December 3, 1086, 8:00 a.m.
Churvik Village, Northeastern Tundra, Ursus
Reunion Movement No. 1 Collective Dormitory
They had been exhausted upon returning yesterday. The team members who carried out the night raid were practically unable to even shed their cloaks before their heads hit their bedrolls and they fell instantly asleep. Had other Reunion members not draped quilts over them, several more would likely have joined the sick bay with colds today.
The reason this dormitory had been designated as "Dormitory No. 1" was because Talulah, after resting for a brief moment, had once again mobilized everyone to construct more collective dormitories.
She foresaw that as the Reunion Movement grew and developed, the objectives of this base would naturally rise in tandem. Thus, what they needed was by no means just a tiny foothold like this; they urgently required a much larger base of operations.
Yet before that—just as Patriot had said—they needed more thorough military training.
In the woods where Sergei had gone previously, numerous wooden crosses had been erected to serve as gravestones.
Buried deep beneath the soil were the bodies and vestments of the victims and martyrs.
To this end, Patriot had gone out of his way to procure a large stone, carving upon it the date of this battle and the number of fallen martyrs.
He was long accustomed to sacrifice, but watching the weeping villagers and Reunion members, he acutely realized that these people likewise needed to confront combat and sacrifice head-on.
Before that, however, he needed to give them a fighting chance.
"Valentin."
"Sir!"
"How many blanks do we have left?"
"One crate."
"Bring them all out."
"Understood."
…………
By the time Sergei woke up, it was already one o'clock in the afternoon.
Yet many of the commandos, exhausted to the point of utter stupor, were still fast asleep in thoroughly ungraceful postures.
He woke to the sound of a saw biting into wood.
The moment he stepped outside, the pervasive aroma of fresh pine cores in the air and the wood shavings mixed with snow underfoot told him that he and his group had slept for at least a full day and a half.
At this thought, a cold sweat broke out all over him.
He had no inkling of what had transpired over the past day, knew nothing of how the cooperation was proceeding, and was utterly in the dark as to whether the enemy might launch a retaliatory surprise attack.
For the second time, he experienced the misery brought by a lack of intelligence.
If he hadn't gritted his teeth and led the team to seize that BTR-60 last time, the troubles would have piled up endlessly.
After simply pulling his thoughts together upon waking, he found himself utterly on edge once more. He hurriedly intercepted a passing figure and blurted out: "What on earth happened in the past twenty-four hours?"
His expression was frantic; he seized one of the person's hands tightly in both of his own, trembling incessantly.
The absence of information made him feel as though a pitch-black cloth had been blindfolded over his eyes. Everything within his field of vision seemed both false and real at the same time, torturing the nerves that had only just begun to relax.
However...
A chilling sensation gradually crept over his hands. Unlike the bitter cold of an Ursus midwinter, this chill seemed to pierce straight through his skin and target his veins, instantly freezing both his hands into numbness.
Then, looking closely, he realized to his horror that the person he had intercepted was none other than Yelena.
Oh no, she surely wouldn't think he lacked competence and assume the cooperation had broken down again...
Sergei hadn't even washed his face upon waking, and his mind was still in a complete fog. This sudden realization sent him spiraling straight into internal turmoil.
"Damn it, you brat, you're finally awake. Relax, not a damn thing has happened lately. The Guerrillas didn't come to your lot to eat for free; they're right over at the small training ground drilling your troops!"
Hearing Yelena say this, Sergei finally let out a long sigh of relief.
"Don't you plan to let go of my hand yet, Sergei Schneitsevitch?"
"!"
Yelena felt the warmth on her hand spike for a fraction of a second before vanishing entirely.
When she raised her eyes, Sergei's entire face was flushed red, radiating wisps of heat against the bright, snowy landscape.
The vapor puffing from his mouth had grown much thicker and heavier.
She couldn't possibly think of me as some kind of scoundrel, could she? Did I do something to displease her? Calling me by my full name definitely means she's unhappy inside. Is it because I just woke up and haven't tidied myself up properly? What do I do, what do I do, what do I do...
Sergei had barely had any dealings with women in his entire life.
Despite being twenty-six or twenty-seven, he was, strictly speaking, just an undergraduate student who had stepped into society for less than a year. His career consisted of nothing more than a single official errand during which he had handled a mountain of responsibilities that should never have fallen to him—a completely innocent, junior tax official.
