Chapter 865: People Are the Future

Chapter 865: Humanity, the Future

The rain of fire falling from the sky was like a river of stars descending from the heavens.

The rainwater on the ground was evaporated, steel melted, and the earth scorched black.

Before that lethal heat, no living thing could survive.

Not even the red soil.

It was a more direct harm than radioactive dust.

Gazing at the burning land ahead, the ten-thousand-man commander of the 36th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps, Woolf, narrowed his eyes, a smile involuntarily curling at the corners of his mouth, but it quickly faded.

Even though he had no doubt that the Southern Legion would ultimately claim victory, it was hard to interpret this battle as a triumph.

Facing a joint encirclement by three ten-thousand-man corps, the enemy had stubbornly managed to take out their supply lines despite suffering heavy losses.

What was worse, this was merely one armored thousand-man unit of the Alliance!

Even if it was slightly larger in number, it could at most be considered a "reinforced formation," nowhere near the size of a ten-thousand-man corps.

No matter how the Triumph Report tried to embellish it, the battle report could hardly lie.

And it was hard to say whether the Triumph Report would help them this time as it had before.

After all, this time was different; they had offended too many people, and even their eastern allies were not fully on their side.

But so be it.

He consoled himself, thinking that as long as they achieved final victory, all those who were outwardly aligned would come back around.

Yet how much longer would victory take?

This was only the beginning.

Who knew what else lay ahead of them.

Watching the flames gradually die down, the staff officer sitting beside him twitched the corner of his mouth.

"...Finally over."

The enemy's tenacity far exceeded his imagination.

"Hmm."

Woolf nodded without a word, his face expressionless as he stared ahead.

Glancing at him, the staff officer spoke in a low voice.

"Their technological progress is faster than we imagined. According to intelligence from our eastern allies, they only fielded one vehicle-mounted electromagnetic cannon as their trump card in previous battles, but this time they have equipped an entire armored unit."

He paused and continued.

"I have a reasonable suspicion that they have more... This is a threat to us."

The spaced armor of the Conqueror Mark X offered nearly absolute defense against armor-piercing shells, which were about the limit of what most survivor factions could achieve with primitive industrial technology.

As for kinetic artillery, conventional calibers and propellant charges couldn't even reach the armor's spaced layer; the tough outer shell alone could easily withstand them.

Thus, the indestructible armor of the Conqueror Mark X was an insurmountable "Wall of Sighs" for most survivors.

To defend against "free-fall bombs" dropped from abandoned high-rises and adapt to urban pacification operations, they had even specifically reinforced the turret roofs!

Yet all these targeted designs became a joke in the face of weapons based on new technological principles.

The Alliance's electromagnetic cannons pierced through every time; if the electrically charged shells grazed the ammunition rack, it would spark a brilliant chain of explosions—one of the reasons their armored formations kept getting blown up.

In theory, the penetration effect of electromagnetic cannons could be adjusted, and with special warheads, they could even overcome air resistance, making the damage potential truly limitless.

Worryingly, it seemed the South Sea Alliance possessed this technology and had mounted it on their battleships.

Previously, they had dismissed the fishermen of the southern seas, but with the Alliance's arrival, those starfish-like people huddled on the islands suddenly perked up and began to venture outward.

Once these technologies spread, the Legion's advantages built over the past century and a half would vanish!

To counter this unprecedented threat, they should at least break away from the "Conqueror" series design philosophy and develop entirely new equipment based on new "tactical needs."

Such preparations should have been made before the war began, but what he saw was nothing of the sort.

While their opponents were seriously studying their equipment, the Legion's high command had merely bulk-purchased a batch of "Conqueror Mark X" from the Eastern Legion.

Perhaps the high command held other cards, or maybe they never relied on armored superiority for victory, betting instead on other trump cards, but the current situation did stir a hint of unease in him.

Though he too had no doubt that the Wyrant people would ultimately win, he couldn't help worrying they might be overconfident, even ignoring the objective laws of development.

Even if they never stopped chanting that mantra.

"...It's just a tactical threat," the adjutant corrected, grinning dismissively. "Strategically, it's another matter. Like now, whether it's electromagnetic cannons or whatever, the end result is just a pool of molten iron. Even if they win ten times, Lionheart City is still in our hands."

In terms of firepower, the Southern Legion would yield to no one!

He was absolutely confident in that.

Even if the enemy's electromagnetic cannons were a bit stronger, they couldn't bridge the gap in firepower!

"That's all true," the staff officer didn't refute him but asked instead, "But what if they have other cards up their sleeve?"

The adjutant chuckled.

"You mean the phase cannon? That thing is indeed a threat, but we're not unprepared."

The staff officer shook his head.

"I'm afraid it's something else."

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

Hearing this ambiguous answer, the adjutant was taken aback.

"You don't know?"

The staff officer nodded, his expression grave.

"Not knowing is the most frightening thing... Haven't you realized yet? Our enemy knows us, but we've never tried to understand them."

He had a feeling that the Alliance had infiltrated their ranks.

It wasn't surprising.

