An Alliance Unseen in a Century!

Southern Legion General Headquarters. A burly silhouette stood before the command table, his deep gaze fixed intently upon the sand table, where faint blue motes of light drifted. Under the dispositions he had personally directed, all of Batoya Province and even the northern shore of the Vortex Sea had been knit into a single chessboard. And with the continuous fermentation of the "Death Agent" virus, this game of chess had entered its final stage. At this moment, on that orderly board, the flag marking the 117th Myriad was already colored gray to denote rebels. The piece with the weakest resolve had been the first to fall out of play. Currently besieging them were the Auxiliary 10th Myriad and the "Iron Crossbow" rapid reaction force. Just then, a faint blue figure materialized beside the command table—an ordinary-looking man, who gave a slight nod. That man was none other than one of the pieces on the board: Heinz, commander of the "Iron Crossbow" rapid reaction force. Looking at his confidant, Tyr asked impassively, "How has Triumph City reacted?" Heinz reported respectfully, "No movement for the moment." No movement... Hearing this reply, a flicker of surprise passed through Tyr's eyes, and his expression grew solemn. He stepped away from the sand table, paced back and forth twice before a nearby bookshelf, and then turned his gaze back onto the board, his brows tightly knitted. There were only two possibilities. Either Triumph City was so mired in internal chaos that it could not extricate itself, or his opponent was far more formidable than imagined. For the first time since this confrontation began, he found himself facing a truly vexing challenge. Through the faint blue motes of light hovering over the sand table, he seemed to see his opponent. It was a man whose emotions never showed on his face, like a seasoned hunter indifferent to the prey's provocations. The hunting bow was concealed beneath the shadows of his cloak, poised at any moment to loose a fatal strike! He could sense the curled index finger drawn tight against the bowstring, yet he could not see the hidden edge of the arrowhead at all. And that was precisely what was most dangerous... "...Why hasn't he made a move yet?" Murmuring under his breath, Tyr felt an uncharacteristic flicker of irritation rise within his chest. Over the past month, the vast majority of Batoya Province's population had been gathered toward the north, and ports had operated near full capacity shipping refugees northward, yet they still had not breached the twenty quarantine zones established by Triumph City... And now, mutinous signs had already begun appearing among his own troops. Perhaps he should hold out a little longer. After all, every action had an equal reaction; the other side was bound to be under immense pressure as well. Yet he did not have many "bullets" left to spend. "What is the status of the 117th Myriad?" Heinz, who had been waiting beside him lost in thought, snapped back to attention at Tyr's voice and replied, "The rebels are still holding out, and the battle has fallen into a stalemate... Without heavy equipment support, relying solely on the auxiliary forces to crush them has proven rather difficult after all." Tyr pondered for a moment before speaking. "I'll assign you the artillery chiliad under the 120th Myriad, but don't use it right away. Let the auxiliaries grind against their positions a while longer and do everything possible to force Triumph City to make the first move." "Understood!" Heinz hesitated slightly upon hearing this, but nodded and took the order nonetheless. At the same time, along the northern coast of Batoya Province, the roar of gunfire and artillery raged fiercely. Tracers zipped across the sky like drifting willow catkins, while dense gunpowder smoke formed an impenetrable wall. "Charge!! Slaughter every last one of these traitors! Hack off their heads!" Staring at the enemy positions as unyielding as solid rock, Moore's eyes were bloodshot as he gripped the communicator and let out a hysterical roar. Across from him, it was just as fierce. The young adjutant Pefika, after taking command of the 117th Myriad, had swiftly deployed defenses, repelling wave after wave of charges from the Auxiliary 10th Myriad with tiered interlocking fire nets. "Brothers!!!" "That dog bastard Tyr drove Marshal Julius's children into the sea! That demon in human skin has betrayed the Marshal and betrayed the Wilante!" "Those dying today are your neighbors! Those dying tomorrow will be your children, your parents!" "We will never surrender the hundreds of thousands of survivors in this camp into their hands! Never—!" Though fratricidal strife weighed heavily on their hearts, the one silver lining was that Tyr, guilty conscience and all, ultimately had not dared deploy regular troops to suppress the rebellion, leaving the dirty work to the auxiliaries instead. Facing aliens, they showed no mercy. Of course, the other side felt the same. To prove their worth, to climb to higher ranks just like that Pangolin had, Moore and his subordinates were equally bloodthirsty, launching ferocious assault after assault against the 117th Myriad's positions like starving wolves. The entire beach of Batoya Province had turned completely into a human meat grinder, thick blood staining nearly every inch of soil and sand. Yet the bitter irony was that this was not a battle where the Southern Legion repelled an Alliance beach landing, nor was it even fought between the Southern Legion and Triumph City. An uncontrollable inferno had soared into the sky, engulfing everyone caught within it, burning ever brighter and hotter. And burning in that raging fire was not merely the flesh and blood of the Wilante, but their crumbling spirits. Nor was it only the Wilante. It also consumed the alien races who had submitted to them. Watching the unbroken enemy lines and his heavily mauled troops, Moore's bloodshot eyes widened, and the burning ambition in his heart could not help wavering with a fleeting moment of hesitation. He had thought his chance to rise through the ranks had arrived, but now it seemed that was not the case at all. He seized his