December 2, 1086, 0:00 a.m.
Fate always weaves its threads in the midst of coincidence.
The fighters of the Reunion Movement stepped onto their skis, tightened the straps of their white cloaks, and gripped various weapons. Rallying under Sergei’s command, they assembled two kilometers north of Churvik Village.
Five columns merged seamlessly with the snowy landscape under the ink-black Ursus night.
Having finished forming the ranks, Sergei took two steps forward and delivered his first pre-battle pep talk:
"Fighters! You were once ordinary Infected, but now, for various reasons, you have chosen to walk this path with us—this path of resistance from which there is no turning back!"
He did not shout, yet his voice carried a passion that everyone present could feel.
"The purpose of forming the Gendarmerie is far more than internal oversight. When facing external threats, we must also be the finest! Assault! Team!
"We shall serve as the vanguard to tear through the enemy's defense lines, as warriors to unleash our value and shed our blood on the battlefield, and as guides for our allies' artillery fire, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy the moment they hear the formidable name of the 'Reunion Movement Gendarmerie'!
"Today's raid is our Gendarmerie's very first combat operation against an external foe! I expect not only for you to earn a fearsome reputation, but above all else—you damn well better all make it back alive!"
"Sir!"
A wave of fervent emotion swept through the crowd, none more excited than Ivan the white wolf.
His tail swept back and forth across the snow, and his restless hands already rested upon the hilt of his blade.
Sergei nodded.
"All units, execute Operational Plan Alpha. Begin the assault!"
At the command, all the assault squad members raised their ski poles and rapidly glided toward the target location.
…………
Meanwhile, elsewhere...
Because the Guerrillas traditionally favored a large-scale combat doctrine centered on advancing shield-wall formations, specialized operations of this nature were usually left to reconnaissance units.
Yet for this mission, the resistance encountered from a frontal assault was evidently going to be exceptionally heavy.
Although the Shieldguards' tower shields possessed formidable defense and spell resistance, charging forward while under fire from at least two 40mm automatic grenade launchers, two DSHK heavy machine guns, countless other infantry support weapons, and endless artillery barrages would undoubtedly spell disaster.
Not to mention the BTR-60; Landon Simon had mentioned modifications to its turret, suspecting it had been fitted with a KPVT heavy anti-armor machine gun.
That was an omen best left unprovoked.
Furthermore, setting aside logistics personnel, the entire Guerrilla force had fewer than two battalions left capable of combat, the majority being light infantry, while Patriot’s core units like the Shieldguards were reduced to a single company.
Under these circumstances, the Snowdemon Squad that Yelena had just assembled would come in handy.
Moreover, everyone knew the reality of the Captain's physical condition.
His body could no longer support the limitless activation of his Originium Arts, while the remaining artillery in the Guerrillas—mostly CTW-60 82mm mortars and CTW-59 60mm mortars—would struggle immensely against such targets.
The enemy was clearly an elite force from a regular army or a heavily funded personal guard unit. Otherwise, for a mine to deploy such formidable firepower meant either that the military had already iterated to new weaponry and phased out this batch of older equipment, or that this mine was indeed of vital importance.
This was also the first time the Guerrillas were adopting a combat strategy focused on special operations.
"Varena, Spandon Warren."
"Present!"
"You will operate alongside the Snowdemon Squad. Fire a red signal flare the moment you destroy the majority of the enemy's anti-armor capabilities, and we will attack. If the operation hits a snag, fire a green signal flare, and we will flank and provide backup."
"Understood!"
Varena Schneitzevna and Spandon Warren immediately stood at attention and saluted on the spot.
They were indeed the most fitting candidates for this mission.
Varena was Valentin's older sister. The two of them—one serving as the Guerrilla signal company commander (scout, courier), the other as the heavy infantry company commander (Shieldguard, dreadnought)—were battle-hardened elites among elites. They had once suppressed an Infected riot in Bait Town, followed Patriot through several Ursus-Kazdel wars, marched north alongside him to resist the collapsars, and later headed south to fight for the "justice" in Patriot's heart.
Spandon Warren, meanwhile, was the sharpest spear in the Guerrillas outside of the Big Dad himself. As a Kazdel, he could understand the Guerrillas' internal cipher commands while leading Kazdels and light infantry through crucial assault missions time and again, tearing breach after breach in enemy lines. The Saiga-12k in his hands had been captured from an officer who once attempted to wipe out the entire Guerrilla force.
(Note: Due to a shortage of ammunition, dreadnoughts had ceased using and discarded their corresponding equipment, with their personnel integrated into the Shieldguard ranks.)
A force with illustrious external achievements was, simply because of honorable battlefield injuries, classified as Infected and forced to endure unprovoked discrimination and malicious words from all directions. Even those so-called political commissars could swagger in front of Bulstrode, a living legend of Ursus. Naturally, this was something they could no longer tolerate.
