Chapter 852: Fireworks Blooming on the Ground

Chapter 852 Fireworks Blooming on the Ground

At the exact same moment the Alliance players readied themselves for battle, the Third Air Group of the Southern Army completed its own preparations for combat.

A hundred Dagger fighters formed an attack formation in the sky, pouncing upon the incoming swarm of aircraft with murderous intent, like a pack of wolves hunting sheep.

The Wilanites clearly held nothing but contempt for these combat planes of the Prora Republic.

Even if the cost of training propeller plane pilots was not as absurd as that of jet pilots, it still required at least five to six months of instruction.

And that was merely the bare minimum.

To ensure adequate combat capability, one needed no less than ten months of training, along with a guaranteed flight time of at least 400 hours.

With the Wilanites' natural talent for warfare, their training efficiency was roughly 1.5 to 2 times that of ordinary people, yet it still took three months at the fastest to forge an effective fighting force.

Looking back at that Prora Republic, which had evolved from the Heavenly King Army, it had not even been established for that long!

Even if they could procure some equipment of civilized men from the Alliance, they could not possibly find more than a handful of decent pilots.

It was precisely for this reason.

These one hundred Daggers did not hesitate for a single fraction of a second, pushing their throttles to the absolute maximum as they charged toward the medals scattered across the sky, terrified that the distant airships or ground anti-aircraft units might snatch the supreme merit from them.

"Die!!"

Unleashing a roar to vent his courage, Milton, who had locked his sights onto the nearest enemy aircraft, squeezed the trigger without a moment's hesitation, the twin 10mm autocannons beneath his seat spitting thick, long tongues of fire.

"Bang, bang, bang—!"

The deafening roar sent sharp vibrations rattling through the cockpit, and the torrent of thick, long rounds lunged forward like a great spear thrust from his own hands.

This would be a battle without suspense.

It could not even be called a battle, but rather a completely one-sided massacre.

After all, the fellow rushing head-on toward him at this moment might very well have only completed half of his training hours, perhaps unable to even locate the weapon's safety switch, and was likely shouting to his wingmen about why his guns wouldn't fire.

Though a slight exaggeration, it was not far from the truth.

A cruel, mocking sneer curled at the corner of Milton's mouth.

He could already envision that burning fireball plunging toward the earth, and the periphery of his vision was already searching for the next target to be favored by the Grim Reaper.

Yet, right at that moment, a spectacle occurred that left him utterly dumbfounded.

The aircraft, which should have been torn into shredded debris, suddenly tilted its frame.

Just as that long string of tracers was about to rip it apart, it behaved like a nimble bird, riding the rushing slipstream to tilt sideways, utilizing the lateral thrust generated by air resistance to complete a wide-radius barrel roll, casually letting the burst of cannon fire pass by while charging straight ahead without losing a knot of speed.

That seamless, fluid motion was like the twisting flourish of a sword in the hand of a fencing champion.

And the murderous intent hidden within had already quietly bared its edge.

Milton's eyes went wide and rigid, his eyeballs practically bulging out like ping-pong balls, as cold sweat instantly drenched his back.

This fellow was absolutely no rookie!

No—

It should be said that the fellow could not possibly be a pilot from the Prora Province!

Those masterful flying skills and that effortless composure on the spot could never be forged in training exercises.

Only by brushing past the edge of death countless times, and breaking free from the shackles of the Grim Reaper time and again, could one hone the skills sufficient to toy with mortality itself.

That fellow was absolutely an ace!

He was in trouble!

"Damn it!"

Cursing internally at the impending disaster, Milton stomped hard on the right rudder pedal and pulled up on the control stick, attempting to wrench his reticle back onto the flight path of that aircraft to deliver a corrective burst.

Yet, the opponent did not grant him that chance.

The moment the barrel roll maneuver was completed, the W-2, which had seized the upper hand from a disadvantageous start, elegantly unleashed a brief yet fatal burst of cannon fire.

The 20mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds traced a deadly arc across the sky, like a downward diagonal slash, cutting off the advance of Milton's mount.

The victor was decided.

"It's over—"

With absolutely no room to evade, Milton could only watch in despair as the fleeting firing window slipped away, before inevitably colliding into that lethal volley of autocannon shells.

"Boom—!"

A plume of scorching, thick smoke erupted from the fiery blast of the explosion, and a Dagger with a snapped wing spun rapidly as it plummeted toward the ground.

"First blood claimed... have a safe journey."

Watching the falling enemy aircraft, Feng Qing casually tossed out a farewell, then deftly pulled out the marker tucked by her trouser leg, drawing the first stroke of a tally mark onto the side of the cockpit.

