The convoy, engines roaring at their limits from the frantic dash across the wasteland, ground to a halt approximately one kilometer from the small outpost. A series of violent, metallic clangsechoed across the barren landscape as doors were flung open, and from the vehicles emerged the entire populace of Sweetwater Gulch—men and women, young and old, armed with an assortment of makeshift weapons, filing out in a determined, disorderly column.
At the heart of this human tide, protected and propelled by it, was the small truck personally driven by their leader, Harry Potter Michael. The vehicle advanced slowly, surrounded by over three hundred souls. With a total population of just under five hundred, the settlement had committed nearly every able-bodied individual to this cause. Only a few dozen essential guards had been left behind to protect their home from potential opportunists, and the underage children had been forcibly prevented from joining. This force of three hundred and ten represented a true, desperate muster of their entire strength.
Even the fox-woman Xun and the wolf-blooded Linda—Michael's cherished companions, valued for their skills in healing, cooking, warmth, and trade—were among them. Clad in new camouflage uniforms, they brandished steel pipes, their presence a testament to the gravity of the situation. Truth be told, Michael was deeply reluctant to involve them; the thought of their faces being scarred in the impending chaotic melee was unbearable. Yet, when they presented their argument—that as members of the community, their duty was unquestionable—he found himself unable to refuse. At the very least,he resolved, they will stay at the rear, with dedicated protectors.
To transport this many people at once, every single operational motor vehicle Michael possessed had been pressed into service. The result was a scene of extreme congestion: interiors were packed tighter than legendary sardine cans, making turning around impossible, and even rooftops were laden with people. From a distance, the convoy resembled an impossibly overloaded train. Yet, the sheer ability to rapidly project a force of over three hundred individuals across the wasteland was, in itself, a staggering display of mobility and logistical power—a fact not lost on Chakra, who watched the unexpectedly large convoy approach with a mixture of shock and covetous desire. Damn it!he thought, With a fleet like that, I could be the undisputed ruler for hundreds of miles, able to crush any settlement that displeased me.
As Michael's group advanced, Chakra's own forces assembled outside the mining outpost. Thanks to losses suffered in the previous skirmish, Soru Town's contingent now numbered only around two hundred and seventy men. While Sweetwater Gulch had a numerical advantage, it consisted of only a few dozen extra individuals—all of them women. On the surface, Michael's edge seemed negligible, and thus, both leaders harbored confidence in their impending victory.
Finally, at a distance of about two hundred meters—well within effective rifle range—Michael slammed on the brakes, bringing the advance to a halt and initiating a tense standoff. Dozens of rifles were raised on both sides, their barrels aimed menacingly across the divide. Yet, for the moment, not a single shot was fired. During the journey, the seasoned Old Gimpy had explained the seemingly absurd but pragmatically sound convention governing conflicts between settlements: in large-scale clashes involving hundreds, firearms were rarely used to their full potential. Even bows, blades, and other lethal weapons were often set aside in favor of clubs and blunt instruments. The reason was simple and grim: both leaders feared that devastating losses would leave their settlements vulnerable to the roving bands of raiders—the wolves of the wasteland—who constantly watched for weakness. Compared to inter-settlement squabbles, the safety of their homes and the foundations of their rule were paramount.
After considering this seemingly ridiculous but ultimately logical custom, Michael decided to adhere to it. After all, while he had plenty of guns, his ammunition was scarce, rendering them little more than clubs in a prolonged fight. A no-holds-barred bloodbath was not what the prospering Sweetwater Gulch needed. Thus, the stage was set for a brawl reminiscent of two rival mine owners clashing over a coal seam.
Even while agreeing to play by these farcical rules, the young Michael remained confident he could make Soru Town pay a heavy price. That bastard Chakra would be lucky to escape with his life, or at the very least, crippled. As Little Knife might say, "That's my word, and not even Jesus can save him today." For beneath their uniforms, Michael's people wore the stab-proof vests he had procured earlier.
Following the classic pre-fight protocol of such confrontations, a war of words ensued—a ritual to claim righteousness, boost morale, and signal the true start of hostilities.
Perched on the shoulders of a tall half-barbarian to compensate for his own diminutive stature, the less-than-140-centimeters-tall Chakra initiated the verbal assault, his voice booming from within his thick beard: "Harry Potter Michael! This land belongs to Soru Town! If you want to dig coal here, you need our permission! Turn around and crawl back with your rabble if you want to live! We hold eight of your people captive. Hand over two hundred—no, five hundred liters of diesel, and I might let them go!"
A look of utter contempt flashed in Michael's eyes. A shouting match?As a former salesman who had relied on his wits and words, this was familiar territory. While he couldn't match the volume of the rotund dwarf, he possessed a secret weapon. Unclipping a battery-powered megaphone from his belt, he pressed the button. After a customary "Testing, one, two,"his amplified voice, clear and cutting, retorted with greater force:
"Bullshit! How can land this far from Soru Town be yours? Have you no shame? By the law of the wasteland, possession belongs to those who hold it! Release my men immediately! Furthermore, hand over at least thirty of the thugs who injured my people and compensate Sweetwater Gulch for its losses! Then, we can talk."
Soon, subordinates on both sides joined the fray, hurling creative insults, particularly those starting with the letter 'F', toward each other's female and even male relatives. Sweetwater Gulch held a distinct advantage here, thanks to its several dozen female comrades, whose verbal prowess far outstripped that of their all-male opponents.
But in the wasteland, words alone never settled anything. After the cacophony of mutual vilification reached its peak, the leaders bellowed the command, and the two sides surged forward.
Wielding steel pipes, wooden clubs, and mining tools, the opposing forces charged toward each other with furious shouts. It was at this precise moment that Michael, before joining the charge himself, yelled a specific order: "Zack! Now! Remember—hammer that bastard Chakra into the ground!"
BAM!
The rear doors of the small truck, which had been slightly ajar, were violently thrown open from within. Out leaped the Ogre Commander, Zack. A fully developed horn protruded from his forehead, and his chest was protected by a crudely fashioned steel-plate breastplate. In his massive hands, he held a log the size of a small tree trunk. With his weapon and his immense bulk, his total weight exceeded five hundred kilograms.
THUD!
His landing sent a palpable tremor through the earth.
Then, the ogre charged. With powerful, thundering strides from his thick legs, he outpaced the front lines of the charging mob, a living battering ram aimed directly at the heart of the Soru Town formation—and the short figure perched upon a subordinate's shoulders.
Chakra's eyes widened in disbelief and fury as he saw the mountain of muscle and rage bearing down on him. Cheating! This is blatant cheating!The thought screamed in his mind. But there was no time for protest. As Zack closed the distance, Chakra, a fourth-level warrior, reacted with instinct honed by battle. He abandoned his "mount," leaping backward with surprising agility for his stout frame, simultaneously swinging his signature heavy war hammer in a desperate, upward arc to block the ogre's crushing blow.
The collision was not of metal on wood, but like two freight trains meeting head-on. A deafening, bone-jarring CRACKsplit the air, followed by a shockwave of dust and splinters.
"Aargh!"
Chakra's battle cry turned into a strangled gasp of pain. The force transmitted through his hammer was unimaginable, shattering his grip and sending the weapon flying from his numbed hands. The residual impact slammed into his hastily crossed arms and chest.
CRUNCH.
The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable.
In the next instant, before the horrified eyes of both armies, Chakra Bibo, the chieftain of Soru Town, was hurled backward through the air. His short, stout body described a high, helpless arc before crashing down heavily into the ranks of his own men over ten meters away, leaving a cloud of dust and a chorus of startled cries in his wake.