Chapter 860: Reedburgh Meat Grinder

Chapter 860: The Riddell Bull Meat Grinder

Under a fair and breezy sky, a tall cargo ship lay quietly moored at the dock.

And inside that cargo ship’s cabin, a man lay unconscious on his back upon a bed.

Perhaps disturbed from his slumber by the “caw-caw” of seagulls outside the window, his tightly shut eyelids suddenly twitched, and then, with a violent bout of coughing, they opened.

“Cough—cough—!”

Watching the man who had suddenly started coughing, the doctor put away his stethoscope and looked at Yarman, who was sitting to one side.

“Seems nothing serious; he’ll be fine after some rest.”

Yarman breathed a sigh of relief and said sincerely to the doctor.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

The doctor nodded slightly, as if not wanting to say more, and rose from his chair.

He was a local of Golden Bounty Port—in other words, a Borean—and treating a Veylander was purely out of professional ethics, not wanting to let someone die if he could help it.

If not for that, he wouldn’t have wanted to say a single word to the man before him.

Though the survivors of the Borean Province had once worshipped these big-nosed people as gods, that was in the past. At least in Golden Bounty Port, the Veylanders had lost their halo.

Yarman saw him out the door, then returned a moment later, looking at his compatriot, who had now sat up on the bed.

“Feeling any better?”

Henk nodded blankly, looking a bit confused as he stared at him for a moment, then his gaze drifted past the cramped, damp room and out the window.

In the distance was a scenic harbor, with well-arranged marble buildings and a fountain statue standing in the port square. Every sight reminded him of the “spiritual homeland” he hadn’t returned to in ages—Triumph City.

Those things seemed copied straight from Triumph City.

And besides those marble buildings, another row of square concrete structures and red-brick, tile-roofed houses carried a unique charm he had never seen before.

Even more striking were the bustling streets, the lively scene of traffic and crowds, rivaling even the busiest ports of the New World.

Just then, a bird with pure white feathers flapped its wings and landed on the windowsill, pecked at its armpit, and then stared at him with a silly, innocent look.

Seeing that clear yet foolish gaze, a sudden impulse came over him to feed it some fries…

That must be a seagull, right?

But come to think of it, what were fries?

As if seeing that he had no intention of offering anything, the seagull, being practical, flew away.

Staring at the feather left on the windowsill, Henk finally came to his senses, realizing he hadn’t yet answered his savior’s question. He quickly spoke, embarrassed.

“I’m much better. Thank you for saving my life… By the way, my name is Henk, from the New World. Where is this place?”

Watching Henk introduce himself with an awkward look, Yarman didn’t mind and just smiled gently.

“My name is Yarman. This is Golden Bounty Port. We need to stock up on supplies here and see if there are any more people who want to come aboard. Also, the others who were rescued with you all got off here; you were the last to wake up.”

Henk didn’t immediately register where it was, only feeling the name sounded familiar.

But then he remembered a joke a sailor had told him before boarding—that he’d better not end up in Golden Bounty Port, because it was Borean Province locals’ turf, and if caught, they’d cut off his nose.

Henk’s face turned pale in an instant.

It wasn’t that he believed the rumor was true—after all, anyone seeing this bustling port would find it hard to link the locals with savages.

Still, he was an arms dealer, and he was shipping weapons to the locals’ enemies.

Even if they didn’t cut off his nose, he’d probably face prison time.

Seeing Henk’s suddenly pale face, Yarman had a good guess what was going on, and he even saw his former self in that anxious expression.

Most people who think they can stay out of it are already in it up to their necks.

Those who dream of fishing in troubled waters are already soaking in that murky pool, unaware.

A stroke of luck is just a matter of time not yet come.

He himself had nearly lost everything over a promise that could never be fulfilled.

But Yarman said nothing, only asking with concern.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“No…” Henk smiled awkwardly, his face still pale. He glanced out the window again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… can I not get off the ship?”

His voice carried a hint of pleading.

Yarman nodded and said gently.

“Of course, but it might take us a while to get back to West Sail Port. You’ll have to stay on the ship for a month or two.”

“That’s fine!”

Henk breathed a sigh of relief and quickly said, “Let me stay with you… I can help with some things.”

