Chapter 944 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 944: Seizing the Industrial Hub! At the same time as the skimming plane took off, a massive battle erupted in the northwestern part of Evernight Port's Lavinka Industrial District! Situated on the southeastern bank of the Lavinka River, this industrial zone boasts two railways and a deep-water port, connecting four processing centers, five mining bases, and a heavy shipyard. Additionally, it is home to 300,000 survivors, a quarter of whom are industrial workers and engineers employed by the Avant Heavy Industries Group. The materials produced here not only supply the front lines of the Ballo Province warzone but also the numerous military factories dotted along the railways. The armor steel used in the production line for the Conqueror Series 10 tank comes from the steel mills of this region! Nearly a third of the total production value of the entire Southern Legion stems from—or is indirectly influenced by—this industrial district. Undoubtedly, losing Lavinka Industrial District would be a blow to the Southern Legion more severe than losing a third of its territory. Due to its vital strategic significance, both sides saw the industrial zone as an essential possession. Tasked with its defense was the famed “Desert Lion,” Centurion Rubis of the Southern Legion. Born in Victory City to a military aristocracy, Rubis received a militarized education from a young age. By 35, he had ascended to the rank of Centurion, leading the 111th Regiment against mutants and raider tribes in the Great Desert. His glowing military record includes leading a youthful thousand-man unit to defeat a mutant tribe with forces several times their own, while sustaining nearly no casualties. Owing to this legendary feat, Rubis was for a long time regarded by Avant City’s officers as a rising star. However, just as his career seemed smooth, the Westphar Harbor incident exploded unexpectedly, making "Invade Ballo Province" and "Defend the Velante Property with Gun and Cannon" the unwavering consensus among the Southern Legion. Though a hint of conspiracy lingered, amidst the rising fervor, none cared. Young warriors were eager to behead enemies at the front lines, and senior officers poised to adorn their chests with more medals. Rubis, diverging from the tide, criticized Gurion’s series of conflict-escalating actions at Westphar Harbor aggressively. His statements, untimely and clashing with the mainstream view, unsurprisingly incurred the resentment of General Gurion, leading to Rubis’ marginalization within the Southern Legion's dominant factions. Thus, the renowned "Desert Lion" languished in obscurity for over half a year, until the Alliance troops disembarked at Evernight Port, routing local defense forces and shattering a hundred thousand reservists. Only then did the Southern Legion recall this overlooked talent. Rubis did not let the command post’s trust go in vain, quickly assuming the mantle of organizing defenses, evacuating key industrial facilities in the Lavinka Industrial Zone before the Alliance bombers arrived, and utilizing local building materials to transform the industrial zone in the desert into an impregnable fortress. Admittedly, this guy had his skills. With only a contingent of ten thousand soldiers, he withstood two waves of Alliance attacks and successfully awaited reinforcements. Currently, the defenders stationed in the Lavinka Industrial District number nearly 300,000! Beyond the 111th, 112th, and 113th Regiments, he commands seven auxiliary corps and a staggering 200,000 conscript soldiers. On the Alliance's side, the main forces are the Skull Brigade, Jungle Corps, and Goblin Division, supplemented by two Velante Expeditionary Forces and Corporation's 100th Mountain Division. Despite the apparent disparity in troop numbers, dismissed the 200,000 conscript clones, the actual gap isn’t that massive. Adding the aerial and armored supremacy in the Alliance’s favor, with Skull Brigade’s self-propelled artillery occasionally firing 155mm shells, and Goblin Division’s W-3 regularly dropping bombs into the industrial district, the defenders suffer greatly. Yet despite this, the Lavinka Industrial District's defenders, under General Rubis’ command, have held for a whole month without showing signs of weakening. Attacking commander Mole couldn't help but admire facing a formidable opponent this time. Yet something about this formidable opponent’s absence from the Ballo Province front, only to show up when they transitioned into the "steamrolling" phase, seemed odd. Such loyalty was rare, if not the last of its kind… On a gentle dune, atop a tank turret, Mole peered through binoculars, gazing at the sand castle in the distance. The Legion installed concrete bunkers on the reverse slopes of sand dunes and deployed numerous anti-tank guns and disassembled Conqueror Series 10 turrets from unfinished production lines. These anti-armor strongpoints lay buried beneath the sand sea, resembling "reefs." Admittedly, this was a brilliant notion. It not only solved the aerial problem with the Conqueror Series 10 turret but also, to an extent, hampered the Alliance’s