Chapter 836: Sabers Rattling!

Chapter 836 At Daggers Drawn!

It wasn’t just the Burning Corps and two “Overlord” transport planes heading to Golden Harbor.

On the turbulent Boro Sea, a long line of uniform transport ships sailed straight toward Golden Harbor, flanked by the South Sea Alliance fleet.

The broad decks were draped in digital camouflage nets, beneath which sat rows of menacing armored vehicles.

Among them were old veterans like the ZJC-1 “Chimera” armored car, which had earned great merit for the Alliance, as well as some newly debuted equipment.

For instance, the “Type 3” tank, jointly developed by Factory 81 and Boulder Military Industries.

If the Type 2 tank still bore traces of a “truck carrying a cannon,” the Type 3 could already be considered a true main battle tank.

Its low-slung hull, sloped turret armor, and overpressure protection system all shared many similarities with real-world main battle tanks, yet were not identical.

As for the main gun, it remained 155mm, with no major improvements over the Type 2.

While a larger caliber meant lower ammunition capacity, that didn’t bother the players driving it—bigger and more powerful was the way to go.

As for the Type 3’s B variant, the “tank destroyer,” it was similar: aside from an added turret design, a “Dove” vehicle-mounted missile launcher, and more standardized parts, the main gun was still the 60-megajoule muzzle-energy Type 60 electromagnetic cannon.

Besides these upgraded old models, the cargo ships also carried some entirely new vehicle types.

For example, the FK-1 “Defender” anti-aircraft vehicle.

Previously, the Alliance’s air defense mostly consisted of trucks with quad-mounted anti-air guns and simple vehicle radar, or players in exoskeletons carrying portable surface-to-air missiles.

The “Defender,” designed by North Island Heavy Industries, combined both tactical approaches and mounted them on a simplified Chimera armored car chassis.

Though the chassis was a budget version, its firepower was not to be underestimated.

The 20mm “Red Dot” rapid-fire gun on its roof followed a design similar to the South Sea Alliance destroyer’s close-in weapon system, driven by an electromagnetic accelerator, paired with North Island Heavy Industries’ vehicle radar and anti-air missiles.

The weight saved on armor was fully compensated for by the ammunition racks for linked mass projectiles.

This thing was like a destroyer sailing on land!

With just a single tapered barrel, it could unleash a fire net comparable to the simultaneous volley of four quad-mounted 20mm cannons in an instant.

It was highly effective against both high-altitude fixed-wing aircraft and low-altitude quadcopter drone swarms.

Additionally, the two anti-air missiles mounted below the fire-control radar were also salvaged from destroyers, designed to counter the Legion’s supersonic jets at a comparable cost.

Besides those mass-produced, cost-effective equipment, the Legion also fielded some high-tech gear with exorbitant maintenance costs.

Objectively speaking, the South Sea Alliance had filled the Alliance’s gaps in high-precision technology, especially microelectronics. Before this, though the Alliance had considerable technical reserves, producing high-tech equipment still relied on corporate help.

Conversely, the Alliance did not merely take from the South Sea Alliance.

The Alliance’s vast technical reserves, particularly in materials science and biology, along with its scale advantages in industry, logistics, and economy, complemented the South Sea Alliance’s weaknesses in many areas.

Through this win-win cooperation, both sides achieved mutual progress in numerous fields.

The FK-1 “Defender” was a masterpiece of this trend—but only one of many.

Stepping outside the state-led military industry, countless similar collaborations existed in the private sector.

This tight partnership involved not just the employment of hundreds of thousands or the profits of many factories, but also touched the underlying logic of human society—division of labor and cooperation.

Such an unbreakable bond could only be replaced by a more advanced production relationship.

It couldn’t be built by throwing money around, nor could it be shattered by a single battleship.

But Wu Tuo would never know that, and even if he did, it would be too late.

Being weak wasn’t the original sin; being weak and addicted to it was.

The Empire wasn’t without clear-sighted people, but every one of them pretended to be ignorant, joining half-baked swindlers to bully the utterly clueless fools, losing all the chips stolen from honest folk.

At first, the South Sea Alliance fishermen only sought wealth, not lives. To the Empire, that hardship wasn’t even pain—just a flesh wound.

But as luck would have it, the Legion, which coveted both wealth and lives, also set its sights on this fellow.

Even if the Alliance didn’t want to step in, it had no choice but to push its chips onto the table…

Standing at the edge of the deck, Elf King Wealth blew the sea breeze, squinting westward. After a long pause, he suddenly blurted out.

