Chapter 857: Galloping Steel!

Chapter 857: Galloping Steel!

East of Westsail Port, a five-meter-wide stream cut through the endless farmland.

On the left lay a picturesque rural landscape; on the right, a mess of craters and smoke. The whole wilderness seemed split by the stream into two distinct worlds.

A bridge of steel and concrete connected heaven and hell.

It was a bridge built by the Legion for the Empire.

And now, heavy trucks with six pairs of road wheels rumbled across it, under the numb gaze of tenants and serfs, charging eastward in a mighty tide.

That was the 30th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps of the Southern Legion.

Also one of the few armored ten-thousand-man units in the Southern Legion.

Loaded on the trucks were not only armed soldiers and menacing artillery, but also gleaming "Conqueror X" heavy tanks!

This endless column’s target was Lion City, the capital of Lion Province.

Though Bharata wasn’t originally in the first phase of the Southern Legion’s offensive, plans changed. Alliance bombers from Ox Province’s airfields posed a major threat to the Legion’s supply lines to the three northern provinces.

Following the Legion’s usual style, threats were dealt with—if necessary, by fighting on two fronts, smashing both east and north.

So, the day after Otterai the Ten-Thousand-Man Commander reached Sulaq County in northern Lion Province, General Gurion deployed five more ten-thousand-man units eastward, led by Ryan, commander of the 30th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps, aiming to seize all of Lion Province and Ox Province further east.

Intelligence said Udono in Lion City had gathered 200,000 troops for defense!

That was nearly a tenth of Bharata’s entire army, but Ryan dismissed it.

He heard those 200,000 couldn’t even scrape together 20,000 rifles. Most were slaves and farmers conscripted by the Heavenly King’s army, their combat effectiveness worse than clone cannon fodder.

Numbers meant nothing against such rabble.

Just 200,000 head of cattle—at most, it would take time to slaughter them.

Sitting in the command vehicle, the burly man glanced at the military report in his hand, a sneer of contempt curling at the corner of his mouth.

After a moment, he chuckled and turned the page.

“…Just caught an Alliance spy, and they’re all worked up.”

This man was Ryan, the Ten-Thousand-Man Commander of the 30th Corps, a one-star commander. Beside him sat his staff officer, Fevrit, a bespectacled man with high cheekbones.

Watching his sneering superior, Fevrit pushed up his glasses.

“I heard he’s an Alliance diplomat. Too bad his mouth is tighter than a vault—no matter how the interrogators tortured him, they couldn’t get a single useful word.”

For such loyalty, even from an enemy, Fevrit felt a grudging respect.

But respect was one thing.

From an enemy’s standpoint, he saw only regret and foolishness in that stubbornness—pity the young man had chosen the wrong side.

Seeing the staff officer’s regret, Ryan sneered flatly.

“I see it differently. They’re just wasting time. Isn’t General Gurion’s meaning clear? If you can act, don’t waste words.”

Fevrit shrugged helplessly.

“That’s true, but if we could pry some useful intel from that prisoner, it wouldn’t hurt. Like… the specific deployment of the Alliance ‘volunteers.’ That would help our follow-up plans.”

Like most Southern Legion officers, he never took Bharata’s local resistance seriously, but the Alliance threat couldn’t be ignored.

Those were real hardcases.

And not just hardcases—rumor had it they could directly control clone soldiers, using complex equipment in battle.

If the rumors were true, this fight might not be as easy as the warhawks imagined.

A legion of “immortals”…

The thought alone was chilling.

Unlike the cautious Fevrit, Ryan didn’t care, just shrugged dismissively.

“Doesn’t matter. Seeing their cards or not changes nothing—this victory is a foregone conclusion… They’ve been on their high horse too long, not seeing what kind of cattle they’re protecting.”

This was his first time on this land, and the survivors here felt like maggots writhing in a cesspool.

As a radical among the warhawks, he despised all non-Wellander races, but rarely held any group in such contempt that he even looked down on the soft-hearted MacLenn.

