Chapter 940 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 940: The First Brick to Collapse On the northern shore of the Batoia Province stood the camp of the 117th Legion. The soldiers digging trenches were in low spirits, their morale having hit rock bottom. Across the sea lay the Wilant Province, their shared homeland of both body and soul. They couldn’t comprehend why they had to aim their guns towards it, nor could they fathom their commanders' intentions or what they were truly defending against. If the Union intended to make a landing, wouldn’t the southwest coast be a more straightforward entry point? Detouring all the way over here meant their supply lines would be under the nose of the Southern Legion. What further baffled them were the operations targeting civilians. Even if it was to avoid civilian casualties by temporarily evacuating the elderly, women, and children to the north before the war breached their homeland, the entire evacuation plan felt too hasty... The ocean currents of the Vortex Sea didn’t flow from south to north; they looped in circuits. If bodies washed ashore on the north, it implied there would inevitably be others swept back... At an unnamed beach within the 117th's responsibility zone, about a dozen men gathered. Rifles slung over their backs and entrenching tools hung from their waists, they gathered around a corpse, bloated from prolonged exposure to the seawater. A ten-man commander, a cigarette butt nearly burnt out dangling from his lips, crinkles at the corners of his eyes twisted into tight cords of worry. The body seemed familiar to them; they had seen this man at the docks just the day before. It was surreal to now see him like this. For the body to wash up here, it must have happened shortly after he left the dock. But this wasn’t particularly surprising. After all, it was merely a makeshift raft bound together with ropes, vulnerable to being upended by even a modest wave. Faced with the bloated corpse, no one uttered a word. No one made a sound. Not until a young man suddenly took off his helmet, which finally shattered the oppressive silence. “Damn it! I’m done with this!” In a fit of despair, he hurled his helmet to the ground, ripping the rifle from his back and tossing it onto the sand. “We’re not fighting the Union! We’re fighting the Wilant people! I haven’t seen a single Blue Mole this whole time—only our own!” Stunned by the young man’s sudden outburst, his comrades were all taken aback. A fellow soldier hurriedly grabbed his arm, eyes wide, and shouted at him. “Have you lost your mind?! Do you know what you’re doing?” Abandoning weapons meant desertion. And in the Southern Legion, that was a capital offense! He couldn’t watch his comrade, who’d stood beside him through life and death, act foolishly. Yet the young man, rejecting the gesture, continued his hysterical shouting, attempting to wrest his arm free and roaring at those restraining him. “No, it's you! It's you who don’t know what you’re doing! Open your eyes and look at that face! Who killed him? We did!!!” His disjointed cries echoed across the beach, yet none could respond to his angered roars. The ten-man commander stepped forward, drawing his pistol and aiming at the young man's face. “Are you trying to desert?” The young man stopped shouting but stubbornly stared back at his officer, chest heaving with intensity. A silent standoff ensued, lasting a full five minutes. The commander finally reholstered his pistol, discarding the spent cigarette butt and crushing it underfoot. "Bury him." They couldn’t leave this poor soul lingering in the sea. The young man remained silent but nodded, acknowledging the commander's words. Together, they carried the body from the beach, finding a thick tree along the shore to bury him under, hanging the deceased’s belongings on its branches. Throughout the process, no one spoke. Silence held hostage their grievances, confusion, and discontent. Elsewhere, by the camp near the beach dock, lines extended long outside the camp gate. This was the designated area for the 117th. Other forces were responsible for bringing survivors here, while they handled the boarding. Faces of both those entering and leaving the camp bore expressions of anxiety and fear. Pausing at the gate, a man with a suitcase challenged the guards on duty loudly. "Where are we supposed to go?" The soldier holding a rifle remained stone-faced, repeating commands like a programmed parrot. “Wait here for a ship to the Wilant Province.” Seeing the soldier, the man wore a look of exasperation, for this was the same answer he’d received all the way here. “But where’s the ship? I haven’t seen any! I don’t want to go; can’t I go back?” The soldier's next words, of course, were precisely as expected— “It’s coming soon.” The commotion at the camp entrance failed to disrupt operations, and the man insisting on going home was quickly dealt with. Meanwhile, positioned alongside the dock near the camp, General O'Fly of the 117th Legion frowned as he inspected