Chapter 515
Chapter 515
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 24
Chapter Title: The Greatest Creditor (5)
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****
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shotgun shells, having served their purpose, sliced crudely through the air amid the rough bursts of gunfire.
“Desmondt bro! There’s too many enemies! Every last one of ‘em is a suicide bomber!”
“It ain’t just cyborg grunts!! These bastards rounded up people while we couldn’t see ‘em, swarming the upper levels of Sector 47! Looks like they scooped up every refugee heading south to escape the radiation!”
One of the BDSM squad members screamed it out, drenched head to toe in blood. Not his own, but the remnants of humans exploding right in front of him.
“Kah—ptui! They might just look the part, but every one’s got some cheap-ass mods. Can’t tell the real-deal cyborgs from the dummy meat shields, so we gotta dump firepower blindly. We can’t punch through like this. We’re already getting pushed back, boss.”
“You’re awfully chatty for once, Budram.”
-Kachunk.
Whoosh!
In response to his blood-soaked subordinate’s report, Ian lobbed a grenade over the cover. The moment his hand briefly peeked out, aimed shots poured down, sparking wildly off the armored truck’s plating.
“If Bex hadn’t dragged those front-liners back one by one, half of us would’ve been goners already. When the hell are those main force assholes gonna get their heavy asses moving? Didn’t they say we had some game-changer?”
“Quit your bitching, you punk. The Professor and main force are eating all the artillery fire, that’s why we can hunker behind this armored truck and even fight back.”
“...Cut me some slack. One of those guys who yapped in my ear every day is smeared all over me right now.”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Thanks to top-tier mutant tech gear, killer teamwork, and battle-hardened experience against Type 3 mutants, they’d pushed this far. But now they’d hit their limit. Just over two hundred meters from the Raptor Nest, Ian and BDSM had to admit they couldn’t flank it with their own strength alone.
‘Shouldn’t have agreed to the Professor’s reckless plan.’
Even now, beyond the makeshift barricade, he could hear the wet thuds of human Cremoa bursting, scattering bone fragments. But at the Nest’s front, the artillery barrages—hundreds of rounds per second—were shaking the ground.
That lunatic always planned with self-sacrifice as the baseline. ‘My body’s weird. It’ll work’—who the hell throws themselves at hundreds of tanks for a bullshit reason like that?
Ian and BDSM were at the bleeding edge of mutant combat, so they knew mutants inside and out.
‘Freaky as they are, they’re still just creatures.’
Fire-breathing mutants? Cool, but blow their heads off and they drop. Slice their guts open, and you’ve got innards, digestive tracts, the works. Even the freakishly tough ‘mutant Professor’ was still flesh and blood. Sooner or later, he’d hit the limits of his biology and end up just another pile of meat on the battlefield.
“Goddamn it, the Young Commander was right—we should’ve just blown the spaceship when it lifted off. You sure we can take that thing before it launches?”
“...Ptui.”
Ian spat out a glob mixed with gunpowder grit, irritation flaring.
Truth was, as someone who knew the Raptors’ power better than anyone, Ian should’ve opposed the Professor’s idiotic plan harder than anyone. Success was iffy, sacrifice a sure thing, and in this extreme war, that spaceship was too far-off a goal tied to ‘humanity’s future.’ Commander Ian Desmondt had already clocked the high odds of failure.
And yet, knowing it best, he hadn’t opposed it.
-Kachunk.
Because a single round was still chambered in the Derringer hanging around his neck.
And because, out there in the distance, a familiar silhouette flickered before the emerging spaceship.
“Gustav al-Harb.”
The bastard was there. Not a nightmare, drunken haze, or drug-fueled hallucination—just flesh-and-blood standing on two legs a few hundred meters away.
That was probably why he’d agreed to the Professor’s plan. Commander Ian Desmondt, heartless machine, would’ve shot down this murky op without a second thought. But now? He was Metal Joe. That heart soaked in gunpowder and booze had been pounding wild and furious these past few years, making up for lost time.
“Raptor...!”
Grrrrrind!
Metal Joe’s buy-in on the Professor’s ‘tank-sponge op’ weighed heavy on personal reasons like this. The burning urge to ram a bullet straight into his enemy’s heart.
And war exacted payment for such emotional bullshit.
Raptor Nest. The walls of this mobile fortress, clustered from wrecked vehicles and tanks, were patched from cars with blown-off roofs and tracks snaped tanks.
