CHAPTER 859: CHAPTER 859: LIDEBUIR MEAT GRINDER

The harbor basked in pleasant weather, while a towering cargo ship quietly docked beside the pier.

And right within the ship’s hold, a man lay unconscious, face-up on the bed.

Perhaps disturbed by the "cawing" of seagulls outside the window, his tightly shut eyes twitched suddenly, followed by intense coughing as he opened them.

"Cough cough—!"

Seeing the man suddenly start coughing, the doctor put away the stethoscope in his hand and looked at Yarman sitting nearby and said.

"Seems like nothing major, just needs some rest to recover."

Yarman breathed a sigh of relief, looked at the doctor sincerely, and said.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome, it’s my job."

The doctor nodded slightly, seeming not to want to talk more, and got up from the chair.

He was a local from Jinjaron Harbor, which meant a Poluo local, and treated the Weilante as a matter of professional ethics not to watch someone die.

If not for this, he didn’t want to say a single word more to the person in front of him.

Though the survivors in Poluo Province once treated these big-nosed people as gods, that was in the past. At least in Jinjaron Harbor, the Weilante had lost their aura.

Yarman escorted him out the door and returned inside after a moment, looking at his compatriot who had already sat up from the bed and asked.

"Feeling better?"

Hank nodded blankly, staring at him for a while, then his gaze moved beyond the small, damp room and looked out the window.

In the distance was a picturesque harbor, with the intricately arranged marble architecture and the fountain statue standing in the harbor square, every view reminding him of that "spiritual hometown" he hadn’t visited in ages—Triumph City.

Those things seemed to be copied from Triumph City.

Apart from those marble buildings, another row of square concrete structures and red-brick and blue-tile buildings had an exotic charm he had never seen.

What left the deepest impression was the bustling streets, the busy scene of traffic, comparable even to the busiest ports of the new continent.

At this moment, a bird with snow-white feathers flapped its wings and landed on the windowsill, pecked at its armpit, and then stared at him in a daze.

Seeing those clear yet foolish eyes, he suddenly felt the urge to feed it fries...

This should be a seagull.

Speaking of which, what are fries?

As if seeing no response from him for a while, the seagull practically flew away.

Seeing the falling feather on the windowsill, Hank finally remembered he hadn’t answered his savior’s question and quickly spoke, embarrassed.

"I’m much better, thank you for saving my life... By the way, my name is Hank, from the New Continent. Could you tell me where we are?"

Yarman, looking at Hank who introduced himself embarrassedly, didn’t seem to mind and smiled warmly and said.

"My name is Yarman, this is Jinjaron Harbor. We need to purchase some supplies here, and see if there are others wanting to board the ship. Also, the other people rescued with you have all come ashore here; you’re the last one to wake up."

At first, Hank didn’t react to where this was, only feeling the name was familiar.

But then he recalled a sailor’s joke before boarding, saying never to head to Jinjaron Harbor; it’s the local’s turf in Poluo Province and you might get your nose cut if caught.

Hank’s face instantly turned pale.

He wasn’t worried the rumor was true; anyone seeing this bustling port wouldn’t associate the locals with natives.

But he was an arms dealer, shipping weapons to the locals’ enemies.

Even if not having his nose cut, imprisonment was likely unavoidable.

Seeing Hank’s face suddenly grow pale, Yarman probably guessed something, even seeing a reflection of his past self on his anxious face.

Most who think they can stay outside of things are already involved.

Those imagining they can muddle through are already soaking in that murky pool, oblivious.

A moment’s luck is merely a matter of timing.

He nearly lost everything due to a promise that couldn’t be kept.

But Yarman didn’t say anything more, only asked concernedly.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"No..." Hank smiled awkwardly, his face pale, glanced out the window again, moved his Adam’s apple, and said, "Can I... not leave the ship?"

His voice carried a hint of pleading.

Yarman nodded, speaking warmly.

"Of course, but we’ll need some time to head back to West Sail Port. You may have to stay on the ship for a month or two."

"That’s fine!"

Hank breathed a sigh of relief, immediately said, "Just let me follow you... I can help with some tasks."

Yarman chuckled and said.

