Sentimentality

"Boom—!" A deafening explosion abruptly rolled in from the distance, startling Grove and Brother Dog as they stood beside the field command post discussing their withdrawal plan. Both of their faces turned pale. Hurrying inside the command tent, they stopped before the camp's only radio set. The communications operator seated at the desk had just established contact with the frontlines. Looking up at General Grove and Staff Officer Gouxiong, the operator did not wait for the general to ask and immediately stood up, speaking in a rapid burst. "Report! The unit under attack is the 5th Chiliad of the 102nd Myriad! Enemy numbers are unknown, estimated to be one to two armored units!" Brother Dog asked in a hurry, "Where is the 5th Chiliad?!" The operator answered at once, "Milyans County!" Hearing that familiar place name, cold sweat broke out on Brother Dog's palms. "Holy crap... these guys know what they're doing!" Right out of the gate, they had struck at the vital point! A truly ruthless opponent! At the same time, General Grove had already walked over to the map hanging inside the command tent. Staring at the colored lines across the map, his brow gradually twisted into a tight knot. In his strategic deployment for Operation North Wind, Milyans County served as the logistical transit hub. Although this campaign primarily aimed to disrupt the enemy's logistical supply lines—with units dispersed into small detachments conducting surprise attacks without stable supply routes—captured materiel could hardly be buried on the spot; it ultimately relied on roads and vehicles to be hauled away. Milyans County was precisely that staging point. Supplies seized by the 101st, 102nd, and 103rd Myriads were first brought here in scattered shipments, before being gathered and transported back to the frontlines of Snake State by their handful of truck units. According to the original plan, the withdrawing 102nd Myriad would assemble north of Milyans County to stall the Legion's reinforcements and buy time for the 101st and 103rd Myriads to evacuate the supplies. Yet the Southern Legion's march speed had completely defied their expectations. They had actually managed to strike Milyans County before the 102nd Myriad could even assemble! If that sector fell, it would be an absolute disaster for the 102nd Myriad converging on the area. Like water thrown onto a red-hot iron, they would be flash-boiled into white steam in an instant. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his forehead. General Grove took a deep breath, fighting to keep himself calm. The more critical the moment, the calmer one had to be. One misstep and the entire board was lost. For the enemy to launch a counterattack this fast, the commander leading them was clearly no ordinary figure. On the other hand, while Grove had nine myriads under his command, their equipment consisted overwhelmingly of light weapons. They severely lacked anti-armor and anti-air capabilities. For the Legion to undertake such an audacious gamble, they had unquestionably prepared follow-up moves. If he grew greedy for the supplies in Milyans County and committed all three myriads, he might not only be forced to spit out everything he had swallowed, but could very well lose his entire principal... Going all in or folding both offered a path to survival... Yet hesitating would mean certain defeat! In that split second, the usually naive-looking older fellow revealed a wolf-like ruthlessness across his face, arriving at a decision within mere seconds. "Notify the 102nd Myriad of a change in plans... Bypass Milyans County and withdraw directly to the border of Snake State! Pull back from the enemy's strategic depth at maximum speed!" "Take as many captured supplies as they can carry! Anything that can't be hauled away is to be buried on the spot, hidden in nearby villages, or destroyed outright!" "Yes, sir!" The communications operator delivered a crisp military salute, then sat back down before the radio. Having issued the order, General Grove felt the blood throughout his body practically boiling. Reaching into his breast pocket, he fished out a crumpled cigarette, set it between his lips, and struck a match. Only after drawing a deep drag did he finally settle his nerves. He told himself this was his last cigarette of the month, and only now could he afford to take a couple of puffs. Based on his earlier mental calculus, he was nearly one hundred percent certain that the Southern Legion's incoming reinforcements numbered at least a hundred thousand strong! That was precisely the confidence that emboldened the enemy to send light armored forces deep into their lines alone! It seemed he had genuinely struck a nerve with them this time. He might actually earn himself a spot on a deck of bounty cards. Not a sliver of fear lingered in Grove's