CHAPTER 850: CHAPTER 850: THE BLOODSTAINED CROWN

"Wait... isn’t the coronation ceremony the day after tomorrow? Please let me meet General Giulion... did you get the time wrong?"

Inside the solemn West Sail Port Court, about a hundred people were sparsely standing.

Looking at the guests hastily assembled to fill the jury, Akbar initially wore a bewildered expression, then turned to the Vellante people standing nearby to voice his dissatisfaction.

According to the original plan, he would be crowned in the presence of his father’s old ministers, becoming the undisputed new emperor of Poluo Province.

But now, those witnessing this moment were merely a few counts and viscounts.

Not only that, some in the jury weren’t even nobles; they gazed at him with faces full of excitement, clearly displaying their inexperience in the world.

Those guys were clearly peasants.

How could such an important event allow these folks to join in the revelry?

What kind of situation is this!

Regarding this young emperor’s dissatisfaction, Peter simply couldn’t be bothered to respond, spoke impatiently.

"General Giulion is occupied with important matters and can’t see you. It’s going to rain the day after tomorrow, so we brought it forward."

Rain...?

What kind of reason is that?

Akbar was dumbfounded, mouth agape, unable to speak for a moment, just staring blankly at the Vellante man before him.

The people sitting in the jury didn’t hear the conversation between the two.

Except for the nobles of status and the knowledgeable elders, the faces of those seated in the jury box were filled with expressions of entertainment, chatting eagerly among themselves.

"This young emperor has the demeanor of a ruler, truly impressive."

"As expected of the imperial family, such handsome looks!"

"The West Winds is saved!"

"Hurry up! Why hasn’t it started yet?"

Standing in the center of the courtroom, Peter glanced at the time, growing a bit impatient too, then cast a look at the stunned young man.

"Are you going to take it or not? If not, we’ll find someone else."

Frightened by this statement, Akbar hurriedly spoke without certainty.

"Yes! I will... wait, this throne is mine anyway!"

"Then hurry up."

As if saying another word would waste time, Peter turned to look at the judge standing not far away.

The judge’s face bore an angry expression, but in the end, he said nothing.

That Giulion did it on purpose.

Placing this farcical charade in his courtroom merely to humiliate him.

One must admit, that guy’s pettiness was quite significant, and his bottom line wasn’t very high either, maybe just slightly above the monkeys in this courtroom.

"The coronation ceremony begins."

Just like announcing a court session, the judge used a solemn tone to deliver these words, then turned and exited the scene.

Peter didn’t look at him, just gave a signal to the elderly Poluo man standing by.

That Lion Clan person was a janitor of the court, and they casually gave him the title of count and instructed him on what needed to be done.

The old man, holding the golden-crafted crown with both hands, nervously stepped forward.

Around him, eager gazes lit up, yet he kept his head bowed low, not daring to meet the Prince’s eyes.

"Your Majesty... please be crowned." His voice trembled slightly as he slowly knelt to the ground.

Akbar didn’t recognize the count before him but couldn’t find any fault with the respectful ceremony.

"Hmm."

Responding with a nasal sound, he then reached out to take the gold-made crown, solemnly placing it atop his head.

Everyone present, except the Vellante people, immediately knelt, foreheads touching the ground.

Whether civilians or nobles.

At this moment, they all shouted in unison.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty, on your coronation!"

"Long live the Emperor!"

"Long live West Winds!"

The consecutive voices echoed in the solemn courtroom, resembling a symphony lacking a conductor’s baton.

But Akbar slightly curled his lips, and the gloom previously on his face turned into an uncontrollable smile at this moment.

This must be what his father carried; his chest was filled with a surging emotion.

This feeling was simply...

Simply too delightful!

Akbar extended his hands forward, slightly lifting them, adopting a benevolent posture.

"All my beloved ministers, please rise!"

After countless mirror practices, he finally had the chance to do this in front of everyone!

...

"Get down!!!"

At the border between West Sail Port and Dog State, boiling flames burned on the scorched earth engraved with trenches.

The Centurion lying on the ground let out a hoarse roar, calling for his teammates behind to lie down.

Thirty seconds prior, a deafening explosion resounded from the direction of West Sail Port.

By the time everyone reacted, the blinding white light and seething flames had already descended upon the Poluo Country’s frontier army’s position.

In front of a 902 mm heavy artillery, the trenches dug by the Poluo Country’s army soldiers were like a mere toothpick, along with the earth outside, were flung into the sky.

Following the end of the first artillery sound, rows of 100 mm cannons followed by roaring.