Scraaaape, screeeeech—
Among them sat a battered old tank still fit for fixed-gun duty.
Its rusted, pitted barrel struggled to swivel. But Metal Joe, eyes locked on his dying comrades and receding foe, didn’t notice.
-Shiver!
By the time his war-honed instincts screamed, the black maw of the barrel was already trained on him.
Boom!
All Ian could do as it spat fire was boot Budram beside him out of the way.
Screeeeeeeee!
‘...Goddamn it.’
KABOOOM!
Blast. Impact.
The Raptor tank crew’s shot didn’t miss this time either.
Just like long ago, when he’d butchered countless folks with them.
****
Thud. Thruuuuum.
“...Medic! Medic!!!”
Explosion. Blackout.
When consciousness flickered back, the ear-splitting cannon roar had dulled to a distant rumble.
Not because the barrage had eased. His senses for it were just shredded rags.
“Desmondt bro got hit... Tank division... -screwed!”
“Shit, medic! Any medics still alive!!”
Urgent shouts, concrete formwork slabs firing for barricades. The moment he felt hemostatic gel hitting not his chest but deeper in, Ian knew the shell had turned his upper body to mincemeat. Woojin’s latest mutant tech gear couldn’t tank a point-blank tank round.
“You bastards... morphine... gotta... ease up...”
“Bro!”
“Boss!”
“...”
Beyond familiar faces of his men, he saw dark-skinned Budram screaming into the radio. Armored trucks lined up, emergency concrete forms stacked into hasty walls. The makeshift position was packed with comrades in states like his or worse. While he’d been out, Budram had ditched the breakthrough and rallied the rest.
‘...Dumbass. Infantry might hold against this, but it’s suicide against artillery. If you didn’t wanna get pummeled to death, you should’ve forced the breach...’
He wanted to chew out the guy for switching formations without orders, but all that came was ragged breathing—no strength left for even a curse.
‘So this is how I go. Gustav right there within reach. Not even a fingertip’s touch.’
Pain, ringing ears, fading senses—nothing shocking, just as he’d always figured. Maybe a worthless dog’s death suited him. All those he’d killed back in the day went the same way.
“Joe! Me-Metal Joe! H-hey...!”
“Hngh, grrrgh...”
But then, amid his half-eaten ears, a gravelly, stuttering old voice crept in. Ian felt the half-gone world clutching his coattails.
“...The whole... kit ‘n’ caboodle.”
“J-Joe! D-don’t talk! F-focus on... b-breathing—”
“Situation.”
Pathetic, really, but some unexplained ‘irritation’ was what kept him anchored.
Bex’s relieved voice. The short guy caked in enemy and friendly blood alike. That uneasy vibe in his ‘it’s all good now’ tone.
“Why are we alive, hunkered in this turtle formation, with Raptor tanks turning their guns our way?”
“Th-that’s...”
Grab!
“The Professor pulled it off! Raptor tank division’s getting shredded!”
“Boss worked another miracle! If we just mop up their main force—”
KAAAAAA—
The squadmate’s words drowned in a blood-red pillar slicing the night sky.
Even through Ian’s blurring vision, the surreal scene was crystal clear. Blood sprayed from the Professor’s altered form—vaguely familiar—and in its wake lay only horrifically gouged metal husks.
“...That the guy?”
“Yes! Matches the ‘Warlord’ from the footage exactly!”
“That look normal to you?”
“...Huh?”
“Hey, Shortstack. That worth grinning about? You know mutants. Time we’re squatting here like idiots—”
“Cough!”
“D-don’t... talk...!”
Raising his voice ruptured wounds from lung pressure. Agony hit, but it snapped him alert.
‘Wounds he shouldn’t be surviving.’
Only then did Ian notice the massive syringe in his arm wasn’t morphine.
“Revival Kit. That thing from back then?”
“Y-yeah, one left. Sector 47... I s-survived thanks to it...”
“Right. Saved your ass when your side was half-blown off.”
Rustle—
“Then I won’t drop dead right away even if I move some.”
“N-no! M-moving’ll burst the protein sealant—”
Smack!
What flew at Bex reaching for his cratered chest was Ian’s gorilla grip of a fist.
The weakened punch was easily blocked, but Bex looked shocked he’d swung at all.
“Shut your trap, Bex.”
“Bro! Damn it, side effects from the Revival Kit doping?”
“You shut it too, Budram. You’re the morons I hand-picked, but today’s the most disappointing shitshow. Can’t even close my eyes, it pisses me off that bad.”
