The news that the 11th and 3rd Myriads were being reorganized into the Northern Field Army spread swiftly across the front, eliciting vastly different reactions from the command staff down to the rank and file.
Some breathed a sigh of relief, feeling downright fortunate—especially family men and veterans who had languished on the battlefield for far too long.
After all, anyone with eyes could see that staying here meant almost certain death.
Yet others voiced incomprehension, even outrage.
Most of them were young men, especially hot-blooded youths of fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen.
Having heard of the Wilante atrocities in Lion City, fury had long been simmering in their chests; they burned to fight to the death against those big-noses.
The retreat of the Clarion in particular had revealed a glimmer of victory—their brothers in the Alliance had proven through action that the Legion was not invincible.
Yet now, a single transfer order from Absaik required them to hand that opportunity over to someone else, pouring a bucket of ice water over their boiling blood!
None took it harder than Yokale, commander of the 11th Myriad.
As another major hero of the great victory at Akale County, the moment he heard the relayed order from Ishel, he sprang up from the command table in a towering rage.
"I don't agree!"
Seeming to feel that wasn't emphatic enough, he immediately followed it with an unyielding declaration.
"I flatly refuse! You know the strategic significance of Akale County as well as I do! If the Legion takes control of this place, their supply lines will drive straight through our southern plains! Relieving us at a time like this is making a mockery of the frontline soldiers' lives!"
After all, the three northern states were largely mountainous, the Mammoth State Army's logistics had no ammunition for 200mm guns, and Absaik would never cede such heavy equipment to Laxi.
Which meant that if the 11th Myriad went north, they would have to leave behind those fifty-two self-propelled artillery pieces.
His men had finally learned how to operate those guns, and now Absaik wanted him to spit out the meat already in his mouth. How could he possibly agree?
As for death?
He wasn't particularly afraid of it.
Ever since learning of Udono's death, he had prepared himself for a heroic end. As long as he could kill more Wilante, dying would be dying for a worthy cause.
Confronted by the fuming Yokale, Ishel was momentarily at a loss for words.
The strategic value of Akale County was undeniable; it was obvious not only to them, but to the Legion as well.
Precisely because of that, the Legion was bound to throw everything into attacking this position. Even with the Death Corps' support, holding it with their current numbers was next to impossible.
The most they could do here was bleed the Legion's active forces as much as possible, paving the way for future victory.
It was like horse racing—trading a lower-tier horse to exhaust the opponent's champion, aiming to use their own champion against the enemy's mid-tier horse in the second bout.
The cruelty lay in the fact that the losing horse would die.
And for that very reason, this was not merely a military matter, but a political one.
Yokale clearly failed to recognize the olive branch Absaik was extending to him.
Ishel could even state with certainty that if this man dared to disobey, he would face the execution ground even if they won the war later on.
Reluctant as he was to throw his rank around, Ishel had no desire to watch Yokale do something foolish. Putting on his commanding officer's authority, he issued a stern order.
"Myriarch Yokale! This is an order! Obedience is your sworn duty, and I won't repeat myself!"
Yokale narrowed his eyes. "And if I refuse?"
Ishel replied expressionlessly, "Then I will have no choice but to send you to a court-martial."
The air in the command tent instantly tightened.
Sensing the bristling tension, the guards on both sides instinctively reached for their sidearms.
Yokale's eyes narrowed to slits as he glared fixedly at the stone-faced Ishel. Suddenly, he whipped his head toward the guards beside him and roared, "What are you doing? Planning a mutiny?!"
Stunned by the bellow, his guards hesitated in bewilderment before subconsciously pulling their hands away from their holsters.
The guards behind Ishel breathed a collective sigh of relief and moved their hands off their holsters as well.
If given a choice, none of them wanted to draw weapons on their fellow countrymen.
Ever since the Heavenly King's rebellion, far too many Brahma people had died in internal strife...
Stepping up to Ishel, Yokale stared into his eyes and ground out between his teeth, "...Fine. I'll obey."
Like his guards, he would rather fall to Wilante guns than die by his own people's hands, much less bear the name of a traitor.
Yet that did nothing to quell the rage inside him.
What he found particularly unbearable was that this man, who had been a mere millurion just a month ago, now stood over him.
Back when Janusz was still alive, Yokale had already been a one-star myriarch!
Meeting the resentful gaze, Ishel offered little reaction, merely giving a brief nod.
"Then see to it at once."
...
The troop rotation was set in stone.
The very day after Ishel's confrontation with Myriarch Yokale, the 50th, 51st, and 53rd Myriads marched out in grand fashion toward the defensive sector along the river bend.
