Chapter 464.1: Lightning Fast Attack!

To avoid harming troop morale, news of Pangolin’s injury wasn’t made public within the Army. For the first time ever, their broadcast made no mention of the glorious exploits of sector G53-7, instead airing unrelated trivialities that had nothing to do with the frontlines.

At sector G40, a large pot was set up outside an air raid shelter. The meat broth inside bubbled with a mouthwatering aroma, and sliced bread was stacked neatly on a nearby rack. Clones, led by a Decurion, lined up in formation, while a grumpy cook barked out mechanically.

“Next!”

Clones were not known for their intelligence. They followed orders to the letter.

Blind obedience was one of their strengths, but the drawback was they wouldn’t act without explicit instructions.

If the cook didn’t tell them to move on, they would stand in front of the pot indefinitely.

One ladle of meat broth, half a sausage, and a chunk of bread so hard it could smash open a tin can. That was the entirety of a clone’s meal.

Sometimes the sausage would be swapped for stewed meat or canned food, but the signature hard bread was a constant.

The kind of bread that needed to be dunked in broth just to soften up. It was hard enough to chip a rat’s teeth. It was bullet-resistant in emergencies, usable as sandbag filler, or even as a blunt weapon against charging enemies.

Next to the soup pot stood a tall wooden pole. It was two men high, with a makeshift loudspeaker strapped to it, broadcasting the day’s headline from the Triumphant Times.

Though newspapers reached the frontlines occasionally, supply trucks didn’t come daily. If one wanted the latest updates, the kitchen radio was their best bet.

With his field ration in hand, Danir sat down on a small bench beneath the speaker and grabbed another to use as a table.

𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Officers native to the Falcon Kingdom usually weren’t picky, but Danir was a Wislander and a Centurion no less. Naturally, he wouldn’t eat hunched over in a trench like the clones.

At that moment, his second-in-command, Peterson strolled over, grabbed a seat across from him, and pulled out a small bottle of liquor, setting it on the table.

Danir raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw the bottle and broke into a delighted smile.

“This is good stuff. Where did you get it?”

“Bought it from a merchant when the northern trade route was still open. 500 Dinars a bottle,” said Peterson, twisting off the cap with a hiss and producing two shot-glass-sized cups like a magician. He poured for Danir first, then himself.

“... Those damned old turtles cut off our trade with the Bugra Free State. The food’s still fine at the front, but good booze is near impossible to find.” Danir took a sip and closed his eyes in bliss, smacking his lips with appreciation.

“500 Dinars... You could buy a slave for two bottles.”

Not all officers owned estates. Decurion-level officers lived off their salaries, barely 2,000 to 3,000 Dinars a month. Centurions earned more, but if they were young and not nobility, savings were usually slim.

That kind of money sounded hefty, enough to buy two or three able-bodied slaves a month, but in practice, it was just enough to maintain a respectable life.

Especially in cities like Triumphant City, directly governed by the Army, where strict standards were enforced for slaves’ working and living conditions.

Remote provinces like where they were had their higher-ups turning a blind eye, but in Triumphant City, slaves were legally entitled to 8-square-meter rooms and three daily meals that could keep them alive to at least 50 years old. Otherwise, the owner faced steep fines.

Once purchased, the contract couldn’t be terminated unless the slave refused to obey orders.

It was, in essence, a lifetime employment agreement.

Though coercive and restricting freedom, it was still more civilized than the way most survivor settlements slapped chains on their slaves.

That was one of the few policies personally enacted by the Marshal himself.

“That much could keep me drinking for half a month at the pub on 70th Street,” Peterson chuckled.

Danir laughed heartily, a wistful look in his eyes. “70th Street’s pubs... Now that’s where it’s at. You could smell the pinewood smoke from a block away. I used to drink there all the time during my academy years. Damn, I haven’t been back in five years.”

“Sometimes I wonder what we’re even doing here,” Peterson muttered, swirling his tiny cup. “Sure, there’s food, but this oasis barely feeds Triumphant City. And it’s on the other side of a damn desert. It’s hard enough for us to return home, let alone move grain across.”

“That’s not our concern,” Danir snapped, sobering slightly as the alcohol wore off.

Realizing his slip, Peterson quickly shifted his gaze to the speaker beside them. “... Weird. No news from G53-7 today.”

Danir smiled faintly. “Seems even the barbarians know what fear is.”

They had already lost 3,000 lives in a single defense zone, all at the hands of a ragtag Centurion who was commanding a force from those in the reserve army and Clone Corps.

If the enemy commander ever found out who he had been playing chess against all this time, he would probably cough blood from his nose in fury.

Awakeners like Pangolin were rare, but squads like those stationed at sector G53-7 were available in endless supply.

If only they had enough ammo, they wouldn’t be wasting time. They would steamroll the natives with sheer force.

Having finished his meal, Danir returned the tray and led Peterson on a patrol around the frontlines.

It was as quiet as ever.

Though they were running low on bullets, the New Alliance was still pinned down at defense zone G53. Danir wasn’t worried too much.

Raising his binoculars, he scanned the horizon, no sign of movement. He was about to return to the bunker to rest when a colossal silhouette emerged from the clouds, like a gleaming blade hanging ominously in the sky.

He froze at the sight of the massive prow and frontal pod, his face draining of color.

The Heart of Steel.

The warning sirens wailed, echoing across the entire sector.

Danir shouted as he bolted for the air raid shelter.

“Enemy airship!”

“All units, take cover!”

Almost simultaneously, 12 fiery bursts flared beneath the clouds. Trails of white smoke streaked across the skies, blending into the mist.

Glowing with orange tracers, 12 155mm artillery shells crashed down like thunder onto sector G40-1.

Apart from the blaring siren, there had been no warning. The blasts bloomed like deadly flowers across the trenches.

Caught off guard, many clones were still eating when the shells hit. They were too slow to react.

Over 30 died instantly. Dozens more were maimed by shrapnel or buried in dust. Half the 100-man unit was knocked out of action.

The survivors stared at the sky, trembling in shock.

“Shit...” A Decurion looked up, lips pale, hands shaking on his rifle. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Was that the 100mm cannon?!”

“No way!”

“I heard the New Alliance refitted that airship! They rebuilt the frontal gun bay! They have bigger caliber guns now!”

Before he could finish, a second barrage rained down.

The second wave struck just as the officers were speaking, hurling dirt and rocks into their mouths mid-sentence.

Danir, who had narrowly survived the first bombardment, wasn't as lucky this time.

One shell landed directly near the entrance of the shelter.

Boom!

Pots, pans, and trays from the field kitchen were blown sky-high. Boiling broth splashed in every direction, bones and scraps of meat littered the ground like confetti from hell.

The deafening explosion hit Danir like a hammer. The shockwave slammed into his back, driving a mouthful of blood up his throat and out his mouth in a harsh cough. He didn’t stop running.

With dust and shrapnel chasing at his heels, he tumbled headlong into the shelter, rolling in just ahead of the debris cloud.

“Goddammit!”

When the dust settled, Danir scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth, heart still pounding. His face was a mess of dirt and panic.

Peterson, just as disheveled, had also survived, but there wasn’t the slightest relief on his face.

“What... What the hell is going on?” he asked in a shaky voice.

Danir swallowed a mouthful of blood and answered hoarsely, “I don’t know...”