Yarman smiled.

“First, get your injuries healed. We’ll talk about that when you can get out of bed and walk.”

Feeling reassured, Henk looked at him and asked.

“By the way, what kind of business are you in?”

Yarman thought for a moment.

“I’m not sure how to describe my business, but my partner calls me a snakehead.”

“Snake… head?”

Seeing Henk’s bewildered look, Yarman nodded and explained succinctly.

“I take survivors from here to the southern coast of the Sea Margin Province, where there are a few Alliance settlements. That’s it.”

It sounded a bit like slave trading, but instead of collecting money from the slave owners, it was from… the slaves?

But how could slaves have money?

Henk was utterly puzzled and asked, confused.

“How much can those natives pay you?”

Yarman didn’t hide it and told him frankly.

“They can’t pay now, of course, but they can owe it. We help them get to a new home, help them settle there, help them find jobs, and then take a portion from their future wages to repay the debt they incurred before boarding.”

You can do that?!

Henk was stunned.

“That’s a great business model!”

If you set the ticket price at a million dinars, you could fleece a person for life, couldn’t you?

Knowing that Henk had misunderstood, and even guessing exactly what he had misunderstood, Yarman just smiled faintly without explaining.

Debts couldn’t increase indefinitely; the Alliance’s laws and regulatory bodies weren’t stupid.

However, explaining this would be too troublesome. What he is doing now might seem like merely transporting people, but behind it lies an entire set of indispensable procedures.

“…It’s alright, I suppose. Can’t compare to arms dealing, but at least it’s safe. The Southern Legion doesn’t bother with us; the population of West Sailport is surplus to them—they don’t need that many people. The Alliance folks tend to look out for us a bit; they’re working on a massive project in the southern seas and are short on manpower.”

At the mention of arms, Henk felt a pang of anguish. The cargo on those three ships was worth at least thirty million denars, not to mention the cost of the ships themselves.

Though he had insured both the cargo and the vessels, being sunk by torpedoes… he wasn’t sure if that fell within the scope of compensation.

And the worst part was, if this war dragged on and more insured ships were blown up, the insurance company would likely go bankrupt on the spot.

By the time he returned to the New Continent, it was hard to say whether the company he’d insured with would even still exist.

Henk had already given up any hope of recovering that money.

For now, he could only take things one step at a time…

…

Just as some unlucky arms dealer was planning to tag along with Yarman’s fleet and try his luck in Alliance territory, a battle of unprecedented scale erupted across the Bahr Province.

The Southern Legion’s 300,000-strong corps was the first to strike, charging into the western side of Ridepur County. On the western shore of Sunrise Lake, they clashed with the local Bahr Kingdom’s 30,000, 40,000, and 50,000-strong corps.

Before even reaching Ridepur County, the Southern Legion’s 300,000-strong corps had already lost an armored thousand-man unit. The disparity in troop strength was staggering.

Especially since, before the Southern Legion had even set out, the Bahr Province’s Lion Prefecture theater commander had ordered the digging of extensive tunnels and “rat holes” in Ridepur County.

If the Southern Legion’s 300,000-strong corps chose to assault head-on, even with two-thirds of their tanks and a large number of armored personnel carriers remaining, they would still pay a heavy price.

In theory, that was the case.

But the moment the Southern Legion’s airships arrived at the front lines, the Bahr Kingdom’s army advantage vanished without a trace.

A hail of bullets blotted out the sky like a swarm of locusts.

As if to flaunt their firepower, those Vellant even fitted their indirect-fire shells with tracers.

“Take cover!!!”

Watching the death drawing ever closer, the Bahr centurion lying in the trenches let out a desperate roar.

The soldiers crouching in foxholes pressed their foreheads into the dirt, clenched their fists or clutched family keepsakes, and prayed silently in their hearts.

The whistling rain of shells drew near.

Each shell burst before hitting the ground, scattering into a finer, denser rain of light, blanketing every inch of the position indiscriminately.

The blaze of explosions plowed across the battlefield, scorching rubble and debris red-hot, kicking dust from the ground into the sky.

Wispy tendrils of smoke rose upward, and the clamorous land fell silent in an instant.

