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Three kilometers outside Merida Town, a convoy of forty-two modified transport trucks rolled across the gravel wasteland, leaving deep tire tracks in their wake.
"Fuck. This road is gonna bounce my soft, sweet little ass to death."
Tax Bro leaned out the passenger side window, raising a pair of binoculars to look at the dusty, grey town on the horizon.
Merida Town was named after the local specialty—a type of black iron ore. The ore didn't contain much promethium, but the associated heavy metals had specific uses in the forging industry.
Eighty years ago, during the reign of the Blaec House, this place had been a small mining settlement. After the house fell, the mineral veins were divided and controlled by several local gangs.
The walls of the town were higher than Red Town's, standing at roughly four meters. They were built from waste rock excavated from the black iron mines. The deep brown surface of the walls actually gleamed faintly under the dark red sunlight of Aurelian IV.
"See that?" Tax Bro spoke into the regional channel, tapping a finger against the barrel of his binoculars. "All those black dots on the wall? Firing ports."
"These bastards turned the wall into a goddamn bunker." White Scars' voice came through from the truck behind him. "Make sense. The black iron ore here might not be high purity, but the reserves are stable. The four major factions might look down on this kind of petty profit, but to these gangs, it's their lifeblood. They'll definitely defend it to the death."
Tax Bro lowered his binoculars and looked back into the truck cab.
Helovia sat in the back seat. Her long white hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and she was clutching a lollipop, taking tiny, careful licks.
"White Scars," Tax Bro lowered his voice over the channel. "Why did Zeke make us bring the little girl along? We're out here to conquer territory and fight a war."
White Scars' reply carried a hint of a smile. "Who knows? Maybe Zeke was worried about leaving her behind."
"But don't underestimate her." He paused, his tone turning serious. "Blood Angel told me this girl's psychic talent is terrifyingly high. If she really lost her temper, even the few of us... tsk, we wouldn't be able to handle it."
Tax Bro turned around and carefully studied Helovia.
Noticing his gaze, the little girl looked up, blinked her green eyes, and gave him a sweet smile.
In that instant, Tax Bro thought of his daughter in the real world.
His daughter was eight years old this year. Every time he came home late from work, she would run up to him smiling exactly like that, holding a small biscuit she got from kindergarten, saying, "Daddy, eat."
Tax Bro's Adam's apple bobbed.
He reached back with a rough, calloused hand and gently ruffled Helovia's hair.
"When we get to work in a bit," Tax Bro's voice softened unconsciously, "you hide in the truck. Don't go anywhere. Remember to keep yourself safe, understand?"
Helovia nodded vigorously, the lollipop twirling in her mouth. "Okay, Uncle!"
She paused, then added, "Teacher Blood Angel said if you guys are in danger, I can help."
"No need." Tax Bro grinned. It was the kind of stubborn grin only a father could wear. "As long as you're safe, we can go all out."
Helovia pouted, muttering softly:
"You guys are the kids... Teacher Blood Angel said you can't judge a person's mental age by their appearance..."
Tax Bro didn't catch what she said, because the channel suddenly exploded.
"Tax Bro! We're at Merida Town! And they've spotted us!"
The shout came from the spotter in the lead truck, [Too Handsome to Live]. "Movement on the wall! They've pulled the alarm!"
Tax Bro brought his binoculars back up.
Sure enough, shadows were scrambling across the walls of Merida Town. The shrill clanging of metal could faintly be heard—makeshift alarm bells fashioned from scrap iron.
Behind several firing ports on the wall, the glint of gun barrels could already be seen.
"Do we need to hail them?" The spotter, [Too Handsome to Live], asked. "Tell them to surrender?"
Tax Bro lowered the binoculars, pushed the door open, and hopped out of the truck.
His movements were crisp and clean. The 1.95-meter brute landed, kicking up only a tiny cloud of dust.
He pulled a rocket launcher out from the back of the truck bed.
It was a homemade contraption built by the Crimson Machina Chapter using parts bought from the shop. The casing was an oil pipe, the propellant was a mix of black powder and potassium nitrate, and the warhead was packed full of scrap iron and nails.
It was crude, but the firepower was no joke.
Tax Bro hoisted the rocket launcher onto his shoulder and spoke to everyone in the channel.
"Why waste our breath talking? They're a bunch of cannibalistic gang bangers. They need to be eradicated."
He took a deep breath. The dry, dusty air of the wasteland filled his lungs.
"Execute the plan!"
"Crimson Strike! Dismount and form up!"
"Crimson Wind! Flank maneuvers!"
The moment the order dropped, all forty-two transport trucks' back doors swung open with a clatter, and the players poured out.
Their movements were rapid, their formations tight. A month of intensive training and real combat experience had molded these ordinary gamers into the very image of a professional military force.
The one thousand two hundred heavy infantry of Crimson Strike formed into three phalanxes at the front.
They wore crude metal plating crafted by the mechanics. They carried heavy machine guns modified from stubbers, standard-issue lasguns, and dozens of them hoisted homemade rocket launchers identical to Tax Bro's.
In the eyes of a 30k Great Crusade-era professional army, these weapons were garbage. But in a ground war against planetary gangs, they were an absolute overwhelming force.
