Chapter 858: Steel in Flames!

Chapter 858: Steel Is Burning!

A seething murderous intent flooded the entire forest.

Yet at this moment, the armored thousand-man cohort, churning with billowing dust, remained utterly oblivious.

The air wing from West Sailport had already scouted the entire area ahead; the only obstacles on the defensive line a few kilometers away were a few anti-tank guns deployed in artillery pits.

Beyond that, there were some suspected foxholes and concealed areas that might harbor scattered remnants.

Before the "Conqueror Ten," which could withstand a hundred-kilogram bomb dive-bombing, these intimidating-looking toys were nothing more than toothpicks, at most capable of snapping a track.

And considering the Alliance might have taught these guerrillas the "drone-up-the-crotch tactic," they had already installed chains on the front and rear of the hulls, drawing on the Eastern Legion's experience, to block drones.

Once those quadcopters got close, their propellers would tangle with the chains and lose power.

No Velantian doubted that when their tanks rolled up to those Brahmin, the indestructible tracks would crush over their stunned faces.

This would be a battle with no suspense!

On the moving "Greyhound" wheeled reconnaissance vehicle, Centurion Nicules of the reconnaissance century was adjusting the magnification of his observation scope, cross-referencing a map marked with points and symbols, staring intently at the suspected artillery pit ahead.

Those "rats" hiding in the holes had clearly spotted the dust kicked up by tires in the distance and were stirring, ready to crawl out.

Flicking off the weapon safety, he kept his guard up while shouting into the communicator.

"...Two and a half kilometers ahead, enemy towed artillery is loading! Three guns spotted so far!"

A reply came quickly over the comm channel.

"Roger!"

Nicules took a deep breath, shifting his eyes from the scope to the firing port, his index finger on the trigger, fixed on the three guns being loaded, but he didn't fire first.

The distance was a bit far for the 20mm cannon on the wheeled armor.

Though the "Greyhound" had a vertical stabilizer, that didn't mean they were immune to the bumpy terrain.

To hit the target, they'd have to stop and fire.

But that would be a loss for them, whose advantage lay in mobility.

Nicules quickly decided to wait until they closed to a kilometer before teaching those half-baked guerrillas a lesson.

Compared to Nicules's caution, the grunts under his command were far more reckless.

They'd already seen the level of the Brahmin guerrillas in the previous battle.

Those guys could turn an ambush into a meeting engagement, practically throwing away lives.

The deaths of their comrades hadn't made them wary; instead, it ignited rage and bloodlust in their hearts.

They couldn't wait to avenge the two brothers who had fallen!

"Two kilometers left!"

"Sir! They seem to have finished loading! Request permission to fire!"

"Denied. Wait for the fire order! Get closer before engaging!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Haha, those rats don't really think that junk will work on us, do they?"

Hearing the banter on the comm channel, Nicules muttered a reprimand.

"Don't get too cocky! That thing might be 155mm—it won't punch through the Conqueror, but it's enough to punch through us."

The enemy's gun barrel was wrapped with a ring of grass, making it hard to tell what type it was.

Maybe 155mm, or maybe their 100mm.

Either way, even if it couldn't penetrate a tank, it would have no trouble piercing a reconnaissance vehicle with less than 20mm of equivalent armor.

He'd already lost one scout car and didn't want to embarrass Centurion Rekton again.

For Nicules's caution, another observer and commander named Jimmy just quipped.

"That's if they can even hit us—"

His words had barely fallen when a series of deafening cannon roars suddenly erupted from afar.

It wasn't just three guns firing—at least a dozen, and among them even a few... mortars?

"Damn it—!"

"They're firing!"

A cacophony of shouts filled the comm channel as scout cars quickly swerved from their straight course.

Though they talked tough, seeing the shells coming was another matter; the young men yelled and cursed in chaos.

Nicules was stunned, wondering if he'd misheard—how did mortar sounds mix in?—but then he saw the jumble of shells flying over all at once.

Without hesitation, he roared.

"Take cover!"

"Roger!"

The driver in front of him wasn't flustered at all, casually turning the wheel to dodge the shell that came drifting slowly from afar.

Actually, there was no need to dodge.

At that range, it couldn't possibly hit, and that shell wasn't aimed at them anyway—some landed ahead, many more on the tracks left by their tires.

"Boom—!"

A plume of explosive smoke shot skyward, spreading alongside a milky-white wall of smoke.

Turning to look through the small window at the rear of the turret, Nicules was startled and immediately realized.

"Smoke shells!"

No—

It wasn't just smoke shells!

