Chapter 706: The 'Elite' That Crumbles at the First Touch

Chapter 706: The "Elite" That Crumbled at the First Touch

Kapil was a wolf-man.

He remembered that, ever since he could recall, his parents had repeatedly instilled in him the teachings of the Wolf God, telling him how wolves were united, how fierce and brave, how tireless, and how invincible in battle. For a time, the wolf packs roaming the wilderness had been the primary threat to the survivors of the Boro Province...

In the end, the survivors prevailed, but their victory had not come easily. To honor this formidable foe and to inherit its valor, they planted a totem for its deity in the City of a Thousand Pillars, hoping to gain its favor and blessings.

From that moment on, the Wolf God had its first subjects.

Those blessed by the Wolf God were not only born warriors but also the pride of the Empire. They were bred for battle, slaughter, and plunder.

For this reason, Kapil never ceased to take pride in being a wolf-man and strived tirelessly to become a soldier of the Empire.

His efforts did not go unrewarded. Thanks to ample nutrition and the influence of his upbringing, he stood out among tens of thousands of peers who had enlisted. First, he was selected for training in a recruit camp; then, due to his outstanding performance, he was assigned to the Gray Wolf Army, directly under His Majesty, and groomed as an officer cadet.

Not all wolf-men had the chance to join the Gray Wolf Army, and even fewer could become officers in this elite force.

He was the pride of his parents and his people, and the one who bestowed this honor upon him was none other than the great Wuta Xilan—the supreme Emperor.

He swore to bring glory to His Majesty, to repay the vast imperial favor, and to earn more military merits, even to become a general above the multitudes.

Now, he had finally found his chance—to pledge his loyalty to His Majesty with the fighting spirit of a ravenous wolf!

Yet at this moment—

The scene before his eyes filled his gaze with despair.

"Charge forward—!"

His ears, deafened by shelling, gradually shed their buzzing, replaced by the commander's hoarse roar, chaotic footsteps, and a tide of battle cries and screams.

What lay before him not only defied his expectations.

It defied everyone's.

The cramped, narrow slum marked on the map seemed to have vanished, its mud houses and shacks torn down to the last, leaving only a field of rubble and broken bricks.

He had no idea what magic those Iron Men had used, only that in just over a week, they had cleared away thousands of buildings that had once stood here.

From the nearest cover to the Governor's Mansion perched on the high ground stretched nearly six hundred meters of open ground.

This open ground was like an insurmountable chasm, filled with nothing but broken bricks and construction debris.

To bypass this chasm from either flank meant either facing a pincer attack from the Rawl camp direction or swimming around from the farther coastline.

That was even more impractical than charging across these six hundred meters.

And besides, they were already here.

There was no choice but to advance.

The cries urging battle rang out once more. Soldiers clutching rifles launched assault after assault toward the unreachable Governor's Mansion, only to fall without suspense like mown wheat, one row after another.

The volleys of bullets rained down like the spinning teeth of a chainsaw. Gazing at the bloody battlefield, Kapil felt his heart nearly leap into his throat.

For the first time, he felt how fragile life was, and for the first time, he saw unfamiliar terror on his comrades' faces.

This wasn't a battle—

This was a death sentence!

In an instant, a hundred-man unit was wiped out.

Comrades lying among the broken bricks were pinned down by machine guns mounted on the Governor's Mansion roof, either wailing in agony or crawling forward with difficulty.

There was no cover to support their advance.

Only the corpses of their comrades strewn everywhere...

The rifles from the urban area fired toward the Governor's Mansion, but they could barely suppress the well-prepared firing points.

The Federation soldiers had welded steel gun shields onto their machine guns, not to mention the heavy armor they wore.

Seeing the previous hundred-man unit nearly annihilated, the commander turned his gaze to those behind him and roared.

"Quick! Charge forward now!!"

Staring at the insurmountable position and the comrades scrambling in the dirt, Kapil's eyes flickered with fear.

But the order to attack had been given; any hesitation would bring a fate worse than death.

