A grim, hushed tension hung over the silent front lines, where trenches carved into the earth resembled unsheathed blades.
In just five days, the Alliance had surrounded Avent City so tightly that not even water could slip through, severing every underground tunnel that might lead to the outside world.
Standing on the front lines, the soldiers of the Southern Legion watched with their own eyes as engineering machines fitted with caterpillar tracks and waist-high drill bits bored forward in an earth-shaking rumble, squeezing out trenches right under their noses like piles of excrement.
Now, the Alliance soldiers were steadily moving into position, and the sporadic booms of artillery fell like an accelerating drumroll.
Barring the unforeseen...
This would be the final battle.
In Quincy's heart, there was no terror, no dread—only a faint sense of relief.
Roughly half a year ago, the 34th Myriad he belonged to had been routed near Ridepur County in Lion State, Brahma Province, by the Skeleton Corps. His nightmare had begun at that very moment.
First came the humiliation dealt by frontline soldiers of the 36th Myriad, followed by the cold disdain of logistics personnel at West Sail Port.
Even though he had fought desperately until the very end, and even though he tried to explain that his opponents were Alliance volunteers rather than locals of Brahma, he still could not shake the stigma of cowardice in the eyes of his fellow countrymen. He remained a disgrace who had dragged the honor of the Wilante through the mud.
When he carried his medical discharge papers to Evernight Port, his compatriots there went so far as to sneer and ask why he hadn't just died.
The young men across the Southern Legion surged toward the front lines with loyalty and fanaticism, while he stood out from everyone around him like someone trudging against traffic on a highway.
Later, he drifted to a sanatorium on the outskirts of Batoya Province to recuperate, living alongside other wounded men evacuated from the front.
Although the sanatorium had its share of lunatics who threw fits from time to time, the vast majority lay quietly on their hospital beds, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Only then did he, kicked back and forth like a ball, feel a modicum of peace.
Yet it wasn't long before he realized that wasn't peace at all.
It was oblivion.
It wasn't just Tyr who had forgotten them.
Almost everyone in the Southern Legion had taken part in this tacit conspiracy, quietly exiling these "failures" to the fringes of society.
They were like sugarcane bagasse discarded from a juicer, tossed into a trash can lined with a white plastic bag, left to rot slowly in a corner hidden from everyone's sight.
Ironically, just as he was on the verge of resigning himself to his fate, the very people who had discarded him rummaged him back out of the trash heap and pinned a centurion's badge to his chest.
The Southern Legion had reached the end of the line.
Those who had already burned once were being forced to burn anew.
Quincy held no other thoughts; he silently chambered a round into his rifle.
*Hurry...*
*Let this torment end!*
The sweeping barrage of artillery finally drew close. Deafening blasts and billowing clouds of smoke caused the rookies behind the bunkers to turn pale in unison.
Some even wet their pants in terror.
Right then, a hoarse, strained roar poured out from the crackling broadcast speakers.
"Soldiers! Avent City lies right behind us!"
"Your parents, your children, and your loved ones live there!"
"Our enemies want to erase us from this planet! We must never let them succeed!"
"What we defend today is not just the glory of the Legion! It is also the honor of Marshal Julius! The dignity of the Wilante!"
"Fight, children of Julius! Make them open their eyes and see clearly that the Wilante are invincible!"
Battle lust rekindled in the eyes of the terrified young lads who had wet themselves. Men well past fifty reached out trembling hands, agonizingly retrieving the rifles propped beside the bunkers.
Yet Quincy's heart remained utterly still.
He had heard words like these far too many times and had long grown numb to such rabble-rousing rhetoric.
In a daze, a strange thought suddenly crossed his mind.
Perhaps...
The survivors of Avent City had once spoken similar words back in the day.
Without anyone realizing it, history had come full circle.
"Prepare for battle—!"
Almost the exact moment that hoarse shout rang out, an artillery shell landed beside a bunker not far from Quincy.
Two greenhorns who had summoned the courage to lean out and fire after the commander's speech were caught dead center, thrown backward like kites with severed strings.
"Take cover! Stay in the bunkers! Wait until they get closer to shoot!"
Quincy's eyes were bloodshot as he glared at the terrified recruits, his roar driving them back into the fortification.
Shell after shell crashed down, scouring their positions from front to back.
At the same time, dozens of bulldozers roared to life together, their massive buckets cradling mounds of stacked sandbags like miniature hills as they advanced toward the defensive line on the outskirts of Avent City.
Peering through a slit in the bunker at the Alliance lines, Quincy's pupils shrank violently. He had never imagined those machines could be used in such a manner.
An anti-tank gunner shouldered a Panzerfaust rocket launcher and pulled the trigger at one of the bulldozers.
The streaking rocket struck the shield of sandbags dead-on, but it merely erupted into a shower of orange-red sparks without causing a ripple of damage.