"First, take care and recover until you can get out of bed and walk, then we’ll talk."

Hank, relieved, looked at him and asked.

"By the way, what business are you in?"

Yarman thought for a moment and said.

"I don’t know how to describe my trade, but my partner says I’m a Snakehead."

"Snake... head?"

Seeing Hank’s confusion, Yarman nodded, straightforwardly explained.

"Just transporting survivors here to the south coast of Haiya Province, where there are several Alliance settlements, as simple as that."

It sounded much like slave trafficking, but rather than paying the Slave Owner, it’s the... slave paying?

But where would slaves get money?

Hank couldn’t make sense of it, puzzled, and asked.

"How much can those natives pay you?"

Yarman didn’t hide anything, and calmly told him.

"They can’t pay right now, but they can owe it first. We’ll help them move to a new homeland, help them settle locally, help them find jobs, and then take a portion from their future wages to repay the debt they incurred before boarding the ship."

You can do this?!

Hank was completely shocked.

"Your business model is pretty good!"

If the ticket is priced at 1 million dinars, wouldn’t that mean you could exploit a person until death?

Knowing he definitely misunderstood, and even guessing what he misunderstood, Yarman just smiled faintly without explaining.

Debt can’t increase indefinitely; the Alliance’s laws and regulatory agencies aren’t fools.

However, explaining this is too troublesome, including what he’s doing now; it looks like he’s just transporting people, but behind it there’s an entire set of essential processes.

"... It’s okay, although it can’t compare to arms trade, it’s safer. The Southern Legion people don’t care about us, the population at West Sail Port is excessive for them, they don’t need so many people. The Alliance people will look out for us somewhat; they’re doing big projects in the Southern sea area, and are in need of manpower."

At the mention of arms, Hank felt a pang of pain. The cargo of those three ships was worth at least 30 million dinars, not to mention the cost of the ships themselves.

Although he had insured the cargo and ships, being sunk by a torpedo... he wasn’t sure if that was within the coverage.

And the worst part is, if this war continues, and more insured ships get bombed, the insurance company would probably go bankrupt on the spot.

It’s hard to say whether the company he insured with will still be around after he returns to the New Continent.

Hank had no hope of getting that money back.

For now, he could only take it one step at a time...

...

Just when an unfortunate arms dealer planned to follow Yarman’s fleet and try his luck in the Alliance’s territory, an unprecedented battle broke out on the land of Poluo Province.

The Southern Legion’s 30,000th troop first invaded the west side of Reed Bull County, engaging in a firefight with Poluo Nation’s 3rd, 4th, and 5th troops stationed locally, on the west side of Sunrise Lake.

Before reaching Reed Bull County, the Southern Legion’s 30,000th troop had already lost an armored team of a thousand; the disparity in force between both sides was significant.

Especially since before the Southern Legion dispatched troops, the Lion State War Zone commander in Poluo Province had ordered the digging of numerous tunnels and "mouse holes" in Reed Bull County.

If the Southern Legion’s 30,000th troop chose to assault, even with two-thirds of their tanks and numerous armored troop carriers remaining, they would still pay a hefty price.

However, in theory, that’s how it was.

When the Southern Legion’s airships reached the front lines, Poluo Nation’s army advantage vanished instantly.

A sky-covering rain of bullets like locusts.

As if to flaunt their firepower, those Weilante people even added markers to the indirect-fire shells.

"Hide!!!"

Watching the approaching death, the Centurion lying on the Poluo Nation’s position let out a desperate roar.

The soldiers prostrate in the dugouts pressed their foreheads against the soil, tightly clenched their fists or held family keepsakes, silently praying in their hearts.

The screaming bullet rain drew closer.

Each shell exploded violently before hitting the ground, scattering into finer and denser rains of light, indiscriminately covering every inch of the position.

The explosive fire raked across the position, baking stones and rubble scorching hot, lifting dust from the ground to the sky.

Wisps of smoke ascended, and the noisy land instantly fell silent.

Those were cluster bombs.

After being swept by that thing, not just humans, not even a living blade of grass would remain...

Inside the command vehicle miles away.

