Chapter 856: The Beginning of Chaos

Chapter 856: The Beginning of Chaos

On the western front of the Brahmin Province, in Sulak County.

Pete, back at the operations base, first tended to the wounded, then reported to his superiors about the friendly forces that had been shelled.

The matter had seemingly come to a close, and he was about to head to the barracks to sleep, when gunfire erupted in northern Sulak County. He had no choice but to lead his men to the assembly point, climbing aboard an armored personnel carrier parked at the farmstead gate alongside his centurion.

Sitting in the open-topped transport, the young soldiers eagerly rubbed their hands together.

"From the sound of it, that’s at least a century."

"...Probably the resistance of the Mammoth Kingdom! I hear those guys are elite, equipped with the Alliance’s exoskeletons."

"We’ve got that stuff too."

Though there was no shortage of fighting in the Great Wasteland, there were hardly any tough battles.

Especially since the 17th Cohort, led by Olette, was stationed at Eternal Night Port.

There, they had air support, artillery, and shallow-water heavy gunboats supporting the coast, while their opponents were either native rebels armed with iron-tube rifles or tribes of gray-skinned mutants.

Many of the young soldiers hadn’t even seen the enemy before the artillery barrage ended and victory was theirs.

As for the mutants hiding in the ruins of the city, they generally didn’t bother stirring up trouble with them.

After all, capturing that kind of inland territory deep in the Great Wasteland offered little profit. The Legion craved land under the sun, but not every patch of dirt.

Regardless, the prospect of finally facing a worthy opponent stirred excitement in both the rank-and-file and their officers.

But as the group chattered, an older veteran suddenly furrowed his brow.

"...That gunfire sounds familiar."

Pete also sensed something off.

The gunfire that had been echoing for a while now seemed to come entirely from their own weapons.

"Maybe it’s stragglers from the Brahmin Kingdom, or maybe it’s the Mammoth Kingdom’s guerrillas... hard to say."

Though the Mammoth Kingdom’s army was built to Alliance standards, they also had some equipment captured from the Gray Wolf Army.

The crackling gunfire lasted about twenty minutes, finally ceasing just before they arrived.

"Contact is due north! Dismount! Move it, everyone!"

The vehicle stopped near a patch of woods. Pete and his men jumped out, advancing on foot through the forest toward the direction of the gunfire.

After running about two hundred meters, they finally reached the scene, only to find the battle already over.

Lying scattered across the dense woodland were over a hundred corpses.

Their deaths were gruesome—many had been shot multiple times, some with their throats slit. Nearby lay weapons like Ripper rifles and PU-9 submachine guns.

Just as he had guessed, this unit used Legion equipment.

The centurion who had earlier entrusted him with the wounded stood nearby, immediately recognizing Pete. He walked over with a grin.

"You’re late. We handled it ourselves."

Seeing the centurion address him directly, Pete glanced at the bodies and asked casually.

"Who are these people?"

"Probably guerrillas, the ones feeding coordinates to those artillerymen... Damn it." The centurion spat on the ground, still looking unsatisfied.

Among the dead were not only Brahmin but also some Valyrians.

"What about your side?"

"Not bad, but we lost a dozen or so brothers... Though they lost more, of course."

Pete said nothing, lowering his gaze to a face smeared with mud and blood. It looked familiar.

Just then, his own centurion arrived with his men. The friendly centurion stepped away, lighting a cigarette with Pete’s superior as they chatted and laughed.

The fight was over; everyone was relaxed. But Pete noticed the friendly soldiers’ faces were tense, showing none of the joy of vengeance.

Puzzled, he looked again at the familiar face on the ground.

And then it hit him—where he had seen it before.

It was that afternoon.

He had been watching a group of gaunt men wielding shovels, burying those said to be their own kin from the Heavenly King Army.

Pete’s Adam’s apple bobbed. As if possessed, he crouched down, staring at one man who looked like a tenant farmer. He reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out some bloodstained clumps of dirt.