Shaped-charge warheads, which relied on jets of molten metal to punch through targets, worked wonders against hard armor, but against sandbags, they were completely useless.
The Southern Legion had burned through all its tanks; virtually nothing remained in Avent City except infantry and light armor. Facing such a contemptuous tactic, the Legion officers couldn't muster even a scrap of temper.
Soldiers of the Death Corps stepped out of the trenches one after another, gripping their rifles as they followed behind these cheap, practical bulldozers.
On the other flank, the armored formation of the Skeleton Corps launched its assault!
Chimera armored vehicles led the vanguard, laying down milky-white smoke screens while raking the city's defensive bunkers with their 37mm rapid-fire cannons.
Bursts of orange-yellow tracer fire skipped across the ground, pinning down the thousand-man millury stationed along the city's edge so hard they couldn't raise their heads.
Following the advancing bulldozers, the infantry finally closed in on the edge of the position. Leading the charge, Brother Edge roared into the communication channel:
"For the Alliance!"
"Awooo!"
Bugle calls and battle cries erupted in unison as nearly a thousand Death Corps players burst out of cover simultaneously, charging the nearby Southern Legion positions.
The distance between them was down to less than ten paces!
Against the converging crossfire, a single wall of cover was rendered useless.
Not that it mattered—
Close-quarters urban combat was precisely what the Death Corps did best!
Almost the instant the Death Corps launched their charge, machine guns on the Wilante lines began chattering frantically.
Having hunkered beneath the rubble for so long under the Alliance's suppressing fire, they had finally endured until their moment arrived.
Lethal tracers whipped forward like wind-tossed willow catkins, braving the thunderous barrage to lash into the Death Corps, claiming several lives in just a few breaths.
Yet within those very same few breaths, Alliance shells slammed down near the hidden machine-gun pillboxes as if guided by eyes.
Roaring blasts and billowing smoke rose in waves. Flashing fireballs bloomed practically along the edge of their own advancing line, blowing the pillboxes sky-high along with the adjacent concrete bunkers.
The Southern Legion's recruits were left dazed by the explosions, while the veterans stood dumbfounded.
Including Quincy—
Watching those Alliance soldiers charge right along the rim of their own falling artillery, his face was the picture of disbelief.
*These guys...*
*Aren't they afraid of dying?!*
In truth, they weren't.
Soldiers clad in body armor and gas masks charged headlong into the Southern Legion's hail of bullets as if completely fearless.
The first line of defense was breached!
Alliance soldiers storming into the concrete ruins immediately engaged the Southern Legion troops lurking behind the firing slits in brutal hand-to-hand combat!
Gunfire erupted from all directions—the boom of shotguns mingled with the chatter of submachine guns and rifle fire.
A soldier in a gas mask was riddled with machine-gun fire, but before his body even hit the ground, another masked soldier lunged forward, leveling a shotgun to blow the machine gunner's head apart.
The entire battlefield descended into chaos!
Blood and gray matter splattered everywhere, clinging to the shattered concrete positions.
Even the most fanatical soldiers under Tyr's command were frightened out of their wits.
It felt as though these people could never be killed off!
Under the ferocious assault of the Death Corps, a breach was quickly torn through the first line of defense.
Without a shred of hesitation, Mole, overseeing the battle from the rear, seized the opportunity and immediately ordered the attack.
Thirty Chimera armored vehicles escorting twelve tanks thrust forward like a forged-steel dagger, plunging straight into the wound carved out by the Death Corps.
"Hahaha! Die!"
Crouched inside a Chimera, a gunner squeezed the trigger, and over a dozen 37mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds wiped out an entire ten-man squad sheltering behind cover in an instant!
A burnt smell of charred flesh wafted up from the trenches buried beneath rubble, leaving the ground strewn with blackened corpses.
A Southern Legion soldier lying among the dead raised a rocket launcher to retaliate, but caught inside the minimum arming distance, the warhead failed to penetrate the Chimera's armor. Instead, an infantryman trailing behind the vehicle blew his head off with a clean shot.
Confronted by armored forces bearing down directly on them, the remaining Southern Legion troops fell into despair, either mounting suicidal charges or throwing down their weapons and fleeing to the rear.
The battle shifted rapidly from fever pitch to a total rout, and the distant artillery fire gradually died down.
In under half an hour, the two player corps had secured the main southern entrance to Avent City, completely dismantling the organization of the three milluries stationed there.
Brother Edge rounded up the prisoners in a relatively open clearing, then directed the remaining men to stack sandbags from the bulldozers into simple defensive works, guarding against the possibility of the retreating Southern Legion rallying for a counterattack.
Though the odds of that were slim.