chest. Instead, every single cell in his body trembled with excitement. "Son of a bitch... It's finally time for a real brawl!" The corner of his mouth curved into a chilling arc as he tossed the half-smoked butt onto the dirt and crushed it firmly underfoot. Those big-nosed bastards had better not disappoint him. He had grown moldy warming the cold bench along the border; petty skirmishes were never going to cut it. Zayed had only told him to put thirty percent of his effort into fighting the Legion while dedicating the rest to training troops, and by the time the order trickled down to Gopal, the target for "offensive operations" had been slashed in half again. Even Operation North Wind had only been approved thanks to the leverage applied from behind the scenes by his Alliance brother beside him. He understood his boss had political worries, dreading that the Southern Legion would needlessly bleed their strength dry, allowing Shahrukh—who eyed the Family Association like a vulture—to reap the benefits while gaining nothing tangible in return. But prioritizing politics over solidarity would never save the State of Brahma. Of course, he had no intention of putting his boss in a corner. He would use his own method to kill two birds with one stone and smash this stalemate wide open. Was Zayed worried about Shahrukh taking advantage of the chaos? Easy enough. Since the higher-ups wanted him to use Operation North Wind to display their resolve in striking at the Southern Legion, he would turn playacting into reality—thumping the Southern Legion's deployments in southern Wolf State until those wolf cubs wailed in agony! Once the Legion took off the gloves, they would inevitably push right across the border into Snake State, and Shahrukh would have no further excuse to ignore a fire raging on his own doorstep. When that time came, the tables would turn, and they would be the ones holding the leash! Brother Dog, staring at the map, had also been pondering a countermeasure, never expecting that General Grove had already reached a decision. Though abandoning Milyans County was indeed an option, he could not shake the feeling that it was far from ideal. Even if the 5th Chiliad had been caught flat-footed, holding out for an hour or two should not have been a problem. If they could muster the other nine chiliads dispersed throughout the sector, overwhelming that light armored unit with sheer numbers was not out of the question. "...You plan to give up Milyans County? I still think we have a shot." Brother Dog tried to offer his perspective, but his suggestion was mercilessly shut down before the words could even settle. "Don't bother thinking about it. We don't have a chance. And it's not just Milyans County I'm abandoning; strictly speaking, I'm scrapping the entire supply evacuation plan." Staring at the map, General Grove continued in a flat, dispassionate voice, sounding like a cold piece of machinery. "We must pull back our frontline forces as quickly as possible and establish defenses along the border of Snake State, doing everything in our power to inflict casualties on our enemy! I have a strong premonition that the Southern Legion will soon mobilize its main force to launch an offensive on an unprecedented scale against us." "That includes bombing strategic infrastructure in Snake State, and an all-out assault by armored divisions... We will soon face a situation like never before. We must begin preparations early." Hearing that resolute tone, Brother Dog instinctively held his breath. If the situation truly stood as described, his own considerations had indeed been somewhat short-sighted. Yet thinking of those young men who affectionately called him family, he could not stop himself from speaking up. "But the 5th Chiliad in Milyans County is already pinned down by the Southern Legion's light armor. If we truly leave them to their fate, they won't stand a chance of pulling out—" Grove replied without the slightest hesitation. "Then they won't pull out! They'll fight a defensive action on the spot, holding out for as long as they can to buy time for their comrades." Brother Dog stared blankly at Grove, as if looking at a stranger he had met for the very first time. Was this guy still the same Grove who loved his soldiers like his own children? Wait... A sudden realization struck him. This fellow always called him brother in everyday life and treated his words like gospel, yet whenever a genuine decision had to be made, he had never truly listened to a single word from him as a staff officer. That had applied to the drafting of Operation North Wind as well. Though the entire plan had been submitted under Brother Dog's name, and Grove had deliberately credited all the glory as his solo stroke of genius, thinking back on it carefully, the man had merely paid lip service to every suggestion while doing something