anti-vehicle electromagnetic weapons. However, with the receipt of the new "Tarantula" equipment batch, this siege bout seemed coming to an end. Mole didn't wait long before spotting sand-colored, eight-legged spider robots swiftly scuttling toward the bunkers below. This latest product from Boulder Military Industries, an epitome of the No.100 Refuge’s in-house technology, involved improving upon the "Cross Spider" into an octopedal "Tarantula." Capable of carrying up to 100 kilograms of warheads, it maneuvered freely in half-height tunnels, using its front limbs to overcome obstacles, artfully placing explosives where needed. These units became veritable fixed-fortification busters! If "Pincer" engineering exosuits built structures, these were surely made for demolition. Soon after, the supersonic roar of fighter jets tore through the air, showering the Velante front line with burst rounds like rain. Columns of sand, as high as a man's height, erupted skyward, dusting soldiers with grit, claiming none as casualties. To the 111th Regiment soldiers, the Alliance air raids were routine. They adeptly lay low, pressing their helmets tightly against the trench walls, patiently weathering the air assault. Unbeknownst to them, the airborne machine gunfire merely served to force them back into cover—a mission successfully accomplished. While evading the airstrike, truly deadly little spiders skittered through the sand as quicksand, infiltrating bunker complexes linked by trenches and tunnels, heading straight toward the ammo racks within! To facilitate the loading of anti-tank guns and Conqueror turrets, fixed weapon munitions racks, though remotely separated, were positioned only marginally apart within sturdy doors. The interior configuration of these bunkers conformed to the mechanical spider pilots' expectations—a simple "H" layout with just a hefty iron door separating ammo and shells. These iron doors, clearly emergency-produced from tank-grade armor steel by Lavinka Industrial District factories, stood adequately against explosive shockwaves, but evidently no match for plasma cutters' thousands-degree temperatures! Robot spiders penetrated bunkers, swiftly dispatching artillery troops distracted by the air strike, deploying plasma blades from their nimble front limbs. Within breaths, the "Tarantulas" severed door connectors, dismantling shoddily made panels from walls entirely. The iron doors hit the ground heavily, mechanical spiders darted inside, and with deft limb movements, promptly completed explosive placements. By the time the soldiers on the line realized what happened, dozens of kilograms of condensed explosives nestled beneath their iron-clad positions, notably under their anti-tank strongpoint ammo racks! "Boom—!" Deafening explosions resounded almost in unison, a spectacle of fiery blasts dotted the undulating desert while soaring walls of sand soared skyward, akin to midair sandstorms! The raging flames didn't stem solely from detonated bombs; a hefty share arose from ammunition sympathetically igniting! Gazing at one blazing pillbox after another, a Thousand-Man Commander at the front line stood burning red-eyed, despair etched across an ashen face. In stark contrast stood Mole, a victor's grin adorning his face. "It's over." With his words, he grabbed the radio, issuing the order to advance. "All units, move forward!" A unanimous response echoed through the communication channel— "Roger that!" As the command was issued, a hundred tanks from the Skull Brigade roared to life, surging towards the 111th Regiment’s positions like a sweeping sandstorm. In addition to the tanks, the charge included 300 Chimera armored vehicles, carrying thousands of Velante Expeditionary Force soldiers. Tracer fire, thick as serpents, crisscrossed the battlefield, pinning down the Southern Legion soldiers struggling amidst the flames and smoke. The 111th Regiment’s lines were quickly breached, allowing the Corporation's 100th Mountain Division to penetrate the defenses, swiftly flanking the 112th and 113th Regiments, bypassing the most formidable points of the bastion. Ferocious combat erupted instantaneously and escalated to a fever pitch almost immediately! The previously silent desert transformed into a boiling sea in a heartbeat, the ferocious assault leaving the defenders of the Lavinka Industrial District stunned and disoriented. Seeing the frontline collapsing, the seven auxiliary corps rushed forward to hold the line, only to slam headfirst into the armored spearhead of the Skull Brigade and the Velante Expeditionary soldiers riding the "Chimera" APCs. Against such fierce attacks, the auxiliary forces, supposed to be the first responders, were quickly reduced to nothing more than seven fleeing dwarfs, driven to chaos by relentless machine-gun fire and overwhelming tank cannons. It turned out Velante soldiers were indeed born warriors; especially after donning the "Type Five" exoskeletons from the Alliance, their combat effectiveness soared, second only to the fearless players! Yet, the commanding General Rubis was a different breed, tougher than the likes of Evernight Port’s Defense Officer Stanford, standing firm