the rafts sent over by the 10th Division of the Auxiliary Army. The craftsmanship of these rafts was nothing short of abysmal. Many of the logs lashed together were freshly cut, merely stripped of bark and branches—neither waterproofed nor even adequately dried; some wood even showed signs of splitting. An engineer in waterproof boots returned to shore, shaking his head at General O'Fly who stood with folded arms. “These rafts are inadequate. They won’t last twenty miles before falling apart mid-voyage.” O'Fly turned to a bearded man standing nearby. The man was named Muir, commander of the 10th Division of the Auxiliary Army. “You heard him, these rafts are unacceptable.” In response to O’Fly’s complaint, Muir’s expression was unconcerned. “You think this stuff just grows out of the ground? Just chopping and roping these logs together takes hours. Demanding 800 rafts a day with such standards—why don't you try it yourselves!” O’Fly stared intensely at Muir. Since the frontline situation had turned unfavorable for the Southern Legion, the once compliant auxiliary forces had grown restless. Seeing O’Fly lost for words, Muir smiled slightly, glancing at the people lined up by the docks. “You’re just sending them to their deaths in the sea anyway—what concern are the rafts’ quality?” O’Fly glared murderously at him, while soldiers nearby clutched their guns. “Say that again.” Muir coldly chuckled dismissively, but probably intimidated by the looming gun barrels, the shrewd man refrained from further provocation. Tossing a casual “I'll bring you another batch later,” he turned on his heel and left without looking back. Nearby, an adjutant approached tentatively. “Should we continue loading the survivors onto the boats?” O'Fly remained silent, gazing at the lineup on the docks. They were the elderly, women, children, shivering in the cold sea breeze, faces painted with dread—cornered like rats to the edge. Perhaps someone's father or mother or child among them. Their loved ones were shedding blood on the battlefield for the Southern Legion’s sake, only for now General Teal to demand their ultimate sacrifice. What was the purpose of such sacrifice? Where did this war lead? Why had New Land’s own capital city become their adversary? Involuntarily clenching his fists, veins stood out on O'Fly's arm as a phrase escaped his lips. “...What are we doing?” The adjutant looked at him blankly, guilt slowly spreading across his face. Having made up his mind, O'Fly strode confidently to the docks, shouting loudly at the lined-up crowd. “Today’s journeys are canceled! There are no ships to cross—everyone return to the camp!” He knew what this decision meant. Failure to meet today’s quota, and General Teal would not spare him. Moreover, the thousands of refugees now stranded in the camp would continue to occupy space, with more people constantly flowing in, compounding the trouble he faced. Yet, no matter what pressures weighed upon him, he could not bring himself to push these compatriots into the sea and watch them meet their deaths. Upon hearing the commander's "pardon," a sigh of relief swept through the crowd waiting at the dock. Applause erupted from some, while others shouted their thanks and praises. Seeing blood return to those previously pallid faces, General O'Friel couldn't help but smile slightly. He turned back to his adjutant and issued an order in an unyielding tone. "Burn all the rafts on the beach!" The adjutant stood at attention, saluting his superior with seriousness and respect. "Yes, Sir!" With General O'Friel's directive, the civilians gathered at the beach were soon led back to the camp. Soldiers drenched the rafts piled by the shore in gasoline, setting them ablaze. The roaring flames lit up the beach, like the first dawn before daybreak. Onboard the destroyer's deck, Captain Marlock, through his binoculars, witnessed the events unfolding ashore. Rage-filled eyes suddenly gleamed with newfound hope. When he saw that the soldiers onshore did not force civilians onto the rafts but instead burned them, letting the civilians go, he excitedly pounded the ship's railing with a fist. "Well done!" He had watched the recent events with growing frustration. Though his impulse was to shell those bastards, the capital hadn't declared war against the Southern Legion, and doing so would solve nothing. The civilians would still perish. Possibly even more would die. Fortunately, the troops on the other side had awoken in time and put an end to this farce! It seemed not everyone in the Batoia Province was like the mad dog that was Commander Teal. Some were clearly waking up—they still had hope! While Captain Marlock pondered thus, General O'Friel faced less optimistic prospects onshore. His bold decision resulted in ten thousand fewer "pawns" dispatched to the Wilant Province that day. This not only disrupted Teal's plans but increased the mouths to feed on the so-called "frontline" in northern Batoia by ten thousand. That evening, a hundred soldiers clad in exoskeletons