The comm channel went silent, and Nicules soon discovered in horror that his vehicle's radio had died!

"Damn it! Electromagnetic interference shells!"

The distant cannon fire continued, growing denser, shells landing on the open plain as if trying to blanket the whole area in smoke.

This was flat terrain.

Their smokescreen wouldn't last long!

Watching the intermittent signal, a bead of sweat formed on Nicules's forehead as he tried to reassure himself.

But just as they were about to burst through the signal-blocking smoke, the jolting vehicle suddenly lurched violently, as if hitting a ridge in the field!

With a grunt, he slammed into the turret, nearly gashing his forehead.

The hull was clearly tilting forward!

Gripping the slanted handrail, he cursed through gritted teeth and shouted at the driver.

"What the hell are you doing!"

The driver stomped on the accelerator with all his might, roaring in fury and alarm.

“The visibility here is terrible! Damn it! Something’s caught our tires!”

“Caught?!”

Nikles and the other radioman’s faces changed in an instant.

Stopping in a godforsaken place like this was no different from being a sitting duck!

The only saving grace was that the enemy artillery kept firing smoke shells.

That sky-obscuring wall of smoke, though it cut off their communications and vision, also protected them in turn.

Nikles shoved the radioman behind him, urging him with a roar.

“Get out and check!”

“Yes, sir!”

Though the radioman’s face was full of fear, he knew this was no time to hesitate. Gripping his Pu-9 submachine gun, he gritted his teeth and scrambled out of the vehicle.

The moment he pushed open the door, a deafening explosion rang out from nearby, accompanied by a crackling sound like firecrackers.

That was the sound of an ammunition rack detonating!

At the same time, the “thud-thud-thud” of a 20mm cannon came through.

As if startled by the sight of their comrades’ plight, a reconnaissance vehicle opened fire in a panic, tracer rounds flying wildly and aimlessly through the thick white smoke.

A stray bullet grazed past Nikles’s vehicle, striking the sturdy hull with a “clang” and kicking off a shower of sparks.

The radioman, who had just gotten out, was terrified and threw himself flat on the ground.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind! Cease fire!”

Nikles, also shaken, grabbed the communicator and bellowed, but it was useless.

Firing in this situation was pointless—it would not only expose their position but also risk hitting their own men.

But just then, Nikles suddenly realized that his own vehicle wasn’t the only one immobilized.

All nine vehicles of the reconnaissance unit had lost mobility!

His face went completely pale.

If the smoke cleared, they’d all be sitting ducks, left to be reaped by the distant artillery.

“What the hell is going on?!”

With his composure crumbling, Nikles shouted out the open door, grabbing the submachine gun hanging beneath the turret, ready to abandon the vehicle.

The radioman struggled up from the muddy ground, his face a mask of despair, and yelled back through the open door.

“It’s a hidden pit! They dug a trench and covered it with grass! Our tires are stuck!”

This trench wasn’t ordinary—it was sloped, higher in front and lower in back.

If only the tires were stuck, they might have crawled out, but because of the height difference, the chassis was hung up on the trench walls, with the front and rear wheels effectively suspended.

Nikles froze.

A trench?!

On the plains?!

How the hell did those bastards pull that off right under their noses?!

No—

Actually, it wasn’t impossible.

All they had to do was dig a tunnel underground, then remove the top and cover it with hay or something.

The area was full of farmland, connected near the field ridges. With a bit of camouflage, aircraft would never spot it.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Nikles’s expression shifted from rigid to terrified.

He suddenly recalled the faces full of hatred hidden in that forest earlier, and the soldiers who would rather die than surrender.

Only now did he remember: their numbers were two hundred thousand, and behind those two hundred thousand were hundreds of millions more…

Without even noticing, they had sunk into a bottomless quagmire!

Countless foxholes had their wooden covers and haystacks thrown open, and faces with gaunt, protruding cheekbones crawled out from the pits.

They were short in stature, thin of frame, but their eyes were as fierce as hyenas.

Their weapons were a motley assortment.

There were Ripper rifles, Alliance LD-47s, and some even clutched crudely made stools.

Spotting these soldiers crawling forward, the Valyrian vehicle crew who had dismounted immediately opened fire with their submachine guns, but were quickly suppressed by the returning fire.

Even a race born for battle couldn’t withstand such endless numbers.

Seeing they were close enough, the crawling soldiers no longer hid. They rose from the ground and charged at the stalled reconnaissance vehicles.

A Valyrian crewman’s face showed panic as he shouted to his comrades behind him.

“Shit! Their infantry is closing in! How long until our tanks get here?!”