without surrender. As the breached defensive area began turning into a complete rout, he unhesitatingly led his guard to fill the gap, launching a suicidal charge with the conscripts towards the Alliance lines, momentarily regaining twenty percent control of the battlefield. However, relying solely on a meager twenty percent advantage to salvage the Southern Legion’s almost inevitable defeat was unrealistic. Under the relentless barrage of Skull Brigade’s self-propelled artillery and Goblin Division’s air-dropped cluster bombs, the 200,000 conscript soldiers crumbled like waves on the beach, shattered before they could disperse. Thick blood mist consolidated into an impenetrable crimson wall, a sight that shook everyone on the battlefield and pushed the seven auxiliary corps, already on the brink of morale collapse, to surrender en masse. After all, with the conscripts wiped out, they were next in line as cannon fodder. Though fighting for the Southern Legion, they remained aware of their outsider status. With the seven auxiliary corps surrendering, the remaining three regular army corps gradually ceased resistance, discarding weapons and accepting capture by the Alliance. Thus, the Southern Legion not only lost the Evernight Port logistics hub, but also its largest concentrated industrial area fell entirely into Alliance hands. Without any strategic footholds in the south, the fall of the 2.7 million square kilometers of colony was only a matter of time. Realizing the battle was lost, General Rubis ordered his guards to surrender, then took his own life with a firearm. Seven officers followed him in suicide, including his adjutant, staff officers, and guard captain. Mole had hoped to converse with this opponent, entangled in combat with him for over half a month, yet found him absent when the time came. "What a pity..." Listening to the expeditionary soldier’s report, Mole, standing atop a tank turret, expressed regret with a lingering, wistful gaze. "Even those who seemed loyal surrendered, yet genuine and rare faithful ones like him remained… He should have lived to contribute in post-war efforts." Irena’s expression turned subtle. "Maybe he was just tired. For him, this outcome might be liberation; he repaid the Southern Legion for recognizing his talent." The Elf King Fugui sighed deeply. "I think if he had surrendered earlier, it would have been better for the surviving members of the Southern Legion. At least it might’ve ended their prolonged suffering sooner." Irena glanced at him. "You're looking at it from a god-like perspective again." Elf King Fugui: "Is there a problem with that?" The old Na contemplated briefly, unexpectedly serious, then said something unusually fitting his image. "Gods can't solve anything, and that's the biggest issue." Elf King Fugui scratched his head, about to speak when he noticed a group of dark-skinned entities standing in the distance. They were hulking, with protruding mouths, and eyes like soybeans alight with a bloodthirsty gleam. Irena narrowed her eyes, quickly recognizing these creatures as the unique form of the Great Desert—gray mutants! Unlike the green mutants from Jinchuan and River Valley Province, these creatures were slightly more intelligent and tended to cooperate with human groups with similar tendencies. Like slave traders and raider tribes. Both the Southern and Eastern Legions had the unhealthy habit of employing these beings. A group of expeditionary soldiers surrounded them, weapons aimed at their heads, while the latter postured with their large-bore weapons, baring teeth and menacing. Tension crackled between the two sides, with conflict threatening to erupt at any moment! Mole patted the top of the turret, signaling the driver to move the tank forward, stopping in front of the mutant group, nodding slightly to the leading mutant. "And you are?" The hulking mutant looked up at him, trepid at the tank barrel, replied: "I am Wind Whisper, chief of the Sadwind Clan." Wind Whisper? Mole cast a curious glance, finding the name poetic, with a hint of amusement. "Oh? And what are you doing here?" "They are prisoners!" the company commander snarled, eyes fixed on the mutants, promptly speaking before the big guy could respond, "They claimed surrender, yet afterwards refused to lay down arms." "Prisoner? I am no prisoner." Wind Whisper laughed with a snort. "We were mercenaries for General Rubis, but now that they have lost, our contract ends. By the way, your battle isn’t over, is it? We can strike a deal." "A deal?" Mole raised an eyebrow, watching him with a hint of a smile. "What kind of deal?" Oblivious to impending doom, the gray mutant thought Mole referred to price, he replied, snorting again: "We helped Velante fight; we can help you, too. We want nothing else, just a third of the captives! And if Velante women are part of it, even better. They breed well and aren’t fragile!" The Velante soldiers beside them glared murderously at the creatures, teeth gritting audibly. Mole examined the beast for two glances, still smiling as he asked: "Sounds interesting enough, where’s your tribe?" At this, Wind Whisper brightened immediately, ignorant of cunning