There were many Wyrants hostile to the Alliance, but just as many who looked favorably upon it.

These people were the easiest to bribe.

Even without bribery, they willingly offered help.

Whether they admitted it or not, such groups existed within the Legion, and as their actions grew more extreme, this resistance swelled.

On the other hand, for the Legion, bribing was difficult—even hiring a brewer from Dawn City to work in Avint was a challenge...

...

The boiling flames turned the enemy to ash and finally quelled the fury in everyone's hearts.

Not only did the commanders in the command vehicle relax their furrowed brows, but the soldiers of the 36th Ten-Thousand-Man Corps also loosened their tense shoulders and lowered their raised muzzles.

It had been a brutal battle—the sudden arcs of electricity in the darkness and the turrets flying into the sky had become nightmares lingering in their minds.

The distant flames gradually died out.

Just as the group was about to pack up and leave, a staggering figure suddenly appeared on the pitch-black wilderness.

His arms were tightly bound with rope, and he walked across the muddy ground with a reckless, unsteady gait, as if he might collapse face-first at any moment.

The forward reconnaissance team spotted him first.

Several Valentian soldiers standing by the scout car exchanged glances, and without a word, they saw surprise in each other's eyes.

Someone was still alive?!

"Captain, there's a live one!"

"...Looks like one of ours."

The decurion sitting in the car furrowed his brow, peering through the scope of the electric machine gun.

The man was covered in mud, his face bruised, and his trousers soaked in a large, dark patch—like a stray dog that had rolled out of a mud pit.

Both his high-bridged nose and his uniform spoke of his identity.

This guy was his compatriot.

Though he desperately wished he wasn't.

"Halt!"

When the man drew closer, the decurion got out of the car himself and aimed his gun, signaling him to stop.

"I... cough, cough! My name is Quincy... I'm one of you!"

The young man called Quincy had terror written all over his face, his eyes hollow as lumps of coal, his grimy appearance like a slug.

He didn't want to be like this.

But he was truly terrified.

Not just because that earlier bastard had fired a burst at him with his mouth, but because of the artillery fire that rained from the sky.

It was nothing like the drills he'd seen—he wasn't charging toward the shells; instead, a sky full of shells was charging at him.

The burning white phosphorus had nearly singed his heels, and he had barely escaped with his life, almost dying at the hands of his own men!

"Your unit designation."

The decurion stared at him unblinkingly, contempt written in his eyes as he took in the pathetic sight.

"34th Mechanized Infantry Myriarch... Third Thousand..."

"Third Thousand what? Can't even speak your unit designation anymore?" The decurion glared coldly, lowering the muzzle of his gun. "And your exoskeleton, your gear—where the hell are they? Did you give them away?"

"...In, maybe in the fire." Quincy swallowed hard, not daring to say they might have been picked up by the guerrillas.

The decurion didn't care at all, just looked at him with that contemptuous gaze.

"Oh, is that so? Then why aren't you in there?"

"I..."

"I'm ashamed for you. That a weak bastard like you is our compatriot."

The decurion pulled a captured pistol from the waist of one of his subordinates and threw it in front of the dog-like man, speaking with disgust.

"The 36th Myriarch doesn't have pathetic wretches like you. We'd rather die on the battlefield than surrender."

He said nothing, yet said everything, silently watching the terrified young man before him.

The other Valentians did the same.

At first, they had some sympathy for the poor fellow, but after hearing the captain's words, that sympathy faded.

This pathetic creature was a Valentian?

He sullied their noble blood!

Better to shoot himself, die at the enemy's hands—at least that would count as a warrior.

Quincy trembled as he picked up the pistol from the ground, pressed it against his chin, but his index finger felt as heavy as lead; he shook for a long time without the courage to pull the trigger.

He looked pleadingly at the comrades standing around, hoping they would stop him, but found them only watching with mockery, as if urging him to hurry up.

Why was it like this?

He had fought so that Valentians could live under the sun, yet now, having escaped death, he had become the enemy of his own people.

He felt something shatter inside him, and suddenly he broke down, roaring.

"Ahhh!!!"

Finally, he mustered the courage, steeled himself, and pulled the trigger—only to hear a sharp "clang."

The crisp sound rattled his skull, like being kicked by a donkey.

The chamber was empty...

He had been tricked.

Even the dullest mind would have realized by now—these old soldiers were just using him for sport.

Quincy stared blankly at them, then, as if all his strength had drained away, he collapsed to the ground with a thud.

The Valentian soldiers cast one last mocking glance at the coward, said nothing, turned back to the car, started the engine, and drove off.

The soldier in the driver's seat had been watching the whole time. He glanced at the figure disappearing in the rearview mirror, a hint of reluctance on his face.

"Aren't we going to do something about him?"

Before the decurion could answer, another young man sitting beside him sneered.

"You want to ride in the same car as that mud-man?"

The machine gunner, carrying his weapon, also laughed in jest.

"He made it this far—let him keep running. Maybe he'll make it back to Triumph City."

"Ha ha ha ha!"

The car was filled with unrestrained laughter.

