10: The backbone of mortals, the shadow of giants

[Deduction Epoch: M2 Pan-Europa Border Radiation Wasteland]

The wind was thick with the acidic tang of rust and the foul stench of sulfur.

Karl huddled in a corner of the cold, muddy trench, his knees sinking into a mixture of engine oil and sewage. His fingers were white from gripping his lukewarm autogun, black mud packed under his fingernails.

The gun's body was heavy and cold.

The stock was engraved with the number "19-B," a relic of its previous owner—that unlucky soul who had by now been turned into green starch in a biomass converter.

Karl was a survivor of the "Void Wanderer."

Three days ago, he was a civilian praying for rescue.

Three days later, he was a private in the "First Imperial Auxiliary Regiment."

No training, no medals, no name. In this war machine, he was merely a number.

"Get up! You dregs!"

An amplified roar exploded through the loudspeakers, accompanied by the crack of high-voltage neural whips.

"Fix bayonets! Check your ammunition!"

It was the voice of a Commissar. These overseers, selected from among the refugees, maintained discipline in this rabble through fear.

Karl stood up trembling, his legs feeling like lead.

Surrounding him were two thousand "soldiers" in rags with terrified eyes. Their armor was junk pressed from scrap tires and sheet metal, incapable of stopping even a stray bullet.

Behind them... Karl didn't dare look back.

A low rumble, like the movement of tectonic plates, transmitted through the permafrost and crawled up his spine to his scalp.

Thunder Warriors.

Their gods, and their nightmares.

Mortals were not warriors.

Mortals were "currency." Used to expend ammunition, scout out firepoints, and fill trenches with their bodies.

"Target: Black Basalt Fortress."

Arik Taranis's voice came through the trench broadcast. Filtered through low-quality Mk I speakers, it was as grating as metal on metal.

"Advance. Do not stop. Do not look back."

"Those who disobey will be purged on the spot."

No speeches, no mobilization.

Only cold orders.

"Charge..."

Someone led the cry, their voice breaking with a desperate sob.

A whistle blew.

Two thousand Mortal Auxiliaries spilled out of the trenches like a gray, turbid tide, surging toward the black fortress looming in the radiation dust storm... [Holographic View: Black Basalt Fortress]

A typical techno-barbarian stronghold.

Built upon the remains of an extinct volcano, the walls—a cast mixture of hard basalt and Old Age composite armor plating—were riddled with craters. Twin-linked automated sentry cannons on the ramparts rotated, their red laser scanners cutting through the dim air.

"Enemy attack! Bearing 180! Large-scale infantry charge!"

Alarms tore through the silence.

The barbarian defenders rushed to the walls. Looking down at the "beggar army" swarming the hills, they broke into unrestrained laughter.

"The new warlord's troops? Refugees with fire pokers?"

The Commander spat, his eyes full of disdain: "Activate the Heavy Stubber arrays. Save the energy; solid rounds are enough to tear them apart."

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!

Gunfire shattered the dead silence.

Tongues of fire spat out. Dozens of large-caliber Heavy Stubbers fired simultaneously, thick shell casings falling like rain. A metal storm blanketed the path of the charge... [Battlefield View: Karl]

A conveyor belt to hell.

Comrades fell like wheat before a scythe.

Bullets punched through flesh, bones shattered, death screams rang out, alongside the roars of the Commissars.

"Ah! My leg!"

"Help! Mother!"

Those in front fell, and those behind stepped over the corpses to continue. To stop was to die; the bolt pistols of the Commissar squads behind them would not hesitate.

To step forward was death, and to step back was also death.

This was the Imperial logic.

His lungs felt like they were burning, the radiation dust scorching his trachea. Karl moved his legs mechanically, his mind a total blank.

Ahead, a young technician was hit in the chest, his ribcage collapsing. To the left, a miner was cut in half at the waist, his upper body crawling and dragging a trail of blood.

This wasn't a war.

This was an execution.

Thwack!

A stray bullet hit the mud, and gravel sliced his cheek. A warm liquid flowed down—it was blood, and also the brains of a comrade.