It was them, indeed.

Long silence. Pete wiped the blood and dirt from his hands, pulling them back from the body.

As he stood, he noticed a nearby friendly soldier staring at him nervously.

"Nice work."

Meeting the young man’s gaze, Pete patted his shoulder, said nothing, and turned away.

He didn’t doubt the righteousness of the war, nor would he bother seeking justice for a bunch of pathetic wretches. But his chest still felt tight, and he wondered what any of it meant.

Just then, his officer finished his cigarette and his chat with the friendly centurion.

"...Thanks. Thanks to you rooting out the eyes nearby, we can finally get a good night’s sleep."

"Haha, don’t mention it. Your reinforcements were timely, too."

After exchanging pleasantries, the centurion waved his hand and led his men back to the disembarkation point.

Before boarding, Pete approached his officer and lowered his voice.

"Those people didn’t look like Mammoth Kingdom scouts... Who sends a whole century to scout?"

Even if there were centuries specialized in reconnaissance, they wouldn’t cluster as an entire unit.

He phrased it tactfully, not to expose the friendly forces for killing civilians and claiming credit, but mainly out of fear that real scouts might have slipped through—that would be a real disaster.

But as soon as he spoke, his officer gave him a meaningful look.

"Pete, everyone makes mistakes. Especially in the dark—it’s easy to misjudge. We’re on the same side, we see each other every day. You know what I mean?"

Meeting his officer’s gaze, Pete couldn’t help but hold his breath.

He wasn’t a raw recruit anymore; he’d spent some time in the barracks. Yet he realized he understood nothing at all.

Suddenly, he thought of that fresh-faced soldier whose collar he had grabbed.

After a long moment, Pete, still holding his breath, nodded.

"I understand... I’m just worried there might be other reconnaissance units. If we let our guard down and they find out our deployment in Sulak County."

Hearing this, the officer smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

"Of course. There’s bound to be more than one reconnaissance unit around us. We just hooked a big fish. If I were them, I’d come check us out too, see if there’s anything new—"

Before he could finish, gunfire erupted from central Sulak County.

Both of them froze.

This time, the gunfire wasn’t all from Legion weapons—it was mixed with sounds that reeked of the Alliance.

A moment later, the centurion’s face twisted into a strange expression.

“……Looks like our fish has taken the bait too.”

……

In a sense, the centurion’s guess was indeed correct—the 171st Cohort stationed in Sulak County had truly hooked a big fish.

A granary in the central farmstead of Sulak County.

An entire century had the warehouse surrounded airtight, and a decurion carrying an assault rifle stepped forward, shouting menacingly.

“Surrender! You are surrounded!”

Hearing the shouts outside, the dog with the catheter glanced at the LD-50 carbine in his hands, then at the dense rows of bullet holes on the wall, and couldn’t help but feel his scalp tingle.

“Damn it! Are these Wilanters cheating?!”

After guiding the friendly artillery strike earlier, he had planned to take a look inside Sulak County, but he hadn’t expected the county to be bigger than he imagined.

Without satellite navigation and with the drone’s battery dead, the surrounding farmsteads and fields all looked alike, and he got lost as he walked. Not only did he forget the way back, but he also ran headlong into a Wilanter patrol.

At the time, he thought they were locals and wanted to ask for directions, even greeting them.

But when they met face to face, both sides froze on the spot.

Old Dog, realizing he had asked the wrong people, was the first to react and bolted.

Seeing him flee, the opposite side was momentarily stunned but quickly recovered and grabbed their weapons to chase after him.

A fierce firefight erupted between them in the fields and woods.

Since the Legion had night-vision equipment and he only had a carbine with just two magazines, he was forced to lose quickly, tossing aside his VM and drone before being driven into this granary.

Cornered and out of options, Old Dog, like most noobs, instinctively thought not that he was bad but that the enemy was cheating.

But now, saying all this was useless.

