battered. "Damn it!" "RPG! It's the Alliance!" "Coming from the right!" "Joe's down!" "Bail out! Move, move!" Nursing a blackened eye from the crash, the decurion cursed violently as he swiveled the machine gun toward the rocket's point of origin, rattling off a long burst before even confirming a target. The driver rammed his shoulder into the door, bursting it open. The surviving soldiers scrambled out of the cabin one after another, taking cover behind the vehicle and returning fire in the direction of the rocket launch. Moments later, another rocket screamed in, detonating against the front hood. A searing metal jet punched straight into the engine block, sending jagged shrapnel flying that shattered the driver's side windshield. "Motherfucker!" Glaring at the spiderweb cracks creeping across the bulletproof glass, the decurion in the gunner's hatch cursed furiously. He directed his men to disperse to both flanks while radioing rear command for reinforcements. "Scout Team One here! We are ambushed by enemy guerrillas! We need immediate support!" Crackling static hummed through the headset, followed by a calm, measured voice. "Copy that. Report enemy strength and bearing!" "Hell if I know! Damn it! They're right on top of our faces!" The decurion shouted in sheer terror, his teeth gritted as he worked the electric machine gun while desperately trying to pinpoint the incoming fire. Yet the chaos was overwhelming. Bullets seemed to pour in from every direction—some even striking them from behind. They had already reconnoitered that sector! Where had these bastards crawled out from?! Sensing the desperation of the firefight, the previously nonchalant tone on the radio grew solemn. "Understood. Reinforcements have been dispatched to your position. Hold the line!" "Understood!" the decurion roared back. At that exact moment, the barrel of the electric machine gun overheated and jammed. Cursing up a storm, he snatched up the rifle slung beside him and hastily bailed out of the open vehicle. Almost the second he ceased fire and leaped out, yet another RPG rocket streaked into view. This time, the rocket struck the fuel tank dead-on. A pillar of flame erupted toward the sky, flipping the entire vehicle onto its roof. The decurion collapsed onto the ground with a muffled groan. One soldier, unable to dodge in time, was crushed directly beneath the hull, dying before he could even let out a scream. Staring at the exploding scout vehicle, horror flooded the eyes of the surviving soldiers. In the frantic panic, their discipline fell apart, and no one knew what to do. "The squad leader is down!" "Damn it! Someone wake him up!" "I can't get over there!" "Fuck!" A machine gunner gripping his weapon cursed aloud, rattling off a burst toward the distant woods before shoving the gun into his comrade's hands and crawling rapidly toward the decurion. Unfortunately, the moment he left cover, a sharp crack rang out, and a round drilled clean through his helmet. The gunner slumped to the ground without a sound, plunging the surrounding soldiers into complete panic. "Sniper!" Meanwhile, on a dirt mound two hundred meters away, a player propping up a sniper rifle drew a steady breath, shifting his scope toward the next target. "Gunner down! Someone's taking his place!" Another player placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't wipe them all out at once. Leave a few as bait." The sniper fired with a crisp bang, dropping the soldier reaching for the machine gun. "Got it! I'm keeping count." At the same time, four armored personnel carriers led by an infantry fighting vehicle roared up from the bank of the Yongliu River, barreling toward the ambush site to reinforce their comrades. Twenty-millimeter autocannons and ten-millimeter machine guns raked the woods with deafening salvos, their concentrated firepower temporarily suppressing the hail of lead pouring down on the scout team. Yet the Wilante troops inside the vehicles failed to notice the hushed murmurs rustling beneath the trees and undergrowth beside them. While they had been speeding forward to reinforce their comrades, two squads armed with anti-tank weaponry and light machine guns had already outflanked them and settled into position. Watching the Wilante century draw nearer, Laplace slowly raised his hand, then clenched it into a tight fist. "Fire!" The moment the command dropped, ten rockets trailing plumes of backblast swarmed outward like locusts, slamming into the speeding IFV and APCs. Because the rockets were launched right at the edge of arming distance, the proximity left the crews with zero time to react. The armored hulls took the full brunt of the impacts. The IFV drew