“…I heard the Burning Corps brothers have already arrived?”

Irena smiled.

“Yeah, saw it on the forum.”

Elf King Wealth: “Damn! Why can’t we take a plane?”

Irena gave him a subtle look.

“…Because our gear’s too heavy, manual wry smile.”

While they were chatting, Mole, sitting in the cabin, was staring at the map of Rowell State, pondering.

Two corps were deployed in the Boro Province this time: the Burning Corps and the Skeleton Corps.

Excluding support, maintenance, logistics, and guard companies mainly composed of NPC soldiers, the Skeleton Corps’ players were mostly in five battalion-level combat units.

Two of those were mechanized infantry battalions, divided into six companies, eighteen platoons, and fifty-four squads. Including two battalion command vehicles and six company command vehicles, that totaled sixty-two Chimera armored cars.

The other three were armored battalions, split into nine companies, twenty-seven platoons, and eighty-one squads. Plus three battalion command vehicles and nine company command vehicles, totaling ninety-three Type 3 tanks.

While these forces didn’t form a single-line formation, on the open field they constituted a formidable steel torrent.

According to the Administrator’s orders, the state border of Rowell was the final red line.

If Legion soldiers dared cross it, they would launch a full-scale offensive against the Legion in coordination with the Burning Corps.

But a red line was just a reference. If the Legion truly launched a full invasion of Boro Province, they wouldn’t wait for the enemy to reach that line.

After all, they weren’t players or NPCs; the Administrator had granted him some authority to act in emergencies.

Provided he fully consulted with the Burning Corps.

With Brother Fang around, Mole wasn’t too worried about misjudging the situation or similar issues.

What concerned him more was the traffic situation in Boro Province.

From Golden Harbor to the capitals of Tiger and Leopard States, there were only a few limited roads.

And among those roads, very few could allow armored units to pass quickly.

“…Thank goodness the warlords of Tiger and Leopard States spent money to build some roads. Without them, our tanks probably couldn’t even leave Golden Harbor.”

After studying for a while, Mole muttered a curse and tossed his pen onto the map.

The staff officer beside him frowned, stroking his chin in thought.

“The road conditions in Boro Province are indeed terrible… and in a few months, the rainy season will begin. The traffic along the Eternal River’s banks will likely become even more severe.”

Speaking of this staff officer, he was a Velantian named Vides.

Like Vanus, he was born in the Expeditionary Force, even joining within a few months of each other. But his luck wasn’t as good as Vanus’s; he first followed Chiliarch Dillon as a “bandit” and later was captured by Vault 404.

However, like Vanus, the choices he made afterward were similar.

After the Battle of Luoxia, he didn’t return home with the other prisoners but chose to stay with the Alliance.

Considering the possible direct confrontation with the Legion, the Alliance Army Staff assigned him to the Skeleton Corps as a frontline staff officer, responsible for advice and strategy.

Mole didn’t doubt his loyalty and simply treated him like any ordinary NPC.

"...That's true, but for us, who specialize in defensive counterattacks, this might not be a bad thing. If they eventually push their front line to our doorstep, their supply lines will be mired in mud, and then it'll be the air force's job."

Although the Goblin Corps hadn't deployed in full formation to the front this time, with only a few "ace pilots" flying the Alliance's next-generation fighters to the military base at Golden Harbor to contest air superiority with the Legion's advanced aircraft, that didn't mean they had no air force at their disposal.

The Golden Harbor authorities had purchased a large number of W-3 propeller planes, forming a full five air squadrons dedicated to tactical bombing, strategic bombing, and close air support.

These propeller planes, produced by goblin technology, had minimal requirements for takeoff environments and logistics, were easy to operate, and while they were no match for supersonic fighters in aerial combat, their cost-effectiveness and ground support capabilities were outstanding.

As he said this, Mole suddenly noticed his nose and chuckled.

"I almost forgot to mention, we might end up fighting your countrymen this time. If you're uncomfortable with that, speak up now, and I can arrange for you to be assigned to logistics."

"There's no such thing as comfort or discomfort," Vides said with a faint, indifferent smile. "The mistakes of the Vellant must be corrected by the Vellant, just as the mistakes of the Vault must be corrected by its residents. I know exactly what I'm doing... As for you, aren't you afraid of my nose?"

Mole laughed heartily.

"You underestimate me."

Just as he finished speaking, the phone on the command table suddenly rang.

Cutting off the irrelevant topic, Mole reached for the phone, his tone turning serious.