And Bulstrode himself had ultimately chosen the justice in his heart, firmly believing that justice would eventually belong to Ursus, to every Ursus, to everyone.
He marched—marching toward decay, toward darkness, toward injustice, toward the Empire.
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This was the step they were about to take.
Seeing this, Yelena felt a trace of dissatisfaction in her heart, but her practical experience was pitifully sparse. Furthermore, the Snowdemon Squad was merely a motley crew with no tactical coordination or strategic intellect worth mentioning—the only one who could manage anything was Yelena herself. Obviously, taking them all head-on was unrealistic.
She might have been a bit rash in her youth, but she was no fool to treat human lives as child's play.
She knew full well how many casualties a reckless amateur like herself would cause if she rushed in alone.
Perhaps from fighting too many guerrilla campaigns, the Guerrillas were no longer constrained by so-called superiors, and the entire force from top to bottom was permeated with a "merchant" mentality. Yelena was naturally no exception.
She never engaged in a losing business.
Bulstrode looked at Yelena, then at Varena and Spandon, and nodded with satisfaction.
"After discussion, the combat plan is as follows: once the special operations team fires the red signal flare, the main force will immediately charge out from the disguised positions a hundred meters away for a frontal assault. If they fire the green signal flare, open fire rapidly to establish suppression—a frontal feint combined with a flanking general assault. Pay close attention to enemy heavy firepower and ensure ciphers are used. Is that clear?"
"Clear!"
Patriot's tactical arrangements remained as concise and efficient as ever.
"Then, move out!"
…………
December 2, 1086, 0:30 a.m.
"Siberia" Mine, Soshaleyov Fief, Northeast Ursus Tundra
29 minutes and 59 seconds before the raid
The mine: a nightmare for the Infected on the northern tundra of Ursus, a cash cow for the nobles of the northern tundra, and the burning heart of the Ursus industrial empire.
Beneath the hard northern permafrost lay endless opportunities and suffering.
Raw Originium ore, pyrite, rare earth ores (farmed out, of course, to Columbia's so-called "scientific expedition teams"), copper, coal, and even certain precious metal ores had turned a once-uninhabited tundra into a massive natural mining production base.
Because of this, the local black soil was extensively strip-mined and shipped south, while the local administrators turned a blind eye, stripping away even the seeds and sprouts down to their roots.
Cutting off the peasants' root—the land—naturally compelled them to work "willingly" in the mines.
Consequently, shortsighted and extreme nobles unscrupulously implemented such measures across their domains.
The glorious scenes of the past—"three layers of snow covering the winter wheat, sleeping on steamed buns the following year," "wheat waves a thousand feet high, the fragrance of rice carrying ten thousand miles"—were no longer to be found. Most of this black soil was bought up at high prices by other countries or the south to serve as soil for precious flowers.
One could only wonder if those exquisite flowers blooming in greenhouses could stomach the suffering of the northern people.
The entire camp blazed with light, bright as day.
The glare cast upon the snow illuminated the whole compound, sparing only a few military-green tents and prefabricated barracks.
High white walls paired with red foundations, topped with "No Climbing" and "Danger: High Voltage" signs, turned the place into a veritable restricted zone.
Inside, a soldier from a certain armored synthetic battalion of the Ursus 3rd Army, dressed in a black Ursus military uniform and wearing a furry cap, was wiping the KPVT heavy anti-armor machine gun mounted on a BTR-60 before him.
December on the Ursus tundra was far more freezing than December in the capital city of St. Petersburg.
A layer of frost coated even the barrel and the breech mechanism.
He had no intention of clearing the snow from the personnel carrier's road wheels—to be honest, he felt that driving it around for a spin would clear it much more efficiently, and that sounded like fun.
It would be even better if he could clear out a batch of Infected while he was at it.
He longed to hear the roar of this iron dragon, to feel its recoil and the massive muzzle flash, to experience its rhythmic shaking and the special scent of warm bloody mist mingling with the cold air...
His Lupine tail wagged even more enthusiastically.
Yes, he was the gunner of this BTR-60, and one of the sources of joy for the entire camp.
This armored personnel carrier was mainly used for picking up supply trucks and troop transports.
They had been stationed here for nearly a year.
Without venting the violence pent up inside, everyone here would go completely insane.
"One more month... and I can go home!"
The Lupine casually tossed his rag onto the vehicle frame, picked up a tub of grease, and began servicing the breech mechanism.
He had already started imagining the warm reception from his relatives and friends upon his triumphant return home, and the local women throwing themselves at him...
At the thought, he couldn't help but drool.
"Hey, Tatiyam, how's the maintenance coming along?"
Tatiyam reeled in his infatuated expression and casually replied to the person pacing around the vehicle body below:
"Commander, just finishing the breech."
"Hurry it up."
"Sir."
Slowings his hands down considerably, he looked up at the vehicle commander and curled his lip:
"It's not like you're the one doing the work. All day long you just know how to hole up in that shack drinking with Karl, can't even spare me a drop... Bah! And you're rushing me?"