entirely different in practice. Still... Perhaps this fellow was in the right. At the end of the day, Grove was a general, while he himself was merely an armchair tactician tossing out half-baked schemes. If Grove had blindly followed his lead, things might have ended in disaster. Even so, witnessing Grove's instant transformation into a cold-blooded pragmatist gave him an entirely new appreciation for this supposedly "blunt and straightforward" older fellow. The man was not the reckless hothead he had imagined at all, but a shrewd, calculating fox. Perhaps deep down he truly possessed a sincere heart, his adoration for General Isher was entirely genuine, and he truly yearned to realize equality and fraternity across this land. But when the hour arrived to make a decision, he would always soberly choose reality over ideals without a second thought. Pretense and performance were instincts carved into his very bones, becoming an inseparable part of his true self. Brother Dog did not know if he was simply being too sentimental, but this man's authenticity was genuinely a bit frightening. Seeing Brother Dog frozen in place, Grove seemed to realize his words had been too harsh. He quickly smoothed away his icy expression, placed both hands on Brother Dog's shoulders, and began earnestly trying to bring him around. "Don't be naive, my friend. This is war, and how can there be war without casualties? Besides, I'm just an ordinary man; I don't possess General Isher's ability to ride through enemy lines seven times unscathed. Trading a thousand men for the survival of ten thousand—any general would make that choice." "I know..." Brother Dog let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Perhaps I'm just being sentimental... It's just that they're always calling me family, and I can't help treating them like my own kin. I'd rather trade my life for theirs; I'd rather be the one dying tonight." He had no intention of interfering with the command here, nor did he possess the authority to do so; he merely wanted to express his own unpolished thoughts. "Sigh! If you think that way, don't you think they feel the same?" Grove exhaled a heavy sigh, his tone turning increasingly grave. "We've all prepared ourselves to die—not just you and me, but the lads of the 5th Chiliad as well. We are all one family... Sacrificing for family is something we should have braced for long ago." Those young men had been the very first to reach the objective; they ought to have been rewarded with honor and medals. Instead, they were heading into a decisive battle with no retreat and no reinforcements. For them, this would likely be an agonizingly long night... General Grove drew a deep breath and expelled the stale air from his lungs, then turned and walked toward the entrance of the command tent, wishing to catch the cool breeze outside. Making this decision brought him no joy. Perhaps his brother from the Alliance viewed him as cold-blooded, but he almost wished he truly could be a heartless man. That might have made it far easier to bear. With his back turned to the silent Brother Dog, Grove spoke in a raspy voice. It sounded as if he were speaking to himself, yet also as if addressing him alone. "Quit while you're ahead... I didn't want to use that phrase in a situation like this, but it is an adage of yours, after all..." "Am I right?" Recalling that the casualties in Tiandu had been even heavier than here, Brother Dog nodded in silence. "Perhaps you're right." ... In Milyans County, the pitch-black night was gradually bleeding into the pale gray of dawn. Although the artillery fire had ceased before midnight, gunshots had echoed continuously through the dark. Everyone had underestimated the 5th Chiliad's will to resist—including the 5th Chiliad themselves. When a decurion fell, a centurion stepped up; when the centurions were wiped out, the chiliarch led his bodyguards into the fray. By the end of the chiliad's struggle, all the senior officers had perished, leaving Marjorie, a humble decurion, as the last commander standing. Soaked in blood amidst the pile of corpses, he found a shard of broken glass and gingerly angled it over the edge of the barricade to survey the scene outside. The tank parked in the middle of the road was still trained in their direction. The Wilante clearly had no intention of leaving loose ends; they were conducting door-to-door searches. They seemed dead set on killing every last one of them, preferring to slaughter mistakenly rather than let a single soul slip away. Thinking of the local townsfolk who had been dragged into this nightmare, Marjorie shut his eyes in agony. Just then, the machine gunner beside him let out a weak groan, grinning through cracked lips. "Sir... the sky is brightening up. When are our reinforcements getting here?" "Soon," Marjorie muttered absently, his gaze