Judging by the gear seized from the frontline positions, the weapons and ammunition of these three milluries combined couldn't match the garrison of Evernight Port, to say nothing of troop quality; many had clearly been sent to the front just to make up the numbers.
Had this been half a year ago, an assault on fortified positions like this would have taken at least half a day to decide the victor.
After conducting brief interrogations of the captives, Brother Edge walked over to Mole and shared the intelligence he had gathered.
"...The ones we just tangled with were three milluries under the Home Defense Army's 200th Myriad, commanded by Myriarch Baldwin."
"Baldwin?" A flicker of surprise crossed Mole's face. "That name sounds a bit familiar."
Brother Edge grinned.
"The 37th Myriad in the Brahma Province theater, the victory at Akale County—we captured Woolf of the 36th Myriad, but the 37th Myriad that came to reinforce them managed to slip away... Remember? An old acquaintance, more or less."
Hearing 'victory at Akale County,' Mole finally recalled the name, his face clearing in realization.
"Oh, right, I remember... like hell I do! Damn it! When you guys fought that battle, I was still waiting to respawn!"
Back then, that war criminal named Woolf had led the 36th Myriad to claim his head.
Not that things ended well for Woolf; he was currently serving time in a POW camp at Golden Gallon Port.
"Haha." Brother Edge let out a hearty laugh. "I guess that's true!"
That battle had been the turning point in the Brahma Province theater, as well as the Death Corps' debut engagement in the region.
At the time, the Golden Gallon Port edition of *Survivor Daily* had devoted three whole pages to describing the entire engagement—corpses floating everywhere and blood flowing like rivers at the great bend in the river!
Come to think of it, that was also when he had met Isher...
Thinking of that departed friend, Brother Edge's laughter slowly faded, and the smile on his lips unconsciously drooped.
Walking along this road, certain people just suddenly vanished.
"...It's already the final battle. I thought they'd bring out some new tricks."
Glancing at Edge, whose smile had vanished, Mole could roughly guess who he was thinking of, and tactfully changed the subject.
"What new tricks could they possibly have? If they really had anything left, they would've pulled it out long ago."
Man-portable anti-tank missiles with tracking capabilities might count as one.
With those, the Southern Legion had managed to knock out two of their Type 3 Tanks.
Yet what difference did that make?
Total war was a clash of systems against systems; one or two pieces of gear or a handful of powerful individuals could hardly sway the course of the conflict.
Not even a strategic weapon of mass destruction like the "Death Agent" could manage it.
Brother Edge still sounded somewhat unsatisfied.
"Aren't regular games usually like that, though? The toughest stuff is saved for the end..."
Mole Escaping the Canyon pulled a helpless face.
"You said it yourself—regular games."
Not RTS games.
Nor strategy, management, or 4X farming games.
Take *Civilization VI*, for example.
Once a player was the first to unlock nukes, unless they were chasing achievements, a cultural victory, or a science victory, the game was essentially over.
The snowball painstakingly rolled in the early game inevitably became a curse that compressed late-game playtime, leaving starting a new run as the only optimal move... a curse no strategy game could escape.
Still, watching the snowball grow bit by bit had its own charm. If no matter how hard they rolled, it stayed the size of a booger, what meaning would there be to all the trials they had endured along the way?
"As for me... right now I just want to see what things look like five light-years away. I want to see if Ah Guang actually delivered on the pie he promised."
Brother Edge scratched the back of his head.
"I'm more worried about whether there'll even be an open beta."
Mole chuckled.
"Haha, what difference does it make? The Wasteland Era is coming to an end anyway."
The fractured Legion had been whittled down to the Southern Legion alone—a stubborn mule still living in the past. Beyond this, there shouldn't be any opponent left that could force the Alliance to go all out.
The Eastern Empire? The New Federation?
Competitors at best.
The State of Brahma?
By the time they finished playing their little battle royale, who knew how many decades would have passed.
Of course, if Ah Guang felt like spicing things up, he could always rebrand the game as *Starfield OL* or *New Era OL* and run another round of closed beta.
Yet what was that guy trying to achieve by going to all this trouble?
Even now, he had no idea which mysterious company had developed the game, or if, as the rumors claimed, it really was a blind box bestowed upon human civilization by some higher civilization.
Perhaps Ah Guang...
didn't actually exist?
The bizarre thought popped into Mole's head, and an itch to draw a doujin suddenly struck him.
He hadn't drawn in so long that his hand had grown rusty.
While the two old-timers were lamenting how damn fast time flew—reaching the endgame without ever finding out what on earth happened between Yaya and that mutated leech back then—Irena, having finished clearing the battlefield, was heading toward the mobile save point to take a breather.
Just then, his gaze caught a familiar face among the prisoners crouching on the ground, and he stopped in his tracks.