Not a bad attempt.

But still a bit too green.

That fellow was probably in a rush to get first blood, opening fire from such a distance that she didn't even need to activate her agility talent, evading it directly with a simple barrel roll.

And the fellow's subsequent movements were easily predictable; failing the first strike, he would surely try to find a way to remedy it.

She only needed to use her cannons to cut off the enemy plane's trajectory in advance, right at the moment those twin autocannons tried to snap back onto her.

Due to the enemy's underestimation, the firing window left for her was more than generous.

At that exact moment, Gui Gui's voice came through the communication channel.

"Oh oh oh! Beautifully done, Feng Qing!"

"Haha, it's alright, it's alright..."

Feng Qing smiled shyly, offering a humble reply, and then skillfully locked onto her next target.

Ever since the Goblin Corps was established, she had been flying planes; let alone her flight time surpassing a thousand hours, the total time she spent waiting to respawn exceeded that number.

Countless experiences of death had long allowed her to master the arts of flight by heart.

Without exaggeration, the plane she piloted was like an extension of her own body, to the point where she could feel the airflow brushing against the flaps.

Just then, an exasperated voice crackled through the communication channel.

"Fuck! You snatched my first blood!"

Gui Gui: "Hahaha! Commander, you need to work harder, don't let a newcomer catch up to you one of these days."

Mosquito: "Heh! Absolutely impossible."

Newbie No. 1: "Hehe, that's hard to say, Commander. Want to make it a competition?"

Mosquito: "Compete my ass! The number of times you've touched a plane isn't even as many as the times I've crashed one! Do your own mission properly, don't just think about kills, drop your bombs accurately for me before talking nonsense!"

Newbie No. 1: "Damn! Dog Mosquito is discriminating against newcomers! I'm going to the forums to expose you!"

Mosquito: "%#￥@!"

Newbie No. 2: "Awoo ooh!! Long live the Manager!"

Newbie No. 3: "Oh my god!!! Isn't this a hell of a lot more thrilling than War Thunder!?"

"Gui Gui: 'Uh, is it because there are more people? It feels like the newcomers are getting crazier and crazier...'"

Able to imagine her friend's facepalming expression, Feng Qing didn't know what to say either, so she could only smile.

"Ahaha... but I feel like the commander actually likes them quite a bit."

The first fireball blossomed in the dark, cloud-covered sky.

A parachute drifted out from that burning cockpit, carrying the pride of the Southern Legion's Third Air Corps as it plummeted toward the earth.

Looking at their comrade who had been shot down upon first contact, the Veranti pilots were all dumbfounded.

No one had expected that the first combat loss of this battle would actually appear on their side.

And what they expected even less was that the opponent's strike would be so clean, swift, and resolute.

"...It's the Alliance pilots." The Air Corps captain's face darkened, a fierce light burning in his constricted pupils.

Even the most obtuse person would have realized it by now.

The people sitting in these planes flying the flag of the Kingdom of Porro were not survivors of the Porro Province at all!

They were people from the Alliance!

That boiling flame was like a slap in the face, viciously striking the countenance of every single pilot in the Third Air Corps.

However, they were, after all, a race born for battle.

They were not terrified by the sudden casualties; instead, sitting in their cockpits, the fighting spirit in their chests was aroused, and they completely put away the arrogance and underestimation of the enemy in their hearts.

As for the Alliance joining the war, the top and bottom of the Southern Legion had long been prepared for it, so it wasn't as if their jaws dropped in surprise.

At most, they hadn't expected the opponent's reaction to be so swift, playing for keeps right from the start, sending up their own planes along with their pilots.

But this was fine too.

Instead of constantly guarding against an enemy hidden in the dark, it was better to have a satisfying and thorough battle!

"...If you want to die, this old man will fulfill your wish!!"

The Air Corps captain roared, thrusting his fire-spitting autocannons forward as he bit onto the tail of the nearest W-2 aircraft.

The distance of one kilometer vanished in an instant, and the two sides quickly fell into a close-quarters melee.

The roar of autocannons filled the entire battlefield, and flying tracers stretched across the sky.

Those burning trajectories were like lances held in the hands of cavalrymen, coming and going beneath the low, dark clouds.

Planes continuously fell from the sky.

Among them were the "Daggers" belonging to the Legion, and also the "Mosquitos" belonging to the Alliance.

The combat capability of these Veranti pilots was not weak; in fact, they were much stronger than those auxiliary pilots of the Falcon Kingdom.

And their planes were the same, completely different from those "export goods" modified to simplify production processes used by the Falcon Kingdom's air force!