glued to the far end of the street. "Sir..." "What? Spit it out." "There are no reinforcements, right?... Don't lie to me. I knew it from the start." "..." "Sir... I'm not making it back. If you manage to get out, could you pass a word to my boy?" "Go on, tell me. I'll remember it." "Heh... alright, here it goes..." Marjorie waited for a long time, but the voice beside him went dead silent. Turning his head, he saw that the young man with the soot-blackened face had already breathed his last. That was the final soldier under his command. Now, they were all gone... A surge of hot blood rushed straight to his head. Unable to hold it together any longer, he threw his arms around his brother's cooling body and bellowed hysterically at him. "Say it! I'll carry it back for you! Goddammit, say it, you bastard!" The abrupt roar startled all the Wilante soldiers sweeping the battlefield. Thanks to his outburst, a mother and daughter who were about to be executed were spared for a fleeting moment longer. "I'll take you bastards down with me! Arghhh!" Marjorie seized his rifle, a sudden surge of adrenaline flooding his limbs like a dying flare of life, and charged out with a furious roar for one final assault. In that fleeting instant, he was like a true Awakened—or perhaps something within him truly had awakened. Tragically, however, not even an Awakened could withstand a sweep of 10 mm machine gun fire with bare flesh. "Rat-tat-tat—!" He heard the whistling sound of tearing air, feeling several scorching streams bore into his body. Surprisingly, no excruciating agony followed. Like the pleasant drowsiness that sets in after a heavy meal, his consciousness simply grew heavy, and he collapsed to the ground without uttering another sound. At the same time, atop the tank in the center of the road, having squeezed the trigger, Carver swallowed hard in a mixture of excitement and nervous tension, and drew another tally mark on the turret with a marker. "Number one hundred and eleven..." This was the very first battle of his life. It had gone so smoothly that he found it hard to believe. "That should be the last one." Seated behind him, the tank commander let out a weary breath. The gunner, who had been relegated to the driver's seat, glanced over his shoulder. "How do you know?" The commander offered no lengthy explanation, saying offhandedly, "A guess." ... The battle in Milyans County had raged throughout the night. Owing to the enemy's stubborn resistance, they had been delayed for far too long at the final building. It was a repair workshop erected by the logistical corps. The workshop's garage had been turned into a warehouse by these Brahma folk, packed with a substantial cache of looted goods. To minimize damage to the local infrastructure, their superior had forbidden them from using the main cannon against the facility, restricting them to supporting fire from the tank's coaxial machine gun. Then again, whether they fired the main gun hardly made much difference. These Brahma men possessed formidable fighting spirit, but little else. Their own casualties for the entire engagement amounted to fewer than a hundred men, while over a thousand Brahma soldiers had been wiped out. Gibson felt little emotion regarding these figures. Casualty ratios varied drastically across different types of combat, and he could tell that the troops in this theater had seen little large-scale warfare, placing them on an entirely different level compared to the forces up north. Incidentally, compared to the civilian casualties in Milyans County, neither military figure was worth mentioning. Not that it mattered. Teaching the locals a harsh lesson had been an order personally handed down by General Gulion. According to reports from the local garrison, the reason those guerrillas had managed to penetrate their hinterland so smoothly was largely due to intelligence provided by the local population. In General Gulion's exact words: the locals here had to be made to remember this bloody lesson with their own flesh. Seeing that the fighting had finally wound down, the adjutant—who had fretted the entire night—finally let out a sigh of relief. "...Praise the Grand Marshal, it's finally over." Sitting on a bench beside the command vehicle with an open bottle of beer, Gibson glanced at him and grinned. "You seemed rather anxious." The adjutant offered a wry smile. "Weren't you anxious as well, sir? What if they had diverted their main force to reinforce this position?" Gibson chuckled softly. "Anyone capable of planning a stroke of genius like Operation North Wind is bound to be an extraordinary commander... Intelligence says his name is Grove, right? I hope I get the chance to cross paths with him." The adjutant blinked. "Uh, does that have anything to do with what I said?" "It has everything to do with it. Since their commander is no