He was torn between “erasing all traces of himself” or letting the plot kill him, surrendering to be captured.

A rational analysis suggested the latter had higher returns—maybe he could even spy on the Legion’s frontline deployment.

Of course, the key issue was that he had been following Eagle and hadn’t saved in months.

If he died now and lost two levels, it would be a total loss!

Seeing the scout hiding in the granary make no move, the Wilanter decurion exchanged a glance with the centurion not far behind, then took a white phosphorus grenade from his belt.

Just as he was about to pull the pin and toss it inside, a rifle was thrown out of the granary.

“I-I-I surren… surren…”

Damn.

How do you say “surrender” in Common again?

Old Dog came out of the door with his hands on his head, laughing bitterly as he realized he had forgotten the word.

The few Wilanters guarding the granary door exchanged glances, their faces twisted in strange expressions.

“Is this guy brain-damaged?”

“……Could be a trick.”

Sending this thing as a scout?

Is the Alliance out of people?

The decurion clearly thought so too, but this wasn’t the time to discuss it.

He waved his hand darkly.

“Take him away!”

The soldier beside him snapped to attention and saluted, then ignored the prisoner’s protests, pulled out a rope, tied him up tightly, and carried him off to throw him onto the armored personnel carrier outside the granary.

“Damn it, can’t you be gentler?” Old Dog winced and cursed as pain shot through his back.

Seeing the guy wasn’t behaving, the soldier who jumped onto the vehicle gave him another butt stroke.

“Stay quiet, you bastard!”

Taking the blow, Old Dog grunted, his head spinning so badly he nearly disconnected.

The soldier sat down right next to him, reached out of the cabin, and slapped the side hard.

“Drive! Back to base!”

“Roger.”

The engine of the armored personnel carrier roared to life, made a wide turn, and then rumbled along the bumpy dirt road toward a nearby village.

Lying in the dark, Old Dog thought to memorize the route, but soon realized he didn’t know the roads around here at all—not even where he was—so he had to give up helplessly.

After a bumpy ride through the darkness, the APC finally reached its destination.

The Wilanter soldier guarding him grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, yanked him out like a chicken, and threw him hard onto the muddy ground.

“Get up!”

Old Dog, with a mouthful of mud, cursed under his breath, but remembering that discretion is the better part of valor, he swallowed his anger and twisted himself up from the ground.

Just wait!

Let me find out where you are, and I’ll call in “Yao Wu Wu” to blow you all to hell!

The soldier ignored him, just prodding him with the muzzle, urging him forward.

This place seemed to be a temporary base—nothing much, just some tents pitched next to civilian houses, and a few houses that had been requisitioned outright.

Before he could finish observing the whole base, Old Dog was shoved into a small dark room, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Outside, silence fell, broken only by the croaking of toads and the rustling of insects.

After who knows how long, just as Old Dog was wondering whether to log off and wait, footsteps finally came from outside again.

With a clatter of chains, the sagging wooden door was pulled open.

Seeing Ross, the chiliarch, walk in from outside, Old Dog’s face stiffened.

He never imagined it would be so coincidental—running into an acquaintance in the chaos of war—and could only silently pray the guy didn’t remember him.

It wasn’t impossible.

Since his Common was poor, he usually kept quiet unless necessary, only chiming in occasionally; the other party might well have forgotten him as just a lackey.

But of course, fear of what might happen brought it about. Ross, standing at the door of the small dark room, narrowed his eyes slightly, then suddenly flicked on his flashlight and shone it in Old Dog’s face.

Blinded by the sudden light, Old Dog closed his eyes, his heart sinking.

Sure enough, a cold laugh reached his ears.

“I recognize you. You’re the Alliance’s envoy.”

He knew he couldn’t hide it anymore.

Hearing the word “Alliance,” Old Dog sighed inwardly and gave an awkward smile.

He wanted to argue that he was actually a fake, but suddenly realized he had no idea how to say that in Common.