Those were cluster bombs.

Where they had swept through, not a single living soul remained—not even a blade of grass…

Inside a command vehicle a dozen kilometers away.

Ryan, the commander of the 300,000-strong corps and the Eastern Front commander, stared grimly at the holographic screen.

It was footage captured by the *Horn* airship.

On the land that had been plowed by artillery, not a single human figure could be seen, not even a complete corpse.

But not long after, a swarm of bobbing heads appeared at the edge of the screen.

Seeing this, Ryan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He had washed the Bahr Kingdom’s army positions over and over, yet those Bahr soldiers, like an endless plague of locusts, kept filling in wave after wave.

He was about to order another barrage when the communicator hanging from his shoulder vibrated twice.

Ryan reached up and pressed the communicator, and soon that annoying voice came from the other end of the channel.

“…Respected Commander, though I hate to interrupt your enjoyment, I must remind you that we’ve already consumed a third of our ammunition.”

The speaker was the captain of the *Horn*, a one-star ten-thousand-man commander from Avant.

Ryan frowned, displeased.

“Didn’t we purchase a batch of ammunition from the Western Legion?”

The *Horn*’s captain replied, “That’s correct… but the news I’ve received is that of the ten transport ships scheduled to arrive yesterday, only four made it.”

Ryan: “…What do you mean?”

The *Horn*’s captain: “You can probably guess—it’s the Alliance’s doing. They claim their submarines are attacking our allies’ transport ships, though they insist it’s Laken’s work. Our supply situation is still manageable for now, but no one can say for sure what comes next. We’d better conserve… What do you think?”

Due to command issues, the air force and army didn’t get along.

This wasn’t unique to the Eastern Legion; the same held true for the other three legions.

Even if two men belonged to the same faction and shared the same principles, that didn’t mean they were true brothers.

Even if both turned their heads to the right at the same time, there was always one more right-wing and one less so.

The *Horn*’s captain’s voice carried a hint of mockery, while Ryan’s face darkened completely.

This Alliance was truly vicious.

Too afraid to confront them head-on, they targeted the transport ships instead!

“…Should we continue?”

Hearing the voice in the communicator, Ryan pondered for a moment and then gave the order.

“Fire a round of white phosphorus shells. I’ll leave the rest to the infantry.”

The *Horn*’s captain replied quickly.

“Understood.”

Shortly after the order was given, a series of thunderous booms echoed beneath the low clouds.

Flames wrapped in smoke cascaded like an avalanche from a mountain peak, sweeping with irresistible force toward the still-steaming battlefield.

The Bahr soldiers who had just reinforced the trenches were drenched in a rain of boiling fire.

The flames could not be extinguished.

Even a single touch could turn a man into a burning torch.

“Ahhh!”

“My arm—!”

Screams rose and fell, and the stench of charred flesh filled the trenches, making it seem like hell itself.

Some soldiers who were set ablaze, unable to bear the agony, begged their comrades for a quick end or pressed their muzzles under their chins to do it themselves.

And this was only the beginning.

The lethality of white phosphorus wasn’t limited to the flames; the toxic smoke it produced was equally deadly.

For the Bahr soldiers, who lacked gas masks, the only option was to bury their faces in the dirt, hoping the loose soil would filter out the poison.

But this crude method wasn’t always effective. The toxic fumes from the white phosphorus still caused massive casualties.

Looking at the charred, twisted corpses, the soldiers crouching in the trenches ground their teeth in fury. Their wide eyes were filled with nothing but hatred and rage.

They no longer cared whether they would make it out alive.

They only wanted to avenge their fallen comrades, to return every ounce of that pain onto the Verant soldiers.

It wasn't just the frontline soldiers; the officers standing behind them felt the same.

Facing a crackling radio, crouching in a shell-proof bunker, Metar, the chiliarch of the Third Ten-Thousand-Man Corps of Bharat, felt his heart bleeding with agony.

In just one short hour.

He had already thrown three thousand-man units into the front line, and they hadn't even seen a single Verant soldier!

It was like trading the lives of his own brothers for the Verant's shells!

Fortunately, the Verant's shells were not infinite, and that burning rain of fire seemed to be their final frenzy.