The explosive flames boiled on the positions, and raging shrapnel thundered like raindrops, covering all depths across the entire defensive line.

The artillery bombardment lasted a full ten minutes before it stopped.

The once stable position had been bombarded into a thousand holes, and the soldiers lying in the trenches suffered the same fate, with more than half either dead or wounded, their faces displaying sheer terror.

They didn’t even know what had happened when suddenly the Army’s artillery shells came rushing in.

Yishel, hiding in the anti-cannon hole, bit down hard, rummaging through a pile of scattered debris to retrieve the fallen phone.

The telephone line connecting to the front line radio was blown up, leaving him unable to contact the hundred troops at the very front. Fortunately, the line connecting to the rear was still intact.

Without hesitation, he dispatched messengers to the front for reconnaissance while swiftly contacting the rear command post to report the situation at the border line.

"This is the northwest section of the frontline, the 111th thousand team! We’re under artillery bombardment from West Sail Port direction! Repeat, we’re under bombardment from West Sail Port direction!"

After a brief sizzling sound of the electric current, the voice from the rear operator immediately came.

"What’s the situation? Have you seen the Army’s troops?!"

The operator’s voice sounded flustered as well, clearly not very skilled, and the rear command post had not anticipated the current situation at all.

Yishel cursed inwardly, and continued to roar into the phone.

"The telephone line was destroyed, I can’t contact the front line troops! Those big noses used even heavy artillery, it’s definitely more than just showing off to us!"

On the other end, there was the sound of a chair being pulled, and the operator hurriedly said.

"I got it... I will immediately report your situation over here."

Yishel shouted loudly.

"This is war! I am not joking with you; I need reinforcements now! Immediately! Damn it, if you’re late, just wait to collect our bodies!"

Meanwhile, on the frontline of the northwest section defense line.

From the originally full complement of one hundred and twenty men team, not even knowing how many are still alive.

Finally regaining his shaky consciousness, Centurion Dummert picked up the rifle that had fallen nearby.

The smoking soil was scalding hot.

Yet he did not dare risk getting up from the ground, gritting his teeth to endure the heat that could cook eggs.

"...Damn it, where’s our radio?! Quickly report the situation here to the rear!"

Though he felt that such commotion could be heard even if you were deaf, he still shouted at the radio operator behind him.

The radio operator was still alive, currently squatting in the trench fiddling with the radio.

Seeing him soaking with sweat, Dummert’s heart sank, secretly knowing trouble was ahead.

As he foresaw, the radio operator raised his head with a look of despair.

"The radio is destroyed!"

"Damn it!"

Dummert hammered a fist on the ground, cursing as he stared in the direction of West Sail Port.

Fortunately, the shelling points were a little distance away.

Still, he felt as if his internal organs had been jolted out of place.

Enduring the pain in his abdomen, Dummert looked back at the chaotic position and shouted loudly.

"Everyone prepare for battle! We won’t let those big noses take an inch of land from us again!"

Since those Weilante people arrived on this land, his compatriots have been bleeding continuously.

Every time he saw the reports in Survivor’s Daily, witnessing the slaughtered families, a raging fire burned in his chest.

Now those Weilante people wish to move forward, letting that devouring hell stretch into the belly of Poluo Province...

No matter how much Absek tries to appease, he will not retreat an inch!

"Oh oh oh!!"

"Fight those big noses to the end!"

"Damn it!!"

Roars erupted on the shattered position, evidently, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Listening to the high morale response, a smile emerged on Dummert’s face.

Wonderful.

Seems like many brothers are still alive.

His expression gradually turned solemn, as he shouted to the rear.

"Teams report numbers!"

As his voice fell, successive voices responded from the rear.

"1!"

"2!"

"...!"

"Report! Team 1 has 5 people remaining!"

"Team 2 has 7 remaining!"

"Team 3! We’ve got two left!"

"..."

Dummert silently calculated in his mind, the entire hundred team still had 57 people left.

If the fighting started, getting 5 minutes for the rear, shouldn’t be a problem.

As he was thinking this, suddenly, someone came from the edge of a faraway farmland.

Dummert raised his gun and aimed at that person, but realized it wasn’t a Weilante person.

It was a Poluo person.

"Listen up ahead!!"

That person stood still at the edge of the field, yelling towards the position.

"General Giulion’s troops are going to Dog State to fight the rebels! If you don’t want to die, get lost immediately and let the army through!"

"The previous round of artillery bombardment was just a warning! If you continue obstinately, don’t blame the artillery shells for being indiscriminate—"

The person’s words were interrupted by a gunshot with a "bang".

The bullet landed at the person’s feet, kicking up a puff of dust.