This was, after all, the path he had chosen.

Kapil clenched his teeth, forcing down the terror in his chest, and let out a roar from between gritted teeth.

"For the Empire—!"

Amid the sparse, echoing cries, he emptied his mind, howled recklessly, and charged out of cover, followed by the ten comrades behind him.

Yet, the moment he mustered his courage and took his first step, a mortar shell landing not far away blasted him into the air, sending him crashing to the ground like a tattered rag.

His comrades behind him met the same fate; two decades of sweat and pride dissolved into thick pools of blood, sloppily smeared across the broken bricks...

...

Kapil and his men were not the first wolf-men to shed their blood for the Empire in this battle, and clearly, they would not be the last.

A fresh wave of shelling fell upon the slum six hundred meters in front of the Governor's Mansion, engulfing both the soldiers firing from near the mud houses and those Gray Wolf troops who had just crossed cover to launch a new assault.

A hundred or so buildings remained, yet to be demolished.

But the residents there had already taken their relocation compensation and fled; only those carrying guns remained. The Federation could open fire without restraint.

At the same time, machine-gun positions on the Governor's Mansion roof and along its walls unleashed a torrent of fire. The bullets seemed endless, the guns rattling without pause.

The pride of the wolf-men fell in waves; in an instant, another hundred-man unit was pinned down on that field of broken bricks and blood.

Volleys of tracer rounds poured down like a torrential rain; here, a soldier's life could be measured in seconds.

The rat-man youth who had sworn to the "Iron Men" had indeed kept his promise—making the Empire's soldiers fight from among broken bricks.

Now, the first thousand-man unit tasked with taking the Governor's Mansion faced the dire straits of being target practice. They had already left behind over five hundred corpses, yet had achieved nothing beyond depleting the Federation's ammunition.

"Damn it! I recall this was a slum!"

Gazing at the machine guns firing relentlessly, the chiliarch hiding behind a mud house cursed.

A bandage was wrapped around his forehead, a salvaged steel helmet perched on his head. A piece of shrapnel had grazed his brow earlier, nearly taking him out.

Originally, they had planned to cross just one street, sacrificing at most two to three hundred men before engaging the Federation in close-quarters combat.

But now, a street only a few steps wide had been stretched into a six-hundred-meter road of death.

They had no armored support, and even the artillery essential for breaching fortifications was scarce, while Federation cannons and machine guns had them reeling.

"We've lost over half our men! Fighting like this is no different from suicide. We need artillery cover! I repeat! We need support!" Grabbing a communications soldier carrying a radio, the chiliarch seized the handset and roared again.

He had been calling for artillery fire over a dozen minutes ago.

Prince Dilip had personally promised him that the rear's shelling was being prepared and would soon land on the enemy positions, urging him to attack quickly.

Yet now, as his troops were nearly wiped out, the shells still hadn't fallen. He felt as if he had been royally screwed.

A crackling static filled the air for a moment, followed by a slightly awkward voice from the receiver.

"I'm coordinating... Damn it, that idiot Arayan! I've been calling for artillery for ages, and there's not a single shell in sight..."

Listening to the useless chatter over the line, the chiliarch felt a chill crawl up his scalp, but he dared not say a word.

To retreat was impossible.

To advance meant death.

He turned his head, looking at the reserve unit.

"Charge forward—!"

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he reminded,

“My lord... where is your personal artillery unit?”

The Alliance’s firepower was too fierce, and their aim too precise; a few more shots and they’d have to scurry back into their holes, making it truly difficult to support them.

If all else failed, they could have the trucks tow the cannons into the city, set them up right on the front line, level them toward the Governor’s Mansion, and fire directly—better than stewing here in helplessness.

He was about to propose this when the radio fell silent for a moment, then came a vague reply.

“...There was a bit of trouble earlier when countering the Alliance’s artillery. I can’t reach them for now. I’ll have to let that fool Arayan figure something out.”

Hearing this, the chiliarch nearly spat blood.

