Chapter Fifty-Nine: The One-Week Battle Plan

Inside the command center, the Allied commanders from various nations held their breath. This was an unprecedented loss for the alliance, yet at this very moment, all eyes were fixed on the dark object atop the elongated oval table.

It was a sidearm—Major General Harris’s.

Major General Harris commanded the Second Mountain Division. Now, his sidearm lay on the table as he stood rigidly at attention. The sudden enemy assault had left him undeniably responsible. Though he had personally led tens of thousands of troops at full speed to the battlefield, the only thing left behind was a field of mangled limbs and wreckage—an irreplaceable loss.

Two fully equipped digitalized infantry battalions of over six hundred men, five helicopters known as the Army’s Tigers—each equipped with the latest technology and weaponry and worth more than one hundred million dollars apiece—and one hundred and fifty special airborne commandos, all wiped out in less than ten minutes from the opening shot to the battle’s end. In an instant, they were reduced to ashes.

Moreover, the Second Mountain Division, honored as the “Ace Division” by the President himself for its decades of distinguished service, had now been utterly disgraced.

What more could be said? The fault lay in his own carelessness and underestimation of the enemy. Most damning of all, these terrorists, before their retreat, had mutilated the bodies of the fallen soldiers. The media would be in an uproar, anti-war sentiment would soar, and upon his return, he would face judgment not only from the military tribunal but also from the families of the dead. What could he do but offer his life in apology?

General Conrad finally composed himself, asking Harris in a subdued tone, “How many survivors?”

Harris’s brow furrowed, as if exposing a fresh wound, and he reluctantly gave the number, “Ten.” Then, he added, “General Conrad, just execute me. Otherwise—I... I cannot face the families of these men!”

A general—a veteran of a dozen battlefields, an elite commander of a superpower—now crouched on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably before the Allied high command.

Around the table, the commanders all bowed their heads. Regardless of nation or rank, no one was immune to the emotional weight of the moment.

Conrad’s eyes were red, watching his beloved subordinate sob like a child on the ground. He clenched his pipe tightly, refusing to shed tears before the Allied commanders. Turning to his aide, he ordered, “Turn it on. Let our overconfident generals see how our soldiers were treated!”

The aide, eyes swollen, did not hesitate. He switched on the projector, and images from satellite reconnaissance immediately appeared on the screen.

Burnt-out vehicles, dismembered torsos, severed heads thrown atop heaps of corpses—scene after scene of unspeakable carnage seared itself into every soul present.

“Gentlemen, look closely—this is how the terrorists treat our soldiers!” General Conrad rapped the table with his pipe, his blue eyes scanning the assembly. “We have only just begun our campaign of retribution, and already they have replied with this. Such inhumane treatment of our dead—never mind the tactics—is an outrage in itself. Today, it is the Mainz Democratic Federation; who will it be tomorrow, and by what means, with what strategy?”

No one spoke as they stared at the bloody images, but Conrad’s words were stirring something in their hearts.

Indeed, moments before, they had felt a secret relief that it was not their own troops. But now, given the nature of this hellish warfare, who could say how long it would last? If they did not give their utmost, who would be the next to crouch on the floor in tears? Facing a military tribunal was a small matter compared to the lifelong torment of having led one’s own men to such a gruesome end.

Suddenly, Major General Zachary of the Drews Democratic Federation slammed his fist on the table and stood up. “General Conrad, as Allied Commander, how can you say such things? We are one force! I propose that the two infantry divisions and one airborne brigade under my command take the vanguard and avenge our fallen brothers!”

The other commanders voiced their agreement.

“Yes, we’re willing!”

“Let’s do it—I refuse to believe these terrorists can vanish into thin air! Even if they take to the skies, I’ll shoot them down!”

Just as the fervor reached its peak and Conrad was about to speak, his aide hurried to his side, whispering a few words. With a wave, Conrad addressed the room, “There are new instructions from the International League. One moment! First, I must clarify: despite our heavy losses, this is not about revenge—this is a war for freedom and liberty. Let’s focus on tactics and strategy.”

Conrad moved to the communications room, where the senior officers were already waiting. They crowded around a round-faced, white-haired, impeccably dressed old man.