Wasn’t that guy soft-hearted?

That thousand-man commander Ross couldn’t see it, getting played like a fool, but Ryan saw through it at once.

From the moment he landed, that guy had been blowing hot air—first shouting that killing the locals outright was too easy, that they should use Gray mercenaries to torment them for satisfaction. When that idea proved impractical, he changed his tune, yelling for them to dig their own graves…

Toughness isn’t shouted from the mouth.

All his seemingly tough postures were just theatrical shows, and every seemingly vicious idea ended up causing delays.

Ross hadn’t even realized he was being played.

He didn’t need to listen to the Eastern Legion officer’s commands, but he let that guy drag things out until the Alliance envoy arrived, then cooked up some slow trial.

They didn’t need to negotiate—just massacre and demand the sky.

Maybe others saw it differently, but in Ryan’s view, because that twisted trial didn’t kill thoroughly enough, the “Family Society” popped up later, forcing them to slaughter again to finally cow those restless maggots.

Just as he was thinking this, a deafening explosion came from ahead, shaking his carriage.

Ryan’s face changed. He grabbed the communicator and shouted.

“What happened up front?”

A hurried voice came through.

“A mine… Our mine-resistant vehicle triggered an anti-armor mine planted in the middle of the road. Luckily, it detonated early—no casualties, General.”

Hearing no casualties, Ryan relaxed but grew alert.

Bharata had laid mines on their march route, clearly anticipating the Southern Legion’s move.

His eyes narrowed. He ended the call and phoned his subordinate, the first thousand-man unit.

“…Rekton, get your men out. Scout ahead of our convoy. We’re about to make contact.”

A crisp reply came from the other end.

“Yes, sir!”

…

At the same time Ryan gave the order, Conqueror V light tanks were unloaded from transport trucks.

The armored unit broke into arrow formations by hundred-man units, forming a steel “umbrella” ahead of the main force.

Not only that, but a dozen “Greyhound” scout cars with reconnaissance teams prowled ahead of the armored spearhead.

Those small wheeled armored vehicles moved like agile sled dogs, their turret antennas swaying like fishing rods, short 20mm barrels gleaming coldly.

Watching the menacing armored force from the grass, Night Ten couldn’t help but click his tongue, muttering under his breath.

“Damn… They said the Southern Legion’s main strength was artillery and infantry? These tanks feel even more than Griffin’s.”

Beside him, Wind howled “Mm,” silently raising his binoculars to continue observing.

Long before the expansion pack started, the two had moved from the Ice Harbor Special Zone in the Swamp of Despair to Bharata Province.

In fact, it wasn't just them who came here; there were also some NPCs from the Academy.

That ancient covenant was ultimately signed under the witness of the Great Rift and the Academy.

If the Legion thinks the only obstacles to eastward expansion are the Corporation and the Alliance, they are gravely mistaken—the group of escapists up north have never ceased meddling in Wasteland affairs.

In fact, they are the most active interveners.

While the Corporation's board is still holding hearings over the budget, the Academy's research vessels have already crossed the Zhuobar Mountains south of Luoxia Province, ready to stir up trouble.

What exactly that trouble is, Ye Shi doesn't know—after all, everything he knows comes from Jiang Xuezhou, and matters involving secret agreements between the Academy and the Alliance's high command are far beyond the clearance of a mere D-level like her.

In any case, these things are not their concern.

After rejoining the unit, the two took a plane to the front lines and parachuted into western Shizhou under cover of night, tasked with reconnaissance and disrupting enemy supply lines behind the lines.

For two veteran players who had fought in the Battle of Luoxia, this was familiar ground; the anti-tank mine they had planted earlier was Ye Shi's handiwork.

Though it was a pity they hadn't bagged any big fish—only disabling a mine-protected vehicle—slowing the Legion's march still counted as a mission accomplished.

Watching the convoy recede into the distance in a mighty procession, Kuangfeng lowered his binoculars and said in a hushed voice.