So all along, while they were still crouching in the trenches, the six cannons General Arayan had assigned to this idiot had been blown to bits by the enemy.

Countering enemy artillery without forward spotters to correct the fire...

This man must be insane.

Even if he guessed where the Alliance’s artillery positions were, did this pig have any idea where his own shells were landing?!

“Lord Dilip, if this keeps up, no matter how many men we have, it won’t be enough...” the chiliarch gritted out. “Please allow us to withdraw first—”

Before he could finish, the man on the other end of the channel jumped like a mouse with its tail stepped on, shrieking,

“No retreat! You are soldiers of the Empire! Now is the time to show your loyalty to His Majesty! Are your oaths nothing but toilet paper?!”

“It’s only six hundred meters! Charge forward! I want the Twin-Blade Flag flying over the Governor’s Mansion before nightfall!”

Hearing that unrealistic order, the chiliarch could no longer contain the fury in his chest and roared into the radio,

“Lord Dilip! This isn’t your backyard! This is the front line! The front line! The Alliance’s machine guns are right in our faces! Six hundred meters? We can’t push even sixty meters! Why don’t you come to the front line yourself and see what kind of hell this is?!”

“I’ll say it again: no retreat!”

Prince Dilip screamed hysterically into the channel, refusing to believe that such a short distance could stop a thousand-man cohort.

Just six hundred meters—even if one man fell per meter, they could still send over four hundred men forward. As long as they took out the Alliance’s machine-gun nests, the remaining four cohorts under his command could surge like a tsunami and overwhelm the defenders in the Governor’s Mansion.

Not giving the chiliarch a chance to argue, he continued to bellow,

“And are you pigs?! Who told you to charge straight into the Alliance’s gunfire? Can’t you use your brains a little and weave through the alleys—”

“What houses are left?! The Alliance has already cleared this place! I’ve said it a hundred times—there’s not a single house left! They even hauled away most of the rubble!” the chiliarch roared, no longer caring about rank or decorum.

Morale had sunk to rock bottom. The soldiers crouching behind cover had lost even the courage to poke their heads out and exchange fire with the Alliance.

If he ordered them to charge to their deaths now, before his entire cohort was wiped out, he, the chiliarch, would likely be torn apart by mutinous soldiers first.

Prince Dilip, gripping the phone, stared wide-eyed, unable to believe either the insolent tone on the other end or the news he was hearing.

He wasn’t deaf.

Though he hadn’t seen the front line himself, he’d heard reports since the fighting began that the Alliance had evacuated the residents near the Governor’s Mansion and demolished their homes.

Yet in his initial imagination, even if no intact houses remained in that district, there would still be piles of rubble and uneven mounds of earth.

They might not be as good as trenches, but they should be enough to cover an infantry advance.

That was how it should be...

“How is this possible...” Prince Dilip’s voice trembled, his carefully cultivated tone slipping into a flustered panic.

The chiliarch bellowed furiously,

“Why wouldn’t it be possible?! They used cannons, explosives, hammers, even ropes to pull down beams! Don’t you know what kind of shacks those poor bastards lived in?! You think their doghouses were poured concrete like the Governor’s Mansion?! Left alone, they’d collapse on their own!”

“Those maggots, those cunning rats... they dare, they dare side with the Alliance! I’ll slaughter them!”

Prince Dilip let out a pained groan.

Even though this was his first time moving from the sand table to a real battlefield, he knew that the mood of defeat spread through soldiers like a plague.

Though he racked his brains for a next move, he knew he couldn’t hesitate any longer. He had to do something before the front line collapsed!

Once the line broke—

The consequences would be unthinkable!

“Pull back first... Send the second cohort in. Wait—hold on a little longer until the second cohort takes over! You must maintain the line!”

Hearing that conciliatory tone, the chiliarch finally breathed a sigh of relief, the tension in his throat easing.

The man’s orders were vague, even contradicting themselves mid-sentence, but he could roughly grasp the intent.

As long as they could withdraw and rest, that was fine.