“General Conrad, look what you’ve done! Parliament is in an uproar over this defeat, and anti-war sentiment is surging!”

Conrad straightened, addressing the elderly man, “Mr. President, what is Parliament’s position?”

The President’s expression was grave. “The situation is dire. Tomorrow’s headlines have been suppressed, but you know the truth always comes out. The Chamber of Deputies is taking this opportunity to make demands.”

Conrad’s face grew serious. “What are their demands?”

The President replied, “First, to capture or kill Alfred, the main leader of the Holy War Alliance, and Sebastian, the commander of this operation. Second, to conclude the conflict in Oderu within one week—regardless of success or failure, our forces must withdraw. The rest is up to you.”

Conrad did not hesitate, lifting his eyes with a cunning glint. “Mr. President, may I ask your own view?”

The President’s expression remained calm. “Ending the war in a week is impossible, but if the politicians demand a week, you must find a way. You are a veteran; I trust your abilities. Those in Parliament know nothing of war. They have made no operational requirements—so take whatever ‘creative liberties’ you must.”

“Mr. President, did you say ‘creative liberties’?” Conrad stared at the screen, locking eyes with the President. He was certain that this former Defense Minister, his old superior, was scrutinizing him just as keenly.

At that moment, Chen Cao had just stepped through the iron gate when the guard behind him slammed it shut with a clang that reverberated painfully in his ears.

In the dim light, it was impossible to discern the room’s size—only a platform stood ahead, covered by a white cloth.

That white cloth, in the darkness, seemed even more glaring. Beneath the faint light, it rose and fell as if breathing.

Sebastian did not pause; he strode to the platform and, with a dramatic flourish, whipped away the cloth. As if by prior arrangement, the lights above the platform blazed brightly, their heat intense and searing. Lying there was a man, completely naked.

Tubes were inserted all over his body, slowly delivering fluids to keep him alive. The fresh bloodstains on the platform made it clear this man had already endured much torment.

Chen Cao’s eyes widened. His vision surpassed that of most, and as he took in the sight, he almost regretted his acuity.

“I must endure this—I must endure.” Chen Cao clenched his fists.

Sebastian smiled faintly. “Does this man look familiar, Mr. Chen Cao?”

Click, click—at Sebastian’s words, several black gun barrels swung to target Chen Cao.

A guard kicked Chen Cao hard in the stomach. Pain shot through his abdomen, but he refused to fall, bearing the blow with grit. The guard, frustrated, kicked him again, and again Chen Cao took it, gritting his teeth.

Suddenly, the man on the platform turned his head. In the gloom, the movement was eerie. Gasping for breath, he looked at Chen Cao and forced out a hoarse whisper: “Brother Chen...”

It was Zhou Hongye’s voice. Though Chen Cao had already recognized him, he had not wanted to accept the truth. But this familiar, heartrending voice left him in a fury.

Chen Cao caught the guard’s foot as it came for him again. With a crack and the guard’s howl, Chen Cao broke the man’s leg with his elbow, then chopped the guard’s neck with a swift strike. Another crack—and the man crumpled to the ground.

The other guards, though watching their comrade fall, did not react; their guns remained trained on Chen Cao, but no one fired. They were waiting for Sebastian’s command.

Sebastian watched, smiling and indifferent, neither surprised nor moved by the loss of a life. Only when Chen Cao had dispatched the guard did he speak, slowly: “Mr. Chen Cao, as an elite among the elite of the Great Chen army, I imagine you are prepared to die. But at the request of a friend, your time has not yet come. Besides, I doubt you wish for your body—or your friend’s—to be left here. A single video released to the world would destroy the peaceful image of the Great Chen nation. But I’m not doing that—because you are still useful to our True God’s friends.”

Zhou Hongye gasped out, “Brother Chen, don’t believe them—don’t worry about me. Instructor Huang has already been killed by them. Yu Hongxiu is the traitor at the school!”

“Yu Hongxiu—she’s already taken the transmitter you gave her to contact Chen Diwen.” Before Chen Cao could process this, a guard, at Sebastian’s signal, smashed his rifle butt into the back of Chen Cao’s head.

Flame King 59 – Full Free Reading – Chapter Fifty-Nine: The One-Week Battle Plan has been updated!