An Army Prepared with Resolve, Supplies, and Strategy is Bound to Victory - 2
"...Hm?"
Bill, the branch leader of the Devil's Descendants, felt a vague unease and sat up in bed. The light was on. He immediately felt irritated.
"Urgh..."
The naked woman beside him stirred. It didn't seem like she had turned on the light.
"B-Boss—"
Two men knelt before him. That alone soured Bill's mood.
"Hah."
He grabbed the pistol from beside his bed and blew the head off the less important-looking of the two men. The gunshot echoed, instantly filling the room with chaos. Blood sprayed, and the headless body crumpled limply.
"Kyaa! Kyaaaaaa!"
"Don't scream right next to me. It's annoying."
"B-But a man just died—"
"Bullshit."
She was a decent woman, but to Bill, she wasn't irreplaceable. In the outlaw life, opportunities to toy with empty-headed whores or tough "ladies" were a dime a dozen.
Another gunshot rang out. The pistol in his hand obliterated the head of the woman who had shared his bed the night before.
"Report."
The man, terrified after witnessing two deaths in an instant, stammered as he spoke.
"A-A-Attack."
"Those damn bastards show up at night again. Who is it? How big is the enemy force?"
He'd had a vague premonition when someone woke him in the dead of night. He hated having his sleep interrupted, and his subordinates knew it well. They wouldn't call him unless it was a raid, rebellion, or escaped prisoners or slaves—something serious.
"W-We don't know!"
Bill scowled deeply.
"Ah... This is a problem one head won't solve. Your superior didn't say anything?"
In wasteland battles, survival trumped victory. No matter how strong an organization or faction, they couldn't win every fight on this vast land. Even against a larger, stronger enemy group, if the force right in front of you was weak, you bit hard. Even a ragtag militia of villagers—if they outnumbered you and had better weapons—had to be yielded to.
Thus, gauging the enemy's size, faction, and organization name was one of the most crucial elements in combat.
"I-It was deep night... They didn't announce themselves..."
"Fine. How's the battle going?"
"Contact lost with the outer sentries. Now, fighting's at the outer wall!"
"Not good."
This outpost was built in a basin. Strictly speaking, it wasn't ideal defensive terrain. They had sturdy outer walls, but invaders could position on nearby ridges and snipe the wall guards instead of shooting blindly from below.
Hmm...
It was uncomfortable, but unavoidable. The Devil's Descendants' branches typically set up in basins like this, and the terrain had clear advantages. In this wasteland, there were often enemies you absolutely could not defeat. Blocking winnable foes was important, but more vital was avoiding detection by the unbeatable ones.
Building a branch in the wasteland made you conspicuous. Raiders openly displaying bases was more loss than gain. Once location was exposed, defense got tricky.
"Fine. Don't move. Gather everyone with a gun. Whoever it is, we'll sweep 'em away."
But failing to use high ground didn't mean surrendering all defender advantages. They had cover; the enemy probably didn't.
"Sneaking in like rats at night... Probably not proper foes anyway."
Night raids always brought variables. For the strong, maintaining morale was key. Every soldier needed to see with their own eyes that their side had the edge, that fighting bravely beat running.
So, no force stronger than the Devil's Descendants would bother with a night raid. Even if they did, they'd storm the base outright, not snipe from afar.
"Let's go."
Bill flashed a sinister grin.
/////
Unlike Bill's leisurely expression, the outer wall sentry post was in dire straits.
"Damn it, what are you standing around for? Shoot! Fire!"
The enemy kept pouring bullets relentlessly. Plenty of raiders manned the wall, yet they couldn't withstand the onslaught.
"Get up! Get—damn it."
The guard captain, berating his men, realized he was yelling at a corpse. The smell of blood hung in the air. A soldier shot in the chest couldn't rise and shoot.
"Aaaah! My shoulder, my shoulder... It's burning!"
"Quit whining and get up!"
It wasn't just that. The enemy's attacks were unnaturally fierce, encircling the raiders from all sides.
"Support! Where's the support?"
"W-We're under attack from all directions! Other areas say they can't spare anyone—gahk!"
A soldier who'd just run up collapsed, bullet in his throat.
"Gunfire... Damn it, from everywhere..."
They couldn't gauge enemy numbers. But it was more than imagined. Allied casualties were mounting alarmingly.
"Move, move damn it! Where's the support—"
A languid yet terrifying voice whispered in the guard captain's ear.
"Incompetent fool."
"B-Boss! Sorry—gahk!"
Bill kicked the guard captain's shin hard.
"I could blow your head off right now, but seeing this mess, maybe I'll give you one chance."
Bill sighed and kicked away their spotlight.
"We can't see them, but they can see us! Raise the light higher or turn it off!"
"N-No light. Without even this dim glow, we can't reload!"
"Then what, do they fight with lights on? Anyway... Where the hell are you shooting?!"
Bill was a cruel, violent raider who'd survived a long time. He had experience and sharp judgment.
"Don't spray everywhere—follow the light! When they shoot, you hear it! Muzzle flash!"
Only after his shout did the panicking soldiers regain sense. As he said, flashes winked intermittently.
"Like this—shoot!"
He mounted his heavy machine gun on the railing and hosed the blinking lights.
"Ur... hahahaha!"
His barrage swept once. Most flashes in that direction vanished.
"See? It works, you idiots!"
Gunfire from that area cut off abruptly moments later.
"A-As expected of the boss!"
"Pinpointing enemies in this darkness. Amazing!"
The surviving raiders praised their leader effusively. A survival tactic. Hidden enemies could kill raiders, but so could the boss upfront. In this group, keeping Bill pleased was key to survival.
"Morons..."
Bill eyed them like bugs, yet their worship gave him a twisted thrill. That thrill was his poison. It made him miss a crucial detail a normal Bill would catch.
The lights vanished first, then the gunfire followed—with a gap far wider than light-speed difference.
/////
"Sector A dummies destroyed."
"Hold for three minutes, then resume attack on that sector. Mind your cover."
While raiders celebrated a frontline victory, the Rangers toyed with them from above.
"Indeed... A highly effective strategy."
Assuming night vision for their side, it was flawless. Rangers had propped "boards with bulbs" as decoys—like Christmas trees—to draw fire. Real attacks used suppressors to hide flash and noise; recorded gunfire blared from decoy zones for confusion.
Combat raged long enough to fell many raiders. Zero patrol casualties.
Enemies targeted visible lights, dense clusters. Natural. In pitch black, shooting invisible foes took guts. Better to aim where even misses might hit others.
Of course, patrols weren't there.
"Keep rattling them. Other sectors' dummies intact?"
"Yes, all safe!"
"Good."
They'd already slain hordes. Foes would gape at the toll. Lawless raiders, unable to see corpse piles in dark, hadn't grasped losses.
His strategy outdid Lisa's expectations. And stronger ops awaited.
"Infiltration team, commence. No more orders. Follow sector leads."
The outer wall was vast. Raider losses heavy, yet unaware.
"Entering."
A grapple hooked the wall. Lisa and five patrols began climbing. This sector was cleared—every soldier a corpse.
They infiltrated carrying speakers with recordings.
Op success ample. Zero friendly losses, raider morale broken. Rangers could withdraw; raiders sidelined months.
But this was that man's plan. Lisa wouldn't waste assets on mere months. Total annihilation.
As he willed, no Devil's Descendants or raiders would dare this area.
"Install. Move to positions."
Lisa and patrols moved. Raider eyes fixed outward, oblivious to intruders inside.
The raiders' end approached.