Silently praying for the comrades about to take their place, he hung up, shoved aside the radioman carrying the pack, and roared toward the front line,

“Hold on! Reinforcements will relieve us soon—”

The unfinished words froze in his throat. As the chiliarch’s gaze swept to the flank of the line, his face was etched with sheer terror.

A giant crab, four or five meters tall, was scuttling forward on metallic mechanical legs, rounding a pile of collapsed ruins to strike their flank.

What the hell was that?!

Confusion painted the chiliarch’s face.

Two thick barrels—cannon barrels, it seemed—extended forward from above its powerful pincers, aimed directly at the wolf-tribe soldiers not far ahead, who lay pinned behind broken houses and shacks, unable to move.

The sight was so overwhelming that the Y-2 drones, the “Hellhound” unmanned vehicles, and the dozen or so soldiers clad in exoskeletons bristling with weapons flanking the giant crab seemed almost negligible.

Before he could react, the two barrels spat long tongues of flame, unleashing vicious firepower upon his men!

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

There wasn’t even time for screams.

Dozens of soldiers hiding behind cover were instantly crushed into fragments and pulp along with their shelters.

Shell casings clattered endlessly from the breech, ringing against the ground, along with the shattered bodies falling in pieces.

Confusion turned to terror—not just for the chiliarch commanding at the front, but for every soldier crouching behind cover.

They had never fought anything so brutal!

The bullets from their Gut-Splitter rifles bounced off it like mosquito bites, utterly useless, while before the sustained fire of those cannons, their cover crumbled like paper.

Soldiers wielding Panzerfaust rocket launchers were pinned down by the relentless barrage, or had their heads blown off by drones buzzing overhead that identified and targeted them.

The Alliance had thrown far more than just one “King Crab” into the battle, even if most eyes were drawn to that conspicuous behemoth.

Six “King Crab” amphibious all-terrain infantry armored units, each covering a mechanized infantry squad, attacked from six different directions.

In just a few breaths, the flank of Prince Dilip’s First Cohort was torn open like an avalanche, a gaping wound.

Unable to contain their fear any longer, the soldiers behind cover ignored their superiors’ shouts and threats, dropping their weapons and turning to flee.

They scurried like rats, desperate and directionless.

“Aaaah!”

“Monster!”

“Demon! The Alliance has summoned demons!”

What crumbled wasn’t just the line beneath their feet, but the deepest line within them—that inexplicable confidence and arrogance.

At this moment, they could only curse the Wolf God for not giving them two more legs, so they might flee this accursed place a little faster.

The atmosphere of despair and terror, carried by the fleeing routed soldiers, collided with the second thousand-man unit marching proudly to the front.

No one could believe the sight before their eyes, until those ferocious "King Crabs" chased after their allies' rear and slaughtered them...

...

Just as the elite of the Xilan Empire were being beaten and fled in panic, the [Tool Master] leading the three-hundred-man unit to attack the flank of the position discovered that his six mechanized squads had turned from flanking troops into front-line troops.

The imperial troops they had bitten on the flank didn't even put up a decent resistance; they dropped their weapons and turned to run.

So much so that they, who had intended to sneak up and encircle this thousand-man unit, ended up with nothing, instead running headlong into another thousand-man unit rushing to reinforce.

These wolf-race soldiers who came up as replacements were also ruthless, perfectly illustrating what it means to smash one's head against a steel plate, engaging in a firefight with the Alliance players in the alleys without any preparation.

Initially, the Tool Master planned to pull the squads back, dragging these stubborn wolf-men to the governor's mansion position held by the second unit for a harvest, but he couldn't stand how weak these guys were—they didn't even have a single armored unit that could threaten them before charging in, and when they found the hard bone too tough to chew, they started fleeing en masse.

The enemy had practically fed their heads into their mouths; if they didn't take a bite, he'd probably be ridiculed by his teammates for a week.

Seeing that the Xilan Empire's reinforcements sent to the front were also beginning to rout, the Tool Master reached up and pressed his helmet, shouting loudly in the squad channel.