Looking at the dirt-streaked lad, he called out:
"Hey, haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
Crouching on the ground, Quincy raised his head and stared blankly at Irena, clearly stunned as well.
Gradually, his expression changed.
"Y-You're..."
"Oh, I remember now," Irena said with a mischievous grin, miming a finger gun. "You're that rookie from the 34th Myriad that day."
It was quite a coincidence. Back near the railway station northwest of Ridepur County, the entire Skeleton Corps had fought down from full strength until he was the last one standing, and the 34th Myriad they clashed with had ended up the same, leaving this lone survivor.
Since the strategic objective had already been met, killing the guy made no difference, so Irena had spared him for fate's sake. He hadn't expected to run into him again.
Quincy was utterly flabbergasted, staring at him with uncomprehending eyes.
His gaze seemed to ask why.
"...You're still alive?"
He had seen with his own eyes the rocket barrage from the 36th Myriad carpet the entire position!
The searing heat had melted steel into liquid iron!
How could this guy still be breathing?!
Irena didn't answer his question. Instead, he rubbed his chin and muttered to himself:
"Alive... Hmm, that's an interesting question. They say only through death can there be life, so can someone who can't die truly be considered alive? That question has bothered me for a long time too. What am I to 'this world,' anyway—a foodie?"
Puzzling over it yielded no answer, so he crouched down and gave the lad an amicable pat on the shoulder.
"How about you think about it for us? Once you reach the New Era, you'll have plenty of time on your hands."
Quincy stared at him blankly, then slowly nodded a moment later.
He had heard rumors before that the Alliance used clones in combat, but he had never seen a clone so intelligent.
Seeing the NPC behave so obediently, Irena smiled and placed a piece of candy in his hand.
"Consider it an advance deposit. Don't thank me, I pinched it from Brother In Debt God... Hahaha!"
With that, he waved with a laugh, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and strolled away humming a little tune.
A crack had opened in the formidable fortress, and the rumble of artillery drawing steadily closer gave the survivors huddled beneath the ruins a glimmer of hope that all this might finally end.
Meanwhile, to the north of Batoya Province, a massive amphibious landing was also underway.
Months ago, the 117th Myriad had defected to Wilante Province after refusing to open fire on their own people. Now, under the leadership of Myriarch Bafika, they had returned aboard landing craft to strike back.
Looking at the warships arrayed across the sea, Myriarch Moore, commanding the Auxiliary 10th Myriad, wore an expression of sheer despair.
That was the fleet of the South Sea Alliance!
In the brief moment he hesitated, heavy naval shells and cruise missiles rained down upon his positions all at once.
Thundering bombardments shredded the beachhead bunkers, and the 117th Myriad set foot once more upon the very ground from which they had fled!
Storming the beach alongside the infantry were "Alligator" amphibious armored vehicles manufactured on the North Island of the South Sea Alliance, as well as "Sea Lion" powered armor running on deuterium-tritium fusion reactors!
Facing this torrent of steel surging ashore on the crest of the waves, the Auxiliary 10th Myriad crumpled almost on contact, shattered before they could mount any meaningful resistance.
At that same moment, passionate shouts echoed across the communication channel of the 117th Myriad:
"For the glory of Marshal Julius!"
"For the glory of the Wilante!"
"For liberation!"
"Let us rescue our brothers and sisters from hell! Crush these cowards!"
Having weathered the refugee offensive unleashed by the Southern Legion, and with the Alliance from the east already at the gates of Avent City, the Wilante Alliance no longer needed to pull its punches.
Standing on the steps of the Court of Honor, Triumph City Archon "Pangolin" delivered an address condemning Tyr's string of atrocities—including the West Sail Port Massacre and using civilians as living ammunition—and declared war on Tyr and his faction on behalf of the Wilante Alliance!
The 117th Myriad was merely the vanguard; twenty more myriads would soon deploy to the front lines!
Unable to withstand the ferocious onslaught, Moore had no choice but to retreat toward Avent City.
The forces of the Wilante Alliance drove south like a knife through bamboo, advancing in tandem with the Alliance troops that had already pushed into the outskirts of Avent City!
And not just on the ground—
The encirclement and destruction of the Southern Legion's ironclad airships was continuing as well.
With help from the Academy, the Alliance had successfully mounted phase cannons onto trains. Faced with inevitable defeat, ten of the Southern Legion's twenty remaining airships had already switched sides.
Half had defected to the Eastern Empire, while the rest fled to Triumph City.
Tyr was now like a caged tiger with its teeth pulled, stripped of any chance of turning the tables.
Even the "Death Agent" he treated as his trump card had been physically contained in the southern part of Wilante Province, reduced to a joke far more pathetic than Rowell's red soil.
The Southern Legion's last trump card had been thoroughly squandered by his own hands.
There was no one left to charge beside him ever again...
Chapter 964