"This is the Skull Corps' temporary command post."

A voice quickly came through the line.

"...This is the escort fleet. Golden Harbor is five hundred kilometers ahead of you. According to sonar and radar detection, no hostile vessels are active in the surrounding waters. We will continue on our planned course. The rest of the journey is up to you."

Mole nodded.

"Understood. Good luck to you."

"And to you."

With the brief exchange concluded, the escort fleet, led by the cruiser *Harpoon*, separated from the Alliance's transport fleet.

The latter would continue toward Golden Harbor on the eastern coast of the Bahr Province, while the former would cross a vast expanse of sea to standby in the western region of the Bahr Sea.

Although the Alliance had voted in favor of "freezing the Western Empire's seat in the Sticky Body," they hadn't truly abandoned the survivors struggling on this land.

If these people dared to set fires in West Sailport today, they could replicate the same atrocities in Silver Moon Bay or even Fries Town tomorrow, just like what had happened in the River Valley Province.

Every early citizen of the Alliance was a survivor of that catastrophe.

If diplomatic means could no longer solve the problem, then it was time for the surgeon's work.

Though the Alliance's response had been restrained, merely using symmetrical strategies to counter the Southern Legion's escalating provocations, their allies were clearly itching for a fight.

Take the Honey Badger Kingdom, for instance.

Five divisions had already been assembled at the border, eyeing the neighboring Falcon Kingdom with predatory intent.

Their last war had been too frustrating—just as they had liberated their entire territory, the enemy surrendered.

As for the Lion Kingdom, the most populous nation, they had mobilized three divisions.

Unlike the "Honey Badgers" of the Sand Sea Spirits, the Lion Kingdom was uniformly "zen." Having undergone radical secularization, they only wanted pleasure, not war.

The reason was simple: back then, the Legion hadn't even reached their capital before the Alliance pushed them back. Thus, their hatred for the Vellant was far less intense than the Honey Badger Kingdom's, and their grievances stemmed more from the big-noses nuking a long-abandoned "Miracle."

Still, having learned from the last war, they weren't naive enough to think anyone could stay out of the fire once the powder keg ignited.

This time, they wouldn't give the Vellant any chance.

They would eliminate the "risk" the moment a nuclear bomb entered the eastern Great Desert, before anyone else could act.

As for the Camel Hump Kingdom and the Gold Lizard Kingdom, their attitudes were mostly the same as the Lion Kingdom's.

Suddenly finding themselves the target of the desert nations again, the Falcon Kingdom, licking its wounds in a corner, trembled in fear.

The nobles of the Falcon Court cast pleading looks toward the Eastern Legion, hoping the big-noses would send a few more ten-thousand-man regiments out of pity for their obedience.

Meanwhile, the trade representatives from the lower classes had secretly contacted the Alliance, swearing that if the Legion dared to come, they would hand over the Legion's bases and supply lines, begging only that innocent civilians be spared.

It was they who had helped the Alliance's Guard Corps investigate the arms shipment sent to West Sailport.

Backstabbing was their specialty—after all, nobles never drove trucks, loaded crates, or dug trenches at the front.

Fighting was out of the question.

They would never fight the Alliance. If anyone had to fight, let the nobles do it.

Ever since Griffin had gone all-in, the Falcon Kingdom had nearly lost an entire generation.

And after Bister Town developed, it sucked away the kingdom's labor force like a black hole, leaving the nation with mostly women, children, and the elderly. The remaining young men couldn't even muster a single division.

At the storm's center, West Sailport tugged at the nerves of every survivor faction across the wasteland.

At least the survivors living around the Great Desert were affected to varying degrees.

And as tensions in the Bahr Province continued to escalate, three mysterious groups quietly entered the empire's rotting "heart."

Among them were the Legion's "envoys" and the Alliance's "envoys."

But both titles needed quotation marks, as they were somewhat diluted.

The only genuine ones were the mercenaries from the Free State.

They were indeed real mercenaries, though their skills were a bit rusty—probably outsourced by an outsourcer, with the job eventually landing in the hands of some wastelander.

This wasn't the first time.

The war correspondent had no idea why they'd come to this godforsaken place, but he saw several bodies hanging at the northern gate of the Celestial Capital, clearly not locals.

After asking around at the gate, he learned they were mercenaries from the Free State, clad in exoskeletons and wielding guns that went *rat-a-tat-tat*, looking just like the "Iron Men" from the east.

According to a street vendor selling porridge, the two sides had clashed on the street near the northern gate.