"...The Legion has likely deployed at least five divisions this time; Xiongshi City might be in danger."

The bionic chip implanted in his cerebral cortex was linked to a fixed-wing drone cruising at high altitude.

While observing through the binoculars, he was also surveying the ground through the drone's camera feed.

Ye Shi stared at the map for a moment, mumbling to himself.

"...Two hundred thousand men should be able to hold out for a while, right? Especially with Brother Fang Chang helping them."

Kuangfeng shook his head.

"Hard to say... The armored division that just passed us had over three hundred tanks alone—that's more than the total number of tractors in the entire Bolo Kingdom."

And that's just counting tanks, not the self-propelled artillery of the support companies or the reconnaissance vehicles and armored cars of the scout companies.

As for what was in the sky, needless to say, while these armored forces were charging ahead, the airship "Horn" was also advancing slowly.

But...

Just as Ye Shi said, with Fang Chang and the others helping out,

Even if they couldn't stop the Legion's steel tide, buying a little time wouldn't be a problem.

...

Just as Ye Shi and Kuangfeng were packing up their gear to relocate, the 301st Cohort led by Rekton had already clashed with the Bolo Kingdom's 3rd Myriarchy!

Learning from their previous failure, the Bolo Army this time didn't try to halt the Legion's advance with fixed fortifications. Instead, they adopted a "flexible defense" strategy inspired by the Mammoth Kingdom—using small units to nibble at the Legion's armored spearhead, then annihilating stalled forces with artillery.

To be fair, the strategy was effective: the airship needed a certain safety distance to open fire, and the Horn, no matter how fierce its firepower, couldn't shoot at its own allies—at most, it could counter Bolo's long-range artillery.

As long as Bolo's long-range artillery was deployed far enough, the Legion's airship could only fume helplessly.

However, despite its merits, the strategy had a fatal flaw.

Neither Abusek himself nor the other officers from the Gray Wolf Army had any experience in guerrilla warfare.

Although Laxi had sent some officers from the Moon Tribe Resistance to help, they weren't trusted by Abusek and were only assigned as advisors or instructors.

This led to an extremely awkward situation: the anti-tank teams armed with RPGs and recoilless rifles hadn't even crept close to Rekton's cohort before they were spotted by reconnaissance vehicles prowling nearby.

Seeing their forces exposed, the "Greyhound" reconnaissance vehicles flanked them like a hunting pack. The Bolo centurion at the vanguard, though utterly unwilling, had no choice but to grit his teeth and blow the attack whistle.

"Tch—!"

A shrill whistle rang across the battlefield.

Hearing the signal to attack, soldiers in straw hats half-rose from the grass, shouldering their RPG launchers and kneeling into firing position.

"Open fire!!!"

With a near-desperate roar, the decurion crouched at the front line pulled the trigger first.

An RPG rocket, trailing a long tail of flame, shot toward the reconnaissance vehicle a hundred meters away like a crossbow bolt.

But to his despair, the circling vehicle simply accelerated and easily dodged the incoming rocket.

Not only did it miss the target, it didn't even scratch the taillights!

The muzzle flash gave away his position, and a dozen armor-piercing incendiary rounds soon rained down.

The decurion didn't even have time to grunt before he was shredded by the concentrated fire, leaving only half his body slumped beside the bushes.

Seeing their commander fall before them, the soldiers nearby erupted in fury.

Ignoring the gruesome corpse, one soldier rushed forward to grab the fallen rocket launcher and the ammunition pouch stuffed with rockets.

The other soldiers with launchers didn't hesitate—they pulled their triggers, seeking vengeance for their commander.

Rocket after rocket flew toward the Legion's reconnaissance vehicles.

But the latter were too agile and too far away; most rockets landed harmlessly in empty space.

Watching those "toothpicks" poking out of the grass, the Wilantian centurion in the command vehicle let out a mocking chuckle, then grabbed the radio hanging from the turret and gave the order.

"The rats have come out early. Maintain safe distance. Permission to engage!"

A crackle of static came through.