The young men of the 36th Myriarch returned to camp with the glory of annihilating the League's elite, even if the hard-fought battle had cost them much.

Meanwhile, on the other side, in northern Surak County, the 17th Myriarch, stationed there, finally linked up with reinforcements from the rear and launched another invasion into Dog Province, the northernmost of the three provinces!

The Moon Tribe resistance forces stationed on the border of Dog Province put up only limited resistance before withdrawing from the battlefield.

As planned, they decided to use mobile warfare to counter the Legion's offensive.

Stretch the enemy's supply lines as long as possible, then use artillery and guerrillas to wipe out their effective strength.

Just like their strategy on the border of Mammoth Province when fighting the Gray Wolf Army.

Only this time, their battle reports were indeed a bit ugly—the front line seemed to "collapse at the first touch."

Compared to the unflappable Rasi, Abusek was clearly more impatient.

If not for the League's elite forces already arriving at Skycapital, he might have already pulled a Sharuk and slipped away.

Skycapital was well-connected: south to his home province of Wolf Province, east to the prosperous Elephant Province.

There was still somewhere to run if needed, and if all else failed, one could retreat to Port Jialun to live as a recluse.

The entire city of Tiandu was gripped by panic.

Yet just as everyone wanted to leave, one who could leave chose to stay.

The office of the Commandant’s Mansion.

Ishar stood before the desk, addressing Abusek who sat behind it.

“I want to go to the front lines.”

Abusek paused his pen and glanced up at the young man.

He had some recollection of this fellow—seemed to be one of Anwo’s sly lot.

A few days ago, Anwo had sent a telegram requesting the transfer of his former subordinates to Port Jialun for assistance.

Such a trivial matter was not worth his obstruction, and besides, he needed someone to go to Port Jialun and play the victim on his behalf, so he waved his hand and approved it.

But what he hadn’t expected was that on the very day of departure, this Ishar refused to go.

“To the front lines? Going to the front lines at a time like this—have you thought it through?”

Looking at Abusek’s half-smile, Ishar nodded earnestly.

“I’ve thought it through.”

“Fine, ambitious! Then I won’t keep you. Go with the Alliance people.”

He paused, his eyes shifting, then added,

“Your rank is too low for your abilities. As of today, you are a commander of ten thousand, tasked with rebuilding the shattered Third Ten-Thousand-Man Corps!”

Ishar stood straight, his right fist pressed to his chest.

“Thank you, Great Commandant, for the promotion!”

Abusek waved his hand with a smile.

“This is no easy assignment. Don’t push yourself too hard—just get those green recruits familiar with things… Ah, forget it. I trust you understand. Take care of yourself.”

Ishar knew what he meant, and why he had been hastily promoted to commander of ten thousand, saddled with a batch of raw recruits needing training.

And why he used the old designation of the Third Ten-Thousand-Man Corps, which had suffered the most heroic sacrifices.

Though the Great Commandant was deeply displeased with Anwo’s unauthorized actions at Westsail Port, in his heart he still regarded them as his own men.

In other words, he was protective of his own.

Everyone knew the front lines were now a pit of fire, one that no amount of firewood could ever fill. At the very least, he would hint for Ishar not to go, and if persuasion failed, he would find a way to keep him safe.

Ishar nodded, expressed his sincere thanks, then turned and left the office.

Watching the young man depart, Abusek, not yet old himself, let out a weary sigh.

“…We’re not all sly foxes after all—there are still a couple of good lads.”

But what a pity.

On the soil of the Boro Province, good men rarely meet a good end.

A few months aren’t enough, nor a few years—it will take decades, even centuries.

Only when scoundrels like me are held at gunpoint by good men will this Boro nation truly be saved.

Abusek shook his head with a smile, picked up his pen, and bent over to continue writing.

[…To Kabaha, Education Commissioner.]

[I see potential in the university matter, but the Boro treasury has no spare funds. You’ll have to give me two years’ grace—consider this my debt to you.]

[Also, I hear that Mr. Rat has founded Mammoth State University in the Mammoth Kingdom, recruiting students from across the Boro Province. Since that’s the case, we might as well borrow their classrooms and desks for a “joint venture”—use their space to teach our students.]

[You intellectuals should exchange more, just as Laxi and I get along. If you swallow your pride, I think Mr. Rat won’t refuse. Yelling at me won’t mint silver coins.]

[Tiandu is ablaze with gunfire—hardly a place for teaching and learning. Besides, it would be a shame to see a newly built school shelled to ruins. Better to build after the war ends.]

[Consider the university matter approved. First, select the students of appropriate age. The budget isn’t enough for a grand building, but it can cover a few exams and some travel and living expenses. Make sure to pick true talents and send them to Mammoth University to study under their teachers. Once they’ve learned, they will become our teachers. I’m not afraid they won’t return—I’m afraid they’ll follow roughnecks like us into the trenches and never come back… Whether in Boro or Mammoth, those talents are our future.]

[Handle this alone. If any sly fox tries to sneak in, come to me—I’ll skin him alive!]