Though these youngsters were short and mostly as thin as bamboo poles, every last one was brimming with high morale and vibrant spirit.
Furthermore, slung across their shoulders were uniform LD-47s, at their hips hung entrenching shovels of the same model used by the Death Corps, and every now and then a soldier carried an RPG rocket launcher.
Such well-appointed gear drew no small amount of envy from the men of the 11th Myriad.
Most of them were Udono's former troops, and what little equipment they possessed had been seized from the Wilante at the risk of their lives. These green recruits, on the other hand, arrived fully kitted with top-tier gear, and were about to inherit fifty-two self-propelled guns for free.
Near the logistics depot, several veterans standing by the ammunition dump eyed the recruits test-driving vehicles in the distance, unable to stop themselves from grumbling with envy.
"Damn it, giving such good gear to a bunch of rooks is a total waste."
"Heh... That's what happens when you're stuck under a track star."
"I remember that guy was in Lion City too. General Udono stayed behind, but he ran."
"Heh, cowards flock together, don't they? No wonder he's the one who got promoted instead of our boss."
"Tch, a coward like that inherits the 3rd Myriad's designation! It's a complete insult to Myriarch Mittal!"
Myriarch Mittal had been the commander of the 3rd Myriad and the first officer of myriarch rank from the State of Brahma to fall in action since the outbreak of the war. His unyielding will to fight to the death had inspired many, especially the rank-and-file soldiers.
The men whispered among themselves until they spotted Myriarch Ishel walking over from afar, upon which they ceased their idle gossip.
Grievances aside, there was no point making trouble for their commander.
Though they concealed their discontent carefully, it clearly didn't escape Ishel's eyes. However, he was not petty, nor did he care to argue with ordinary grunts. Once the equipment handover was complete, he headed straight back to the 3rd Myriad's positions.
Unlike the 11th Myriad, the reorganized 3rd Myriad consisted entirely of his core loyalists; from the millurions down to the lowest foot soldiers, they were all his people.
Absaik had hoped he would seize the opportunity of forming the Northern Field Army to fold Yokale into his fold. But given Yokale's earlier uncooperative attitude, Ishel held little hope of the man willingly falling in line.
He planned to promote several mid-level officers into the 11th Myriad as staff officers or instructors. That way, whether Yokale understood his dilemma or not, the command structure would at least be justifiable on paper.
He did not want to see such a promising officer perish in struggles off the battlefield. Too many of their brothers had already died for that...
Having settled the personnel arrangements as well, Ishel set off with a few of his guards to inspect the positions. They were scheduled to leave tomorrow; he wanted to take another look at the ground where he had fought, and perhaps clear his mind in the process.
As he passed an anti-aircraft position, Ishel suddenly spotted several helmets clustered in a bomb shelter pit, huddled together over something.
During earlier safety briefings, he had emphasized time and again to his subordinate officers that no more than three men were allowed in a single shelter pit under non-essential circumstances. A quick glance showed an entire squad crammed inside!
Stepping quietly forward, Ishel peered down into the pit. Gathered in the center was a small booklet. He abruptly spoke up, "What in the world are you looking at?"
Startled by the voice overhead, several soldiers scrambled to their feet, tossing the booklet between them like a hot potato before it finally landed in the hands of a boy of sixteen or seventeen.
The lad looked honest and simple, likely a farmer's son. With just a glare from Ishel, he stammered out everything in a rush.
"R-Report, sir! It's... it's *Letters from Home*..."
Ishel froze for a second. "What?"
Scratching his head, the boy said nervously, "...I don't know either. We captured it from the Wilante. Heard it's a banned book in West Sail Port."
Why would the Wilante possess a book banned in West Sail Port? Ishel was puzzled, but quickly recalled the Wilante privileges there, and the surprise faded.
The Legion had always applied Triumph City's laws to its own people; West Sail Port's laws were meant to bind the Brahma populace. Besides, the book might not have belonged to the Wilante originally; they could just as easily have looted it from nearby peasants or townsfolk.
Then curiosity struck Ishel: what kind of book could terrify the Wilante so much?
"You bastard, taking things from prisoners again! What did I tell you during the meetings? Didn't your officer teach you?"
Having taken a scolding, the youngster explained aggrievedly, "I didn't take it... They left it behind."
"Let me take a look."
"Yes, sir!" Seeing the myriarch hold out his hand, the boy immediately raised the booklet over his head and handed it up.
Reaching out to take *Letters from Home*, Ishel flipped through a couple of pages. It seemed to consist mainly of repetitive homilies urging people to do good, nothing particularly alarming—much like the scriptures of the Silver Moon Sect. At least, he couldn't fathom why the Wilante would fear such a thing enough to ban it with such fanfare. Or was there more to it than met the eye?