“Fuck, if you’re gonna ramble on drugs, just stay down—”
“That look normal to you? That! You know Type 3 mutants better than anyone, and you’re squatting here thinking ‘We’re good! Professor’s got it!’? That make any goddamn sense!”
Blood welled in his throat again, but Ian swallowed it through sheer spite. Bex and Budram wouldn’t meet his eyes, like they suspected.
“Buncha hopeless idiots!”
That pissed him off more.
“Mutants are still just critters, right? We’ve confirmed it blowing ‘em up, slicing ‘em, stabbing ‘em, dismantling ‘em! Flesh and bone, no matter the mystery science bullshit! You know damn well what happens when that meat-beams indiscriminately, and you know and...!”
Grrrrrind!
Even now, another red barrage split the battlefield. Raptor artillery noticeably thinned, but so did the Professor’s form.
Now far from humanoid monster, his body sprouted massive crystalline chunks.
What, there’s a cure? Get there before full mutation?
Bullshit. If that could revert him, it could reassemble humans run through a centrifuge.
‘That moron gave up everything.’
No other way to see it. The Professor ignored all warnings, pushed too far, and these guys just watched cheering ‘Professor’ll handle it!’
“Cough! Morons, halfwits, pipsqueaks, dumbfucks, dogshit assholes...”
“...C-calm down, Joe.”
-Kachunk!
He shoved off the restraining Bex and snatched the rifle leaning by his cot.
“Just watch him end the war for you? When he wrecked the tanks, you should’ve exploited the gap and pushed.”
“Joe, Metal Joe, p-please... calm... down!”
“Calm? Fuck calm! You gonna twiddle thumbs here hoping the Professor wraps it up? Then what? Enshrine his overgrown crystal ass in a war museum, coo ‘Thanks for the memories, buddy’? Epic hero biography for Great Professor, statues everywhere?”
“Spare me, Bex. If it comes to that, I’ll kneel before Dana-Yang and eat a bullet to my temple as atonement. Rather croak here than that.”
“I-I know! L-leave him like that, and H-Hepburn... won’t come back!”
Bullshit. If you know, quit sitting here.
Ian snorted, slinging a nearby ammo belt.
“H-ha, but if we move without p-planning, H-Hepburn lives but you d-die!!”
“...Joe! Y-you’re hurt way worse than you think. Th-that body can’t do sh-shit.”
Sliiiide, rattle!
Ammo belt over his shoulder, but with flesh chunks gone, no purchase—it slipped off.
Bex’s eyes met his: uneasy, but firmer than Ian expected.
“I-I’m not the old Bex. N-no more obsessing over H-Hepburn like a psycho, ignoring everything else.”
“E-everything’s precious. S-saved you from dying first. Saved BDSM bros dying on the field. N-now, go s-save ‘maybe-dying-soon’ Hepburn.”
“...You?”
“Y-yeah. Me. That’s the order.”
Only then could Ian take in Bex’s state. His usual pocket-heavy poncho bulged with mutant tech consumables, no empty space.
Like a soldier wrapped in belts and bombs, marching to war.
“Th-this defensive spot’s shredding their infantry fine. T-tank unit’s down thanks to Professor. Once their defenses thin—”
“Charge in, take the brass’s heads. That it?”
“...What I’m good at.”
Short stature bearing near 40kg of gear, Bex’s face set resolute.
“...Hah.”
Watching him, Ian felt blood drain from his head.
‘Only this guy. The one not swept up in war’s madness.’
Professor lived lost in his ideals, hurling himself at them again.
Himself? Proclaimed Metal Joe, yet swayed by Desmondt memories, got sloppy—paid with his upper body shredded, propped by drugs and hormones.
Only Bex stayed centered. Clear thoughts, sharp calls, max effort in chaos.
The BDSM squad sprawled in the position? Bex dragged them from every corner, even rear. Stuck the Revival Kit he always carried into half-dead Ian? Bex. Next up: ‘Professor’s got a bit before full mutation’—prepping to storm Nest center.
Felt like the kid he dragged everywhere had grown up overnight.
“...Kuhahaha. This why you gotta check out women proper—cough! Met that bunny girl, and bam, you changed.”
“Q-quit bullshitting and l-lie down like a patient. N-no treatment in hours, you’re dead...!”
Yeah. Mid-20s still. A dozen years younger than him, unhardened youth.