Startled, the person stumbled and fell to the ground, then scrambled to their feet and ran back without daring to look back.

Gritting his teeth, Dummert glared at the traitorous lackey and roared.

"Son of a bitch! It’s you who should get the hell out of here!"

Shameful bastard!

He almost ground his teeth into pieces, but ultimately did not shoot at that retreating figure.

Too much blood of his compatriots had already been spilled.

Perhaps that guy was coerced...

The sky was suddenly covered with dark clouds, blocking out all the light, as a muffled sound came from the low-hanging clouds.

The wind was picking up, as if it was going to rain.

But Dummert was unmoved, just staring intently at that distant field, holding his rifle and aiming.

He didn’t expect to survive this battle.

But even if it cost him his life, he wanted to take one with him before he died!

Just then, the muffled sound from the clouds got closer and closer.

It didn’t seem like thunder.

It was something else.

Dimly, Dummert heard cries of alarm behind him and looked up to the sky.

In an instant, his burning eyes were frozen.

It was a giant whale soaring with wings, fitted with rows of massive propellers on its wings.

The roaring sound came from those propellers, tearing through the clouds with their huge blades.

Even more astonishing were the cannons mounted on the imposing steel armor.

That thing’s cannons... even outnumbered the guns in their hands.

"Damn it..." Dummert groaned in despair.

What the hell is that thing?!

There was no time to think, as streaks of tracer fire flew from the floating fortress, splitting into countless raindrops of bullets in the air.

This barrage was far more intense than before, drowning out Dummert’s roar with explosions.

In just an instant.

He and his hundred-man team, along with the position beside him, were wiped out from the Earth.

The long-brewing "thunder" finally descended from the sky, reaching the astonished Yishel.

In a moment, three of his hundred-man teams were wiped out, completely losing contact.

His hand shook as he held the phone, his mind racing, yet unable to come up with any ideas.

It was entirely different from the situation at West Sail Port, now facing not a hesitant fence-sitter but a pack of bloodthirsty devils.

The disparity in strength between the sides was too great, rendering all tactics meaningless...

Continuing the fight was hopeless, serving no purpose except certain death!

Yishel was not someone who feared death.

If he was, he wouldn’t have courageously stood up that night to save those innocents.

However, even ready for heroic sacrifice, he had to consider his comrades in the trenches.

They shouldn’t die here.

They should survive, preserve their strength, and bring back what they saw on the frontline to strategize against it with more people.

Even if they must die.

They should die more meaningfully!

"Damn it..."

He cursed through clenched teeth, switching the channel to the frontline units, shouting into the phone.

"All units, listen up! Withdraw immediately from your positions! Move to the southeast!"

With the retreat order given, Poluo Country’s soldiers began leaving the trenches, orderly withdrawing from the battlefield amidst lulls in the gunfire.

Shame was etched on every face, yet they all knew that holding the line meant nothing but death.

Their Rat Clan commander had made the hardest, yet the most correct decision.

In the face of that thing, fixed defense was utterly ineffective.

Perhaps a mobile warfare approach was more appropriate...

...

The same thunder also reached Ross.

Standing at the edge of West Sail Port, he gazed expressionlessly toward the northwest.

An officer came to his side and softly reported.

"The 111th thousand team of Poluo Country has retreated."

Ross’s eyes narrowed slightly, and an almost imperceptible smile of amusement touched his previously tense lips.

It was as if he saw a mouse.

And a cunning mouse at that.

But in the face of absolute power, cunning alone was not enough; one must sharpen teeth and claws.

Looking at the smoke-filled battlefield in the distance, Ross ordered without a hint of emotion.

"Advance the First Armored Hundred Man Team and the Second Infantry Hundred Man Team!"

The officer before him straightened up, saluting with excitement.

"Yes!"

The moment has finally come!

He and his subordinates have waited far too long for this day to arrive!

They are about to smash to pieces the last chain binding the Weilante people—the "shame contract" signed under the watch of those "poison remnants" from the War Construction Committee.

No one will ever stop them from advancing further.

The Weilante people’s frontier should be at the edge of the Solar System—even the Milky Way!

And this moment is the prologue to that great epic.

Their descendants will forever remember this moment and will forever be grateful from the depths of their hearts!

At the instant the order was given, ten tanks parked at the edge of the field simultaneously started their engines.

The exhaust pipes spewed thick black smoke, and the grim armor moved forward toward the shattered positions under the gaze of a giant airship!

Behind each tank, squads of ten armed to the teeth tightly followed.