The fight was a mess—more thrilling than the firefights between the Imperial Guard and the Celestial Army.

For a silver coin, the vendor vividly described the scene, gesticulating wildly, his face flushed.

From his hand movements, it sounded like they'd blown up the entire street.

In the end, nearly a hundred Celestial soldiers died, while only two mercenaries fell.

Later, probably running out of ammo, the "Iron Men" began to retreat, but six were eventually captured.

"They didn't keep prisoners?"

The war correspondent couldn't help asking the increasingly excited vendor.

The vendor paused, then shook his head like a rattle-drum.

"No prisoners. The Celestial never take prisoners. They kill fast and hard, like slaughtering chickens."

Come to think of it, that made sense.

These people were bloodthirsty—they wouldn't care if the captives were from the Free State or Slave State; they probably hadn't even heard of the place.

The war correspondent's throat bobbed as he gave the porridge vendor a second look.

"...They kill people like chickens. Aren't you afraid of getting blood on you, doing business here?"

The vendor grinned, his coal-smudged face breaking into a cheerful smile.

"You're joking again, sir. Where isn't it like slaughtering chickens around here? Would it be any better in Lion Province or Elephant Province?"

The war correspondent couldn't resist asking further.

"Why don't you go... to Golden Galleon Port? Surely it can't be like this there."

The vendor waved his hand with a laugh.

"Ah, easy for you to say. I bet you've never swum in the Eternal River—not counting those who never crawled ashore, even those who did, how many ended up ghosts drowned in the reeds?"

Seeing the silent guest, he sighed and continued.

"If I had no ties, maybe I'd take a crack at that Eternal River. But I've got a family to feed—who'd look after them if I left? Those who went into the river, dead or alive, few ever came back."

"Besides, I reckon it might not be as good as the rumors say. Whatever Golden Galleon Port has, Westsail Port has it too—factories or docks? Those killers who slaughter like chickens came right out of the docks and factories. If they could make a living, why rebel? Got nothing better to do?"

He shook his head again.

"I figure those ports and factories aren't any good either. I've seen freemen starve, tenants starve, but I've never seen a slave starve to death."

Just then, Penny, who had been standing silently behind the war correspondent, suddenly couldn't hold back.

"...Then why do you support the Heavenly King?"

Startled by this treasonous remark, the vendor quickly glanced around, and seeing no one with plaster armbands, he turned to the speaker.

The figure wore a thick turban, almost covering the entire face, leaving only a pair of eyes visible.

A desert-colored cloak draped over her shoulders, wrapping her tightly, making it impossible to tell where she was from, though she seemed to be a woman.

He'd never seen a woman with such a fine figure.

The vendor gave an awkward smile, a bit shy, scratching his dark head with a blackened hand.

"Miss, the way you put it... When he rebelled, he didn't ask for my permission."

Penny was momentarily speechless.

Beside her, the war correspondent, caught between laughter and tears, tugged at her and shot her a fierce glare.

'Are you crazy?!'

Knowing she was in the wrong, Penny lowered her head and muttered a soft "sorry."

It was her occupational hazard acting up again—she'd blurted it out before thinking.

Only when she came to her senses did she realize how dangerous a thing she'd done.

Watching Penny obediently admit her mistake, the war correspondent couldn't bring himself to scold her further. He just gave her a warning look and turned his head back.

As luck would have it, he'd originally planned to move with those Far-Sight folks.

After all, their names sounded like a team, and people with teams were surely more reliable than loners.

But as fate would have it, no sooner had he struck up a conversation with them than he ran into Bennet's daughter, Penny, at the port.

When she heard he was heading to the Heavenly Capital as an envoy, she insisted on coming along, even going so far as to disguise herself as his servant.

The war correspondent had tried to talk her out of it, but she was impossible to dissuade.

He'd even considered knocking her out and locking her in a tent, but worried that once she woke up, her stubborn streak would drive her to act alone.

Those who work as war correspondents are mostly fearless souls.

Others might just talk big for fun, but she might actually do it.

Better to let her tag along than let her take risks alone—at least there'd be some guarantee.

As for Commander Bennet... well, he could blame himself for gambling so big.

The *Triumph Gazette* reporter was dead set on bringing the truth home; he couldn't very well stop her.

His eyes darting between the two, the vendor grinned at the war correspondent.

"Sir, want two bowls? I've been selling this paste for eight years—the flavor's absolutely addictive!"

The war correspondent watched him plunge the same hand that had just scratched his head back into the paste, his stomach lurching as he forced out a reply.