He looked up again, only to find Yelena still standing right where she was, fixing him with a half-amused, half-mocking stare.
"Don't be so tense, little Feline. Would you like to... have a piece of candy to calm your nerves?"
"Thank you, thank you, thank you..."
Sergei's voice trailed off into a whisper.
He was completely beet red, blood surging beneath his skin to continuously cool down a brain that was moments away from crashing.
His mind could no longer support such complex emotional processing; he needed to upgrade his system.
With that, he popped the "candy" into his mouth.
"..."
That day, the young man's blazing flush spoke louder than a thousand words.
"Oh, damn it, it's hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot..."
"Hahahahahahaha..."
Watching Sergei hopping about from the blistering spice, Yelena finally lost her composure and burst into unrestrained laughter.
"You're still laughing..."
Sergei was choked to the point of tearing up.
He flailed his arms wildly, stumbled backward a few paces, and finally lost his footing, tumbling straight down onto the snowbank in a sitting position.
It seemed that teasing someone had yielded such marvelous results for the very first time that Yelena laughed until her stomach ached, squatting down on the ground and simply shaking with laughter.
…………
Ever since the big bear had gotten her hands on that old FED camera, she hadn't touched a drop of liquor, nor had she bickered about challenging anyone to a duel. All day long she fussed over that battered old FED, dangling it conspicuously around her neck as she snapped pictures at random all over the camp.
As luck would have it, she had wandered over here and caught sight of their Big Sister messing around with the Feline from the Reunion camp. Seizing the moment, she took a swift step forward and captured a rare, hidden candid shot that one would never normally see, looking every bit like a professional war correspondent.
As expected, a sharp shriek rang out across the camp.
"Big Bear—! I swear you won't touch a drop of alcohol for a month!"
"Please, anything but that..."
…………
Still the Gendarmerie of the Reunion Movement, still led by Talulah.
However, the original wooden platform had been transformed by Patriot and the Guerrillas into a "pillbox" featuring a single wall and a firing slit, alongside "trenches" crisscrossing the entire wasteland.
Valentin clutched an RPK light machine gun, unfolding its bipod and resting it against the firing slit so that only a pitch-black muzzle protruded from the makeshift brick wall.
Inside the RPK's drum magazine were fully loaded 7.62x39mm blank training rounds.
At this sight, many of those who had participated in that fateful charge could not help but shudder.
They would never forget how teammates who had been united in shared hatred the very second before were transformed into mists of blood and unrecognizable fragments by the enemy's firepower network in the next—while their own bodies were unwittingly spattered with that blood...
They would never forget the horrifying scene of heavy machine guns vomiting tongues of fire, resembling a grim reaper's sickle wreathed in roaring flames, reaping lives by the swath with a single sweep.
Life was simply too fragile... A touch of a cold, a single bullet, the stray aftershocks of Originium Arts, or a sudden infection could snuff it out entirely.
Yet life was simultaneously magnificent.
They had conquered the terror within their hearts. Although standing on the training ground and gazing at this simulated pillbox still caused a tremor to run through them, at least they were standing right here.
Patriot spoke.
"Listen well, everyone. This is a type of pillbox extremely common in Ursus, and across this entire land. The firing slit on it provides the gunner inside with maximum protection against direct bullet fire. At the same time, however, such pillboxes are extremely vulnerable to artillery destruction. Therefore, on the front lines, we often require someone to guide artillery strikes upon an agreed signal—artillerymen are not gods, after all, capable of landing a bullseye at a moment's notice anywhere on the battlefield.
"In combat, we typically rely on drones for this task. However, we currently lack reconnaissance drones, and should the adversary employ technology that jams drone and radio signals, we will ultimately still need infantry accompanied by a flagbearer to direct artillery strikes. When that happens, we require assault techniques.
"The assault is divided into three parts: approach distance, assault posture, and assault objective. Depending on the objective, the terrain along the approach, and the starting point of the charge, we must select different assault postures.
"Regarding posture, it can basically be divided into the following three types: high-low posture bounding, running assault, and crawling advance. Come, Valentin, demonstrate."
"All units, attention! Right face! Forward march!"