Yet what caught Ishel's attention wasn't the book's contents, but the phonetic symbols printed above the lines of text.
Phonetic symbols were wonderful things. Back when Mr. Melchior had taught them to read and write, he had started with phonetic symbols before moving on to anything else. The Human Alliance language was actually quite straightforward: once you could sound it out, you were practically halfway to writing it.
Leafing through the booklet from start to finish, Ishel waved it in his hand and looked at the apprehensive youth. "Can you read this?"
The youth wore a blank expression, glancing back at his squadmates. The other soldiers exchanged looks and shook their heads.
"Don't understand it..."
"I only know how to write my own name..."
"I barely recognize a few phonetic symbols... can guess some of it, maybe."
The overwhelming majority of soldiers in the State of Brahma's army came from impoverished families; joining the army had been either an impulsive decision or a desperate necessity born of hardship. Even so, they harbored a vague awareness that learning a little more knowledge was always beneficial.
Wasn't the recent Grand Examination the best example? Though the examination grounds were in Tiandu, once news reached the front line, it still stirred many hearts, especially among the youth. They yearned to change their fate. That burning desire was every bit as pure and fervent as their longing to change the destiny of this land.
Seeing their eagerness to learn, Ishel felt a stir of emotion. "What can you figure out just fumbling on your own? Once we head north, I'll teach you!"
"Really?!" The boy's face lit up with excitement.
The other soldiers reacted the same way; hearing that General Ishel would personally teach them literacy sent thrills through each of them.
"Of course it's real," Ishel smiled with a nod, shaking the booklet in his hand. "Lend me this book for a couple of days; I'll return it to you later."
The youngster grinned sheepishly. "No need, no need! We have more. Just keep it, sir."
More? Ishel paused in surprise, but merely nodded without dwelling on it. For at that very moment, the roar of propellers sounded in the distance, and the silhouettes of iron airships gradually emerged from beneath the clouds.
There were five of those towering iron fortresses in total!
Just as they had predicted, the Southern Legion had staked all its chips on the eastern front!
In the woods nearby, Brother Edge, sitting on a small wooden stool inside a bomb shelter pit, was adjusting the rifle in his hands. Noticing the light filtering through the trees blocked out, he instinctively raised his head and looked toward the distant sky. Narrowing his eyes, Brother Edge set the rifle aside.
"Finally here."
...
It wasn't just five airships arriving on the battlefield.
There was also the 30th Myriad, led personally by Ryan, along with the reorganized and reinforced 34th and 37th Myriads!
Vast clouds of dust rose from the horizon as the silhouettes of tanks and armored vehicles appeared across the wilderness.
Unlike last time, the Legion was clearly playing for keeps!
The moment two of the airships brought the east bank of the Everflowing River into range, they decisively dropped their heavy anchor chains, completing their firing preparations.
On the airship's bridge, Captain John looked out past the floor-to-ceiling windows toward that expanse of forest and waved his hand expressionlessly. Standing beside him, the adjutant immediately seized the communicator and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Fire!!!"
The instant the order dropped, barrels spat thick tongues of flame. An overwhelming barrage rained down like a swarm of locusts, howling through the air before slamming into the dense woods.
*Boom!!!*
Flames from the explosions filled half the ridge in an instant, and thick yellowish-green smoke swallowed virtually the entire forest east of the river.
Both the coverage and intensity of this bombardment far exceeded the Clarion's fire during the previous battle. Furthermore, the thunderous barrages roared through five full salvos, an earth-shattering onslaught bent on wiping the Alliance and Brahma positions clean off the face of the earth!
After the ferocious pounding, toxic fumes thoroughly baptized the entire woods. The shrouded vegetation withered at a rate visible to the naked eye, gradually exposing some of the hidden positions. In the previous engagement, the Clarion had also deployed chemical weapons, but their efficacy had fallen far short of this. As for why this strike was so devastating, the reason was simple: the Southern Legion's forward field research institute had refined both the formula and the delivery method of "Death Agent."
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Martin, clad in a white lab coat, stared fanatically at the withering woods, the tip of his nose practically pressing against the bulletproof glass. As director of the field research institute, the Death Agent project was his creation.
The moment the bombardment ceased, he whipped around to face Captain John in his chair and beamed broadly, "...Well? Respected Myriarch, are you satisfied with the fruits of my research?"
"Acceptable," John replied lazily, his right arm resting on the armrest and his chin propped against the back of his hand. In truth, he preferred fire over poison gas. Unfortunately, located in the tropics with a humid, rainy climate, incendiary weapons had limited blast damage here.