To be honest, he usually watched subtitles on the VM, never actually learned the human language, could only catch a few words, probably knew less than Japanese.

Once the VM was tossed aside, he instantly became deaf and mute, not only unable to speak but unable to understand even slightly complex sentences.

But Ross misinterpreted, thinking the guy was still trying to deny it, so he let out a cold chuckle.

"I suggest you play nice and confess everything, maybe it'll save you some unnecessary pain."

"..."

Watching the NPC's face gradually turn cold, Old Dog felt cold sweat trickle down his forehead.

Damn it.

This skip cutscene had gone wrong!

He figured this guy probably wanted to question him, but he couldn't understand a single word of the bastard's gibberish.

How the hell was he supposed to talk his way out of this!

"Speak!"

Seeing the man before him stubbornly silent, Ross suddenly raised his voice in a sharp shout, staring into his eyes as he continued.

"I'll ask you one last time: why are the Alliance's 'official personnel' on the front line? What are you here for?"

Catheter Dog: "??"

"Playing dumb, huh... Fine."

Ross sneered, nodded, then turned his gaze to the menacing Willantian soldier standing nearby.

"I don't care how you do it, pry his mouth open... Remember, just leave him breathing."

Catheter Dog: "???"

The Willantian soldier's face twisted into a cruel grin, looking at the prisoner like a tiger eyeing a lamb.

Cracking his knuckles with a grinding sound, he nodded fiercely.

"Yes!"

Old Dog understood that word, but it only brought despair.

Especially when he saw Ross turning to leave the dark room and the NPC soldier striding toward him, his tense face finally betrayed a flicker of uncontrollable terror.

"W-wait..."

Holy shit!

Was this game really that realistic?!

...

Perhaps due to historical baggage, the Willantians weren't just skilled in warfare; they had a knack for torture too.

Within ten minutes, unable to bear the humiliation, Old Dog voluntarily disconnected, took off his helmet, tossed it on the bed, and with a mournful face went to the group to call for help.

"Fathers, save me! I got caught by the big-noses!"

Seeing Old Dog's message, Old Eagle, Old Stick, and Old Wolf, who had just logged off, all jumped in at once.

War Wolf: "Damn, I told you to scout their front line, how the hell did you get captured?"

Catheter Dog: "I was scouting their front line... I saw the artillery blow up a whole century of theirs, thought I'd push a bit further, but who knew I'd run into their patrol."

Shit Stirrer: "You all laugh at Old Dog for being useless, but I think it's the opposite. This guy either does nothing or makes headlines. (Sarcastic)"

Eagle Eye: "The trouble is we showed our faces in West Sailport and even pretended to be Alliance envoys... Shit, did they recognize you?"

Catheter Dog: "Not at first, but I ran into that Ross! I remember he's the brother-in-law of that warzone guy? Can he put in a good word for me? QAQ"

War Wolf: "Screwed, it's a familiar face."

Shit Stirrer: "Screwed maybe not. Old Dog just has to deny everything. Their unilateral accusation is useless, just self-amusement."

Catheter Dog: "I didn't confess! I couldn't understand a damn thing that guy said... Brothers, is there hope for me? QAQ"

Eagle Eye: "Don't panic. Can you confirm where you are right now?"

Catheter Dog: "...No idea, maybe west of the artillery point? Within 50 kilometers? I remember a farm nearby. QAQ"

Shit Stirrer: "Be specific. Sulak County has two or three million mu, half of it farmland. Which farm are you talking about?"

Catheter Dog: "I... don't know."

War Wolf: "...Hopeless. Off yourself."

Shit Stirrer: "Ah! Tough. Best we can do is help recover your VM, if some local hasn't picked it up."

Catheter Dog: "No, bro... I haven't saved in months. T.T"

Eagle Eye: "That really hurts. We'll think of something... You think too, see if you can escape. If not, at least gather some intel before you die."