Crossing the battlefield plowed by shells, they carefully inspected every trench, every crater, and every corpse, and gave the suspected survivors a finishing shot.

Looking at the long, iron-clad stream advancing boldly with tracks pressed down on the fields, the face of the man crouched at the edge of the field was flushed with excitement.

His name was Chetri.

Like Centurion Yishel, he was also from the Rat Clan, though obviously of a different breed of rat.

Earlier, he had kindly tried to persuade the surrender, but unexpectedly, the other side treated his goodwill like donkey liver, repaying it with ingratitude.

Luckily, the man’s marksmanship was lousy, and he ran fast; otherwise, he would have been done for.

Seeing that bombed-out position, he felt nothing but relief, eager to cheer on those big-nosed people.

Such is retribution!

"...Worthless cretins, the Weilante people were just borrowing a path through your land, not here to fight you, insisting on rushing to your deaths; isn’t exchanging surrender for peace delightful? Tsk, serves you right!"

Finally, Chetri let out the breath clogged in his chest, spat on the ground in satisfaction, stomped it out, and left this treacherous place.

In the distance, on the battlefront, tanks rolled unimpeded through the Poluo Country’s army lines, like a storm sweeping the tropical savanna, advancing toward Dog State of the Northern Three States.

During this time, the Poluo Country organized several attacks, but without exception, they couldn’t even see their enemy before being beaten back under the cross-fire of horizontal and vertical firepower.

The Army’s troops didn’t even deign to spare them a glance, forging through the mixed slurry of blood and flesh on the muddy ground.

The main force of the attack was the 17th Ten Thousand Troops led by General Olet.

Their mission was to carve out the northwest corner of Lion State and open a strategic corridor from West Sail Port to the Northern Three States on the northwest side of Poluo Province.

Leading the assault was the 171st Mechanized Thousand Team led by Ross, supported by the airship Horn.

The battle line advanced virtually by the minute, as the Poluo Country’s army was routed, discarding helmets and armor.

Sitting in the command post, General Otley looked down at the map with a delighted smile on his face.

"A no-suspense battle... I thought the natives here would be smarter than the mutants in the Great Desert, but I overestimated them; they aren’t even as good as those guys fighting with iron sticks."

Equipment is just one of the factors affecting the outcome of a battle, not the entirety.

And these guys’ foolishness lies in their delusion that they could win against the Army with trench warfare.

In front of the Southern Legion’s Horn and 902mm heavy artillery, those trenches dug out with shovels are like a joke, and staying put only increases their casualties.

Standing beside him, McCullen gave a faint smile.

"I think much like you. The natives here truly aren’t great, but it’s too early to say we’ve won."

General Otley looked at him with great interest.

"You think they still have a chance to turn the tables?"

McCullen replied in a gentle tone.

"The Alliance’s messengers are in Tiandu; I don’t think they will pretend not to see."

"Heh, the Alliance... let them come then," Otley sneered in disdain, "I will let them know the cost of meddling."

"Hmm," McCullen nodded lightly, "That cost is inevitable."

After all, the cost of not meddling would be higher.

On this point, every survivor of the River Valley Province profoundly understands...

And he’s quite seasoned in what happens after.

Just as Otley’s subordinates were racing wildly northward, the drone of propellers approached from the east, drawing near the skies over West Sail Port.

Those were W-2 Attack Aircraft!

And there were at least a hundred of them!

Some Weilante soldiers stationed at West Sail Port involuntarily looked up, gazing towards the sky, their faces filled with amazement.

What surprised them wasn’t the aircraft itself.

But that the barely three-month-old Poluo Country actually had pilots?!

Where did these bumpkins find the time to train?!

Upon detecting the enemy planes approaching, the airship Horn immediately ceased its support of the front line, changed course, and aimed its air cannons at the skies over West Sail Port.

Moreover, air force units from West Sail Port also scrambled and took flight, nearly a hundred "Dagger" propeller fighter planes headed towards the Poluo Country’s air force.

However, those W-2s didn’t charge toward West Sail Port but after faking an attack, swooped toward the station and railway at the northern port.

Upon seeing the movements of those planes, General Giulion, in the command post, squinted his eyes, evidently noticing some clues.

Meanwhile, aboard the leading Mosquito-style fighter plane, an excited and loud shout rang out.

"We struck gold, brothers!"

"Unlock the safety, prepare for battle!!"

The communication channel was buzzing continuously, lively like New Year’s.

Just like those belligerent Weilante people, they had long awaited this moment.

And as players, their reason for battle was far purer than those of the Weilante people—

Finally, a chance to fight to their heart’s content!

"Aoo! Aoo! Aoo!!!"