Chapter 175
Chapter 175
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 175
Chapter Title: Chapter 10 Lead and Silver Coins (29)
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The easiest criterion for distinguishing victory from defeat in battle? I'd put order at the top of the list, hands down.
As the fight intensifies and one side starts gaining the upper hand, chaos inevitably creeps into the losing army.
A quick glance—if one side is holding formation while the other isn't—the organized side is winning. Simple as that.
In that sense, the battlefield right now was a bizarre scene where victory and defeat coexisted.
Kwaaaang!
“Plasma charge, 7 seconds!”
“Suppression squad, discharging!”
Pajijijik!
“Kwaaaagh!”
“Grrrrk, gaaaak!”
Electromagnetic nets and plasma ejectors. Followed by precision shots on neutralized enemies.
On one side, trained soldiers meshed together like clockwork, literally grinding the mutants into paste.
Kwaruruk, kwaduk! Uduk!
“Don’t approach! It’s an Abomination type!”
“Damn it, who the hell’s using a standard shield instead of bubble? I told you guys a million times—the thing absorbs corpses into its exoskeleton, so no high-defense shields!”
“Uwaaaak! Get it off me, get it off! Manny, Sergeant Manny! Aaaak!”
“Summers, you bastard, watch your feet... I told you, you idiot!!!”
Tang!
On the other side, the Artist Alliance’s Type-3 mutants—thrown in to break the lines—were rampaging, sowing chaos.
Similar to the Abominations I’d seen in the 45th District basement months ago, but these devoured everything around them in real-time, embedding it alive into their outer shells.
Wearing restraint suits and gas masks for suppression, they induced claustrophobia in anyone who got close, making them rip off their masks.
And then...
Taaang—
“Ukkeuk!”
“Sniper! Heads down! Down, I said!”
“It’s not us! The main line’s ejector got hit! They’re... targeting our gear!”
Sniping that struck without fail whenever a gap appeared.
The Professor admitted his miscalculation. He’d thought Dome’s garrison defenses would handle the enemy assault with ease, but their breakthrough power far exceeded expectations.
‘The situation... is worse than I thought. At this rate, we’ll just get pummeled into oblivion.’
Even as he sniped three mutants scaling the defensive walls, his eyes ceaselessly scanned the battlefield.
‘Commanders are missing. Ambushed?’
‘Three Type-3s breaching: Abomination, Restraint Suit, and one that hit the command tent.’
‘Restoring order in our ranks is the win condition. Get the lines running by the manual like the Type-3-free sectors, and our army’s true strength will shine—combat power multiplies several times over.’
‘Take out their elites. Whoever it is, as fast as possible!’
Priorities were clear.
‘Abomination forcing bubble shields that peel off under light hits. Restraint Suit ripping off gas masks to drop chem protection—exposing us to that smoke. Command tent hit to cripple the chain of command. Sniper freezing our movements. Every tactic maximizes our chaos. They know it too. How unstoppable Dome’s army becomes when it’s firing on all cylinders!’
Vanguards expose us to smoke, berserk soldiers shatter formations, and snipers neutralize key units or gear amid the escalating disorder.
A strategy laser-focused on the vicious cycle of chaos. Fighting here plays right into their hands, so we hit their weak spots.
I can’t go. If their ranged team crumbles, we need command units to restore order and issue situation-specific orders.
Vex can’t either. The guy’s already dashing around like a madman, plugging breaches—if he pulls out, some line will collapse hard. Somehow, he’s a step ahead of me, shoring up holes, barely holding multiple defenses together.
“Ian. Ezell. Can you do it?”
“Keuhuhuhu. When have I ever done it because I could? I do it because I have to.”
A plume of smoke burst from his mask—probably puffing a cig inside the skin mask—like a snort.
BDSM armored truck maxed for penetration via all sorts of hacks, loaded with Ezell’s exosuit.
With army-level firepower tied down, these two are our strongest ace.
“...Plasma charge complete. I must reiterate: firing now means a sniper shot before we can reactivate stealth. If we lose three more high-output assets, the line won’t...”
“Clear a path for the truck—full power. No choice. Sergeant.”
“...Lieutenant. Firing on count. Watch for backblast.”
He buttoned his sergeant-patched uniform and barked orders to the gear operators.
A noncom—or low officer—holding the line in place of the MIA brass.