He already regretted pushing ahead so fast.

But regret was useless now; all he could do was pray for reinforcements to arrive quickly.

“Goddamn it! Where the hell did these moles come from?!”

“We need backup! Three o’clock direction—”

“Cease fire, you bastard! You trying to get me killed?!”

“Don’t stop! They’re charging!”

“How many of these bastards are there?!”

“Aaaah! Die!”

Facing the suffocating white fog, Nikles’s lips turned pale.

Vaguely, he heard the rattle of gunfire, the curses and shouts of his comrades.

Tracers darted through the mist, but they couldn’t stop the roaring onslaught.

That was at least a thousand men—

“Charge!!!”

…

“Enemy artillery positions are firing smoke shells!”

“The reconnaissance century has lost contact!”

The armored thousand-man unit advanced in full force.

Two sudden pieces of news made Rekton, sitting in the command vehicle, narrow his eyes slightly.

Smoke shells?

And it even comes with signal jamming.

What trick are these natives up to now?

“It’s probably the Alliance who gave it to them!”

The adjutant’s voice came through the comm channel, making Rekton roll his eyes.

“……That’s obvious. Could these natives have built this thing themselves?”

Staring at the thick fog dispersing in the distance, Rekton, gripping the communicator, calmly issued his orders.

“First Century, assault the smoke from the front. Second and Third Centuries, flank from the sides. Fourth and Fifth, follow from the rear. Everyone else, maintain formation… and keep an eye on the woods to our east.”

“Roger!”

A unified reply came through the comm channel, and at the same moment, the steel torrent of ninety-two tanks shifted formation!

The tanks on the flanks accelerated, while those in the center held their speed. The arrowhead formation gradually stretched forward into an open bowl.

Ninety-two tanks in total!

And more than half were Conqueror X models!

As the vanguard of the assault, they would become the indestructible spear in the hands of Tribune Ryan!

Rekton watched ahead with leisurely composure, a faint, intrigued smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He was curious to see what tricks the other side could possibly pull.

“Charge!”

Seeing the smoke drawing closer, he kicked the driver’s seat from under the turret, and the driver shouted with renewed vigor.

“Sir!”

The few kilometers vanished in an instant, but what met his eyes froze the smile on Rekton’s face.

Nine Greyhound wheeled reconnaissance vehicles lay stranded on the road, one of them charred black, as if its ammo rack and fuel tank had been blown.

As for the remaining eight, their crews had been dragged out and hung in gruesome death poses on the hulls and turrets.

Some had their bellies slit open by bayonets, others were shot to pieces, or burned to a crisp.

The ground nearby was littered with corpses. From their frail bodies and shoddy equipment, they were clearly soldiers of the Bharata Kingdom.

Both sides had been blinded by bloodlust, venting their hatred on each other in the most brutal ways.

Eyes wide with fury at the corpses, Rekton’s rage ignited instantly, his clenched teeth grinding as if to crush his own jaw.

“Those bastards!”

The smoke screen thinned, and from afar came the deafening roar of artillery once more.

Seeing the Bharata army preparing to repeat the same trick, Rekton grabbed the communicator and roared.

“All units, open fire at will!”

“Give them hell!”

No sooner had he spoken than a violent explosion erupted from the northeast.

It wasn’t the sound of tank fire.

Because at the same moment the sound rang out, Rekton saw a plume of fire shooting skyward, and a turret flying up with it.

That was their pride, the Conqueror X!

Staring at the crackling flames and the half-shell of the tank sparking, Rekton was stunned.

Not just him—almost all the Verlanders were frozen in place.

A panicked voice came belatedly over the comm channel.

“……This is the Third Century! We’re under anti-tank fire from an unknown target! Damn it!”

Before the shout had even faded, another brilliant flash of fire bloomed across the plain.

This time Rekton saw it clearly—a missile flying from the direction of the woods!

It’s the Alliance!!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rekton shouted with all his strength into the communicator he was nearly crushing.

“Third Century, pop smoke! Fifth, Seventh, and Ninth Centuries, assault the eastern woods!”

“Show no mercy—crush them!”

…

Turning back to flee was too late. The enemy clearly hadn’t fired as soon as they saw them; they had left themselves ample firing windows. Showing their backs would only mean a quicker death.

Besides, running with tails between their legs wasn’t the Southern Legion’s style.

Though the missile that blew the ammo rack had startled Rekton, he still decisively ordered the attack, sending the armored formation on the right charging forward.

Man-portable anti-vehicle weapons usually have safety distance limits; getting to the minimum range is actually safer.