"Roger that!"

At the same moment the order was given, the dozen or so Greyhound reconnaissance vehicles stopped hiding. Still circling, they spat fire from their raised gun barrels.

"Bang bang bang—!"

The thunderous gunfire was like a continuous drumbeat, streams of tracer rounds like a sudden downpour slamming into the Bolo century crouched at the edge of the low forest.

The soldiers in front were instantly torn into a mist of blood, and those behind were soon caught in the storm.

There was no chance to dodge, no cover to hide.

The exposed anti-tank gunners, along with the tree trunks beside them, were ground into pulp by the howling storm.

Watching his men fall one after another, the centurion, a short whistle clenched between his teeth, stared wide-eyed, his eyes nearly bursting with rage.

In less than half a minute, half of those familiar faces were gone.

Unable to contain his fury, he snatched a recoilless rifle, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and crawled out of the foxhole.

"These big-nosed bastards won't get through unscathed!"

"Even if I die, I'm taking one of them with me!"

That recoilless rifle shot missed, unfortunately.

Not only that—the moment he pulled the trigger, thick streams of tracers swept toward his position, tearing him and the rifle on his shoulder to shreds.

But though the shot missed, his death ignited a fire in every soldier's heart.

A soldier of fifteen or sixteen, gritting his teeth, crawled forward through the hail of fire until he reached the safe distance for a shaped charge.

Watching the reconnaissance vehicle veering to the side, he lay flat, propped the rocket launcher on his own body, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The backblast scorched half his buttocks, nearly making him pass out from the pain.

But the reconnaissance vehicle he aimed at fared far worse—the rocket, rising from below, slammed directly into its front hood.

The scorching metal jet drilled a hole in the hull and instantly poured into the compartment.

Three crew members were instantly killed or wounded, two dead and one severely injured, and the paralyzed reconnaissance vehicle broke down by the roadside.

The young man was about to cheer in excitement, but before he could open his mouth, a hail of bullets from the side pressed his entire body into the dirt.

"Ahhh!!! Damn it! Go to hell!"

Watching his comrade's vehicle break down, the Valentian observer sitting under the turret of another reconnaissance vehicle instantly went red-eyed, his index finger welded to the firing trigger as if he wanted to snap the steel plate.

Hearing the clanging sounds on the armored shell above, the driver with his foot on the accelerator shouted back.

"Enough! Jimmy, that guy's dead! We've got another one to our front-left!"

"Roger!"

The observer gritted his teeth, let go of that pile of minced meat, re-aimed at the target to the front-left, and vented all his fury into the tongue of flame spewing from the gun barrel.

"Fuck! I'll fight you bastards to the death!!!"

As blood was spilled on both sides, both groups were completely blinded by rage.

Yet this asymmetrical battle itself held no suspense.

As a Conqueror Mark X heavy tank and a Conqueror Mark V light tank drove up close, it almost sealed the death of this guerrilla unit.

Two deafening roars sounded, thigh-thick trees instantly fell in a swath, and the soldiers hiding nearby were shaken so badly that their internal organs were dislocated, completely losing the ability to move.

More than twenty Valentian soldiers in exoskeletons quickly jumped off the armored vehicles, split into two teams to search through the woods, and opened fire on the remaining few Bharatan soldiers.

To avenge their fallen brothers, these furious Valentian soldiers had no intention of taking prisoners; to prolong the torment of these clueless fools, they even deliberately aimed at the groin instead of vital spots.

But coincidentally, the Bharatan soldiers on the other side were the same—they had no intention of surrendering either.

They had already sacrificed over a hundred brothers; a few more of them wouldn't make a difference.

Facing the Valentian encirclement, they did not flee, fought with weapons that were not even elite until the very last moment, and then were killed by their encirclement in the most brutal way.

The Valentians surrounding them did not notice that these men, though still Bharatan, were different from the Bharatan of the Xilan Empire era.

Although their equipment remained backward, they had already acquired a cohesion they previously lacked.