“Fine. Trust you with it, so light my cig before you go. Shoulder’s fucked, arm won’t lift.”
Such thoughts as he mouthed a cig. Bex, somewhat relieved, flicked his brass lighter.
Click click
Fwoosh—
“Hey hey, closer. Bend over and my guts spill.”
“D-don’t get cocky looking away and g—!”
Zzzzzzap!
As Bex leaned innocently to light it, the stun gun hidden in Ian’s sleeve zapped his nape.
-Thud.
“...Yeah. Look away, get got.”
In that instant, Bex’s grip on Ian’s wrist slackened, face baffled as he crumpled.
“Bro! Why’d you stun Bex bro...! You nuts?”
“Budram, check this. Packed heavy, huh. Little shit.”
“That?”
“Kid stuffed his poncho with it. No way infiltration-suicide fits a Kangshan spread bomb, right? Lightweight’s his thing—skips the enviro suit.”
Ian had glimpsed the silhouette in the poncho. Anyone else might miss it, but not him, who’d R&D’d with Old Man Woojin.
“Not survival infiltration. This punk had Middle East terrorist ideas.”
“Bex bro was gonna storm the Nest and take us all out?”
“Pretty much. Young punks pick up bad habits hanging with assholes.”
Sizzle, sssss—
Ian toed the downed Bex, grabbed an armor plate, slapped it over his flayed gut, and duct-taped it tight. Bound explosives filled every nook of its pouches, of course.
“For suicide? No living soul beats me at it.”
“Bro!”
“Stay put. Bex is a CQC monster, had to trick him, but you? I’d smoke you like this.”
“But bro, your condition—”
“Two hours minimum from these drugs, no matter what.”
Kuhahaha—laughter leaked from his slack jaw.
Yeah, this. Life as Metal Joe, not Ian Desmondt. Past clung like dried crud, shook him awhile.
Rattle, rattle—
Kachunk!
Bombs and powder. Bullets and cig smoke. That defined his remaining days, didn’t it?
“Bex... picked the wrong path.”
“Medevac or some shit, he’d outshine 14th Special Ops.”
Add buddies who grin like idiots at each other’s faces.
“Really going like that?”
“Yeah. Before the Professor turns ‘mystery meat blob,’ someone’s gotta flip that steel fort.”
“Th-then lemme go! I’m fitter than you, move better than most! Pay back saving my scavenger ass from a gut-shot croak—gimme that! Now!”
“Dream on. You’re a million years from replacing me. Stay down.”
“Bro!”
“Taking the least beat-up armored truck. If Bex could slip in, ramming with wheels should work. You lead the wounded back.”
Budram yapped more, but with one eardrum burst from shells, Ian didn’t catch it turning away.
“All you fuckers chasing skirts. About time.”
Click! Rumble ruuuum—
“Gonna see my wife.”
VROOOOM!
The modded truck’s engine roared beastly, eight wheels gouging dirt as the heavy beast charged.
Crunch!
Bursting through shell-torn concrete forms, the battlefield spread—near ceasefire.
Professor looked tapped out to anyone.
Raptor tank wall like Swiss cheese, holes everywhere, precarious.
Ian, feeling his cooling core temp, jaunty-radioed with cig to lips.
Tsssh—
[Channel-1. Metal Joe. Main force, you set?]
[Don’t make me say it—gear not locked, I’ll swerve and flatten you first.]
Tsssh—
[M-main force, comms tech Ali Wilson. Channel-1... Ian Desmondt, sir?]
Greenhorn on radio meant heavy losses. Rough over there too.
[Y-yeah, gear’s positioned, but signal beacon ate a shell. Emergency fix, but might have offset...]
Tsssh—
[Perfect. I’ll cover. Moving BDSM beacon to target center. Main force, just hold your gear.]
Tsssh—
[Confirm... wind! Comms unstable—]
Click!
“Confirm my ass. You heard.”
Main force gear ready? Good enough.
Rummaging glovebox, Ian found it and grinned.
“Gotta have this.”
Click!
Whoseever shades, but they fit perfect.
Fresh cig to lips, beloved triple-barrel shotgun shotgun beside.
Upper body near-gone? Stuffed with armor plate, rounds, explosives.
“Metal Joe’s last drive demands this!!”
Bitter haze of exhaust and smoke shook his skull with the bucking ride.
Eyes locked on the man brazenly surveying the field before the spaceship. Ian didn’t repeat mistakes. No distractions.
Gustav al-Harb. Nothing else registered.
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