The Legion’s tanks changed course. At least thirty tanks rolled directly toward the woods, firing as they advanced.

The flash of explosions instantly engulfed a corner of the woods, toppling trees as thick as thighs with irresistible force.

If it had been the Bharata army, this barrage alone would have killed more than half of them!

But now, they were facing the “Blue Rats” from Vault 404.

And from the elite Burning Legion at that!

The players present were no strangers to facing Legion tanks; naturally, they wouldn’t just stand there as target practice.

After firing one missile, Old White immediately cranked the power output of his power armor to maximum and vanished before the tank’s barrel could even swivel toward him.

By the time the salvo of shells landed, he had already relocated and loaded his third missile.

A thin white trail snaked out of the woods, tracing a sharp zigzag in the air, and slammed into a Conqueror X that was frantically fleeing under its own smoke.

There was no suspense. The fleeing tank, like a can targeted by a can opener, turned into a heap of scrap in a boiling inferno.

Having succeeded, Old White didn’t look back at the explosion. He swiftly moved to the next firing position, while the spotter in the legion had already confirmed the kill.

“Direct hit! Nice shot!”

“Lock onto the next one quickly.”

“Roger!”

Old White wasn’t the only one carrying a missile launcher; the “pigeons” flying out of the forest were more than one.

Five hundred Alliance players, in pairs, were scattered across the woods and fields stretching over a dozen kilometers. One was responsible for locking and observing, the other for loading and firing.

Though the missile’s exhaust trail would reveal the “shooter’s” position, the protection and mobility of the Dawn power armor left the Legion’s tanks helpless.

Unless hit by an armor-piercing round or a high-explosive shell at point-blank range, the shrapnel from explosions alone was nowhere near enough to disable those agile armored infantry!

On the other hand, the Legion’s tanks were like paper in the face of those missiles.

One explosion after another drove the three armored centuries charging head-on to the brink of despair.

They had already charged into the woods, battered and splintered by artillery, but the situation showed no improvement—they continued to suffer steady casualties.

"Damn it! They're deployed in power armor!"

"What the hell is that missile?!"

"Their movement speed is too fast! We need infantry reinforcements!"

The descent into despair was not confined to the right flank of the armored millennium corps; the pessimistic mood rapidly contaminated the entire battlefield.

Staring at the blazing scrap metal on the northeastern side and the steadily encroaching flames, Ryckton was frozen in shocked fury, falling into an absolute and profound hopelessness.

How on earth did these fellows manage this?!

The spaced armor of the Conqueror No. 10 was capable of deflecting the metallic jet of traditional high-explosive anti-tank warheads, and the sheer defensive capability of the armor material itself could withstand any kinetic artillery using traditional firing principles!

Beyond that, the total protection system of the Conqueror No. 10 possessed the capability to endure the overpressure of aerial bombs, while simultaneously offering defense against the threats of toxic gas and radioactive materials!

Against survivor factions whose technological prowess lagged behind the early Prosperity Era, their advantage was practically absolute!

And against survivor factions whose technological prowess was above the early Prosperity Era, they could rely on their massive scale and unparalleled cohesion to achieve victory.

This highly efficient model of expansion had proven successful time and again over the past century and a half.

And this was precisely the fountain of their confidence!

Yet this time, they had kicked a iron plate.

The Alliance was like a bucket of white-hot molten iron, using a shared faith to unite the vault dwellers and wastelanders who originally harbored sharp contradictions, welding the technologically advanced survivor factions and the massively scaled survivor factions into a single, unyielding sheet of iron.

The propulsion design and launch system of that missile came from Boulder City; the identification, guidance, and micro-energy storage technologies came from the South Sea Alliance; and the most critical "plasma" warhead was derived from the plasma-related technology of the Enterprise...

These technologies were integrated by Outpost 101 and completed production within the industrial zone of Dawn City.

The advantage in technological power was merely a superficial manifestation.

Just like the prosperity found in the realms of economy, culture, and the like.

Ryckton would never understand, even in death, exactly where he had lost.

What they were facing at this moment was fundamentally not a single settlement, or a single survivor faction.

But rather, all the survivors on the wasteland who had already united together!

In less than five minutes, all thirty tanks that had isolated themselves deep within the woods were utterly destroyed!

Those that had their ammunition racks and fuel tanks directly blown apart were only a small portion; another portion had their propulsion systems disabled, forcing the crews to abandon their vehicles and surrender.

Given the combat will of the Wilantes, there was naturally no shortage of those who put up a desperate resistance.