Old veterans were always like that; once they grew cynical in the service, nobody could easily keep them in line.
He lowered his head and resumed servicing the breech mechanism, though his hands moved much faster now.
The freshly applied white grease was already beginning to freeze over again...
Searchlights swept back and forth, scanning both inward and outward.
He raised his head, glanced at a few figures huddled together in misery near the red base of the wall not far away, and let out a few cold sneers.
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Blind Infected, scum of the Empire—their greatest value lay in producing Originium ore for Baron Soshaleyov and providing emotional value for them.
They had no reason to exist whatsoever.
The searchlight swept back and forth over their bodies, but those few individuals had already lost any corresponding reflex reactions.
"Such a bore, hmph."
............
The ground was blanketed in white snow, dry and hard, while the biting cold wind seemed to freeze people's brains, stiffening even their thoughts.
A few solitary pine trees stood under the onslaught of the bitter cold; occasionally, the cracking of a branch could be heard, as if its limbs were shattering beneath the bark. Now and then, a thick branch was snapped off by the cold wind and hurled to the ground, slamming onto the backs of the lurking fighters.
They were covered with withered grass gathered beforehand, layered with a blanket of snow on top. This provided warmth while achieving a camouflage effect.
Sergei noticed several protruding tree branches trembling slightly in the snow, knowing it was the assault team fighters shivering in the bitter wind.
"Sergei, the intelligence was wrong."
Holding his blade, Ivan made a low-profile leap forward, bending close to the ground, and smoothly slid into the ambush position with a dragon-like tail-sweep.
The very moment he slipped in, a high-power floodlight swept right over the heads of all the Reunion Movement assault squad members.
They ducked their heads.
Meanwhile, Sergei's physiological tolerance in this frozen wasteland was clearly inferior to the group of Ursus beside him.
He could now distinctly hear his upper and lower teeth chattering against each other, while his heart pounded violently, sending waves of warning signals through his body.
He could no longer feel anything in his fingers, and his entire body was left with only a bone-chilling cold.
Though the other assault squad members nearby weren't quite as badly off, they were all nearly frozen through.
Yet they continued to grit their teeth and hold on.
"You... You alright?"
"N... Not bad..."
Knowing the temperament of the man before him, Ivan simply skipped the utterly useless expressions of concern, reached out directly to pull the makeshift map from Sergei's chest, and spread it out on the counter-slope:
"Heavy firepower points, visible sentries. I'm guessing they don't have hidden sentries, but they have concealed firing ports. There's an armored personnel carrier among them; I've seen it, but not the weapon on top."
As Ivan pointed and gestured across the map, Sergei finally realized how far reality deviated from the intelligence—it was a hundred thousand miles off!
We're in trouble—big trouble.
"Th... This is my fault..."
Sergei wriggled his body, enduring the numbness in his limbs, trying to drive the cold away through movement.
But Ivan quickly pressed him down:
"Don't move. If you do that, we'll easily be spotted."
"...Understood..."
Sergei randomly snapped a branch off a nearby bush and clamped it between his teeth to muffle the sound of his chattering teeth interfering with his judgment.
Staring at Ivan's map, he instantly realized that a frontal assault had become nearly impossible.
"...Go. Inform Commander Talulah to abandon the frontal assault, pivot to cover us instead, launch a frontal feint, and brief them on the approximate enemy firepower disposition."
"Sir!"
An assault squad soldier slid away stumbling, as if granted a reprieve.
The very next moment after he slipped away, the searchlight swept across the ambush site once more, forcing the fighters to lower their heads again.
Gritting his teeth, Sergei ultimately issued the order:
"...The combat plan remains unchanged. The key is to neutralize the sentries at top speed, find the warehouse, cause chaos, and fish in troubled waters."
"Will... Will this actually work..."
Uncertainty filled Ivan's tone.
And Sergei furrowed his tightly knit brows even deeper:
"Let me ask you, if you meet an enemy several times stronger than yourself on the battlefield, do you charge or not?"
"Damn it all, of course we charge and give 'em hell. I refuse to believe that no matter how tough they are, I can't tear a chunk of flesh off them. Backing down during a charge makes you a son of a bitch and unworthy of being a soldier."
Ivan's fierce streak flared up as well. A dangerous red glint flashed in his Lupine pupils, and his entire body coiled like a spring—part assassin, part revved-up armored vehicle.
"That's right. Knowing it's death yet still going in to strike a blow—that's called drawing your sword. If you don't have that courage, don't bother being a swordsman. Falling to an opponent isn't a disgrace; it's a glorious defeat, and the formidable reputation of our Reunion Movement will still stand. We aren't cowards. If we don't dare to bare our blades and let ourselves be restrained everywhere, what does that make us? A thousand-year-old tortoise? We aren't cowards. Besides, our target is small; if we're careful, we might even pull off a real number on them, haha."
"Hah. I'm with you, damn it!"