Even when facing a hopeless battle, they would no longer flee with their heads down like before...

The entire battle lasted only a quarter of an hour.

The anti-tank century of the Bharatan Third Myriad was annihilated as a unit, with no survivors!

On Rekton's thousand-man side, only one "Greyhound" reconnaissance vehicle was disabled, and two crew members were killed.

The severely wounded radioman was rescued and out of danger, sent back to Xifan Port for treatment, along with the broken-down "Greyhound" reconnaissance vehicle.

The unexpected armor-piercing shell earlier had only damaged its engine, not the fuel tank or ammunition rack.

Towed to the repair shop for a fix and fitted with a new crew, it would soon return to the front.

The same went for that radioman.

The metal shrapnel extracted from his body would be used to make the medal of honor awarded to him.

The Southern Legion would replace his lost limbs with better prosthetics and let him return to the glorious battlefield after recovery.

After learning the status of the frontline troops, Chiliarch Rekton's expression did not change; he simply reported the casualties to his superiors and then methodically made plans for the next move.

A mere century was nothing to him, not even a grasshopper blocking the road.

Given Bharata's military strength, only a myriad-level force was worth a second glance from him.

Being delayed for fifteen minutes by a century and even losing two men only made him think the centurion of that reconnaissance unit was utterly stupid.

Letting a bunch of rats bite two men to death—he might as well shoot himself in atonement...

After regrouping, Rekton's armored thousand-man unit continued advancing toward Lion City.

Twelve "Dagger" fighters escorted two reconnaissance planes, roaring directly overhead of his armored force.

Soon after, the air force brothers reported the reconnaissance information—a dispersed skirmisher unit was blocking their path ahead, about ten thousand strong, equipped with a certain number of anti-tank weapons.

This unit was probably Bharata's elite, and might even have Alliance "volunteers" with them.

Upon hearing the news, both Myriarch Ryan in the rear and Chiliarch Rekton at the front couldn't help but curl their lips into cruel smiles.

What was one prisoner worth?

This time they could capture at least a hundred!

Taking the intercom hanging on the turret, Rekton suppressed the burning battle lust in his heart and issued orders in a resolute voice.

"All units attention! The enemy main force is five kilometers directly ahead!"

"Engage at will upon sighting suspected enemy targets!"

"Unless they're from the Alliance, no need to deliberately leave survivors!"

The comm channel quickly returned a unified response.

"Sir!!!"

The grinding of tracks and the roar of engines resounded across the entire wilderness.

The charging armor was like knights preparing to charge, already brandishing their sharp lances and swords.

In contrast to the earth-shaking roar, a forest four kilometers away was utterly silent.

If you didn't look closely, you couldn't even see the armor hidden beneath the green shade.

Leaning against a thick pine tree, Old Bai, who had been "resting with eyes closed," suddenly opened his eyes and gave Fang Chang a confirming look.

"They're here."

The moment those words fell, the visor of the power armor helmet also closed.

Taking the "Dove" missile launcher from his back, Old Bai skillfully completed loading the "Dove" in just a few seconds.

At the same time, a pair of tightly shut eyes opened simultaneously.

The suits of armor silent in the forest seemed to be infused with souls, stirring like awakened spirits.

Since yesterday morning, five hundred elite soldiers of the Burning Corps had been air-dropped into this area one after another and had methodically assembled.

While on standby, half were on alert online, half waiting offline.

Closing the visor of his exoskeleton helmet, Fang Chang tapped his helmet twice with his index finger, switched the comm channel to all, and said resolutely.

"...The Southern Legion's armored force is ahead! These drunkards are charging too fast, leaving their comrades far behind, not taking us seriously at all. Someone needs to step up and sober them up!"

"Everyone, prepare for battle!"

"Show your best skills and maximize the destruction of their armor!"

"Cut through them!"

The battle lust burning in every pair of pupils was no less fierce than the roaring armored vehicles.

Facing the rolling dust, the comm channel echoed with high-spirited replies.

"Kill!!!"