The commander of the 30,000th troop, Eastern front commander Ryan, stared at the holographic screen image with a face like water.

It was footage captured by the Horn Number airship.

On the land ravaged by artillery, not a shadow of a person could be seen, not even a complete corpse.

Soon, heads started appearing in the corner of the frame again.

Seeing this, Ryan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The Poluo Nation army position had been bombarded again and again by him, yet those Poluo Nation soldiers kept filling up like endless swarms of locusts.

He was about to order another round of barrage, when the communicator on his shoulder suddenly buzzed twice.

Ryan reached out and pressed the communicator. Soon, a bothersome voice came from the other end of the communication channel.

"... Dear Commander, though I hate to interrupt your enjoyment, I must remind you that we’ve already consumed a third of our ammunition."

The speaker was the captain of the Horn Number, a one-star Ten Thousand Leader from Yavente.

Ryan furrowed his brows with an unhappy expression.

"Didn’t we purchase a batch of ammunition from the Western Legion?"

Horn Number captain: "Yes, that’s correct... However, the news I received is that out of the ten transport ships originally scheduled to arrive yesterday, only four made it."

Ryan: "... What do you mean?"

Horn Number captain: "You should be able to guess. Obviously, it’s the Alliance’s doing. It’s said their submarines are attacking our ally’s transport ships, though they argue it’s Laken’s doing. Currently, our supply situation is still fairly decent, but nobody can predict what will happen afterwards; we should save some... What do you think?"

Due to command hierarchy issues, the relationship between the air force and the ground forces isn’t harmonious.

This situation not only occurs in the Eastern Legion, but also in the other three legions.

Even if both belong to the same faction and share the same operational philosophy, it doesn’t mean they’re truly brothers.

Even if they both turn their necks to the right, there’s always a more right-leaning one and a less right-leaning one.

The Horn Number captain’s voice carried a hint of mocking amusement, while Ryan’s face turned completely dark.

The Alliance is truly cruel.

Not daring to face them head-on, they targeted the transport ships instead!

"... Should we continue?"

Listening to the voice from the communication channel, Ryan pondered for a moment, then ordered.

"Fire a round of incendiary shells, and leave the rest to the infantry."

The captain of the Horn Number quickly responded.

"Received."

Shortly after the order was given, a rumbling roar soon resonated beneath the low clouds.

Flames mixed with thick smoke rushed towards the steaming ground like an avalanche falling from mountain peaks, with an unstoppable force.

The Poluo Country soldiers who had just reinforced the trenches were immediately showered with a boiling rain of fire.

No matter how they tried, the flames couldn’t be extinguished.

Even a single touch could turn one into a blazing human torch.

"Ahhhh!"

"My arm—!"

Screams rose one after another, and the trenches were filled with the scent of burning flesh, resembling hell itself.

Some soldiers, unable to bear the excruciating pain, either begged their comrades to finish them or placed the barrel under their chin to end it themselves.

And this was only the beginning.

The lethal power of incendiary shells wasn’t all in the flames; the toxic gas produced by the fire was equally deadly.

For the Poluo soldiers lacking gas masks, they could only bury their faces in the soil, hoping that the loose dirt would filter the poison.

However, this primitive method wasn’t always effective; the gas released by incendiary shells continued to cause significant casualties.

Looking at the blackened or distorted corpses, the soldiers crouched in the trenches gritted their teeth, eyes filled with hatred and fury.

They no longer cared if they could return alive.

They just wanted revenge for their fallen comrades, to share this pain wholly onto the Weilante people.

It wasn’t just the frontline soldiers, but their officers standing behind them felt the same.

Confronting a radio that worked intermittently, Marta, the Ten Thousand Leader of Poluo Country’s 30,000th troop, felt his heart bleed with pain.

In just an hour’s time.

He had already sent three thousand teams to the front, yet they hadn’t even seen a shadow of the Weilante people!

It was like trading the lives of his brothers for Weilante’s shells!

Fortunately, Weilante’s shells weren’t unlimited, and that burning rain seemed to be their last frenzy.

After the flames and smoke dispersed mostly, a thousand team belonging to the Southern Legion was quickly pushed to the front line.