Even though they both utilized propeller propulsion, a massive difference still existed between the two; neither maneuverability nor speed was on the same level.

After continuously shooting down four planes, Feng Qing also gradually felt a hint of strain.

Her left wing was moderately damaged, the leading-edge flap seemed to be broken, and the remaining ammunition was already running low... and none of this was the most fatal part.

The most fatal part was that the airship which had turned around to defend was getting closer and closer, and the ground anti-aircraft fire had consecutively completed its firing preparations.

The enemy aircraft formation was orderly shifting toward the north.

If they followed, they would enter the airship's fire network in five minutes at most. And if they didn't stick close, they would soon be caught by the ground anti-aircraft fire.

Looking at several bullet holes piercing through the cockpit, Feng Qing took a deep breath, prepared herself to respawn, and shouted into the communication channel.

"...Commander! This distance is just about enough, let's begin the second phase of the operation!"

Evidently, Brother Mosquito felt the same way.

After a brief static hiss of current, a resolute voice quickly came from the communication channel.

"All units listen to my order! This operation enters the second phase! Remember your targets! Before you crash, you must fire off every last round of ammunition for me!"

"See you on the forum!"

"Awoooo!!"

Having said that, Brother Mosquito himself began to howl first, then pushed down the nose of his plane which had been tilting upward, diving toward the railway station diagonally below.

That impassioned roar ignited the hot blood in the hearts of all players; Feng Qing only felt the blood in her veins burning, and she, who was usually quiet, also began to shout along.

The remaining sixty-plus W-2 aircraft suddenly scattered into a sky full of fireworks, turning around to plunge toward the ground, catching those "Daggers" completely off guard as they fought with them while shifting the battlefield northward.

The captain of the Third Air Corps was startled. Remembering the command from headquarters, he roared furiously into the communication channel.

"Stop them!"

There was no need for his command at all; those well-trained Veranti pilots, upon noticing the intentions of these Alliance pilots, immediately ended the game of cat and mouse, turning around to give chase.

However, it was already too late!

Those planes plunging recklessly toward the ground seemed to have no intention whatsoever of pulling themselves back up; diving, they turned on their buzzers and pushed the throttles all the way to the floor.

"Woo—!"

A sharp, piercing howl echoed through the sky, just like the horn blown by the Grim Reaper.

Each of them locked onto their own target, then emptied the last dozens of rounds of ammunition remaining in their autocannons.

A rain of fire descended from the sky, and the Veranti soldiers guarding near the railway station were all startled, scrambling to find cover.

And those stevedores were the same; hearing that piercing sound ring out, they dropped the things in their hands and fled toward the outside of the railway station regardless of anything else.

One of the planes crashed straight into a warehouse, and soon a sympathetic detonation occurred in that warehouse; blinding fire flared from the roof, and the crackling explosions were just like setting off firecrackers.

These planes all used fuel cells with solid hydrogen as a base; this thing with its safety measures disabled was a bomb in itself, and its energy density was incomparably higher than those lighters in reality that explode upon impact.

And this soaring fire was merely the beginning!

Aside from those W-2 attack planes pouring out their autocannons, a portion of the aircraft had 100-kilogram aerial bombs slung under their bellies!

That metallic hydrogen was far more ruthless than pure solid hydrogen, not to mention that some other formulas were mixed inside to enhance the power.

And these planes piloted by the "goblin newcomers" also had clear targets one by one, heading straight for those locomotive heads parked in the railway station.

As well as those railways leading to the northern region, and the bridges spanning across the river!

It was unrealistic to stop the iron torrent surging toward the north.

However, they could use the method of striking logistics to stall the offensive pace of the Legion's 17th Corps, buying more preparation time for the Moon Clan resistance army in the north.

A plane carrying an aerial bomb rushed straight toward a train loaded with goods, disabling the bomb's safety fuse only at the very last moment before crashing, slamming into it along with the bomb.

The Veranti pilot chasing behind its tail was completely dumbfounded; watching that oncoming flame, he could only grit his teeth and pull up the nose of his plane.

These guys were all lunatics!

The rising and falling sounds of explosions lasted for a full five minutes, and every single explosion made the Veranti soldiers hiding around unable to stop their hearts from bleeding.

Sixty planes burned themselves like fireworks, causing immense damage to West Sail Port and its surrounding transportation arteries and strategic facilities, while the "Daggers" chasing behind them could do absolutely nothing except watch with wide-open eyes.

"Damn it!!"