ordinary fool, he would certainly consider why we would boldly send an elite armored unit charging ahead alone..." Gibson took a swig of beer, continuing in an indifferent tone. "His choice was obvious. Rather than gamble on that one-percent chance, he'd prefer to 'quit while he's ahead.'" Still, truth be told, the lads who had fought him through the night were genuinely brave. He had initially assumed the local troops lacked combat experience, and with Shahrukh being a coward who dared declare war but lacked the stomach to fight, this rabble would rout within an hour or two of colliding with his light armor. He had never expected them to fight to the very last man, without a single coward surrendering. When even the softest wretches turned into hard men, this bone was truly becoming harder and harder to gnaw... Gibson cracked open another can of beer, but instead of drinking, he poured it out onto the ground. "May you have better luck in your next life. Don't come back here." *And don't be born a Wilante, either.* He whispered the second half silently in his heart, tossing the empty bottle aside with a faint smile. Just then, a soldier jogged over, snapped to attention, and saluted. "Report! Our patrol discovered a village nearby containing our missing weapons and equipment. The local villagers claim the retreating forces dumped them there." "You called it, sir!" The adjutant turned excitedly toward Gibson, finally wiping away the last trace of sweat from his palms. The enemy had not sent reinforcements! Even if their main force was indeed on the march, it would take them until tomorrow to reach this position. Had Gibson gambled wrong, even if they successfully broke out, they would likely have crawled away in utter disgrace. Gibson, however, did not look surprised in the least. Instead, he shot a sideways glance at the reporting soldier. "Why did you bother asking the villager where the supplies came from?" The soldier blinked, failing to grasp his commander's meaning. Gibson picked up his unfinished bottle, took a long pull, and curled his lip in boredom. "What do you think you are—a charity worker delivering rural aid? Listen closely, rookie. There's only one reason those rats would stash their stolen loot in a rat hole you managed to stumble upon: their relatives live in that hole, and they plan to retrieve whatever they left behind the next time they swing by." "Now, I'll tell you what to do. First, forget all the nonsense you learned in boot camp and recruitment posters. Then take a tank over there and settle their payment." "The other rats need to learn the consequences of cooperating with guerrillas. They want to apologize? Tell them to do it earlier next time." Meeting that merciless gaze, the soldier's Adam's apple bobbed. He hurriedly snapped a salute. "Yes, sir!" Meanwhile, on the other side of the square, Carver stood beside his tank, excitedly recounting his tally of "111 kills" to the logistics officer recording casualties. Hearing that this rookie had supposedly felled over a hundred men, the logistics officer gave him an odd look and glanced at the more seasoned commander. The latter gave a casual nod, replying with complete indifference. "Nothing strange about it. We were spearheading the assault, the enemy didn't have time to dig trenches, and the cannon wiped out a good bunch in the first two volleys alone." "Fair enough. Let's just hope our total tally doesn't end up adding up to an entire myriad." The logistics officer decided not to press the matter, dutifully jotting down the figure before moving on to the next tank. Even if the numbers were inflated, it hardly mattered; everyone was playing the same game anyway. The gunner watched the logistics officer's retreating back with envy, clicking his tongue in irritation. "Dammit... Carver, get your ass back in the driver's seat. It's my turn on the gun next time." Carver grinned broadly. "Whatever you say. Though I just realized I've got quite the knack for gunnery." The gunner laughed and cursed, "Bullshit! Next time I'll show you what a real professional looks like!" Carver merely chuckled, not bothering to argue with the bastard. He was in high spirits. Ever since arriving here, he had finally found his rhythm. Bullying civilians back in Evernight Port could hardly be called heroic, especially when dealing with his own countrymen. The battlefield truly was his proper calling. Right then, a soldier jogged over from the distance and threw a salute to the tank commander. Lowering his canteen, the commander raised an eyebrow. "A mission?" The soldier nodded hurriedly. "A village six kilometers to the north. A large stash of our missing supplies was found there." The commander nodded with a stern expression. "Understood." With that, he slapped the tank's hull and barked at the young men still munching on hardtack. "Mount up!"