Failing Warrior: Duran Dos 10

Using attack skills came with a much bigger penalty than I'd anticipated. It was like the system was saying you gotta suffer that much to earn the good rewards. As expected, nothing in this world comes easy.

However, non-attack skills had no penalty—or at least, none that showed up in the rank display, so it was negligible. Either way, if it's that minor, I could use them freely.

I didn't just have attack skills. Depending on the situation, I had plenty that were more useful than attacks. Recovery skills like Light Heal or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Light Cure were prime examples.

I couldn't leave out Darkness Radar either. This skill for scanning the surroundings was incredibly useful in battles like this. Especially at night, where it shone even brighter—if used right, I could go on a total rampage.

'Of course, it's not helping right now.'

I ducked my head low and eyed the charging Kyrria troops. They were bayonet-charging with a ferocious, beast-like momentum, and even just counting the visible ones, there were over a thousand.

Plus, they were coming from multiple directions. Their total force probably exceeded two thousand easily. They'd scouted our outpost and planned accordingly, bringing numbers to match our troops.

Backed by air support for their ambush, their morale was sky-high. The battlefield echoes ringing out were mostly theirs.

"Hoo..."

I gripped my N1 Glock tight. Keeping my head down, I pinpointed the positions of the charging enemies. Then I poked the muzzle out from cover and yanked the trigger like lightning.

Bang!

My aim was perfect. I had the Shooting Skill. Hitting moving targets was damn hard for normals, but a breeze for me. And their movements were straight-line predictable.

One Kyrria soldier leading ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the bayonet charge up front went down. But their advance didn't stop.

He was just one among over two thousand. The followers trampled his body as they pushed on. So that's what it meant to march over comrades' corpses.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Firing precise single shots with deadly intent. Every time the N1 Glock's clip emptied, eight more Kyrria soldiers dropped. No misfires in my book. My heart pounded with each one I felled.

"Cover the machine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gunner! Those bastards are targeting the MG!"

They seemed like mindless chargers, but the Kyrria troops had tactics. They focused on neutralizing heavy weapons infantry. Smart call.

"Grenade! Scatter!"

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

The massive battlefield din shook everything. Hard to hear others. First squad scattered into individual fights—pure instinct, no training.

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

"Enemy artillery behind us firing support! Damn it! Watch out!"

The Kyrria forces hadn't just relied on air. Shells rained from artillery range. Unlike airstrikes, their barrages were precise. The regiment outpost's watchtower crumbled; warehouses ignited.

'They're insane. Even their own troops are in the blast zone, but they don't stop.'

It showed how desperate they were to claim Olba Island. I hunkered down. Direct hit without skills? Dead meat.

If I died, I'd respawn at training completion. Back to that shitty transport ship and PT drills.

'Can't die till I set the next save point.'

Save point after this fight. Time to max focus.

(Charge! Sweep the Karil scum!)

(Uwaaaah!)

The Kyrria bastards bayonet-charged with unintelligible roars. The MG gunner barely held them with bursts, but limits showed. Bullets couldn't stop a frenzied mob.

I held my breath, raised the muzzle. Priority: those rushing the MG. Plenty of ammo left.

'Got pre-curved rounds in inventory too.'

Good thing I raided the armory days ago.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Eight frontline Kyrria soldiers dropped. Zero misfires. My bullets were the reaper. Nice level up buzz.

BOOM!

A shell hit next to my warehouse. Side wall collapsed, debris rained on me.

The ground-shaking blast throbbed in my legs. I flattened to dodge shrapnel.

'Too dangerous here.'

Crawled out using training low-crawl. Headed to the MG nest.

"Training officer! Careful!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Rostador covered me. A Kyrria soldier dropping a grenade got nailed; it blew under him. His body shredded, smoke billowed.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

MG gunner Private Fredrick, shoulder wounded, manned the gun one-handed, spraying desperately. I yanked it from him.

"Officer!"

"I got this."

Deep breath, aimed at the charging Kyrria horde. Normally, MGs suppress with crossing fire, creating no-man's-lands.

Form a bullet web infantry can't cross—that's the MG role, so bursts, not full auto, to keep clusters tight.

But not my style. Like a movie super-soldier, absurd strength tamed recoil. Tracked each Kyrria bastard individually, gave 'em lead. Dungeon hunter way.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

MG fire felt worlds better than Glock pops. Semi-auto rifle vs. heavy MG. Kyrria body count dwarfed Glock kills.

(Argh!)

(Can't advance!)

I shredded about 200 frontline Kyrria chargers. Then a message popped up.

God-tier buff. I was a real movie/game protag now.

The cocky approachers hesitated under the MG counterfire.

No matter how fanatic, watching hundreds of comrades mulched pointlessly breeds death fear. Hundreds' sacrifice stalled thousands.

Captain Johnson seized the moment. Hesitation's when you counter.

"Counterattack!"

(Can't retreat! Long live Emperor Cheon-gun!!!)

The brief pause shattered into berserk roars, bayonets thrusting. Mad berserkers.

I mowed ten more frontline. But more swarmed the nest.

(Long live Emperor Cheon-gun!!!)

One trailing tossed a grenade at the nest. I bailed fast.

"Officer!"

Wounded Fredrick reached out. I hauled him.

"Down!"

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

Grenade shards hit my side. Ears rang from the deafening blast. Twenty berserk Kyrria rushed us.

"Damn! Cover fire!"

"Dos corporal and Fredrick private! Shit! No grenades!"

"Rear breached! 3rd Battalion support request!"

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

Kyrria arty kept pounding. Shells near us. Ears burned from noise.

But shrapnel was deadlier. Side stung. Acrid smoke teared eyes.

After a few like this, even I'd turn into a shit gay. Nah, not me.

I clutched throbbing side, stood.

'Light Heal. Light Cure.'

Pain eased. Shallow shrapnel wound—lucky.

(Kill! Kill 'em all! We're winning!)

"Fucking loud assholes!"

I slammed a fist into the lead Kyrria's solar plexus. No soldier beats me in melee. With protag buff, even 100 rounds chambered? Laughable.

"Gimme your blade!"

Snatched a bayoneted rifle, diced charging Kyrria. Some shot while rushing—grazes at worst. Only stray bullets worried me.

Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab!

Slaughtered incoming like a murder machine. Hundreds hyped on war cries hesitated, backed off at my berserker vibe.

(What the hell is that Karil? Like a Warring States samurai...!)

(Shoot! Bullets kill humans!)

(B-bullets aren't hitting!)

(No sniper in our Storm Company hitting that Karil!? Ridiculous! Designated marksmen! One week leave to whoever kills him! Gun, blade—whatever!)

Kyrria surged fiercer, roaring at me.

"Idiot fucks begging for death."

Up close? Perfect for me. Dozens grazed, none hit proper.

Bayonets swung wild—I gutted them. Stolen bayonet dulled from blood and guts.

Swapped weapons nonstop.

(C-can't win! God's a war god!)

(Run!)

Hundreds dead, they finally sensed the gap, slinking back. A commander-looking guy behind waved his pistol, bellowing.

(No retreat! No order given! Runners die by my hand!)

I aimed. 500m out. My sharp eyes never miss that far.

"Hoo..."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

While aiming, 30+ grazed me. One clipped left shoulder. Weirdly painless—adrenaline surge from battle heat.

Bang!

Bullet crossed air. One rifle round kills easy. Traveled 500m, punched officer's forehead. Residual force plenty for one human.

(Gurk!)

(Colonel Maeda! C-Colonel sniped! Damn! Retreat! Full retreat!)