Looking at the railway station that had turned into a sea of fire, the captain of the Third Air Corps punched his thigh in a fit of rage, but didn't expect to split open the wound on his arm that had just been bandaged, baring his teeth in pain.

A cannon shell had punched through his cockpit earlier; though it missed him, the shrapnel grazed his arm, nearly severing an artery.

Though a blaze of fury smoldered in his heart, he had no recourse but rage, so he radioed the control tower and ordered the rest of the squadron to return.

At the same time, four Sabre jet fighters racing from Eternal Night Harbor found nothing—they circled the skies without spotting an enemy and had to turn back in frustration.

These aircraft demanded high standards of airfields and ground support, yet there was no base here capable of landing or servicing them.

Watching the blips vanish from the radar screen at a visible rate, General Gurion’s face darkened like a sky choked with storm clouds.

He didn’t need to ask his men to guess the scale of the damage this air raid had wrought.

The adjutant beside him swallowed hard and spoke with a strained voice.

“A suicide attack… Have those Blue Rats gone mad?!”

Throwing away their lives for a bunch of survivors they had no connection to!

He couldn’t fathom what those fools were thinking.

Didn’t they have families of their own?!

General Gurion, his expression grim, did not share his adjutant’s astonishment; he merely narrowed his eyes as he stared at the map.

“The staff suspected earlier that the Alliance might possess some technology for remotely operated clones… Now it seems their judgment was likely correct.”

This was a hypothesis the Legion’s staff had already formed during the campaign to eradicate the Torch Church.

Based on reports from frontline soldiers, they noticed that while the Alliance’s troops suffered continuous casualties, the number of elite units never diminished.

There was only one explanation.

That some of the Alliance’s losses—especially among elite forces—were actually clones or something similar.

Though it sounded far-fetched, it seemed the most plausible theory.

And it also explained why Alliance Vault residents rarely appeared beyond communication range, and why the Alliance tirelessly promoted their cables.

From this, he could draw a preliminary inference.

That the clones operated by Vault residents could only function within communication radius.

Beyond that radius, they had to risk using their real bodies, and death there was final.

Like the four Blue Rats who had come to West Sailport before.

Hearing General Gurion’s words, the adjutant froze, then spoke hesitantly.

“But… if that’s the case, why didn’t our signal jammers work?”

He found the idea of “remotely controlled clones” too outlandish; even the notion that Alliance Vault residents were androids seemed more credible.

General Gurion shook his head, still convinced of his theory.

“Electromagnetic waves aren’t the only medium for signal transmission. Have you forgotten those mutant slime molds? We still haven’t fully understood what that psychic signal really is.”

It was said that long, long ago, the Human Federation discovered some planetary consciousness on Gaia and drew inspiration to develop a technology called the “Psychic Interference Device.”

This device could repel low-intelligence lifeforms and communicate with high-intelligence ones, once hailed by academia as the ideal medium for contacting extraterrestrial civilizations.

After all, language was too inefficient—time-consuming to decipher and prone to misunderstanding.

Whether one could be led by the psychic interference signal also served as a touchstone to gauge whether a mind was worth engaging and what strategy to use.

Yet, even though “psychic interference technology” was developed in the Human Federation era, no one in the Wasteland Age had truly figured out what that so-called psychic signal was.

The Alliance was no different, but that didn’t stop those who mastered it from using it.

Looking at the stunned adjutant and other officers, Gurion spoke firmly.

“…No matter what medium they use to control their clones, the signal must travel to the front via cables or signal towers—and those facilities leave traces!”

With that, he turned to an officer standing by the command table and issued an order.

“…We Velants look too different from the locals to operate behind enemy lines. I need you to train a special unit of Brahmin, infiltrate the enemy’s rear, and launch raids specifically targeting their communication infrastructure!”

The officer snapped to attention and saluted.

“Sir!”

Turning back to the map spread on the command table, General Gurion’s lips curled into a cold smile.

He admitted the air raid had caught him off guard, and the Alliance’s reaction speed had exceeded his expectations.

But if those fools thought such crude tactics could derail his entire plan, they were far too naive.

This war had only just begun.

Since the Alliance’s air force had entered the fray early, the equipment prepared specifically for them could be deployed ahead of schedule.

Though expensive missiles weren’t worth using on natives, they were justified against the Alliance.

No matter how cheap the clones, the aircraft fitted with plasma engines and fusion reactors were not—and every missile spent to destroy them was worthwhile.

And beyond aircraft, there were the ships.

Setting aside his earlier underestimation, Gurion fixed his gaze on the sea area in the southwest corner of the map.

Barring surprises.

The South Sea Alliance fleet should be arriving by now…