the worst luck. An RPG punched clean through the driver's compartment; with a thunderous blast, the vehicle broke down by the road, slamming hard into an old tree as thick as a man's thigh. Of the four APCs, two had their engines blown out, and another had its passenger compartment blasted open. The last one rolled over on its side after a frantic, desperate swerve, though that rollover turned out to be a blessing in disguise as it evaded a direct hit. Dazed and battered, the Wilante soldiers tumbled out of their vehicles. Before they could even deduce where the rockets had originated, rattling gunfire tore through their ranks, disorienting them completely. Tracers crisscrossed the forest canopy, weaving a lethal web of fire. "Disperse! Move!" The first centurion out of the wreckage bellowed at the top of his lungs, ducking behind a ruined armored vehicle in an attempt to survey the surroundings. Yet bullets whistled in from all directions, making it impossible to discern where the enemy was concentrated. A single wrecked APC was wholly insufficient against the fierce onslaught, forcing him to hit the dirt once more in disgrace. A torrent of fire poured in from every angle. The dismounted Wilante soldiers were pinned down and utterly bewildered, left with no choice but to drop flat and blindly return fire toward the muzzle flashes. The entire battlefield was engulfed in chaos! All anyone could hear was the relentless chattering of automatic rifles and sporadic detonations—yet not a single enemy could be seen! Recognizing the dire peril, the centurion prone beside the vehicle snatched the communicator from his shoulder and screamed into the channel. "Team One here! We are pinned down by an enemy ambush!" "Their firepower is overwhelming! We're surrounded by at least a cohort!" The words had barely left his mouth when a shrill whistle shrieked overhead from the distance. Before he could react, blossoming fire from an explosion ripped across the position. Two Wilante soldiers took the blast head-on, their exoskeleton-clad corpses hurled aside into the dirt. Straining to raise his head, the centurion swept his eyes across the carnage, a flicker of panic finally creeping into his expression. "Damn it! Mortars!" *** By the bank of the Yongliu River. Listening to the panicked screams over the radio, Cohort Commander Tote, directing the front from the rear, felt anxiety gnawing at his gut. Still, his combat discipline held firm, preventing him from losing his composure in the face of the sudden crisis. The enemy was inside the forest! And they numbered at least a cohort! They might very well be Alliance regulars! Without hesitation, he patched into the airship's communications channel. "This is the 1st Cohort of the 36th Myriad! We are taking heavy fire and require immediate artillery support!" As he spoke, Tote rattled off the firing coordinates at breakneck speed. After a brief burst of static, a response came through the radio. Yet the reply sent Tote's heart plunging into an abyss. "This is the Clarion. We cannot authorize your request... The airship is currently underway. We cannot conduct precision strikes; firing immediately would blanket your forces within the blast radius. If you still require support, maintain a distance of at least one kilometer from all enemy units." One kilometer?! That would mean retreating all the way back across the river! Tote cursed their ancestors back eighteen generations in his head, then shot a hasty glance across the riverbank before quickly jerking his head back. Why should he retreat? The opposition was nothing more than scattered irregulars who had merely tied down a single scout squad and a century. According to reports from the front, the enemy numbered at most a single cohort. As long as he committed his full force forward, he could crush the grasshopper biting his toe in a matter of minutes! If he pulled back now, he would never escape the stain of cowardice. Weighing the stakes, Tote hesitated no longer. Snatching up the communicator, he roared at the top of his lungs. "All infantry, dismount! 