arrived at the 117th Legion's camp. The sight of these well-equipped soldiers, with crossbow-style insignias on their arms, brought grim looks to nearly all the soldiers and officers in the camp. The "Iron Crossbow" Rapid Reaction Force! The Southern Legion's airborne elite! Not only that— These men were Commander Teal's personal guard, and rumors had it that every soldier here was an awakened one, injected with induction evolution serums! Looking at General O'Friel standing at the barracks entrance, Captain Hines, without removing his mask, spoke emotionlessly. "General O'Friel, I need an explanation as to why no ships sailed from your camp today." General O'Friel looked at him unflinchingly, chin raised defiantly. "Because we saw no ships." "That's not what my intelligence reports suggest," Captain Hines retrieved a tablet from his waist, tapping it twice to display several photographs on the screen. "These are photos submitted by the 10th Auxiliary Division, claiming they handed over 812 vessels to you." Gaze fixed on those photos, O'Friel couldn't suppress the anger boiling within. He wanted nothing more than to crumple the device into pieces and hurl it at Hines's face. "You call that pile of tied-up wood a ship? Why don't you try crossing the Vortex Sea on those yourself?!" He bellowed angrily, pointing at the gas mask on Hines's face. "And what's with your gear? Biochemical warfare suits? Don't tell me you forgot to change after an exercise!" "That information is classified," Hines had no intention of explaining, responding blankly, "And I am the one questioning you now, General O'Friel. You owe me an explanation." General O'Friel laughed coldly. "I have nothing to explain. Until I see seaworthy vessels, you can forget about pushing even one person into the sea!" Hines's eyes narrowed slightly. The murderous intent in his gaze pierced through the tactical goggles, sending a chill down General O'Friel’s spine. Aware of the murderous aura, the guards behind General O'Friel instinctively reached for their sidearms, hands grasping their submachine guns. The standoff escalated, tension taut like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap into conflict. "General O'Friel," Hines raised his chin slightly, "due to your refusal to follow Commander Teal's orders, I am tasked to escort you to Yarven City for a hearing." Pausing, he glanced at the surrounding officers, continuing in a leisurely tone. "As for the 117th Legion, a new commander will assume control." General O'Friel squinted at him. "And if I refuse?" Hines sneered. "It seems you're bent on defiance." "I see no reason to obey an order from an unknown source," General O'Friel sneered right back. "If you want to command me, go through proper channels, and send someone of higher rank!" He was not scared of this man. The Iron Crossbow Rapid Reaction Force had an intimidating reputation, but they were special operations forces. In an outright battle, the outcome wasn’t certain. Besides, with thousands under his command, they could overwhelm these hundred locusts even if each spat a single time. "It seems we have nothing further to discuss, then." Hines chuckled, suddenly appearing to relent. He waved a hand, leading the exoskeleton-clad soldiers away from the camp, leaving as if they’d never been there. Watching them disappear through the gate, the adjutant beside General O'Friel exhaled slowly. Though he shared no fear of them, a scrap would inevitably result in casualties. Yet observing General O'Friel, a wry smile crossed his face. "You've definitely made an enemy of Commander Teal now..." General O'Friel chuckled. "If I feared making enemies, I wouldn’t have defied his orders in the first place." He was fully prepared to face a military court after this war ended. Returning to his duties, he marveled, when a sharp whistling noise cut across the sky above. Before General O'Friel could react, fiery blasts and thunderous roars collided with his senses. In an instant, he soared through the air, landing like a ragdoll in a pool of blood. The amount of blood loss left no doubt—he was dead. Whether his death came from shrapnel or a guided mortar shell was uncertain. The Iron Crossbow Rapid Reaction Force's equipment was comparable to high-end corporate gear. As O'Friel suspected, their abilities in direct combat were not strong, but their decapitation tactics were unmatched. Yet, he never imagined that Commander Teal, once venerable, would strike him down without so much as a warning. Under normal times, this was nearly unthinkable... The resounding explosion startled the entire camp, prompting stationed guards to their posts, while evacuees clustered at the southern entrance were directed away. Unarmed civilians screamed, retreating towards the sea to distance themselves from the battlefield. As chaos reigned, an icy voice carried over the crying infants and shouting adults from the camp's southern side. "Attention, 117th Legion: Your commander has defied orders and attempted armed insubordination. He