Chapter 58: The Fierce Tiger Falls

With a thunderous uproar, Tiger One circled down and landed, but before the soldiers could even grab their gear and rush out, bullets like a swarm of locusts rained down from all sides. The sight of the helicopter touching ground stirred the crowd into a frenzy, as if injected with adrenaline. They bent swiftly, retrieving long and short weapons hidden beneath the desert sand, caring little whether any comrades lay ahead. Raising their arms, they unleashed a wild barrage at the helicopter.

All thirty warriors aboard Tiger One were cut down at the hatch before they could set foot outside. Suddenly, the sky flashed with the light of rockets. The allied helicopters, overconfident in their technological superiority, flew dangerously close to the ground. As a result, the rockets struck with deadly precision; the remaining four helicopters were inevitably shot down, followed immediately by a frenzied assault from the enemy fighters.

The soldiers fell by the ramp, and when the holy warriors saw the bodies of the allied troops, it was as if they had received a narcotic rush. Some of them, brandishing curved blades, rushed forward and gleefully hacked off the limbs of the fallen. Others hoisted the mutilated torsos aloft, celebrating as if it were a grand festival.

Their hatred for these invaders ran so deep. Earlier that day, in the midst of battle, the enemy had even severed the revered sun totems from their own arms—a crime they considered utterly unforgivable.

The air force had been caught utterly off guard, but the infantry fared only slightly better. They quickly used their armored vehicles as cover, establishing makeshift defensive positions and hastily organizing a counterattack. Yet, despite their efforts, the enemy’s encirclement was steadily tightening.

“Major Ian, sir, Battalion 47 is gone. Under enemy assault, over three hundred men, including Major Mike, have lost all contact!” The radio operator kept his body pressed low, barely daring to lift his head, for though the enemy’s weapons were inferior, their web of fire was fierce and unyielding. His voice carried a bitter frustration. For any citizen of Mainz, outside the world wars, the loss of an entire battalion in one blow was unprecedented in decades.

Major Ian, the model of a white officer, kept his head low within the earthwork. The surrounding smoke had already scorched his skin. Moments earlier, taken by surprise, he’d been shot in the arm, only to be saved by the ultimate sacrifice of a comrade.

“Have you contacted divisional command?” Ian asked, his blue eyes cold, as a medic finished a quick bandage on his wound.

“We have, sir. The armored brigade is en route. They’ll be here in ten minutes!” the radio operator replied.

Watching the relentless enemy charging the fortifications, only to be felled by his men’s desperate fire, Ian’s chiseled face grew even harder. He muttered, “Ten minutes… Can we even last that long?”

With that thought, he barked, “Radio, press the division! Tell them to hurry!”

But after calling out, he received no reply. As a graduate of the world-class Mainz military academy, he was infuriated—he would not tolerate cowardice or insubordination among his ranks. He shoved the radio operator, only to find the body limp. The force rolled the man over, revealing a gaping, bloody hole in his neck.

Ian felt something sticky on his hands. In the faint light, he saw it was blood. The radio operator, even in death, still clutched the transmitter, his eyes wide open.

“Alec!” Ian called out to the young operator, feeling his own eyes grow wet. Alec had a family, a beloved daughter, and was due to retire in just a few days. Now, he was lost on the battlefield.

What did this mean? It meant a wife had lost her husband, a girl her father, and a family would never again be whole. Where had his leadership gone? Hadn’t he promised these soldiers he’d bring them home safe?

Ian’s eyes brimmed red. He looked at the blood on his hands—his comrade’s blood. Across the battered field, swarms of enemy fighters pressed forward, while his own men fell one after another.

Tearing off his bandage, Ian shouted to the few soldiers remaining at his side, “Brothers, there’s nowhere left to run. I can’t promise I’ll get you home alive—but it’s better than dying at the hands of these butchers. You are the best there is. Instead of sitting here waiting for death, pick up your weapons and fight! Maybe we’ll find a sliver of hope!” With that, he grabbed his submachine gun and leaped from the trench, charging forward.