"Attention all units——!"

"Take the line marked on the map as the boundary! Everyone continue advancing! Open fire freely! Don't save ammunition, give them a good beating! Don't come back until your magazines are empty!"

In response came excited shouts.

"Roger!"

"Brothers, charge!"

"For the Alliance!!!"

"Ooooh!"

With the attack order given, one after another "King Crab" all-terrain infantry armor shook off their crab legs and, under the cover of infantry, crossed over low sheds, charging forward recklessly.

Everyone's eyes were bloodshot.

Especially the intelligence-type players riding inside the mechanical crabs' bellies; almost every one of them had three-digit kill counts.

The quadcopter drones flying ahead provided them with a top-down bird's-eye view; they only needed to pull the trigger wherever there were people.

20mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds combined with high-explosive shells—they didn't even need to aim, just charge straight ahead.

The imperial soldiers trapped in the alleys were disoriented.

At first, they could still see where the tracer fire was coming from, but later they couldn't even see anyone before being pinned down dead.

"Hahaha! My Urgot is on a killing spree!"

Hearing the strange laughter in the squad channel, several players advancing in coordination nearby cast envious glances at the guy with his butt sticking out.

"Damn it, get down and let me play for a bit!"

That intelligence-type player rolled his eyes.

"Get lost! You think you can just press F to get on this thing? I at least trained for a few days back in Dawn City!"

Just as they were talking, a Panzerfaust rocket suddenly emerged from the alley right next to them, hitting one of the mechanical legs squarely.

Perhaps because they were too cocky, even the heavens couldn't stand it; the jet of molten metal happened to pierce the power component of that mechanical leg, causing the crab to lower its body, lose balance, and crash into a nearby mud house.

The imperial soldier carrying the rocket launcher was quickly riddled with bullets, but the big crab lying in the ruins was like a drunkard, unable to get up no matter what.

After all, it was a test machine fresh out of the lab; its overly avant-garde design made it full of too many uncertainties.

Even though this thing could still walk with three legs broken during tests, it couldn't withstand the complexities of the battlefield.

Seeing the imperial soldiers charging over, the intelligence-type player who had been showing off just a second ago suddenly shouted in panic.

"Holy shit! Sons, come protect me!"

The players who had already been covering him twitched their mouths at this cheeky remark.

MMP!

For a moment, they suddenly wanted to test just how tough this thing's armor really was...

...

On the other side, the northern wall of the governor's mansion.

Watching the Gray Wolf soldiers recede like a tide, the player sitting at the machine gun position simply turned off the safety, complaining with a grimace.

"Geez, these guys can't take a hit at all."

Originally, when they heard the enemy had over five thousand men, almost everyone thought there would be a fierce battle ahead, but they never expected these so-called "elites" to be so pathetic.

Still, it was clear these guys had tried their best.

Calibration shells had been falling near the governor's mansion, but soon they were suppressed by the Alliance's counter-battery fire.

They tried to break through the machine gun fire at the governor's mansion with human wave tactics, but were pinned down tightly by a few 10mm machine guns.

Normally, with continuous casualties and no progress in the battle, the front-line commander should have some sense and realize there was a problem with the tactics.

Since supporting firepower was useless, they could push the artillery to the front line as direct fire, or dig more fortifications and set up more machine gun positions on the front line—even turning a quick assault into a prolonged war of attrition would be better than having soldiers charge headlong without artillery cover.

But they refused to do so, as if they were in a hurry to die, insisting on forcing a quick outcome to this battle.

Not only the player manning the machine gun couldn't understand, but also [White Give Sniper] guarding inside the governor's mansion couldn't figure out whether these guys were here to fight or to fertilize the fields...

...

On the other side, at the Golden Garon Port, the temporary command post was in chaos.

Battle reports from the front came in like snowflakes, and the command channel was a cacophony of chatter.

"...This is the governor's mansion. The enemy front-line troops have collapsed! Should we continue holding here or pursue?"