The soldiers were of similar height and build, with uniforms and twisted facial muscles remarkably alike.

Their weapons were uniformly Ripper Rifles, with bayonets under the barrels emitting a cold gleam.

Seeing this murderous troop, Poluo Country soldiers crouched in the trenches swallowed hard.

That was the Clone Troops of the Legion!

It’s said that those fearless guys were like Hyenas, even if their intestines fell out, they could fight non-stop with their opponents.

Although some Alliance brothers said those clones might have some disabilities, their physical quality was not high.

Yet these Poluo soldiers found ironically that these disabled guys looked healthier than them.

At least their bones had some flesh hanging on them.

"...Damn, the food and clothes we have aren’t as good as these clones." A bandaged soldier cursed, eyes filled with envy and anger.

A nearby comrade grinned, speaking half-jokingly.

"Doesn’t matter, my compensation money has already been sent home, my kid will surely grow stronger than them."

"Heard your kid was seven and a half pounds?" An old fellow chimed in, looking incredulous, "Really?"

The soldier smiled proudly and said with confidence on his face.

"Of course it’s real! I weighed it myself! That kid will surely be taller than me in the future."

The old fellow envied more, couldn’t help but ask again.

"What did you eat to produce such a big one?"

The soldier glared at him, laughed and said.

"You old guy, at your age, almost buried in the earth, why ask this?"

The old man’s face stiffened, glared and said.

"Can’t I use for my son?"

That caused a burst of laughter among the team; many old soldiers recalled him saying he didn’t have a son.

"Don’t worry about what to eat, as long as it’s not dirt, anyone can grow into a human form."

Placing the LD-47j light machine gun, which had lost its stand, onto the trench, the machine gunner blinded in one eye took a deep breath and then pressed his burnt face against the blackened stock.

"Absek said we won’t need to eat dirt anymore, our descendants won’t either, hope that bastard keeps his word... Otherwise, even as a ghost, I won’t let him go!"

His life was entrusted to that guy now.

He had no other demands, just hoped the things Absek promised were not empty words.

Watching the grinning big soldiers, a nearby Centurion reprimanded softly.

"Stop fooling around, keep an eye on the front, those big-nosed ones are coming!"

"Oh oh oh!" Cocking the rifle in hand, the young man with a bandaged head shouted excitedly, "Let those bastards come at us!"

As someone had once said, they had nothing left to lose.

With a sharp whistle, the tranquility before the storm was completely shattered.

The Centurion marching at the side of the unit drew out the dagger at his waist, and blew the short whistle held at his mouth.

"Whistle—!"