Fear broke past the critical threshold.

Karl's legs went soft, and he collapsed to his knees. He curled up, clutching his head, wanting only to die instantly.

"Stand up."

A voice like muffled thunder sounded from behind him.

It wasn't loud, yet it drowned out the sound of the guns.

Karl turned his head stiffly.

A shadow.

A three-meter-tall giant clad in heavy armor stood behind him.

It wasn't Arik himself, but a Thunder Warrior responsible for overseeing the battle. His power armor was painted with bright red penal stripes, and he held a smoking Bolter.

He wore no helmet. His scar-covered face was expressionless. He looked at Karl as if looking at a rusty screw, at walking protein.

"Your life belongs to The Emperor."

The giant looked down, his voice devoid of inflection.

"You can die here like a coward, your corpse becoming rotten meat to feed the dogs."

He raised his muzzle, pointing toward the barrage ahead.

"Or you can charge, use your body to stop a bullet, to expend a single shell."

"That is your only value."

"And your only glory."

Karl looked into those eyes.

There were no whites, only a murky blood-red. They burned with an incomprehensible fire—an absolute obsession with the objective, an absolute indifference to the cost. Death was not the end; it was a tool.

If he didn't charge, he would die pointlessly.

If he died charging, at least he counted as a soldier.

Under that inhuman gaze, his fear miraculously vanished.

It was replaced by numbness, a near-fanatical sense of self-destructive fatalism.

He was going to die anyway.

Better to... die usefully.

Karl grabbed his autogun, a roar tearing from his throat.

"For the... Emperor!!!"

He stood up again and charged into the hail of bullets.

This time, he didn't close his eyes.

Until a bullet pierced his heart... [Era League · Judge Group 103 Livestream Room]

Dead silence.

The bullet-chat disappeared. The superhuman combat the audience expected had turned into a Mortal meat grinder.

"This is too cruel..."

"Sending them to their deaths! This is a crime!"

"Why isn't the Commander attacking? Using human lives to fill the pits!"

Confusion, anger, condemnation.

Tactical analyst Karen's face was grim as he clicked his electronic pen.

"The most inefficient human wave tactics," Karen commented coldly. "A waste of human resources. Refugees can be qualified soldiers after training, not cannon fodder. The Commander is incompetent."

"No, Karen."

Isabelle spoke up.

She pushed up her glasses, her sharp gaze pointing at the map.

"You only see the deaths; you don't see the exchange ratio."

"Look at the barbarian firepoints."

The red fan-shaped areas of the heavy machine gun arrays were flashing frantically with overheating warnings.

"The Mortal suicide charges have caused the barrels to overheat and ammunition consumption to skyrocket. Most importantly..."

Her finger slid toward a blind spot on the flank.

"Their attention is completely diverted."

A steep black basalt cliff. A visual blind spot masked by wind, sand, and gunsmoke.

Dozens of massive gray silhouettes were moving like ghosts.

There was no high-tech magnetic suction—basalt is non-magnetic.

They relied on the most primitive, violent means.

Sharp diamond climbing spikes extended from the power armor gauntlets. Servo-muscles pressurized, forcing the steel spikes into the rock crevices.

Steel geckos climbed silently.

They didn't fire. They closed their heat dissipation grilles, allowing heat to accumulate just to avoid making noise or letting thermal imaging capture their exhaust.

At their head was Arik Taranis.

"This is a feint."

Isabelle's voice carried a chill.

"The Mortals are bait."

"Bait... to allow the hunters to reach the prey's throat."

On the screen.

Arik hung from the edge of the cliff, one hand gripping the rock while he pressed his vox-caster.

Through his lenses, he watched the Mortals falling below, watched Karl charge again only to be mowed down and turned into a red mist.

His eyes showed no flicker of emotion.

No guilt, no sadness, no pity.

A mathematical problem of war. Two thousand Mortal lives in exchange for one killing blow opportunity. A bargain.

"Thunder First Company."

Arik's voice was as cold as a blade.

"Positions are exposed. Firepower is suppressed."

"Now..."

"Harvest them."