He knows it too: the moment stealth fails under plasma backwash, he becomes sniper priority one. That’s why the low-rank uniform. Partly self-preservation, but mostly because he grasps how critical his spot is—hiding desperately to keep commands flowing.
In that context, I ordered gear use at the cost of stealth. He accepted.
He’d already weighed his life and judged one plasma volley worth more than his exposure.
No words exchanged. Just eye contact, then back to tasks.
Gring, grrung! Putputputputput—
“Count 10. 9. 8. 7—”
“Finish quick and get back. Damage here’s beyond repair already. Even if you clear their rear, pushing mutants back won’t be easy.”
“Half-dead cripples and basement-dwelling virgins? Piece of cake. Be right back.”
“...You’ve been their punching bag for days straight.”
“Keuhuhuhu! That’s why it’ll be even better, right? We took the hits—now we dish ’em out. Don’t chicken out. Ezell.”
Silly banter easing battle tension.
“6. 5. 4—”
“...Khrng. Hey, one thing before we go, Prof.”
“What. Scared? Too late to back out.”
“Nah, not that. That, uh... you know... sending us off... knowing...?”
Uncharacteristically fumbling his words.
Even talking to me, Ian’s eyes fixed on the enemy hill. Not his usual psycho glare—thoughtful. Like something other than death lay between us and them.
On the battlefield, that’s called ‘the look of death.’
“Cut the crap and fight the war like it’s war. Never seen a sentimental bastard come back intact.”
“...Fine. Save the sentiment for after.”
“M-me too, just one thing! If I die, all my stuff goes to the 47th District chatroom...”
What a clown.
“...Bring Ezell back alive too, if you can.”
“Keuhuhuhu. Who knows? By sentimental death rates, he’s already a corpse.”
“Ha, one more! Tell Tteokkeolruk and Noru: the world’s shittiest retards, but lovable ones—”
“3. 2. 1. Plasma, fire.”
Jijik—jijijik, wiiiing—!
Puhwaaaaaak!!!
Kkiiigiiik—! Graaaang!
“Uwak! Damn it! Warn a guy before takeoff!”
“Keep yapping and I’ll bite your tongue off! Cherry! Grab something in the bed!”
“Ah, not yet! Road’s molten! Let the residual heat cool before—”
“These are metal tires! Cold out, warm road—perfect!”
Endlessly superheated plasma via particle acceleration swept the field, and the turret- and sawblade-armed truck scraped into the clearing on molten pavement.
I wanted to watch them punch through the encirclement, but no time to breathe. I had my own job here.
“Soldiers sent to the command tent—returned? Thought most vehicle crews went there with the broadcast.”
“None yet, sir.”
The Professor cocked his head back. Dead silent garrison core—no gunfire. If fighting, there’d be noise. If not, they’d be safe and back.
“...Understood.”
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
Soldiers straining to widen the truck’s gap. A quick salute to their LT, then I bolted opposite—garrison interior.
An indescribable chill. Variant arm and torso buzzing sharply. Calling me.
Not instinct or deduction—a clear sensation. New, beyond human senses.
Not mood—physical change.
‘Arm. Chest and back. Next... head? Damn virus. Hoped it’d go downward.’
Running with the group, I hadn’t noticed, but my sprint across the garrison crushed my old max speed.
Change. Craved but unwanted, accelerating beyond my will.
‘Tsk. Feels like I’m veering full post-human.’
[Because you accepted it inwardly. Control handover, rapid mutation—all surface-level my will, but root changes follow your inner shift. Like paying a life-debt by yielding body control. What’re you thinking? Our top priority’s ‘survival,’ right? Life’s core. Survive. By any means.]
Hyd’s worried gripe. Familiar feel, I powered my legs—vaulted two tents mid-stride. Damn, interior’s worse. Legs don’t shatter under power. Looks normal, but internals reworked. Time left might be shorter than thought. No year-long wait.
‘People change. Busy year—guess I did too.’
Ears full of ashen wind and battlefield din. Smoke and fire. Shredded, crumpled combat vehicles. They went hard.
Chwaak!
Landed before the tent—resonance intensified. Presence from half-collapsed interior.
[It knows you’re here.]
‘After that racket.’
[Not a solo fight. No battle traces nearby? All its work.]
‘Yeah. Why drop here? Could’ve rolled the line with the others—wiped us out.’
[Get it? It’s waiting for us.]
‘I know, man. Threat. Won’t move—hits our shaky rear instead.’