The piercing whistle was like an arrow, sweeping across the entire battlefield.

```

The clone soldiers marching forward in unison raised their rifles and bayonets almost simultaneously, charging toward the smoke-filled battlefield under the lead of the Centurion.

"Kill!!!"

The shouts of battle cries shook the heavens and the earth!

The clones charging forward were like wolves transformed into human form.

The bayonets pointing forward were their canine teeth, and they were like Eaters that could speak human language!

The Centurion, who had spit out the short whistle, still held his military saber high, shouting with a coarse voice.

"Charge up!!"

"Use your rifles, your bayonets, fists, teeth, and nails, every tool at your disposal! Make your prey cease their filthy breaths!"

"You are the bravest warriors! Those weak mice are no match in front of you—!"

The fanatical roar uplifted the morale of all the clones.

To them, born in the duel arena, that coarse-voiced man was like their father.

But their father had obviously deceived them; those weak mice were not as easily defeated.

Just as they neared within 200 meters, the Centurion of Poluo Nation lying in the trenches blew the whistle in his mouth and fired a shot forward with his pistol.

"Fire at will!!!"

The soldiers lying on the edge of the trenches, pent-up with anger, pulled the triggers of their rifles.

The rattling sound of gunfire resounded across the battlefield, with traces of orange tracer bullets flying wildly, sketching the path of the Grim Reaper’s sickle on a battlefield laden with corpses.

Clone soldiers were constantly pressed to the ground by machine gun fire, and even the Centurions of the Vellante were not spared.

The soldiers of Poluo Nation lying in the trenches fared no better.

Behind the LD-47j machine gun with a missing bipod, two gunners had already been replaced, now operated by a thirteen-year-old boy.

The boy with a bandage tied around his forehead yelling "bring it on" had his head shot open early on, falling silently to the ground.

And that man whose son reportedly weighed seven and a half pounds.

The old guy who often argued with him never pried the secret of "having a big healthy baby boy" from his lips before dying.

But he had no use for it anymore.

Soon, a hundred-strong team was wiped out, quickly replaced by another hundred-strong team.

After that, a thousand-strong team, and even ten thousand!

The jagged battle line was like the teeth of a giant beast, sucking dry the flesh and blood caught within.

The hundred-pound weight that should have been a family pillar felt as light as a feather on the dozens of kilometers wide front.

Not just the Poluo people were bleeding, but the Vellante charging over the artillery-plowed land as well.

Although the clones listed in the logistics weren’t counted as part of the five ten-thousand-strong troops formations, or even as livestock, and their casualties weren’t recorded, every ten or twelve clone soldiers were led by a Vellante Centurion charging together.

In just a morning, the Southern Legion’s 300,000-strong unit crushed three of Poluo Nation’s ten thousand-strong units holding the western hills of Sunrise Lake, pushing the front line forward by ten kilometers!

Marta the Ten Thousand Leader refused to withdraw, personally leading a thousand-strong team to cover the rear, protecting allies’ retreat, and unfortunately, got shot while blocking the Southern Legion’s mechanized thousand-strong team assault.

Thus, the third ten-thousand-strong unit of Poluo Nation was systematically annihilated!

Over twelve thousand soldiers and officers were nearly all lost, leaving no survivors!

The fourth and fifth thousand-strong teams also suffered over half losses and were forced to retreat to the rear line.

In contrast, the Southern Legion’s 300,000-strong unit suffered just 300 casualties in total.

After painfully losing an armored thousand-strong team, Commander Ryan finally regained his lost face on the frontline battle.

Even if it cost nearly twenty thousand clone cannon fodder and tens of thousands of shells.

The western part of Reed Bull County was completely fallen, and the Southern Legion’s fist had gripped the neck of the old lion that was Lion City.

The 31st and 32nd ten-thousand-strong units were cutting into the battlefield from the southwest and northwest directions respectively.

Following them to the frontline was a line of armored trains loaded with ammunition and weapons, and a 902mm heavy cannon that boasted both deterrent and power!

The Alliance’s fearless air raids kept the Southern Legion’s logistics units on edge, only daring to operate under the zone dominated by armored airships.

However, if they thought the danger only came from the sky, they were gravely mistaken.

In the southeast of "Reed County," rolling plumes of smoke were galloping across the vast plains.

Under the cover of 62 Chimera armored vehicles, a strike formation of 93 Type Three heavy tanks was rampaging toward the southern frontline of the Legion.

Their target was the Southern Legion’s 34th ten-thousand-strong unit.

According to the intelligence gathered by Pangolin in West Sail Port, it was a reserve force.

As long as they could break through this 34th ten-thousand-strong troop, they could touch Commander Ryan’s flower!

The players of the Skeleton Corps had awaited this impending battle for a long time.

Especially after seeing their Burning Corps brothers show off on the forum, they were eager to get going, itching to join the fray.

A group of airborne infantry could already blow up the opposing armored regiment, replacing them with these professionals, surely the bloody nose brigade would be beaten badly?

Besides, they weren’t the only Army involved in this battle!

After five days of waiting, the Goblin Corps’ good brothers had rejoined the front lines aboard the Overlord transport plane, and their vehicles were flown to the airport outside of Tiandu by pilots from Jinjaron Harbor.

Moreover, the Luoyu Brothers piloting the Thunder aircraft would also participate in this operation.

They had no reason to lose!

On the turret of the Type Three tank, the Mole emerged halfway, holding a communicator, shouting energetically.

"Brothers!"

"Only twenty kilometers separate us from the Southern Legion’s 34th ten-thousand-strong unit!"

"It’s time to show them what a true iron torrent looks like!"

His words had just fallen when excited shouts echoed through the communication channel.

"Awoo awoo awoo!!"