Seeing their commander throw caution aside, the remaining soldiers’ eyes burned with fury. The captain was right—if they rushed out, there was still a chance. Stay, and they’d only be butchered and dismembered. They snatched up weapons, strapped on grenades, and followed Ian into the chaos. Soon they were locked in savage hand-to-hand combat. Those too wounded to move, seeing the enemy approach, clenched their teeth, pulled the pins on their grenades…

In the control room, Sebastian watched the scene unfold with relish. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. “Inform command—we’re pulling our warriors out.”

The radio operator at his side hurried to obey.

Chen Cao stared at the monitor, the carnage rivaling any epic war film. He had little fondness for the Mainz army, but he found the holy warriors’ reckless, suicidal human wave tactics utterly repugnant—especially when Sebastian, perched beside him, seemed to care nothing for his own soldiers’ lives.

“Thirty minutes—two enemy battalions wiped out, over six hundred men, five Tiger helicopters, a hundred and fifty paratroopers. The allies will be shocked by this. Pity only two battalions came—if it had been two brigades, the results would have been even better!” Sebastian sipped his coffee with satisfaction, yet his eyes betrayed a hint of greed.

“Heh, Sebastian, your tactical command is truly impressive,” Chen Cao replied darkly. At this rate, the holy warriors, those fanatics deluded by their faith, must have lost at least triple the casualties of the trained allied troops.

“Looks like the movie’s over. Time to move on to the main event.” Chen Cao tensed, his gaze drifting to the curved saber at Sebastian’s waist—a razor-sharp blade. Trained in close combat by Zhou Anshi himself, Chen Cao was confident he could seize the weapon and take Sebastian hostage before the guards could react.

But just as he was steeling himself, Sebastian spoke: “By the way, Mr. Matsumoto, I imagine you’re missing that little beauty I sent you. But please wait a moment, there’s someone even more interesting I’d like you to meet—I’m sure you’ll be intrigued.”

With a sly smile, Sebastian gestured. Two soldiers immediately stepped in, blocking his flank and signaling for Chen Cao to follow. Though their motions were polite, they perfectly blocked his reach to the saber.

These terrorists were no pushovers, Chen Cao realized. With no choice, he forced a smile. “Oh? Something even more entertaining? I look forward to it. That last battle was quite the spectacle.”

“Don’t worry. What comes next will shock you even more,” Sebastian replied with a twisted grin, then turned and strode from the control room before Chen Cao could react.

What could it be? According to Odru’s understanding and Sebastian’s attitude, shouldn’t he be taking Chen Cao by the arm and leading him out? Chen Cao hesitated briefly. The two guards flanked him, one on each side, maintaining a courteous distance but exuding an oppressive aura.

Now is not the time to act rashly. To attack now would be suicide. With that thought, Chen Cao donned a false smile, clasped his hands behind his back, and calmly followed them out.

Sebastian turned right and stopped at a massive iron-barred door. Chen Cao followed, noticing that this door was larger than any he had seen in the underground compound. Light shone from within, and a faint scent of blood drifted out. What could be inside?

“Mr. Matsumoto, what’s your opinion of your neighbors in the Great Da Empire?” Sebastian suddenly asked, turning his head.

Not good. Could it be…? Chen Cao’s eyes flashed with murderous intent as Sebastian pulled open the iron door and strode inside.

In the allied command center, the venerable General Conrad—supreme commander of the Mainz Democratic Federation—sat, his white hair marking him as a man who had seen the passage of many years. A scholar and a gentleman, Conrad was once a journalist. When the world was plunged into war, he cast aside his pen for a rifle, joining the fight for his nation’s survival. For decades, he never set his weapon down. Through courage and wisdom, he fought in every conflict his country had faced, never once tasting defeat.

During the world war, as a regimental commander, even when his forces were surrounded and the rest of the army routed, he led his men to a miraculous reversal, inflicting a ten-to-one casualty ratio on the enemy, launching a surprise attack on their main force, and buying precious time for his own army to regroup. That battle left five bullet wounds in his body and earned him a field promotion to brigadier general. From then on, he rose through the ranks, leading the Mainz Federation’s armies in campaigns east and west, earning its highest honor—the Five Banner Medal. He was the sharpest blade in the Ministry of Defense.

Now, however, the pipe in his hand trembled. All the generals around him knew—the old man was furious.