inquiry. He blurted: "Northeast, about 20 kilometers from here, in some abandoned city!" Mole nodded, nonchalant about his presence, then glanced at Old Na. "When it’s all over, let’s clear out that place." Irena, chuckling, added: "The Jungle Corps are professionals at that." Wind Whisper froze for a second, transitioning from bewilderment to furious rage. Even he now realized what was being discussed by these humans. "You! You’re the Sadwind Clan’s enemy! I’ll tear you apart!" As the enraged mutant took aim at him, Mole ducked back into the turret, kicking the driver's seat. “No point talking. Run them over!” ... Bartoia Province, Avant City. Despair hung over the entire settlement like a shroud, making the cold rain clouds and steel seem even more chilling. Plague arrived ahead of war, driving medicine, cigarettes, and canned food into scarce commodities, while Velantean honor and dignity appeared worthless. A menacing tension draped the streets, hastening the few pedestrians who hurried through. Most shops were already closed. While not solely due to martial law, a significant reason was simply having nothing left to sell on their shelves. Two months had passed since the implementation of the "Decisive Mission" plan, and instead of improvement, the situation for the Southern Legion had only worsened, descending deeper into a quagmire. Factories and farms lost their workforce, causing production lines to stall due to a lack of raw materials and orders. Most critically, the entire supply chain of Southern Legion society saw complete disruption. It was like a roller coaster ride. Transitioning from one cycle to another wasn’t as easy as turning the car around. And now, even if they wanted to turn back, it was too late… Armed soldiers marched in unison down the streets, yet their polished boots and bayonets failed to give any sense of security to those who remained. The few remaining residents in the city sealed their windows tightly shut, curtains not daring to expose even a sliver. People in the city’s nooks were lost, uncertain if the gun-toting figures were family or foe, questioning if their early effort to obtain permits to stay in the city was even a good idea. But where could they go if not here? At least in the city, there was food; in the countryside, they risk becoming someone else's meal. As for crossing the Whirl Sea to the Velante Province, that wasn’t easy either. Starting earlier might have guaranteed passage via vehicle, but now, all that was left were their own two feet. Indeed. The promise of “taking everyone to Victory City for Marshal Julius’s funeral” had fallen through again. But no one was surprised. It wasn’t the first time, after all. It wasn't just the city's residents enshrouded in confusion; even the soldiers, marching mechanically like wind-up toys, showed bewilderment in their eyes. What was Thiel doing? What were the Southern Legion’s top brass thinking? Why did General Gurion’s forces surge forward yesterday only to change suddenly today? Why had their enemy not yet collapsed, whereas they appeared to age prematurely... They no longer dreamt of sunlit lands, just wished time could rewind, to long before when everything hadn’t become like this. Compared to the blistering sunlight of Mantou Port, this place was the precise opposite... The anxiety wasn’t limited to the inhabitants of Avant City; even those captains riding with Thiel in the same war chariot were troubled. Though their supplies of cigarettes, canned meat, and spirits remained unaffected, perhaps with surplus to share with the ladies needing help, they bore a pressure no less than those women in need. Total war wasn’t akin to limited skirmishes; there was no slouching into a half-loss, apologizing, and compensating. Their foe hadn’t come for money; negotiations were impossible; their aim seemed to want them dead! Avant City’s Temporary Supreme Command Center. A room of less than twenty square meters was packed, the atmosphere heavy and oppressive. Until yesterday, they convened in a place with windows; today, they’d moved into a windowless bunker. The reason? An aircraft that roared over Avant City. Though it didn’t drop bombs, it scattered flyers bearing "Meal and Bed Coupons," which tightened many nerves on edge. War had finally reached under their very noses, even top officers panicked. Perhaps the only one remaining calm was Thiel himself. The head of the Southern Legion’s logistics department swallowed hard, flipped open his notebook, and with a tremulous voice, shattered the oppressive silence at the meeting table. "I have to say... our production lines have nearly stalled. We have weapon stockpiles for at most six months. If we cannot increase production personnel soon, logistics pressure will crush us." Words from the heart are often harsh. Upon stating this, he lowered his head, avoiding everyone’s gaze, mentally bracing for a scolding. But to his surprise, no scathing rebuke came; instead, he heard a weary sigh. That came from the head of Homeland Defense, a bureaucrat who had only recently started gaining importance. "Production can wait… just yesterday, our Lavinka Industrial District was lost." To be continued...