has been executed by military justice." "You now face two options—" "Lay down your arms and evacuate the camp, surrendering to the 10th Division’s reorganization." "Or persist in your folly, taking disgrace as traitors to your graves." The chilling voice echoed through the southern side of the camp, pounding in the ears of each 117th Legion soldier. Their wide eyes reflected disbelief, emotions shifting from shock to burning fury. General O'Friel was dead. Commander Teal had discarded him like a soiled rag, and now intended to replace him with another puppet to order their mutual slaughter. A ten-man commander crouched behind cover, cursed aloud, flinging a discarded cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with rage. Beside him, a young soldier, eyes bloodshot, clutched his trembling rifle, only one phrase growling through his clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill them..." On the other side, the adjutant, caught in the blast, finally managed to struggle out of the rubble. Stumbling to where General O'Friel lay, he saw that his respected leader had already become a lifeless body. Rage and sorrow surged to the top of his head. With eyes bloodshot, he stared into the dark night outside the camp. Traitor? Who exactly was the real traitor here! Without waiting for the broadcast to repeat, he grabbed the fallen communicator, shouting hysterically. "Attention all units!" "The Command Center of the 117th Legion has been hit by enemy artillery! We will never surrender!" "Everyone, arm yourselves and prepare to fight! Fight them to the end!" Meanwhile, about a kilometer outside the camp, Captain Hines put down his communicator, gesturing to the soldiers with speakers that they could stop. The efforts to persuade surrender were over. Judging from their stance, they had no intention to cooperate whatsoever. Hearing gunfire in the distance, Hines turned to General Muir, the commander of the 10th Auxiliary Division, speaking in an emotionless tone. "These people are now yours." The aftermath would paint this conflict as an internal dispute between the 117th Legion and the auxiliary forces. The reckoning with the auxiliary troops could be postponed. After all, Commander Teal still had use for them. Regardless, the plan to transport refugees north couldn't be disrupted. They neither had the time nor the means to persuade the "striking" soldiers to continue working. The soldiers involved in these grim end tasks had reached their moral limits; mutiny was inevitable, so dealing with it preemptively seemed the best course. Besides— The northern rebels might see this as an opportunity to strike. Discontent had already fermented within the Southern Legion; the longer this war dragged on, the worse it became for them. If a fight was inevitable, better to have it now. Unaware of his own manipulation, Commander Muir wore a bloodthirsty grin. Ready to demonstrate his prowess for Commander Teal, he flexed his fingers audibly. "Leave it to me." "I'll make sure not to disappoint the esteemed leader!" ... Meanwhile, at Glory Hall in New Karnen City. A guardsman strode into the recently inaugurated office of the Consul, saluting solemnly as he reported to the Pangolin engrossed in paperwork. "A military conflict has erupted on the northern shore of Batoia Province!" The Combat Atmosphere Group at the desk froze, sitting up straight. "What’s going on? Didn't I order the frontline troops not to engage with the Southern Legion?!" The guardsman hurried to explain. "It's not our people clashing with the Southern Legion; they've had a civil conflict. Reports indicate the 117th Legion stationed at the north shore of Batoia Province has rebelled, exchanging fire with the 10th Auxiliary Division. It seems the conflict started when Teal's personal guards executed General O'Friel." The Combat Atmosphere Group furrowed his brow slightly. "Beheaded? At this critical moment..." The guardsman continued. "Apparently, because General O'Friel refused to carry out Commander Teal's orders, our forces at the front witnessed them burning the rafts that were supposed to be used for crossing the sea that day." Standing nearby, General Raize spoke in a low voice. "It seems not everyone wants to go along with that madman's antics. If we launch an offensive now, it could be a good opportunity. Some might join our cause, but things could also develop unexpectedly, given this might be Teal’s deliberate ploy to show vulnerability... What do you plan to do?" The Combat Atmosphere Group closed his eyes in deep thought, then reopened them after some time. "The New Federation's fleet should be reaching the Vortex Sea by now, right?" General Raize nodded. "They should arrive by dawn." "Send a message to the 117th Legion—tell them to hold out until dawn!" declared the Combat Atmosphere Group decisively. "Also, inform the New Federation troops to gear up with tri-proof equipment and clear the decks of their warships. They must be prepared to ferry our compatriots across the sea!" To be continued.