Receiving confirmation, Martin's grin turned ghastly, and he pressed on without pause, "The toxicity can be enhanced even further... but I need corpses, primarily for research purposes."
John answered tersely, "I will pass your request to Myriarch Ryan. Clearing the battlefield is the Army's job."
"A thousand thanks!" Martin bowed deeply, then brazenly strode off the bridge. He had seen the spectacle he came for; now he needed only wait for the Wilante to deliver the corpses to his lab.
John made no move to stop him. If anything, he was eager to see that stench of rotting flesh get as far away as possible. The adjutant standing by glanced at the closed door, then turned to John and couldn't help remarking, "To think a creature like that is a shelter resident... If you told me he was a mutant in human skin, I'd believe it."
Gazing at the land plowed by artillery outside the window, John let out a quiet chuckle. "I've never believed shelters protected good people. Nebulous notions of good and evil were never the criteria shelters used for screening."
Besides, not all shelters carried out ordinary sanctuary missions. Plenty were twisted experiments, or ticking time bombs brewed through the fermentation of time.
Watching the forces advancing steadily across the field outside the window, a staff officer who had kept silent finally spoke up, "It's over. The outcome of this war is practically beyond doubt."
He couldn't imagine anything capable of stopping this army. Not even a nuclear warhead could!
Just then, a request for fire support from the ground forces crackled over the comm channel. John glanced at his adjutant, who caught on immediately, gripped the communicator, and barked, "Switch to white phosphorus!"
As soon as the order was given, artillery crews swiftly loaded their shells. After confirming each gun crew's status, he bellowed once more, "Fire!!!"
Meanwhile, in the wilderness west of the Everflowing River, Ryan sat inside his command vehicle with a smile, watching the flashes of fire flickering across the sky outside the window. Under such dense firepower, no carbon-based lifeform could possibly survive in the enemy positions.
Yet right at that moment, an alarmed shout suddenly broke across the comm channel: "Rockets! It's the Alliance's rockets!"
Hearing that, Ryan's pupils contracted sharply. He reached out instantly, opening the holographic display and linking it to the observation cameras atop the command vehicle.
Almost simultaneously, rockets trailing tails of exhaust surged skyward against the rain of fire falling from above, lunging toward the heavens from the distant mountains.
The targets of those rockets appeared to be the airships? Had they lost their minds?!
A flash of bewilderment crossed Ryan's eyes; he couldn't fathom what they were trying to do. But his confusion didn't last long, as the blooms of fire bursting in the sky soon provided the answer.
The rockets indeed failed to hit the airships directly, but the fragments and incendiaries from their detonations were sucked right into the rows of outstretched propellers.
Realizing what the Alliance was after, Ryan's face changed instantly. He roared into his radio, "Shut down the propellers!"
In truth, there was no need for him to say it; the captains had already spotted the danger and ordered the propellers halted. Regrettably, their reaction was a step too late!
The propellers that sucked in fuel instantly erupted into fireballs, and the raging flames surged along the extended wings toward the main hulls. Three of the five airships caught fire along their wings!
Deflector shields could deflect explosive fragments, but they could not stop engulfing flames. Left with no choice, the three unfortunate airships had to jettison their wings, letting the burning appendages plummet toward the ground.
Although wing damage was hardly fatal for Legion airships, having three vessels lose mobility simultaneously was a humiliating disgrace.
Fury blazed in Myriarch Ryan's chest. Gritting his teeth until they nearly ground to dust, he snarled, "Clarion, Rolling Thunder, by my command! Target their counter-battery fire and blast them to hell!"
A reply soon came over the comm channel: "Understood... but respected Myriarch Ryan, the enemy rocket artillery positions are beyond our effective range!"
"Then haul up the damn anchor chains and sail into range to pound them!" Without a second's hesitation, Myriarch Ryan bellowed further commands: "30th, 34th, and 37th Myriads, advance toward the riverbank! Annihilate every living soul standing before you! Crush them all!"
On the other side, in the positions on the east bank of the Everflowing River, In Debt God stood up wearing a gas mask.
Although their rocket artillery had dealt the Legion a nasty blow, the enemy's bombardment had inflicted heavy casualties on them as well.
Corps Commander Brother Edge himself had fallen in the earlier shelling.
Not that it mattered much. For the Skeleton Corps, sacrificing their commander was a rare accident. But for the Death Corps, it was just standard operating procedure.
Taking over command without hesitation, In Debt God hollered at the top of his lungs, "Brothers! These big-noses haven't given up yet. Let's teach 'em a lesson!"
High-spirited roars and battle cries immediately erupted over the comms channel.
"Awoooo!!!"
Chapter 873