communicator, contacted Myriarch Heinz who had ordered him to attack, and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "My men are suffering catastrophic casualties! We need artillery support! Otherwise, we can't keep pushing!" The intense fighting lasted all night. Not until a sliver of pale light broke on the horizon did the artillery fire Moore had eagerly awaited finally rumble at dawn. Yet to his bitter disappointment, every single shell missed the mark, either plunging into the sea or crashing onto deserted stretches of beach. With his casualties so grievous, he finally ordered the attack halted. With the Auxiliary 10th Myriad's offensive stalled, the soldiers of the 117th Myriad, their backs to the sea, finally gained a moment to catch their breath, holding their precarious lines and protecting the hundreds of thousands of survivors in the camp. At that exact moment, towering silhouettes loomed on the distant sea horizon. Pefika, acting temporary commander of the 117th Myriad, looked out at the distant waters, a spark of hope finally igniting in his eyes. Reinforcements! Their brethren from Triumph City had not abandoned them! That Consul had not lied to them! He rose from the trench and shouted into his communicator, "Brothers! The ships coming to take us home are here! Hold on!!!" ... As the Federation's fleet advanced into the Vortex Sea, the military situation on the northern coast of Batoya Province reversed in an instant. Those towering forms stood upon the surging waves like mobile fortresses of steel. Even though they did nothing at all, those thick, elongated gun barrels alone were an invisible deterrent, shaking the soldiers of the Auxiliary 10th Myriad to their cores. Looking at the warships appearing on the horizon, Moore was utterly dumbfounded, frozen in bewilderment. He was not the only one stunned; so too were Heinz, commander of the "Iron Crossbow" rapid reaction force, and Tyr, orchestrating the war from far away in Avent City. Especially the latter: upon learning that the Federation from the New Continent had entered the fray, he froze before the command table, unable to utter a single word for a long time. The New Continent had declared independence only recently; by all reason, it should have been wary of Triumph City. At least on the official level, that should have been the case. Yet he never dreamed that the Consul of Triumph City could actually pull this band of "traitors" into his camp, nor that those habitually profit-driven opportunists would actually agree! Just how had that guy convinced them? Tyr was completely flabbergasted. Meanwhile, aboard the Federation fleet's flagship, Myriarch Kirk, acting as captain, stood at the bow holding binoculars, looking out toward the coastline. Drifting smoke obscured his view, allowing him to clearly see only the area near the pier. Yet even so, the devastated scene shook him deeply. "Roderick, do you remember what Batoya Province used to look like?" Standing beside him, the adjutant gave a slight shrug. "Who knows? I've never been here... Besides, does that sort of thing even matter anymore?" Kirk curled his lips. "Fair point..." Whatever Batoya Province had once looked like, this place had now devolved completely into a living hell. Prior to this, as the first "overseas" territory conquered personally by Marshal Julius, Batoya Province had been viewed by countless Wilante as the land most likely to be the first to bring an end to the wasteland era. For a long time, the Southern Legion had indeed walked ahead of the other factions within the Legion. In a sense, their existence had already foreshadowed the Legion's all-but-inevitable fate: after madness reached its zenith, marching toward final annihilation. ... Even as Kirk looked out toward the shore, the people on land were looking back in his direction. Figure after figure emerged from the black smoke, converging toward the pier. Most of them were the elderly, children, and women. Even in the middle of a battlefield, they still formed neat lines, waiting quietly for the vessels coming to fetch them. "The waters ahead are too shallow; we can't draw any closer," said the adjutant named Roderick, frowning as he looked at the faces ashore. Kirk gave a faint smile and swung his binoculars toward the north. "Don't worry. We're not the only ones who came." Roderick instinctively looked up and saw tiny black dots appearing from the direction of Wilante Province. He took out his binoculars and looked toward the sea horizon. Vessels of all shapes and sizes were advancing toward them. The largest were ferries dozens of meters long, the smallest fishing boats merely a few paces wide, blanketing the sea as far as the eye could see. Before the Federation's fleet, these little boats were like ants beside elephants, yet they were more than enough to ferry the people ashore onto the warships. All these boats had previously been commandeered by the Southern Legion from the populace to transport refugees to Wilante Province. Now that over a month had passed, the quarantine zones in the south of Wilante Province had been fully established, and supplies delivered from the Northern and Eastern Empires were sufficient for Triumph City to sustain those millions of new arrivals. More than that, the earliest refugees to come ashore were already able to leave the quarantine zones, and various factions including the Alliance had expressed willingness to shoulder part of the burden of the refugee influx for Triumph City, accepting displaced people flowing out of Batoya Province. In accordance with the refugees' own wishes, a portion would leave Wilante Province for the New Continent, or cross the ocean to the Baiyue and Haiya Provinces in the east of the Mid-Continent. By now, the influx and outflow of people through the quarantine zones had achieved dynamic equilibrium. Triumph City no longer needed to throttle the influx rate of Batoya Province's refugees, and could even spare the hands to actively assist the Southern Legion in transporting those displaced survivors. On the other side, the "Decisive Mission" plan launched by the Southern Legion at all costs had collapsed entirely. Under the united resolve of Triumph