Chapter 134
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 134
Chapter Title: 13th Floor - Lv. 775 Lava Hammer Assault Brigade (5)
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Units that achieve great feats leave their names behind, even long after their members have crumbled to dust over the ages.
Lava Hammer was one such legendary name.
What was dubbed the Second Fairy War was in truth a clash against an army centered on fairies, but united with diverse races.
The Empire etched it into history as the Age of Glory, never forgetting the Lava Hammer Shock Brigade that had heralded glory's dawn at the vanguard.
That name lived on now as the Assault Brigade.
The surface report arrived like a wail of despair. Paired with a single Exile's name.
Such was the caliber of beings shackled to a single planet, unable to roam the stars.
The ogre Assault Brigade Commander knew the Exile who had once barred the path of a unit bearing that same name.
He existed in the Empire's annals. In the unit's chronicles.
Were he merely a specter of yesteryear, it might be one thing. But Exiles always returned someday.
His emergence during the Brigade Commander's own tenure had been a stroke of fortune.
At least, that's what the Brigade Commander believed.
Greenskins were utterly dead serious when it came to war.
They never twisted history in their records.
This genius of tireless diligence—the ogre Brigade Commander—remembered his school lessons crystal clear.
The Lava Hammer name had been toyed with by that ancient Exile.
Alongside the Great Saintess Merrillis—disaster's other moniker—as the foe who had awakened her.
And as the mastermind who birthed the colossal adversary known as the Federation.
Under the banner of a hammer wreathed in flames.
Now, they would force that fabled enemy to kneel.
The muscular ogre, basking in the peak of physical prowess, growled with savage momentum.
No Greenskin despised war.
He had waited far too long.
His beloved trigger rocket hammer thrummed in sympathy.
Information was a vital element in war. The same held true for battle.
If this were the future of the Earth I once knew, the very concept of assault drops might not exist.
No swords or magic there. Skills honed in the body couldn't be ignored, but their variance wasn't extreme.
In a place like that, the key lay in deploying overwhelming forces at the precise moment and location.
And so, elite fire teams stood ready.
They would plummet into combat at my command.
I anticipated mutual attempts at air support.
Most carrier craft were designed for void combat, though some blueprints catered to atmospheric ops.
My expertise lay in medieval fantasy tech trees—not hyper-advanced futurism.
Magitech apparently drew stark lines between atmospheric and space maneuvers.
All the more so when hefting massive payloads.
Among the raining drop pods gleamed especially colossal ones.
Federation blue in hue, less capsules than armored shells.
Glowing cherry-red from air friction, they boomed earthward—then abruptly decelerated, hovering.
Vast protective plating split and fell away.
A broad, immense hull emerged.
An aerial carrier dispatched from the flagship battling beyond the atmosphere.
No sooner had the carrier steadied than its atmospheric fighters swarmed skyward like angry hornets.
The Empire mirrored the maneuver.
Armored columns poured in from both flanks.
"No bipedal walkers, I see."
"They're wildly inefficient anyway. Efficiency-driven servers often skip 'em entirely."
"Count our blessings. Would've felt downright bizarre."
(Our side did field octopedal walkers, but best ignore that.)
Major Spencer's battalion was built from the ground up for spearhead duty.
Their role: penetration strikes or stubborn holds.
I rode shotgun in the armored infantry battalion's command rig alongside the Major, pressing forward.
Vampire troops ensured a steady blood supply—no issues there.
The Capital God's alliance exported blood to the Federation in bulk.
Thus, the human-scarce Federation stockpiled more human blood than any nation.
Confirming my [Blood Reservoir] brimmed to capacity, I began hunting for a battlefield game-changer.
Vampiric dignity buffed Mind Map skills on display. At Lord rank, buffs maxed out.
Layered with faith multipliers.
The Mind Map I summoned after so long still shimmered in vampires' signature ashen gray laced with faint crimson glow.
Vampires, tied to blood, were frail against the lifeless, dominant over the living.
Species traits amplifying this to extremes: Blood Dominion and blood-forged minion creation.
Potent perks, but voraciously consumptive—with zero buffs to the user herself.
No toughness, no speed for the caster, yet costs balloon exponentially.
Roguelike poison: perfect recipe for died in exile.
Typically reserved for late-game high-level summoner playstyles.
Often specced via [Forgetfulness] into Lord Vampire trees.
But for me, hitting tactical checkboxes was enough—flaws be damned.
Perk of not going Lone Wolf.
Jack-of-all-trades often meant master of none.
Specialized synergies among a crew: that was the truth I'd forged from endless solos.
Besides, with Martial Artist's god-tier DPS focus, racial utility gaps made perfect sense to plug.
My level sat at 242. Beyond 13th Floor norms—hell, kingdom-entry highs.
Yet floor scaling had hit kingdom midgame. Utterly meaningless.
No matter how well you'd grinded, bigger headaches arose, making even levels feel inadequate.
Unspent points? Mostly sunk finishing the MA tree—not abundant.
Largely close-range spellcasting passives.
But Barbaroi Authority carved its own blood-manip route, rivaling racial perks.
This build unleashed true might only with pumped Blood Dominion— a late-game Lord setup.
I blitzed core actives, skipping the passive stack grind entirely.
Absurd for an Exile to wield Barbaroi Authority.
The Labyrinth's balance never accounted for it.
The Blood Lord descends.
