Chapter 695.1: Shore, Control, Takeover!
At 4:00 in the morning, before the sun had risen, the sea was still shrouded in gray haze.
Port Gallon, sprawled along the coastline, looked like a sleeping bull. The concrete piers jutting outward were its horns, while the dense sprawl of uneven buildings pressed against the shore formed its bloated belly.
The settlement, perched on the alluvial plain along the Everflowing River, was the Xilande Empire’s largest settlement on the eastern coast, and also its largest port.
According to posts Sisi had updated on the forum, an astonishing 1,000,000 people lived there, more than the combined population of the Camel Kingdom.
Judging by scale alone, neither Silvermoon Bay nor Ring Island’s port could compare. Next to it, they were nothing more than fleas. Yet in terms of living standards, one needed only look at the tightly packed, ant-nest-like houses and shanties to feel the suffocating hardship.
Of course, saying that this place consisted of nothing but shacks would be slander against the Xilande Empire. Anyone disembarking here with eyes in their head could not possibly miss the straight concrete piers or the few streets fitted with lampposts.
Although the incident a month earlier had left the nobles living near the port shaken, it did nothing to change the fact that it was still the most expensive area along the Everflowing River. A single brick there could buy an entire neighborhood elsewhere.
Naturally, none of that had anything to do with Palu, who was standing guard.
First of all, he was a man from the Horsefolk. Only the noble Sunfolk, Bullfolk, or outsiders were eligible to buy property there, and transactions weren’t conducted in the ever-fluctuating Xilande currency, but strictly in solid-gold Dinars that could be exchanged for slaves.
Either one was beyond his wildest dreams. All he could do was donate a bit more incense money and pray for a better rebirth in the next life.
In truth, there were only about a thousand gods protecting this place, not that many. Maybe in the next cycle he would be reborn in the other races.
It wasn’t impossible.
Staring at the silent shoreline, Palu yawned and tightened his grip on the rifle in his hands, a thing that looked more like a fire poker than a weapon.
It wasn’t that the rifle gave him any real sense of security. It was just that the sea wind howled so fiercely that he worried he might be blown away if he didn’t hold onto something. At that hour, it was far too early for most of the settlement. Along the port, only night-soil carriers with wooden buckets and patrolling guards were awake.
If someone fell into the sea, they would probably drown without anyone noticing.
“... Isn’t it time for the shift change yet?” Palu muttered under his breath, irritably scanning his surroundings. It felt like the change should have happened already.
Damn it.
Had the bell ringer fallen asleep again?
...
At that very moment, Palu had no idea that the guard responsible for ringing the bell wasn’t asleep, he had been knocked out cold with a blow to the head.
The bell tower was the highest point in the area, right next to the the Guard Station. Securing it meant overlooking at least half the port district.
And it wasn’t just the bell ringer. While Palu was in the middle of his yawn, the front doors of the Guard Station had already been forcibly taken over by a group of men in exoskeletons.
The sentries were gagged and shoved beneath the guard booth’s desk. An intelligence type player quickly released a quadrotor drone and, using a neural interface, flew it twice around the station, marking all escape routes and likely occupied areas.
The squad leader, Old Six, immediately issued the assault order. 20 soldiers in Type 5 exoskeletons openly breached the front entrance, splitting into two teams and charging toward the main building and the dormitories.
Many guards were dragged out of their beds before they even woke up, only to find a pistol fitted with a suppressor pointed at their foreheads.
Seeing the finger pressed lightly to the intruder’s lips, not one of them dared make a sound. They accepted the fact of their capture without resistance and obediently squatted in the holding cells under escort, crammed together with prisoners who hadn’t yet woken up.
At that point, even a blind man could tell those who had infiltrated weren’t ordinary pirates or marauders.
They were disciplined, swift, and decisive. Every move they made was clean and precise, striking vital points without giving their victims the slightest chance to react.
It was obvious, they were elite soldiers. They had both professional equipment and tactics. Against opponents like that, resistance was pointless. It was better to surrender quietly and stay alive.
Besides, being captured by special forces wasn’t shameful. Their superiors surely wouldn’t blame them for not resisting.
There was just one thing no one in the Guard Station could figure out.
How in the world had they offended those harbingers of disaster?
In less than 15 minutes, without a single word exchanged, the Port Gallon Guard Station was fully suppressed. The sleeping bull had been blindfolded.
The New Alliance’s submarine could surface openly beside the piers, unloading personnel and equipment onto shore and tightening the noose around its neck.
Inside the Chief’s office of the Guard Station, having fully secured the building, Old Six tapped his helmet with a finger and reported the situation to the temporary command center on the Dolphin.
“... This is the advance team. We’ve successfully suppressed the security system. No firefight occurred. You’re clear to surface at any time.”