City, the "Death Agent" had been firmly contained within the quarantine zones. Even though researchers from the Academy and the Alliance had not yet developed reliable specific treatments or vaccines, the elderly, women, and children infected with the "Death Agent" could no longer serve as bullets for the Southern Legion. In truth, from the moment the "Death Agent" was brought under control by Triumph City, the Southern Legion had already lost this war. Soon, as incubation periods elapsed and the peak of the outbreak arrived, they would have to swallow the bitter fruit of their own brewing... ... With the aid of those small craft, the hundreds of thousands of survivors stranded on the northern coast of Batoya Province were finally able to escape with their lives, boarding the ships that had rushed from the New Continent to receive them. Intimidated by the overwhelming pressure of those warships, Moore weighed the pros and cons and ultimately did not order his troops to continue attacking, nor did Myriarch Heinz, overseeing the battle from behind, press him. These refugees were meant to be sent north anyway. Now that the other side was actively sending ships to fetch them, it happened to suit their original purpose. Yet what he did not know was that such an orderly evacuation was by no means what Legion Commander Tyr wished to see... On the other side, on the northern shore of the Vortex Sea, in the quarantine zones in the south of Wilante Province, neat, clean tents stood in the open spaces not far from the beach. A little over a month ago, this place had been barren wasteland, yet now it had an unexpected air of burgeoning vitality. Nearly three hundred thousand survivors lived here, organized into communities large and small based on units of ten thousand. Within these communities were hospitals, mess halls, police stations, and even temporary classrooms and community activity centers. Though the facilities appeared somewhat crude, everything operated in an orderly fashion. There were nineteen other similar quarantine zones along the coastline, housing varying numbers of people. The earlier-numbered zones already had no new cases and were permitted to discharge residents. Everyone had packed their belongings, swept clean the tents they had lived in, and headed to the roadside outside the quarantine zone to wait for buses taking them to the outskirts of Triumph City. Once they departed, survivors who had just arrived from Batoya Province would move into the tents they had vacated, waiting for medical staff now well-versed in the routine to conduct physical examinations. Because more than a month had passed since the outbreak of the "Death Agent," among the newly arrived refugees there were already patients experiencing full-blown symptoms. Most were weak and exhausted, drifting in and out of consciousness, with some even showing early signs of organ failure. It was fortunate that these people had boarded proper ships. Had they crossed the sea on those rafts lashed together with ropes, they likely would not have had even one chance in ten thousand of surviving. For patients who had entered the symptomatic phase, Triumph City's medical staff administered inhibitors developed by the Alliance, managing to stabilize their conditions and keep them from deteriorating further. As hundreds of thousands of civilians safely came ashore, the soldiers of the 117th Myriad aboard the last vessels gradually stepped onto the docks as well. Not far from the deepwater port, an open-topped off-road vehicle was parked by the roadside. Sitting in the vehicle was a general of the Eastern Empire. Looking toward the deepwater port, his eyes narrowed slightly, wearing an intriguing smile. He had two missions at hand. One was naturally to support Triumph City in aiding their compatriots from Batoya Province; the other was to observe the situation along the Vortex Sea coast and judge how much longer the Southern Legion could hold out. Legion Commander Salen was intensely interested in the Southern Legion's legacy, and that did not conflict at all with their support for Triumph City. In truth, it was rather ironic. The Eastern Legion and Western Legion had not been on speaking terms for half a century, yet their first close cooperation in fifty years had actually occurred after the Legion's dissolution. Yet that was also what comforted him most. Though they had made do in hollow harmony for nearly a century, when it came to saving their fellow countrymen, there was not the slightest disagreement. Even the most aloof Northern Legion had dispatched three myriads and supplies for over a million people this time, assisting Triumph City in maintaining order in the quarantine zones and weathering the storm. In all the years since Marshal Julius disappeared, such solidarity had been completely unprecedented. "Tyr is finished," the general in the vehicle said with a chuckle, narrowing his eyes before adding, "Completely finished." The adjutant seated beside him glanced over in surprise. "How can you tell, sir?" The general in the back seat smiled and said in a conversational tone, "Do you see those lads? I haven't the slightest doubt that if you tossed them a gun, they'd grab the weapon without a word and march right back to settle scores with their Tyr." In fact, it wasn't just those lads—it was the civilians stranded in the quarantine zones, and everyone who had rushed from around the world to lend a hand. These people would tear Tyr to shreds. Just like when they faced the Church of the Torch back then, all differences ceased to matter before a common enemy; or rather, completely cutting away those two cancerous tumors—the Southern Legion and Tyr—was what mattered most. Pausing briefly, the general continued in a half-joking tone, "Besides, that fool's opponent is Julius. How could he possibly have any chance of winning?" The adjutant froze, his expression turning to bewilderment. "Julius... But hasn't that great lord already passed away?" "Whoever can unite the Wilante is Marshal Julius." The general raised an index finger to straighten the brim of his cap, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. "He did indeed leave." "Yet he has returned."