"This is the three-hundred-man unit! We are engaged with enemy reinforcements! No enemy armored units detected, only a few anti-tank weapons... Should be a thousand-man unit, maybe two. We plan to clear our ammo and then return."

"...Damn, we've got an idiot here, an 'Urgot' got its leg blown off! Coordinates updated on the map, request immediate support!"

"How many times have I said, don't give equipment stupid nicknames! Use the official designation!"

"This is the four-hundred-man unit. We've sent a squad to reinforce. Hold on!"

"So hungry, when's chow?"

"Who's at the port? Ask the logistics NPC if they can add a dish."

"...Enemy reinforcements routed! Damn, these beasts run faster on retreat than my six legs! Brothers of the four-hundred-man unit, don't bother coming! We'll find some locals to help drag that broken-down piece of junk—"

"%￥#@!"

"Holy shit, what are your strength-type beasts doing? You need to hire people for this little job?!"

"This is the governor's mansion. Our reconnaissance team has observed the Gray Wolf army regrouping near 'Kraba Market'! Target is five kilometers north of the governor's mansion. They seem to be planning to reorganize there! Estimated two to three thousand-man units left."

Although the communication channel was noisy, the feedback on the front-line situation was still clear enough; Fang Chang had basically grasped the gist.

After all, even if the battle situation were slightly urgent or complicated, these beasts wouldn't be bullshitting in the command channel.

Old Bai looked at Fang Chang and casually said.

"What do you think? Should we directly eat up these two or three thousand? Or leave them to those rookies at Lowell Camp."

Nearly twenty thousand slaves have now received basic training, at least knowing how to fire, when to fire, and how to seize objectives and advance.

To expect them to rout a well-trained army on the open battlefield is nothing short of a dream, but as cannon fodder to mop up a routed force under the Alliance's fire support, it shouldn't be too much of a problem.

At least they can give it a try.

But unlike Old Bai, Fang Chang did not focus his attention on the two or three thousand men falling back to the Kraba Market area; instead, his gaze fixed on the trenches outside the settlement.

“…Do you think there might be some big shot from the Xilan Empire among those two or three thousand?”

Hearing Fang Chang speak suddenly, Old Bai hesitated for a moment, furrowing his brow.

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a guess.”

Staring intently at the strategic map displayed on the holographic screen, Fang Chang pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger, lost in thought.

According to intelligence gathered by Brother Shabi’s scouts, the Gray Wolf Army stationed outside the settlement had made a new move.

Though he had no idea why that general named Alaiyang would make such a series of blunders, the man had clearly noticed his allies’ trouble and was trying to make amends.

A ten-thousand-man unit was assembling in batches toward the positions outside the settlement, apparently intending to bring back the routed friendly forces from the front.

At that moment, a bold idea suddenly struck Fang Chang.

“A status that even the supreme commander of the Gray Wolf Army fears… what do you think it could be?”

Old Bai thought for a moment and replied in an uncertain tone.

“A relative of the imperial family?”

He wasn’t very familiar with the Xilan Empire’s organizational structure, after all, this strange survivor faction was utterly unlike any they had encountered before.

But since this so-called imperial elite was directly under the Xilan Emperor, it seemed unlikely that someone who could make the “Commander of the Imperial Guard” nervous would be a mere eunuch or some minor figure.

Even if just for show, he would have to try to rescue them, at least to give that person—or the faction behind them—no grounds for complaint.

Perhaps Alaiyang didn’t really care whether this “VIP” lived or died, but they could use that to their advantage…

Realizing Fang Chang’s plan, Old Bai looked at him in surprise.

“You want to besiege the point to strike at reinforcements?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, but it depends on whether they give us the chance. These guys keep surprising us, and I seriously suspect this time will be no different…”

As he said this, Fang Chang paused for a moment, reached up to press his ear, and gave an order to Shabi, stationed at the Lowell camp.

“Notify Laxi.”

“Tell him it’s time to get to work.”