After a burst of static, Old White’s voice came through the channel. “Copy that. Maintain suppression and hold position.”
“Roger.”
At the exact moment the transmission ended, a massive black submarine slowly surfaced at the southernmost pier. Its dark hull quietly parted the waves, revealing a broad deck and a huge curved bow.
Crew members on deck tossed out cushioning air pads and guided the submarine toward the concrete pier via intercom.
Once it came to a halt, rows of black exoskeletons rushed through the connecting hatches and up the gangways onto the dock. Charging in with them were Y-2 Butterfly Knives, their gun pods slung beneath ready to fire, and 20 Hellhound unmanned vehicles loaded to the brim with ammunition.
In just three minutes, the Burning Corps had deployed. Every one of them was at least at the third stage of their genetic sequence, and they were armed to the teeth with mechanized gear.
The nearby patrolling guards froze in shock at the sudden appearance of the mighty army, momentarily losing both movement and voice. Faced with opponents from a completely different world, the rifles in their hands felt like bathroom faucets.
They didn’t even have the courage to raise their weapons, let alone aim. One after another, they set their rifles down and raised their hands. After all, they were just ordinary survivors earning meager pay, not noble soldiers of the regular Xilande Empire’s army, nor the governor’s private troops.
They neither had the ability nor the courage to charge in and fight to the death.
The player leading the unit didn’t fire. He simply gathered them in an out-of-the-way area, assigned two drones to watch them, and continued with the occupation of the port.
At that very moment, Palu, standing guard at the northern end of the harbor, hadn’t even noticed anything amiss. Control of the port had already fallen into the New Alliance’s hands.
On the submarine deck, looking out over the port that had fallen without a single shot fired, Ample Time, clad in a Type 5 exoskeleton, couldn’t help sighing, “I think I finally get how our fools managed to turn this port upside down with just four people.”
Before landing, he expected at least one fierce firefight, something to serve as a rehearsal for future landings in the South Sea and Ocean Edge Province.
After all, they had always deployed from the air before. Landing from the sea was new territory. If the Southern Archipelago Federation ever turned hostile, French Fry Harbor’s coastal defenses wouldn’t fare well against naval bombardment. The best solution would be a submarine breakthrough and a direct strike at the rear.
No matter what, it was always necessary to prepare for the worst.
Yet the million-strong mega-settlement had completely defied expectations. Its defenders seemed asleep, letting the New Alliance take it without firing a single shot.
Old White glanced at him and frowned. “You mean Tail, Sisi, Roshan, and Sesame Paste?”
Ample Time shrugged. “Anyone else been here?”
Catching the hint of exasperation, Old White chuckled, “Don’t underestimate them. Combat strength aside, they’re pretty damn good at stirring up trouble.”
Their success rate might not be high, but when they succeeded, the results were often spectacular. As for when things went wrong, the four involved probably didn’t have the face to post about it on the forum, respawning silently and getting back to their mischief.
Looking toward the still-slumbering settlement, Ample Time let out a soft sigh. “I’m not underestimating them. It’s just that I may have...” He paused, searching for the right words. “... Overestimated the Xilande Empire.”
Whether their population really exceeded 100,000,000, or whether the Wasteland Era had truly ended, only the locals could say. But the fact that they’d unified the entire Poro Province was undeniable.
Ample Time had no idea how they pulled it off. The New Alliance had yet to fully govern even a single Prosperity Era administrative region. Though they hadn’t deliberately played a map-painting game, implementing full control was no easy task.
East of River Valley Province, survivor numbers had dwindled to the point where organizing them felt almost impossible. Even the remnants of civilization left by the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, places like Boulder Town and Singularity City, maxed out at 12 or 13 subordinate settlements. Their reach could never have extended as far as the Poro Province.
Perhaps, as the Xilande people claimed, a thousand gods truly watched over them...
...
Elsewhere, in the Guard Station office. Mandar trembled behind his desk, hardly daring to breathe as the uninvited guests spoke among themselves in a language he couldn’t understand.
A man in the exoskeleton noticed him and strode over, staring straight in his eyes. “Are you the chief?”
Mandar instinctively started to nod, then snapped back to his senses and shook his head frantically. “Yes... No! I mean, I’m not. I’m the acting chief on duty.”
Old Six pressed on harshly, “Where’s your superior? Where is he right now?”
“He, he lives on the street nearby...” Mandar was on the verge of tears, his lips trembling uncontrollably.
Old Six didn’t make things difficult for him. He picked up a notebook from the desk, tore out a page, and tossed it in front of Mandar, tapping it with his finger. “Street name, house number. Write it down.”
“Y-yes!” Not daring to resist, Mandar grabbed a pen and scribbled down a long string of information.
Old Six glanced at the note, tapped his helmet twice, and snapped a photo through his tactical visor. An offline VM program immediately recognized and translated the text.