War Wolf: "...I'll log in and ask if there are any guerrillas active in Ox Province. That Ross, if I recall, is a trusted man of Olet, the commander of the 17th Thousand-Man Cohort. Where he's stationed might be some key strategic area."

Catheter Dog: "I did see a lot of tents!"

Eagle Eye: "Try to gather more intel, or bribe the locals... if you get a chance."

...

The Sulak County war zone had wiped out an entire reconnaissance platoon of the Mammoth Kingdom and captured an Alliance soldier—the Southern Legion's front-line morale soared!

Commander Olet even personally visited the front line, awarded a medal to the centurion who had achieved the feat, and encouraged the troops to keep up the good work and earn more merits.

In truth, Olet wasn't unaware of the exaggeration in the battle report, but that didn't matter now.

Since they had started this war, they had to build momentum for it; only then could they gain more supporters.

The best way to build momentum was to create war heroes.

Not just the reconnaissance platoon wiped out at the front.

Even the hundred-plus W-2 planes that had launched a suicide attack during the day were counted in the report.

And the squadron leader who led the aerial defense was awarded a medal symbolizing an ace pilot for "shooting down" ten Alliance aircraft.

Meanwhile, the *Survivor Daily* in Golden Port published a headline the next day.

"155mm Artillery Shows Its Power! Wipes Out an Entire Legion Century!"

Below the headline was a picture: a cannon hidden in the woods spewing a long tongue of fire, with the Moon Tribe resistance battalion commander and an Alliance volunteer standing side by side.

The newspaper was snapped up almost as soon as it hit the newsstands.

In a noodle shop in the port district, a group of diners gathered around a paper, sighing and lamenting.

"Abusek fought so pathetically—two divisions chased by one regiment!"

"Rasi is the real fighter!"

"Ah, we misjudged him before! You really need to see a few rounds to know if someone's a hero or a coward!"

"...Too early to say! The Boro Kingdom's army is almost pulling out of Ox Province. I doubt Rasi can hold Dog Province either; he'll probably lose it in the end! What's the difference from Abusek?"

"But the Legion's airships aren't that impressive either—all that hype, but no real show."

"Don't say that. You haven't seen their power—"

“You’ve seen him?”

“Uh… not exactly.”

Beside the newspaper kiosk at the entrance of the noodle shop, Eugene, clutching a newspaper in his hand, wore a face heavy with worry.

After the disaster before, the Family Association of West Sail Port had been crushed by the Legion; not only were Zaid and other high-ranking members of the Association missing, but he himself had been expelled by the Legion and forced to relocate to Golden Gallon Port.

Though friends from the Workers’ Union urged him to leave this place of strife for a while, his heart could not let go of his suffering comrades, and so he lingered, unwilling to depart.

Every day he bought a copy of the Survivor Daily, partly to track the latest developments of the war, partly to gather news about the Family Association.

To be fair, he did not much care for that fellow named Zaid.

Not only because of Alisa’s warning, but also because a gut feeling always reminded him that the man’s inner self and outward face might be two entirely different people.

Still, he was no child after all, and could not rashly define another person based solely on personal likes.

At least so far, every word that man spoke and every deed he did was truly for the sake of uniting the suffering survivors.

And unlike Rasi, who sold his own people to labor in the southern seas, that fellow actually went down to the grassroots, taught them, shared their hardships, and called them family.

Eugene asked himself: Lovett could not do these things, nor even Spberg had that skill.

And in the end, he lacked the ability to cut open a person’s heart and peer at what lay hidden inside.

Moreover, no matter what kind of man Zaid was, those united laborers were still worthy of their help.

And those families who had finally come together with such difficulty…

Turning the newspaper to its last page, Eugene at last saw the news he had long awaited on the final sheet.

[The Grand Leader of Bolo State and President of the Federation, Abusek, summons the President of the Family Association]

“…So he is in Tiandu.”

Eugene breathed a sigh of relief in his heart.

It seemed he had not died that night.

No matter what, it was good that he was still alive…