Across eras, command posts are safest: massive defenses.
Command shields rivaling tank output.
Core of 47th Support Army’s vehicle pool.
Veteran sentries 24/7.
Yet one mutant silenced it.
Proof of its power.
‘Guy I’d been watching vanished—worried me. Here you are.’
Sliced alloy combat vehicle frames clean, claw marks scarring ground.
Dozens of distress signals from 41st to rad zone—sharp traces left.
No blood: no fight. Traces were agony from Orpheus mutations, and claws neutralizing shelter shields in one hit.
“Waiting inside, huh...”
Like challenging to a duel—endlessly taunting, exposing position.
Intact-front combat vehicle nearby.
Pristine MG, mags full—gunners sniped pre-fire.
“Expecting a fancy duel? Hate to disappoint.”
Screwing enemies is my way.
Chil-keok!
Aimed at presence, Professor squeezed.
Tukwakwakwakwa-kok!
Visceral roar unlike rifles. Laser-like speed.
Torn, scorched tent shredded in the barrage—contents pulverized traceless.
“...Late to the invite, now skipping greetings for appetizers. Youth? Or bad manners?”
One exception: initial presence spot.
Old man. More precisely, old soldier. Perched on a mound of mangled corpses.
Faded uniform. Cracked, holed helmet. Half-loosed boots, scorched antique firearm.
Sun-leathered face taut despite deep wrinkles.
Drip. Drip.
Held a bisected corpse—familiar, this sector’s top commander. Top-tier shield auto-deployed on projectiles; old man blocked the MG storm easy.
“Even if senile, bad taste’s foul, gramps.”
“Should’ve come when called. Waited so long, got bored—broke all the toys. Heh, like that Wanderer said, didn’t wanna move, so half-assed it.”
Shield power died; tossed commander like trash.
“Waited for me...? Why?”
“Hmm. Old man’s curiosity? Saw you a bit. Through our lady’s eyes. Your streams too. Boiled my blood. Rare talent—fine claws on that young buck. Rewatched your vids endlessly.”
“In this world! A viewer! Damn stalker? No fan meets like this. Especially not you gamer trash blurring chars and players. Char’s a char—I’m real-life Professor Park, you psycho.”
“Hahahahaha! Know ‘needle in the bag’? No hiding it. I’m a monster born from the soul’s depths—see it clear. Wolf. Alpha wolf. Can’t stand it. Wanna rip every claw, last fang!”
Old soldier rose. One hand shouldered rifle aim, other drew broken greatsword from thigh—knife-fight stance.
“Appetizers stuffed me. Time for the main course?”
“21st-century duel? Past quaint—reeks of rot.”
“Masterpieces gain value with age. By that, you accepting this old-timer’s date makes you just as outdated, no?”
“You’d trash the world if refused.”
Vision blurred. Old man’s weapons deflected. Somehow, not human—four-legged beast. Deep-mountain starved tiger vibe.
“Ahh. Nostalgic. Old memories. Excitement. Terror. Quadruped hills, biped grunt—great stuff making me. Old souls, new soul—worlds apart, but law of jungle eternal.”
Kwadeuduk, kuk!
Black carapace and hook-claws erupted from arms.
Sgrk. Seugeok—
Delighted grin, old man’s body grotesquely swelled.
Blood-scent savoring, he crouched lower.
“Tiger Buru. Crave life tasted by your claws.”
“Talking tiger. Zoo’d make bank!”
Kwajik!
Pabak!
Exploration done, Professor charged—old man blitzed like lightning.
Knew whole body variant-equivalent, but extent unknown.
‘Power sense known. Full throttle... till body bursts!’
Kwaeeek!
Sugaak!
.
.
.
.
.
Kka—aaaaang!!!!!
Professor’s overhead left arm clashed old man’s wind-ripping strike.
Tuhwaak!
Unhuman metallic clang and shock.
Chilkeok—tang!
Pre-dissipated arm-shock, follow-up shot—old man flicked barrel with boot.
“Such... no savoring aftertaste? Stroke I craved to linger.”
“Ptoo! Die, and I’ll give five minutes graveside.”
“Huhuhuhu. Brat... perish!”
Professor spat pooled blood; old man’s smile deepened.
Kwaaak!
Variant claws clashed anew.
‘Losing. This monster—surviving’s tough!’
Professor clearly saw his death approaching.
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