"No thanks... I've already had lunch."

He believed the flavor was absolutely addictive.

After all, the hair oil added to it could fry another dish...

Tossing a few more silver coins onto the stall, the war correspondent didn't dare linger. He grabbed Penny's hand and hurried off, deliberately winding through the alleys several times before retreating to their lodgings at the inn.

As expected, not long after he left, the vendor reported their doings to the patrol at the city gate.

But amusingly, the city guards didn't bother listening to the vendor's explanation. The moment they heard about the silver coins, their eyes turned greedy.

Several men beat the vendor with clubs, and sure enough, they found a few coins on him.

Caught red-handed, though the mastermind had escaped, a spy's cap was inevitable.

The guards hauled the vendor up and gave him a thorough scolding, turning his face pale until he dared not mention the earlier incident. Then they let him off lightly, pocketed the coins, and swaggered away with their clubs.

To be fair, they patrolled this area—didn't they know things were unsettled lately?

Just a few days ago, some mercenaries from the Free State had appeared, and it was said that to catch those six unlucky wretches, over a hundred Heavenly King soldiers had died.

He only had one head; of course, he'd pick the softest persimmon to squeeze. He wouldn't go looking for trouble himself...

Outside the city, at the inn.

Watching the Pangolin close the door and then head to the window to peer outside, Penny, sitting on the bed, took off her stifling turban and whispered, looking at his tense demeanor.

"Why don't we just reveal our identities? Tell them... we're envoys from the Legion."

The war correspondent replied casually.

"Your father didn't even dare send a Velantian envoy—can't you guess why?"

If not on someone's orders, how could these people have slaughtered the entire port, leaving no prisoners?

In other words, if they were acting on orders, what difference would one more envoy make?

Cross-referencing intelligence from the forum, he could now basically confirm that Abusek was the Southern Legion's interest representative, and Yanush was the scapegoat pushed to the front.

Once the Southern Legion was fully prepared, they would march on the Heavenly Capital and wipe out the Heavenly King's army.

Then, old departments like Abusek's would just swap banners.

Whether called the Brahmin Legion or something else, as long as they severed ties with the Yanush Empire and even turned against it at a critical moment, the Southern Legion would smoothly hand the empire over to them—like a "shell company listing"... at least that's what Abusek thought.

But this scapegoat named Yanush clearly wasn't willing to die so ignominiously. He might even have sensed that there were traitors around him plotting to jump ship midway, so he had to use even crazier methods to bind them tightly to his chariot.

As for betrayal, that could be settled slowly after the civil war ended.

Abusek probably wouldn't mind negotiating with the Triumph City envoy, but Yanush would never leave his subordinates an escape route.

So, the war correspondent had made a pact with those Far-Sighted brothers.

They would make contact with Yanush first, while he would negotiate with Abusek.

Cooperating with the Southern Legion led nowhere—letting in a jackal wasn't "saving the country by a detour"; that wolf would swallow them whole.

And everyone around them too.

If he could convince Abusek, that would be best; if not, he'd have to think of another way.

Either way, when it was all over, he'd provide the relevant leads to Penny.

As for whether the Triumph Gazette would publish the entire account of the whole affair, he had no way of knowing.

After hearing the pangolin's counter-question, Penny was silent for a long time, but her thoughts were on something entirely different from his.

“...So that's why he sent you here?”

The battlefield veteran was taken aback, then said bluntly.

“That's right. Although I'm a Legion man, I'm not a Velantian. If the Heavenly King's troops give me trouble, I can pretend to be from the Alliance and slip by.”

“...” Penny bit her lip, her face a tangle of complex emotions.

Catching a glimpse of her inexpressible expression, the battlefield veteran softened his tone and said,

“If you're feeling sorry for me, there's no need. This is my job after all—”

“I'm worried about you!” Penny stared into his eyes, and suddenly a hint of sorrow crept into her gaze.

She couldn't quite explain why, but she had a bad feeling in her heart.

It was precisely because these people time and again treated others as the price to pay, letting outsiders bear the responsibilities and duties that should have been borne by the Velantians themselves, that things had come to this.

Her father had never reflected on that... He was only regretting that he had lost his bet; he had never thought to make amends for his mistakes.

Then you damn well shouldn't have followed me and made my mission harder...

Looking at Penny's sorrowful face, the battlefield veteran had no idea what strange thing she was thinking about now, and could only mutter this complaint to himself.

Just as he was about to say something, a soft knock came from outside the room.

“...Excuse me, is this Mr. Pangolin's room?”