Talulah led the members of the Gendarmerie to a vantage point well-suited for observation.
This small "pillbox" occupied an elevated position, lying roughly eighty meters away from the "trench" ahead, with enough space to accommodate about a platoon of Guerrilla fighters.
"Judging by general conditions, taking this pillbox relying solely on light infantry would require at least a platoon. Because this eighty-meter approach distance is simply too far, and every meter covered consumes massive amounts of manpower and material resources. Unless there is some way to plug its gunport, even smoke grenades will fail to hinder its fire in the slightest. Valentin, demonstrate."
"Understood!"
The tall, mighty Ursus removed his characteristic full-protective helmet as a Shieldguard, stripped away the groin guard, arm guards, and shoulder plates of his armor, and finally snatched up an AKM assault rifle before vaulting down into the "trench."
The air seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second. The bitter scent of gunpowder and the stench of blood appeared to emanate from this "simulated battlefield," instantly filling the air with a chilling, murderous aura.
As expected of Patriot's elite core troops, even when transitioning from heavy infantry combat to light infantry operations, their combat proficiency remained visibly formidable.
Every single fighter wore black military uniforms. Though their unit insignia had been removed, that ingrained loyalty and fierce tenacity remained carved into their very bones.
Their bodies were crouched low, every muscle in their frames taut as they gripped the firearms, demolition charges, and grenades in their hands.
Regardless of their race or whether they were infected, at this very moment they shared only a single identity—fighters of the Shield of the Infected.
They seemed to have returned to the place most familiar to them—the battlefield.
The battlefield caused the blood of these elite among elites to course with joyous vitality, excitedly awaiting the orders of frontline commanders.
To die in battle is the ultimate expression of a warrior's outlook on life and death.
"All units, pay attention! The artillery fire has ceased, and we need not wait! First squad on the west side, second squad on the east side, cover each other in high-position bounds! Demolition specialists, prepare to blow it! Flagbearer, get ready! Third squad, provide fire cover!"
"Understood!"
A red flag was handed into Valentin's hands.
"Skip the artillery guidance for now; treat it as a cleverly concealed bunker and demonstrate the difficult version first."
"Yes, sir."
Valentin stripped the red flag from its pole, folded it meticulously, and tucked it into his chest pocket, pressing it tightly against his heart.
"All squad members, pay attention! Watch your assault formation, three-man teams, spread out! Charge with me!"
"Charge!"
"Charge..."
The Guerrilla fighters vaulted out of their cover, clutching their assault rifles as they surged upward.
Keeping their bodies low, their legs moved with remarkable agility as they charged across the impact zone, occasionally raising their rifles to fire a couple of rounds toward the pillbox's firing slit. They resembled the rising tide at the seashore—wave upon wave, infinitely shifting, yet united in purpose and pooling their strength.
Behind the "pillbox," Landon Simon, Varena, and another Guerrilla fighter lay prone behind an RPD, continuously opening fire on the advancing troops.
The ceaseless short bursts formed a remarkably effective suppression fire. Across the mere eighty-meter approach, several Guerrilla fighters instantly dropped to the ground.
Blanks did not inflict physical wounds upon impact, but the sting was every bit as agonizing as the real thing.
Precisely because of this, there were no "rubber soldiers" on this "battlefield."
Watching Landon Simon and Varena constantly shift their muzzles from long to short bursts, alongside Valentin pressing forward through clenched teeth, the members of the Reunion Movement could not help but marvel at the educational and practical significance of this "battle."
A mere eighty meters, and only fifty meters remained.
On the field now, only Valentin's two combat squads were left.
Six figures clung tightly to the earth, their black uniforms already caked with dark mud, allowing them to blend seamlessly with the terrain.
Bullets whined past their scalps, forcing them to hug the ground as closely as possible.
Although third squad's fire team was still providing covering fire, their shots could hardly penetrate the cunningly angled pillbox, and even if one slipped through, the enemy could simply swap personnel.
Valentin clenched his jaw.
He could hear the thumping of his own heart, mingling with the deep rumble of the RPK firing incessantly from not far away in the depths of the earth.
Though the firepower composed of short bursts looked visually sparse, Valentin and Landon Simon alone knew the effect achieved by an exceptional machine gunner—
They had been pinned firmly behind this small earthen ridge.