Valentin grabbed a blasting tube from a "fallen" teammate behind him.
Thirty meters was still too far... not enough.
He quickly gestured with a few sharp hand signs.
"Right flank, draw their fire."
As the signal dropped, Valentin brought the blasting tube to his chest, and the entire combat squad gripped their firearms with renewed, nervous tension.
"Charge!"
The three men on the right flank suddenly raised their guns, unleashed a fierce burst of rapid fire, and broke into a heavy sprint straight toward the pillbox.
The heavy machine gun barrels instantly swiveled to lock onto the advancing right-flank combat squad.
"Rat-tat-tat..."
Equally fierce and precise, Landon Simon's marksmanship—honed through long reconnaissance operations and skirmishes—was no joke, instantly cutting down a Guerrilla fighter.
He quickly shifted the barrel: the second, the third...
Though this was not a real battlefield, the Reunion Movement members watching from the stands and the downed Guerrilla fighters all felt their eyes sting with hot tears.
In these endearing people, they witnessed a spirit.
Fearlessness, steadfastness, trust.
A true army, a truly elite army, a truly elite force.
This was where their soul resided.
Though the entire right-flank squad had fallen, Valentin's squad was now a mere fifteen meters away from the "pillbox."
Their bodies were already caked in dust and mud, their faces so begrimed that only their bloodshot eyes were visible, blending them almost completely into the earth itself.
"Cover me! Charge!"
As if three warriors had suddenly burst forth from the earth, Valentin and the other two fighters abruptly shifted their tactical movement from crawling to a sprinting charge. Several quick bursts erupted instantly, with Valentin surging into the lead.
Seven meters...
As the first soldier fell, a machine gun barrel swung sharply to point straight at him.
Muzzle flames spat, and Valentin threw himself into a rolling dive, narrowly dodging the initial volley.
Five meters...
The "pillbox" was right before his eyes; he could even clearly see Landon Simon's calm face inside, along with the tiny white marks left on the bricks by blank rounds.
The fire was far too dense, with countless bullet strikes clustering right behind him, and judging by the change in rhythm from the machine gun, another person had already rotated in behind the gun.
The muzzle spat fire once again, but Valentin was determined to succeed.
Three meters...
"Hiss..."
The fuse of the training blasting tube was jerked violently, and Valentin felt a succession of dull, heavy pains ripple across the front of his body—
He had been hit.
Countless little white spots suddenly dotted the front of his uniform, filling him with bitter frustration.
But this was a training ground.
And the training ground was a battlefield.
He collapsed, and the blasting tube in his hand slipped to the ground with a sharp, helpless clatter.
Just then, a gust of wind swept past his side—
"Agh, aaaagh—!!"
The last Guerrilla fighter shouted aloud, snatched up the dropped blasting tube, and without a moment's hesitation covered that final 1.5 meters, hurling the charge into the firing port before slamming their own body hard against it to completely seal the opening.
Inside, Landon Simon and his two companions abandoned their resistance—it was pointless now.
"Bang!"
The low-charge blasting tube detonated violently, coating the pitch-black trio in a layer of grayish-white dust. Landon Simon pointed at the white mark on his own helmet, then at Varena's helmet, and they couldn't help bursting into repeated laughter.
Seeing this, Patriot promptly announced the final result:
"Exercise concluded. Attacking force wins."
"Yes!"
Thunderous applause erupted from the stands.
The three figures emerged from behind the "pillbox," their white stains drawing amused laughter, though none of them paid it any mind.
A full establishment, nine combat platoons, twenty-seven combat squads, numbering around a hundred people in total—and in the end, all they had managed to trade for was a single pillbox.
Yet the soldiers understood well in their hearts that the effort was entirely worth it.
For a standard assault over a mere eighty-meter approach, any ordinary unit lacking Shieldguards would burn through several companies—to say nothing of actual field conditions where pillboxes formed interconnected networks, complete with bridgeheads and bunkers...
It was precisely in scenarios like this that the value of tanks and drones became apparent.
While the convenience brought by high-speed warships in modern warfare was unstoppable, creative, and overwhelming, they could not necessarily assist the frontline twenty-four hours a day with zero blind spots—most fleet soldiers followed their commander's will to ambush enemy commanders or high-threat targets (namely, other high-speed warships).
What manifested on the battlefield was almost invariably the organic integration and mutual coordination of multiple arms, rather than one-sided extreme conditions.
Yet training for such extreme conditions was precisely mandatory—no one could predict what might happen in actual combat, nor whether those events would lead to such extreme circumstances.
Tanks were gradually being phased out, and new forms of warfare had yet to fully take shape...
Whoever adapted to war first would hold the greater odds of victory.
"You have all witnessed the live combat drill just now. We can break it down in detail. It was an excellent exercise, though unfortunately lacking in cameras."
Patriot picked up his halberd once more.
Conducted by the elite core of the Guerrillas, the simulation's results were naturally exceptional.
"As you can see, the attacking force initially employed high-profile bounding, while the defending force utilized long bursts of fire. Later, during the approach, the attackers shifted to low-profile bounding and running charges, resorting even to crawling at the final moment. These tactical movements are important, but what matters more is how to rationally utilize the weapons and equipment in your hands.
"Think carefully about yourselves—especially those of you rescued from the mines who were handed firearms, blades, and shields on short notice. Did you waste too much ammunition with your weapons? Did you experience malfunctions and not know how to clear them? Did you even end up shooting your own people? Even with Originium Arts, did you use your own bodies as the casting unit? These are all common phenomena in weapon usage, and we must learn to address them."