2nd and 3rd Centuries, reinforce the 1st Century's flanks! "All other combat units, push into the forest! Wipe out every enemy you lay eyes on!" Hearing their commander's orders, spirited battle cries erupted from the Wilante troops along the riverbank. "Understood!" "Oorah!" A massive column advanced into the woods. Seven centuries drove straight toward the heart of the hills, while two centuries swung out like a pair of iron pincers, clamping down on both flanks of the embattled frontline. Tote had chosen this maneuver because he anticipated more ambushers lurking deeper within the forest. It had to be said, his instinct was spot-on. Unfortunately, he had drastically underestimated their numbers. Stationed here was no mere cohort—it was the Alliance's Death Corps and the 3rd Myriad of the State of Brahma! Throwing a single cohort into that meat grinder was practically suicide... "Well, damn. The Wilante are playing the old calabash brothers saving grandpa routine," In Debt God muttered with an amazed click of his tongue, crouching low behind cover as he watched the enemy units push into the trees. "Feeding troops piecemeal is tactical suicide 101. I didn't think these big-noses used to be this dumb?" Construction Guy mumbled from beside him, completely bewildered. "They're too overconfident. We might just reel in a massive fish this time." Suppressing the excitement in his voice, Brother Edge, who had crept right to the edge of the front line, clicked off the safety of his rifle and shouted into the comm channel. "Artillery Group One, open fire! Creeping barrage straight to the riverbank—blow their pontoon bridge out of the water! "Artillery Group Two, lay down smoke! Fall back to concealed positions after three salvos! "First Battalion, on me! Charge!" With that, he clamped a trench whistle between his teeth and blew with all his might. *Fweeeeet—!* The piercing shriek tore through the woods like an arrow, jolting the advancing Wilante troops. Moments later, a rolling chorus of thunderous artillery blasts shook the earth, sending a tremor of panic through Tote as he followed his forward elements. Artillery support! The forces stationed here were far more than a single cohort! Yet by the time he realized it, it was already far too late. A roaring tide of battle cries crashed into his face alongside the deafening concussions! "Kill—!" Men seemed to materialize out of thin air, or as though the trees themselves had sprung to life. Clad in austere uniforms and gas masks, they charged forward with gleaming bayonets fixed to their rifles. "Open fire!" Tote screamed into the radio. In truth, his order was entirely redundant. The second that whistle had pierced the air, his forward units were already locked in frantic combat with the soldiers surging from the forest. Rattling gunfire echoed through the trees, trailed closely by a relentless harvest of lives. The enemy seemed limitless. Like a tidal wave crashing over the shore, they engulfed several of his centuries in an instant. The scout squad that had been begging for help went silent. The two centuries dispatched to relieve them were ambushed midway, shattered by the sudden violence, and forced into a chaotic retreat. Roars and panicked shouts flooded the communications channel. Horror finally dawned across Tote's face. Just what kind of unit were they fighting?! "Gas masks..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, involuntarily. Could it be... The Death Corps?! The Wilante troops were not the only ones left in shock. Watching the battle unfold from a distance, Isher and the officers of the 3rd Myriad stood frozen in awe. What stunned them was not merely the combat prowess of the Alliance soldiers, but their unyielding courage and fierce morale. Life and death seemed completely cast aside. The moment the whistle blew, every single one of them had scrambled out of their trenches without a shred of hesitation, launching a full-blooded charge toward the enemy. Yet it was no reckless, brainless suicide rush. They had waited until an opening presented itself, striking with deadly precision and vicious intent. Facing an ambush unfolding right under their noses, the Wilante airship could only hover uselessly in the sky, powerless to intervene. Standing beside Isher, a centurion murmured in a low, strained voice, "...Thank the heavens they are our allies." Given the choice, he would rather face the Wilante army than cross paths with these fearless fanatics. After all, even the Wilante—renowned as a warrior race—could be broken and forced to surrender. These people, however, fought as if bent on mutual annihilation. No one could endure that kind of madness. Isher said nothing, his eyes fixed on the allies fighting with ferocious resolve. His blood stirred by the spectacle, an officer couldn't resist looking over at him. "Should we really just stand here? Shouldn't we move up to help?" Isher shook his head. "They told us it isn't our turn yet." Right now, their task was to observe and learn. When the time came, their opportunity would arrive. Just then, a series of deafening booms echoed from far in the distance. The sound originated from far away, rolling across the earth. Hearing the thunder of those guns, the watching officers blanched in unison. "It's Wilante artillery!"