After most of the flames and smoke had dissipated, a thousand-man unit belonging to the Southern Legion was quickly pushed to the front line.

Those soldiers were roughly similar in height and build, from their uniforms to the contortion of their facial muscles—all eerily identical.

Their weapons were all Ripper Rifles, and the bayonets hanging under the muzzles gleamed with a chilling light.

Watching that murderous unit, the Bharat soldiers crouching in the trenches all swallowed their saliva in unison.

That was the Legion's clone unit!

It was said those fearless bastards were like hyenas—even if their guts spilled out, they would still fight to the death.

Although the brothers from the Alliance said those clones were somewhat disabled and not physically strong.

Yet these Bharat soldiers found, to their bitter amusement, that these disabled fellows were all more robust than themselves.

At least they had some meat on their bones.

"...Damn it, we eat and dress worse than these clones," a soldier with a bandaged head couldn't help cursing, his eyes filled with both envy and anger.

The comrade lying beside him grinned and said in a half-joking tone.

"No matter, my death benefits have already been sent home. My kid will definitely grow stronger than them."

"I heard your kid was seven and a half jin?" an old guy chimed in, with a look of someone who'd never seen the world, "Really?"

The soldier grinned, his proud face carrying a hint of smugness.

"How could it be fake? I weighed him myself! That boy will definitely be taller than me."

The old guy grew even more envious and couldn't help asking again.

"What do you eat to make them that big?"

The soldier glanced at him sideways and said with a smile.

"You old geezer, already one foot in the grave, why ask that?"

The old man's face stiffened, and he glared at him, saying.

"Can't I use it for my son?"

That drew a burst of laughter; many old-timers in the unit remembered that this guy had said he had no son.

"Never mind what you eat—as long as it's not dirt, they'll grow up looking human."

Propping the LD-47j light machine gun with its broken bipod onto the trench, the machine gunner, blinded in one eye by smoke, took a deep breath, then pressed his scorched face against the blackened stock.

"Abusek said we won't have to eat dirt anymore, and neither will our descendants. I hope that bastard keeps his word... otherwise, I'll haunt him even as a ghost!"

He had entrusted his life to that man.

He had no other demands, only hoping that what Abusek promised wasn't just empty talk.

Watching the joking soldiers, a nearby centurion scolded in a low voice.

"Stop fucking around! Keep your eyes on the front—those big noses are coming!"

"Ooh!" The young man with the bandaged head chambered a round in his rifle and shouted with excitement, "Let those bastards come on!"

As someone once said, they had nothing left to lose.

With a sharp whistle, the calm before the storm was utterly shattered.

The centurion marching at the side of the formation drew his saber and blew the short whistle held between his lips.

"Shh—!"

That piercing whistle was like an arrow of command, cutting across the entire battlefield.

The clone soldiers, stepping forward in perfect unison, raised their rifles and bayonets almost simultaneously, charging into the smoke-filled battlefield under the lead of their decurions.

"Charge!!!"

The battle cries shook heaven and earth!

The clones, roaring as they charged forward, were like jackals in human form.

The bayonets pointing ahead were their fangs; they were like devourers that could speak human language!

The centurion, having spat out the short whistle, still held his saber high and roared with his rough voice.

"Charge!!"

"Use your rifles, your bayonets, fists, teeth, and fingernails—everything you can! Make your prey stop their filthy breathing!"

"You are the bravest warriors! Those weak rats are no match for you—!"

That fanatical roar boosted the morale of all the clones.

For those born in the arena, that rough-voiced man was their father.

But their father had clearly deceived them; those weak rats were not so easily defeated.

Just as they approached within 200 meters, the Bharat centurion crouching in the trench also blew his short whistle and fired his pistol forward.

"Fire!!!"

Unable to contain their rage any longer, the soldiers lying at the edge of the trench pulled their triggers.

The rattle of gunfire echoed across the battlefield, streaks of orange tracer rounds danced wildly, tracing the scythe of death across the corpse-strewn field.

Clone soldiers were constantly mowed down by machine guns, and not a few Verant decurions fell dead.

The same went for the Bharat soldiers in the trench.

Behind that LD-47j machine gun with its missing bipod, two gunners had already been replaced; now it was operated by a thirteen-year-old boy instead of some child's father.

