Zeke, riding the wooden boat, smoothly arrived at the foot of the mountain. The plains lay directly before him, and Tyrok Bastion stood in the center.
Tyrok Bastion was not a castle in the traditional sense; it lacked the towering spires of a Nether Fortress. Instead, it was much lower and stockier, built for durability.
Reaching it would be no easy feat. Zeke’s gaze slowly withdrew from the fortress and settled on the intervening plains.
The area had turned into a boiling inferno. The fires of war raged, with the sounds of gunfire and explosions rising and falling incessantly.
The Warlord Titan he had seen earlier had crashed to the ground, with parts continuously peeling off its hull.
Cow was terrified by this apocalyptic scene and docilely followed Zeke, not daring to stray a single step.
From a distance, Zeke saw Dance fighting a Volscani traitor beside the wreckage of a transport ship.
The traitor tried to raise his gun to shoot Dance, but Dance executed a clean slide tackle, followed by a smash to the traitor’s head with the butt of his gun.
As the traitor recoiled in pain, Dance sprang up like a leopard, jamming the muzzle of his gun under the man’s chin.
Two short, searing blasts later, the traitor slumped to the ground.
It was far more efficient and decisive than an average soldier.
It was no wonder that when Zeke first t Dance, his entire squad had been wiped out, yet he alone had survived. That fact spoke volus about his skill.
"Those bastards must have struck during the welco ceremony," Dance said, kicking the corpse aside and looking at the smoke rising from the Bastion.
"Otherwise, the defensive line couldn’t have collapsed so quickly."
Zeke took out a few Baked Potatoes and filled his saturation bar completely, preparing for the battle ahead.
With a Shield in his left hand, Zeke deliberated for a mont between the Warhamr and the Enchanted Iron Sword for his right. He ultimately chose the Iron Sword.
When dealing with small units, the Warhamr tended to knock enemies back too far, which could sotis be counterproductive for dealing damage.
Dance and Zeke exchanged a look, nodded, and began to advance.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A traitor flashed out from behind a cargo container, muzzle flashing. Zeke raised his shield and blocked every shot.
The Shield was truly the bane of ranged weapons. Its only drawback was that against fully automatic fire, its durability dropped a bit fast.
The gunfire stopped as the magazine clicked empty. Panic flashed across the traitor’s face, and he instinctively ducked back behind the container to reload.
Zeke stepped forward. As he charged, he swapped his right hand to the Fishing Rod and cast the line in an arc. (TL/N: In Minecraft, players have a "Hotbar" which is a row of items they can use quickly which ans he can put away his Iron Sword (or shield) and instantly equip any other item).
The hook sank accurately into the traitor’s body. Yank!
With a startled cry, the traitor was dragged out from behind cover, stumbling toward Zeke.
The distance closed instantly. Zeke pressed down with his shield.
Parrying the gun the traitor frantically tried to raise, Zeke slashed with the Enchanted Iron Sword in his right hand.
Flas engulfed the enemy’s body. The traitor convulsed as he burned, and Zeke finished him off with two strikes.
Aside from experience points, nothing dropped.
Stingy.
Zeke’s level had reached 15, though most of that experience had co from slting iron ore.
Suddenly, a red dot appeared on the ground in front of him. Sniper, Zeke realized.
The enemy wasn’t aiming for his head but at the ground—a warning shot.
Zeke looked in the direction of the red dot.
About two hundred ters away, several Chira armored transports and transport shuttles had been arranged into a crude circular defensive line, enclosing a small camp.
The camp gate was a sheet of tal torn from a vehicle.
atop one of the armored vehicles serving as a watchtower, a short, thin figure was prone, aiming a sniper rifle right at him.
"Friendlies!" Dance lowered his gun first and shouted toward the camp. "111th Regint Whiteshield, Dance!"
The person on the other side lowered the sniper rifle, and a shout ca back.
"What did you say? I can’t hear you! Speak up!"
"Dance! 111th Regint! Friendlies!"
The person heard clearly this ti, moved the gun aside, and stood up, waving at Zeke and Dance to signal them to approach.
As the two walked closer, they noticed the camp was set up with so skill.
The wreckage on the periter was staggered to create firing ports, and Heavy Stubbers and searchlights were mounted on the vehicle roofs.
The tal gate was pulled open a crack, and the sniper from before squeezed out.
He was only half Zeke’s height and looked remarkably like a halfling from Western fantasy.
"Whoa, sorry about pointing the gun at you earlier," the sniper said in a high-pitched voice, speaking incredibly fast.
"You can’t really bla . You lot look too weird." The sniper’s gaze lingered on Zeke’s Iron Armor for a mont.
"A weirdo wearing tin sheets." His eyes then shifted to the grueso scars on Dance’s face. "A disfigured Whiteshield."
Seemingly realizing his words were a bit harsh, he scratched his head, his gaze finally shifting to Cow.
"And a... what kind of animal is that? Never seen one before."
"Forget it. It’s all weird anyway. You guys co in first."
The dwarf-like man stepped aside to make room. "By the way, you can call Bela. I’m a Ratling."
Ratlings. An abhuman subspecies officially sanctioned by the Imperium.
They possessed near-perfect sniping skills, innate "superb culinary talent," and extrely high business acun.
Despite their penchant for petty theft, these talents ensured their frequent presence in various regints.
Ever since he ate his only sandwich in that Greenskin cave, Zeke had been yearning for more special recipes.
He made a ntal note to discuss cooking with this Ratling later to see if he could get his hands on so recipes.
Stepping into the camp, the strong sll of blood mixed with disinfectant hit them in the face.
Several canvas sheets were laid simply on the ground, upon which lay seven or eight wounded soldiers. Groans and wails were incessant; so had broken arms, others had lost their legs entirely.
A female soldier with a short ponytail, carrying a dical kit, was deftly bandaging their wounds, trying her best to comfort them.
"Deep breath. Relax. I’m going to start bandaging. It might hurt a little."
The female soldier took a roll of bandages and wrapped it quickly.
"AAAAAHHH!"
The soldier being treated scread.
"Hmph, look at you being a wimp. Screaming like that over a bandage"
"AAAHH! GENTLY!"
Zeke’s gaze swept over the corner, where he saw several bodies already covered with cloth.
After making the rounds and stabilizing the wounded as best she could, the dic carried her kit to the center of the camp.
There, a temporary table had been set up using ammo crates. A military map was spread out on it, illuminated by the dim yellow light of a battery-powered lamp.
An old soldier with graying hair was hunched over the map, his finger moving slowly across it.
"Sergeant Victor, we have to move soon. So of the patients can’t hold on much longer."
The dic’s eyes were slightly red; she seed to be reaching her limit.
Victor, the old veteran she addressed, sighed.
"I know. Calm down. We’ve all lost a lot. Like you, I don’t want to lose anyone else. It is precisely because of this that we must be even more cautious. If we make another mistake, even a tiny one, it could bring a fatal blow."
"Victor, even a trapped beast fights! What are you doing? Waiting for death?" The dic was unsatisfied with Victor’s reply. She turned her face away and stord off to the side angrily.
Victor looked helpless, but he quickly composed himself and turned his gaze to Zeke.
--
Powerstones Goal: 200
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