Patriot's halberd swept forward with a swish, pointing straight at the simulated "pillbox."
"The ideal state is to eliminate one enemy with a single bullet, a single crossbow bolt, a single arrow, or even a single knife stroke. But obviously, such a scenario is difficult to achieve on the modern battlefield. According to statistics, in the Kazimierz-Ursus border conflicts, an average of one to two thousand rounds of ammunition (including crossbow bolts and Originium Arts) were expended to take down a single soldier. Clearly, given our current circumstances, we cannot sustain such ammunition consumption. How do we reduce it? Only through intensified training.
"As for basic aiming, there are two methods: shoulder-aiming and hip-shooting. These apply universally to all crossbows and firearms, though not to bows."
Patriot pointed toward the nearby figures of Landon Simon, who was shouldering an AK-74 once again, and Valentin, who was inspecting an AKM firearm.
"Marksmen are divided into two types: one aims with their eyes, aligning three points into a line, or relies entirely on various sights, squeezing the trigger with thumb and forefinger in strict accordance with doctrine, never cutting corners. This method allows for high accuracy, but its drawback is the inability to rapidly acquire targets; one must establish the sightline before firing. These are shooting range marksmen who fail in actual combat.
"Lateran and Laterano people tend to use this method more often. After all, while the vast majority of Laterans are indeed skilled with guns and naturally excel at target shooting, they have never set foot on a battlefield in their lives—or even if they have, they persist in using that rigid approach, as if they didn't care in the least about the time wasted during the aiming process. Often, that very span of time is what costs you your life.
"The other kind of marksman relies purely on feel; this is what we call hip-shooting. True marksmen are forged on the battlefield through a diet of live rounds. Shoot enough, and the instinct develops; the moment an enemy is sighted, the hand goes to the trigger and the gun points straight at them, with every single bullet biting flesh. That is what a marksman is. That is what an elite is.
"I do not mean to say the former method is useless. For snipers and ambush missions, whether the first volley hits with precision largely determines the success of the operation; but conversely, on the battlefield, the rule of thumb is to do whatever is fastest while still accomplishing the mission.
"The innate instincts within human bodies—instincts approaching those of wild beasts—are often what we call 'talent.' Such things can save your life on the battlefield, leading to all sorts of extensions. But talent cannot be forced, and as soldiers, we naturally choose whatever is most convenient. We cannot abandon hip-shooting or shoulder-aiming altogether out of fear of choking; that is unrealistic."
Patriot lectured tirelessly on his unique marksmanship theories, his accessible and profound words giving everyone much to reflect upon.
"In short, all the training you receive is not merely to complete missions like the combat drill we just saw, but primarily to ensure you can survive the battlefield. Only by staying alive can you create value; only by staying alive can you complete your mission. Though Kazdel possesses its own unique culture of death, that does not mean dying accomplishes anything in itself. Since you have chosen this path of resistance, you should understand its significance far better than I do.
"If we are to resist, we need not only the courage to fight back, but also the strength to do so. Always remember this live combat drill. It is the ultimate goal you must strive toward at this stage, the crystallization of combined strategy and tactics, and the result of the organic integration of most training you receive. Tomorrow morning at six-thirty, I expect to see all of you here. Furthermore, inform the members of the so-called 'Assault Teams'—they require this relevant training just as much."
"Yes!"
......
December 20, 10:00 p.m., 1086
Reunion Movement - Guerrilla Force Station, Churvik Village, Northeastern Tundra, Ursus
Several days had passed.
As training progressed, Patriot suddenly discovered that aside from the Assault Teams, which had specialized focus, the training previously received by the rest of these people was essentially a chaotic free-for-all. Even the most basic handling of blades and firearms had been figured out through trial and error by the individuals themselves, operating at zero efficiency.
Consequently, Patriot practically lived at the training ground day in and day out. While personally providing guidance, he also spent his evenings in his tent continuously drafting the *Militia Training Manual*.
The only other person burying themselves in theoretical work alongside Patriot was Sergei.
He was writing *On Theory and Practice*.
Under the weight of continuous labor, only two lamps remained lit in the late-night quiet of the village.
Seeing this, Yelena decided this would not do! Joining forces with Alina and Kyle Figueroa (head of the Guerrilla medical team), she attempted to persuade the two men to rest. One of them turned out to be stubborn and foul-tempered, while the other, even when lying down to sleep, would leap right back up the moment a shred of inspiration squeezed into his mind to jot down another couple of paragraphs.
This resulted in a daily ritual where the two men would exchange a single glance before entering the training ground: Patriot noting the even more haggard look on Sergei's face, and Sergei observing the deeply sunken eye sockets on Patriot's, before both simply smiled and joined the training.
Their daily routine seemed to snap onto a new track immediately following that conversation, running steadily ever since—
Writing until the middle of the night, using both sides of the draft paper while revising the main text over and over, draping a heavy coat over one's shoulders and taking a short nap slumped across the desk when endurance failed, then actively participating in training the next morning to lead by example, maintaining a strict daily regimen of exercise and labor, and repeating the cycle endlessly.
And precisely because of this, the sky above the training ground frequently echoed with the piercing shouts of a certain white rabbit—
"Sergei Schneitsevitch, Bulstrode! Both of you, get back to your tents and sleep right now!!!"