The eight hundred mobile troops of Crimson Wind split into four groups, fanning out toward the left and right flanks.
Their gear was lighter. Many carried lasguns or single-man rocket tubes, their belts lined with frag grenades.
Their mission was to harass the flanks, find weak points in the wall, and rapidly breach the moment the main force blew an opening.
Tax Bro stood at the front of the vanguard phalanx, a rocket launcher on his shoulder, issuing commands over the regional channel.
"Helovia," he said toward the truck. "Close the door and cover your ears."
Inside the cab, Helovia nodded obediently and covered her ears with her small hands, though her eyes remained glued to the crack in the window, watching outside.
Tax Bro turned back to face Merida Town.
The gangs on the wall had completed their initial defensive setup.
Roughly six hundred men were distributed across the firing positions on the wall. The rest were likely on standby inside the town or guarding the other approaches.
A few tattered flags fluttered above the wall. The largest one bore the image of a jagged, black bloody scar—the emblem of the Blood Scar Gang, the dominant faction controlling Merida Town.
"Final confirmation." Tax Bro spoke in the regional channel. "We have two thousand three hundred men. They have roughly three thousand."
"We have fifty-two heavy machine guns, eighty rocket launchers, one thousand seven hundred lasguns. The rest are black-powder rifles and shotguns."
"What do they have?" He paused, then sneered. "No more than eight hundred antique lasguns. A chaotic mess of solid-slug weapons. Maybe a few water-cooled heavy stubbers. Those things need a two-man crew, and you have to fill 'em with water before you can even shoot. No matter how you slice it. Two thousand three hundred against three thousand. The advantage is ours."
Tax Bro raised his left hand and clenched his fist.
Every player held their breath.
"Phase One," Tax Bro's voice boomed through the speakers. "Suppressing fire."
"Heavy machine gun squads! Spread fire at three hundred meters!"
"Rocket squads! Aim for the firing positions on the wall!"
"Open fire!"
"FIRE!!!"
The moment the command dropped, the wasteland was torn apart by the roar of gunfire and artillery.
Fifty-two heavy machine guns roared to life simultaneously, spitting half-meter-long tongues of flame. Ammo belts fed furiously, emptying at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute.
A storm of metal swept toward the walls of Merida Town, sparking wildly and chipping away stone as the bullets slammed into the rock surface.
The gangs on the wall were completely stunned by the sudden, overwhelming firepower.
It wasn't that they hadn't fought before. They fought gang wars, turf battles, and occasionally clashed with passing bandits.
But they had never seen a formation like this.
Tight ranks, unified equipment, and a level of tactical coordination... that belonged to a professional military.
"Take cover! Get the fuck down!"
A man who looked like a boss screamed on the wall, but his voice was entirely drowned out by the gunfire.
The very next second, the rockets launched.
Eighty homemade rocket launchers fired at once. The white smoke from the propellant formed a massive wall of fog in front of the players' formation.
The rockets streaked across the sky, trailing plumes of flame. Their trajectories were wobbly and erratic—that was just the nature of homemade gear.
The Cogboys couldn't help it. Even though most of them had undergone mechanical augmentation, they relied heavily on the System shop.
Without sufficient technical knowledge and properly leveled skill trees, it was incredibly difficult to craft high-precision tech. The fact that they could cobble these things together using scrap knowledge was already impressive.
The blueprints and knowledge required for things like automated artillery tanks and gunships were insanely expensive!
Paul, Tax Bro, and the others had no choice but to try and allocate a bit more of the Imperial Coin budget to subsidize Crimson Machina.
Fortunately, quantity makes up for accuracy.
Out of eighty rockets, over thirty landed directly on or just behind the wall. The rest either veered off into the wasteland or blew up halfway.
But those thirty-plus rockets were more than enough.
Explosions chained together across the top of the wall. The black-powder and scrap-iron warheads possessed terrifying destructive power at close range.
Three heavy stubber emplacements on the wall were completely blown apart, the gunners reduced to a mist of blood and meat.
Rubble and severed limbs rained down like a macabre shower.
"Phase Two!" Tax Bro's voice rang out again. "Crimson Wind! Flank harassment!"
"Crimson Strike! Advance one hundred meters! Establish secondary firing line!"
The players moved.
The flanking units of Crimson Wind sprinted out like cheetahs. They didn't charge the wall directly.
Instead, they skirted the left and right flanks at a distance of three hundred meters, taking potshots at the wall with lasguns and single-man rockets.
It was an incredibly annoying tactic. The effective range of the gangs' solid-slug weapons was only about two hundred and fifty meters. Their lasguns could reach, but with the players moving at high speeds, they were nearly impossible to hit.
Meanwhile, every shot the players fired with their lasguns found a mark.
Forced to split their forces to deal with the flanking fire, the gang's frontal suppression weakened instantly.
The main force of Crimson Strike seized the opportunity to push forward.
One thousand two hundred infantrymen marched in perfect lockstep, the heavy thud of their boots echoing against the gravel.
They fired as they marched, the heavy machine gun barrage maintaining absolute suppression over the wall.
At two hundred meters from the wall, Tax Bro ordered again:
"Halt!"
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