Ignoring blood passives, tendrils shot to the map's fringes.
No high-odds skill.
Authority made it trivial.
Faith? Overflowing since becoming champion to billions.
Nothing aids builds like Chaos rerolls in such cases.
I dumped my scant points into mad rerolling.
At last, a golden fruit tinged blood-red manifested.
A golden apple dangling from the spindliest twig, far from my central portrait.
Noob fuckup territory: zero passives, blind rush to apex skills.
Unique Skill [Blood Lord]
Myriad derivatives bloomed from it across the Mind Map.
Exiles meddling in battlefields? Tricky business.
For fitting scales, sure.
I was now peak-optimized for swarm bio-melees.
Hero unit incarnate.
Eyes open: armies thundering toward collision.
No quarter given—total commitment.
Federation forces would feint the clash, kiting for mobility duels.
Tormenting artillery-less Greenskins.
Memories of my godrun eras surfaced.
Strat sims weren't my foe.
I'd never dived deep—just savored campaigns—but the Labyrinth's strat sim was the campaign.
Fun stuff.
Games were for enjoying.
Barrage painted the sky; drop pods streaked like meteors.
Fighters screamed; shelling joined bombing runs.
Orc AA guns spat fire.
Ours etched the heavens in reply.
Empire behemoth airships pressed on, ma-barriers shrugging AA barrages.
A battlefield ripped from illustrations.
The command rig charged relentlessly.
Wind whipped fresh and fierce.
Orbital drops didn't scatter willy-nilly. Precise formations, exact coords.
Trolls and ogres anchored lines; orcs filled gaps.
Rear deployment for stable footing—no enemy-zone dumps.
Trolls shunned launchers, but orcs and ogres embraced them.
Oddity: Empire ran zero artillery.
They fielded tank and APC swarms instead.
Distant peekaboo gunners didn't suit their tastes. Greenskins yearned to charge the foe.
Ogres neared three meters—smaller than trolls, sure, but their rides were monstrous hulks.
Goblins leveraged pint-sized frames.
Mech wars ignored bulk.
Firepower-defined age.
Unless melee, small was no sin.
Goblin tanks and APCs: compact, nimble, blistering speed.
Greenskin armor prioritized slab armor, glorious cannons, gunport clusters.
Gunports no joke—they embraced shooting, but hands-on only.
Federation: sleek, disciplined. Empire: crude, colossal, crushing.
No head-on brawls. Harass with superior mobility, likely range edge.
Hence Major Spencer's doubt on the command rig's enemy plunge.
"Outrageous! Great Warrior! We'd forfeit every tactical edge!"
At first.
Federation prized reason over barbaric frenzy—splintered from Empire, after all.
The mighty Great Warrior charging the heart?
Goblins weighed legends against reality.
[The Goddess of Chaos says: Prove your faith.]
One divine guarantee flipped them to utmost zeal.
"Beheading op! The Goddess decreed victory via oracle! Any dare fear?"
Goddess wills it. Great Warrior affirms.
Goblin brass's doctrines? Obsolete.
Beheadings carried romance: smash command by any means, mop chaff.
Holy spec-ops incarnate!
Logic out—goblins enthralled in a heartbeat.
And under Her gaze? Valor-burn ignited.
Thus, Spencer's battalion morphed from soldiers to frothing zealots.
No death-fearing grunts here. Zealots only.
Charging like some space war game's fanatics.
Vehicles drunk on frenzy.
APC gunners strummed MGs like axes.
Spencer gnawed his lip, honing his blade.
Why a sword, of all things?
But post-kickoff, frenzy tempered.
Drivers held steady.
Spencer's boys led the pack.
First targets, naturally.
Majestic airships choked the cloudless sky.
Vehicles fanned out preemptively.
Major scowled.
Empire's pride pre-space exodus: titanic airships.
Underside gunports—cactus spines—swiveled lazily.
I radioed the planetary assault ship in orbit.
"Request drop support. Anti-airship unit priority."
[Will comply. Transmit coordinates.]
The comms trooper delivered flatly, duty-bound—tremor betraying zeal.
Impressive poise.
My sidelong glance spurred him; enemy airship telemetry beamed up.
[Coordinates locked. Goblin Knights inbound. Glory to Chaos!]
Premium unit.
A speck of fire spat from on high—tinier than the airships.
Sparks swelled, hurtling nearer.
Meteor-drop capsules and troops slammed home in seconds.
Barrier-piercing needle-nose specials embedded in the behemoth.
No gasbags this era—just mana vaults sustaining antigrav rites.
Tech-refined mana resisted ignition.
Leaks vented from breaches, yet the colossus lumbered on.
Internal goblins would jam guns as long as viable, then bail.
Another racket closed in.
Empire's raucous armor emerged beneath the airship's shadow.
Mismatched tank mob, standards be damned.
Sheer mass menaced.
I palmed the portable fusion mana reactor racked aft.
Prepped for personal draw.
Mandatory battalion issue, shockingly.
Never knew where I'd pop.
Personal mana caps out. This: external core.
Prep to summon the new girl.
Mana surged skull-rattling.
Non-bio rite-born, simple to wrangle.
Output? No field-wipe juice.
Fusion endurance spanned centuries, but peak burst lagged.
Nowhere near full Spirit King juice.
Path-clearing? Trivial.
"Sylphid."
Silver dragon materialized atop the command rig.
Strat sim hero units? One-man armies by design.