F-Grade Warrior: Duran Dos 20

Screech!

A sharp, metallic tang of blood overpowered the acrid stench of gunpowder. The scene unfolding before my eyes was the blue sea turning red with blood. Like the sunset bleeding across the sky-reflected waves, dark crimson ink spreading through the water—it wasn't a pretty sight.

The marines, charging in with heroic shouts, started hesitating about ten minutes after the landing began. And who could blame them? Of the front-line troops who'd hit the beach, you could count the survivors on one hand, and even those had been cut down by the mines the enemy had planted along the shore and the machine-gun fire pouring from their bunkers.

No matter that the vanguard of an amphibious assault was basically a one-way ticket to hell—this charge was just pointless dog meat. The Kakyil forces hadn't inflicted a single casualty on the Kyria troops, nor bought us any meaningful time or space.

Even a commander with zero tactical sense would know our first push had failed spectacularly.

The Kyria defenses were airtight. Jagged obstacles and barbed wire along the shoreline made landing impossible. We'd been hammering the coast with concentrated airstrikes for two weeks, and it was still like this? Those bastards had staked their lives on this prep. At this rate, landing was like pouring water into a sieve.

The situation's grim. Hmm... Oh! What's that!

In the midst of it all, someone caught my eye. Lieutenant Berica. She was waiting to land from the landing craft up ahead.

Everyone else can drop dead, but Lieutenant Berica can't die!

Lieutenant Berica's pussy was too prime to waste. Especially hers—with that marine pride, its tightness blew street whores out of the water by a factor of ten.

I approached the navy sergeant piloting our landing craft.

"Can't we go a bit faster?"

"You're nuts. You wanna get to that hellhole quicker? Snap out of it. Even if all those marines ahead bite it, the beach might not open up."

"Better to take the bullet quick, right?"

"Huh? You that famous Corporal Dos? Heard you went god-mode on Olba Island?"

"Yeah, that's me, Corporal Duran Dos. You're in luck. My luck's rubbing off on you. Floor it."

"Ugh. Even if you say that, no dice. There's a combat order. Can't just swap landing sequence on a whim."

"Got it."

Fine then. No choice. I chucked the navy sergeant into the sea.

Splash!

"Gah! What the—!? Fragging!"

"No room for cowards. This is the Spartan way!"

The sudden commotion drew stares from our squadmates. Coren screamed, pointing at the sergeant flailing in the water.

"Dos! What the hell are you doing!? Desertion in the face of the enemy is a death sentence!"

"Not desertion—assault! How do you drive this thing? Something like this?"

I stomped the pedal hard. Luckily, the landing craft's controls were intuitive.

Vroooom!

Our squad's craft shoved past the others, surging ahead. I whooped like a maniac.

"Yahoo! Feels like a racing game!"

"Officer! You've lost it! Dragging us all to our deaths!?"

Sergeant Rostador's bellow cut through the wind. I ignored him with a grin.

"Awesome! We're in the lead! Look, guys! I passed all the other boats!"

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

The machine-gun welcome party greeted us. But the protagonist's ride doesn't beach itself on some peashooters. The quick ones ducked low and prayed.

"Argh! Officer! No, Duran Dos! Gotta say it—you're a crazy demon bastard! Die and rot in hell!"

Sergeant Rostador cursed me out. If this prick survives the op, I'll kill him myself.

"Woo! Driving a boat beats cars any day! This is a rush!"

Kyria bullets thrummed like background music, pounding my heart. Adrenaline flooded my veins. Felt my dick twitch hard.

"Almost there!"

We made it to point-blank range. The sea around us was choked with red foam and marine corpses. This was the wailing deadline.

"You shitty prick! Damn it! Fine, no choice now! Hit the beach! Too late to turn back!"

"Let's go, boys! Dinner in hell! You lot eat together!"

I leaped off first. Water lapped at my ankles. The second I hit the sand, machine guns erupted.

But this level of fire? No cover needed. I've got the protagonist buff—more reliable than any bunker. Keep shooting till your mags run dry, punks. See if I take a single hit.

First, neutralize the bunkers.

At the forefront of the beachhead, rifle up, I pinpointed the hottest fire. The deafening roar from all sides meant more bunkers than fingers could count. I spotted over ten easy.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Snapped off aimed shots on the move. Range about 200 meters.

Ridiculous distance for mobile fire, but my level-4 shooting skill made the impossible routine. I'd long since mastered intuitive aiming.

Hit the shoreline, closing on the enemy's primary trench-and-bunker line. Spotted a Kyria fucker hosing us from inside one.

"Dos! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Grenade! Watch out!"

BOOM!

Coren's shout, then shrapnel rained. Screams from behind—one down.

Can't be helped. Gotta stomach the losses and push into their lines.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

Blasting through the bullet storm, dropping Kyria scum left and right. Every step I took, one crumpled.

Dozens of rounds whizzed past per kill. But protagonist buff carried me to their primary trench.

(Insane! He made it here! Shit! Kill him!)

A Kyria grunt peeking out for blind fire gaped at me. Bayonet fixed, I rammed my combat knife into his face. Felt the meat part under my fingers.

(Enemy in the trench! Everyone, heads up!)

One bracing his rifle on sandbags jolted at my sudden drop-in. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠NCO insignia—equivalent to our sergeant.

I'm invincible in a trench. These soldiers sucked at CQC. All they knew was poke with bayonet like a zombie. Sliced one NCO easy.

Oh! Jackpot.

The fresh Kyria NCO's belt held a 130cm longsword. Perfect for slicing meat. More my style than rifle bayonets—feels like a lightsaber.

Yanked it free and lopped heads off the grunts blocking me.

Whether shooting, swinging entrenching tools, or thrusting bayonets, they were done in under five minutes—bodies parted from heads, graduating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the meat grinder. Better this way for them.

Took less than twenty minutes to clear the forty-man trench. Two kills a minute.

Perfect. Scenario completion shooting up.

"Charge! Enemy fire's weakening! Now! Everybody land!"

Our squad's stunt drew their focus. Kakyil didn't miss the gap.

Marines swarmed the softening primary line. High-speed craft flooded the beach. They punched through the bloody surf, planting boots on the island.

"Forward!"

Full beach battle kicked off. Once ashore, Kakyil opened up. One-way beatdown flipped on Kyria.

Lieutenant Berica! Where's Berica?

I sought her out. If she catches a stray bullet, that's a huge L for me. Who knows when she'll spread again...

There.

Left the trench, grabbed her mortar pack, and led her to my conquered hole. Panting hard, she flashed a grin.

"Seriously, are you human like us, or a demon? Corporal Dos. What's your deal?"

"Let me finger your pussy, I'll tell ya."

"Heh! Too lazy to unbuckle. Grope my tits instead."

"Sweet!"

Slid my hand under her uniform, squeezed her rack.

"Done. Set up firing position."

"Covering you."

"Sturdier than ship guns back there. Survive this, you can pound it raw."

"Oh yeah! Gotta live now."

She smirked, setting up the mortar. Two more marines braved the MG fire to join her.

"Gonna survive and fuck Lieutenant Berica for sure."

"Yeah. Wanna see that medal-winner dick again."

"Haven't you already?"

"Good shit's worth repeat views."

Kyria fire ramped up. Desperate counterattack.

I pushed out. Beach trench was just primary stop. Bunkers were the real pain.

Scrap obstacles and wire ringed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them. Floor crawling with mines.

Darkness Radar.

Dodged mines, hugged obstacles. That heavy MG was a headache—delaying our landing big time.

Gotta take 'em one by one.