And that young man with the bandaged forehead who had shouted "come on" had his head blown off early, falling to the ground without a sound.

And that man whose son was said to be seven and a half jin.

The old guy who always bickered with him died without ever prying from him the secret recipe for "having a big strapping son."

But then again, he wouldn't need it anyway.

Soon a hundred-man unit was wiped out, and then another hundred-man unit was thrown in.

Then a thousand-man unit, and even ten thousand!

That jagged front line was like the teeth of a giant beast, draining the flesh and blood of every body drawn into it.

Those hundred-jin weights should have been the pillars of their families, but on that front line tens of kilometers wide, they were as light as a feather.

It wasn't just the Bharatan who bled; the Verant charging into the shell-plowed land bled as well.

Although the clones listed on the logistics roster were not counted within the establishment of those five ten-thousand-man corps, not even as livestock, and their deaths and injuries would not be recorded as casualties, every ten or twelve clone soldiers would still be accompanied by a Wilant decurion charging alongside them.

In just one morning, the Southern Legion's 30th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps routed three Boro Kingdom ten-thousand-man corps guarding the hills west of Sunrise Lake, pushing the front line a full ten kilometers forward!

Metar Wanfu refused to retreat, personally leading his direct thousand-man corps to cover the rear and shield the retreat of friendly forces; he was unfortunately shot and killed while blocking the assault of the Southern Legion's mechanized infantry thousand-man corps.

Thus, the Boro Kingdom's Third Ten-Thousand-Man Corps was annihilated as a fighting unit!

Over twelve thousand soldiers and officers were nearly all lost, with no survivors!

The Fourth and Fifth Thousand-Man Corps also suffered over half casualties and were forced to withdraw to rear positions.

In contrast, the Southern Legion's 30th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps reported total casualties of only 300 men.

After the painful loss of an armored thousand-man corps, Ryan Wanfu finally regained his lost face on the main battlefield.

Even if it cost him nearly twenty thousand clone cannon fodder and over a hundred thousand shells.

The western part of Reedburgh County was completely lost; a fist of the Southern Legion had already seized the throat of the old lion, Lion City.

The 31st and 32nd Ten-Thousand-Man Corps were cutting into the battlefield from the southwest and northwest respectively.

And accompanying them to the front line was an armored train loaded with ammunition and weapons, along with a 902mm heavy cannon that combined deterrence and power!

The Alliance's fearless air raids kept the Southern Legion's logistics units on edge, daring only to operate beneath the airspace dominated by armored airships.

But if they thought all danger came from the sky, they were gravely mistaken.

In the southeastern part of "Li County," rolling wolf smoke raced across the boundless wilderness.

Under the cover of 62 "Chimera" armored vehicles, an attack formation of 93 "Type 3" heavy tanks was charging wildly toward the legion's southern flank.

Their target was the Southern Legion's 34th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps.

According to intelligence gathered by Pangolin during his time at West Sail Port, that was a reserve force.

If they could punch through this 34th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps, they could reach Ryan Wanfu's rear!

The players of the Skeleton Corps had been waiting too long for this upcoming battle.

Especially after seeing the boasts made by their brothers in the Burning Corps on the forum, each of them had been itching for action, nearly wearing their hands out from rubbing them together.

A bunch of airborne infantry could blow up the enemy's armored regiment; if they, the professionals, went in, wouldn't they beat the shit out of those big-nosed bastards?

Moreover, they were not the only corps participating in this battle!

After five days of waiting, the good brothers of the Goblin Corps had returned to the front line aboard "Overlord" transport planes, and their vehicles had been flown to the airfield outside Sky Capital by the pilots of Golden Gallon Port.

In addition, the Fallen Feather brothers, piloting "Thunder" fighters, would also join this operation.

They had no reason to lose!

Half of Mole's body emerged from the turret of the Type 3 tank, gripping the communicator, shouting with high spirits.

"Brothers!"

"The Southern Legion's 34th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps is only twenty kilometers away!"

"It's time to show them what a real steel tide looks like!"

His words had barely fallen when the communication channel erupted with excited roars.

"Oooh!!"