Yet, facing the most elite infantry of the Alliance, that feeble resistance failed to stir even a ripple, and was instantly pinned to the ground by the rain of bullets converging from the woods.

With the collapse of the right flank position, this "armored spearhead" that had driven straight in soon became like a mad bull with a crippled leg, losing its balance and sinking into a muddy, open field.

Out of ninety-two tanks, a full eighty were scrapped on the path of their forward charge.

As for the remaining twelve, they were scrapped on the path of their retreat.

Looking at that expanse of burning steel upon the open field, Ye Shi, watching the battle from afar, could not help but sigh with emotion.

"My god... this upgraded plasma warhead is just too damn strong!"

Without inflating or deflating the truth.

The power of this upgraded "Pigeon" type was at least five times stronger than the original high-explosive anti-tank round with traditional explosives!

Before this, apart from the "Type 60 Vehicle-Mounted Electromagnetic Cannon" and suicide drones that dove beneath the chassis, they really lacked any good methods to deal with the Legion's Conqueror No. 10.

Crouching beside him, Kuang Feng cast a sidelong glance at him.

"Do you think that thing is cheap?"

The technological content of this plasma missile was no lower than that of a nuclear bomb.

At least, as a physics professor, he could not fathom exactly how to integrate those complex devices into a single, tiny warhead.

Just as a savage who had just learned to rub sticks for fire could not comprehend how a lighter ignited.

To him, this thing was a "primitive man's lighter," and for now, they remained at the stage of researching how to "make the high-temperature plasma burn a bit more stably and last a bit longer."

Ye Shi, however, did not ponder such troublesome matters, and did not even project it onto reality at all, merely saying with a chuckle.

"Expensive or not, at least it's cheaper than a tank, right?"

"...Perhaps, I don't know much about this stuff; you'll probably have to ask Fang Chang."

Kuang Feng gazed at the western sky, watching the dark clouds that were drawing closer and closer, and continued.

"However, the real trouble is never on the ground; I feel like the trouble in the sky might turn out to be a bit greater."

This time, the Southern Legion had deployed a total of five airships.

Compared to the iron torrent on the ground, those fortresses floating in the sky were the truly fatal threat.

The same tactic was unlikely to succeed twice.

Whether it was boarding actions, phase weapons, or high-power electromagnetic cannons, the Southern Legion would certainly be on guard.

But setting aside those long-term anxieties, they had indeed won this blocking action for now.

And it was a thoroughly satisfying, magnificent victory!

Whether in a tactical sense or a strategic sense, they had successfully disrupted the rhythm of the Legion's wildly racing offensive, and heavily battered the arrogant spirit of the Wilantes.

At this moment, a fixed-wing drone with depleted energy slowly landed near the two men.

Kuang Feng walked over to pick it up, folded its wings, and casually stuffed it into the charging backpack on his rear.

"...The Legion's 30th Millennium Corps is only ten kilometers away from us; they have already discovered that their front teeth have been knocked out, and it's time for us to relocate."

Patting the mud and grass clippings from his trousers, Ye Shi rose from the ground, propped up the electric off-road scooter that had fallen to the side, and replied with a grin.

"Received!"

...

Carrying the equipment dropped by their allies, the victorious Burning Legion withdrew from the battlefield in an orderly manner.

Throughout the entire engagement, they had only lost three sets of power armor and seven sets of exoskeletons.

This damaged equipment, once dragged to the rear and repaired, might very well be usable again, and the fallen good brothers would return to the front line on a dedicated flight within a week at most, so it was of no great consequence.

Rounding it off, they were roughly equal to having zero combat losses, having spent nothing more than some highly valuable ammunition.

In stark contrast, the Southern Legion had an entire "Heavy Armored Regiment" completely obliterated.

For a Southern Legion that was already short on armored units, this loss could not be described as anything less than disastrous.

When Ryan, miles away, received the news of Ryckton's death, he was so enraged he nearly spat a mouthful of old blood inside the command vehicle.

That was his direct lineage!

And also the most elite armored force in his possession!

Though he did not truly spit blood, his heart was weeping blood.

Clenching his fists tightly, Ryan's facial muscles contorted into a knot, his ferocious countenance written all over with fury.

From the moment he received the news until now, he had not uttered a single sound, yet every word he wished to say was etched upon his face.

"...I am going to slaughter them!"

As they watched their commander seething with fury, the adjutant and the staff officer seated opposite him pressed their lips together, scarcely daring to draw a breath, yet within their hearts they burned with the same unquenchable anger.

Those thousand-plus brothers must not have died in vain...

Their enemies will pay a grievous price!