This Game Is Too Realistic
Chapter 696.1: Take The Governors Manor!
“Impact confirmed!”
“Damn it, it’s ten meters off to the left!”
“Correcting...”
“Loaded!”
Inside the courtyard of the Governor’s Manor, a towering gun barrel spat out a thick, blazing tongue of fire, launching a 100 mm high-explosive shell toward the streets near the port.
Stepping over the shell casing ejected from the breech, the loader moved forward with practiced ease to complete the loading and close the breech, while the gunner simultaneously recalibrated the firing parameters, preparing for the next round.
However, just as he had grabbed the rope and run a few steps away, before he even had time to pull it, he took a hard slap to the back of the head. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! Firing at Tulip Street?!” Sweat poured down his forehead as an officer strode up and grabbed him by the collar, unleashing a stream of curses.
That was Tulip Street! Anyone who lived there was someone he couldn’t afford to offend!
The gunner stood there dumbfounded, stammering in reply. “B-but... they’re over there...”
“That still doesn’t...” The word “matter” stuck in his throat before it could come out. Three sharp whistling sounds suddenly tore through the air.
Before he could react, a burst of explosive fire engulfed him, shrapnel shredding his body into a sieve. Together with the wreckage of the ruined 100 mm gun, he was hurled into a sand pit more than 10 meters away.
Looking down from a drone at the gun position now buried under a cloud of dust, an intelligence type player standing beside the mortar emplacement reported, “Direct hit! Artillery destroyed!”
“Nice shot!” The strength type brutes crouched by the impact point were instantly fired up.
Based on the coordinates provided by the spotter, the gunners quickly adjusted their firing data and continued delivering supporting fire to friendly forces holding the perimeter of Tulip Street.
Shells rained down one after another, streaks of fire blossoming at the end of the street, kicking up rolling clouds of dust and rubble.
Under the relentless mortar bombardment, the Port Gallon garrison advancing toward the Burning Corps’s defensive line was beaten so badly they couldn’t even raise their heads.
With no friendly artillery support and no heavy weapons to rely on, they didn’t even catch a glimpse of the enemy before leaving behind hundreds of corpses.
Tracers pierced through the smoke rising from shell craters, darting wildly through the street. Each flash of sparks marked another living person collapsing into a pool of blood.
“Charge!”
“Drive your bayonets into their throats!”
“Wash our streets clean with their blood!”
Soldiers crouched behind cover and barricades kept falling. To hold together the crumbling front line, the captain commanding from the front roared at the troops behind him, urging them forward to fill the gaps.
Amid the deafening gunfire and the ceaseless thunder of mortars, a soldier pressed against cover finally snapped, shouting at the captain, “Sir! The marauders’ firepower is too strong! We need heavy support...”
Before he could finish, a furious roar cut him off. “There is no such thing! What the hell are the guns in your hands for?! Damn it, stop firing at the upper floors! I told you to aim at people, not buildings, ”
Seeing a rookie beside him raising his muzzle, the captain bellowed and reached out, yanking the barrel down.
At that very moment, a bullet whistled in and punched straight through the captain’s forehead.
Thud.
His pupils went slack, and he collapsed heavily to the ground. The splattered brain matter and blood sent the nearby rookie clutching his rifle into a panic. He dropped his weapon on the spot and scrambled backward, crawling away in terror.
With their commanding officer dead, the remaining soldiers finally broke. Fear overwhelmed them, and they abandoned their positions, fleeing en masse toward the rear.
Thus, a full company that had just been sent as reinforcements into the front line for less than 10 minutes began to collapse in an organized rout.
Watching friendly forces vanish in retreat, the soldiers left on the very front could no longer suppress their fear and despair. Death awaited them either way. They fixed bayonets to their rifles, drove away terror with shouts, and charged forward without hesitation.
It proved little different from suicide.
A single 10 mm machine gun mounted on the third floor of a street-side townhouse was enough to lock down the entire street. Thick streams of tracers instantly cut down the few soldiers charging forward with bayonets, pinning them to the ground.
The battle was nothing but a one-sided massacre.
Of the 2,000 troops of the Port Gallon garrison, more than half were casualties within a mere quarter of an hour, and most of the rest were wounded.
By contrast, their enemies, those who had never revealed their identities from beginning to end, had not retreated a single inch since the first shot was fired, still firmly holding several streets near the port.
Looking at the devastation scattered across the street and the corpses nearly filling the shell craters, Commander Abinan went pale with terror.
The combat power the enemy displayed far exceeded his expectations.
If things continued, the 2,000 men under his command would be wiped out on the streets!
He couldn’t let it go on!
He shouted at the soldiers ahead, “Retreat! Everyone fall back!”
The order came like rain after a long drought. Finally hearing the command to withdraw, the Xilande Empire soldiers who had been desperately holding out behind barricades and cover let out sighs of relief and abandoned their positions, fleeing toward the rear streets.
As the troops began to withdraw, the New Alliance did not pursue. Instead, they ceased fire and watched them disappear in the direction of the slums.
Elsewhere, the fighting near the Governor's Manor was also drawing to a close. Crouched in the study on the top floor of the mansion, Nihark trembled uncontrollably. As the gunfire outside faded, the terror in his heart only grew stronger.
He knew exactly who those people outside were. Even if they hadn’t declared their identity, they had to be New Alliance troops, there was no doubt about it!
What he couldn’t understand was how they had appeared at Port Gallon without any warning.
Could it be that when Dilrang set out from Port Gallon, the New Alliance had already known about the impending attack on French Fry Harbor and simply sent forces to wait in the Poro Sea?
Where had the information leaked from?
The port?
Or maybe their capital city?
Impossible!
Fear plunged Nihark’s mind into chaos.
The terror he felt was far stronger than when the so-called Order of the White Bear had rampaged through Port Gallon a month earlier.
He could feel that the invasion was no civilian organization, it was a genuine army, the kind that had gone toe-to-toe with the remnants of the Army’s eastward expeditionary force in the Sunset Province!
He had never imagined the New Alliance’s retaliation would be so fierce, nor that it would come so swiftly, leaving him without even the time to evacuate from the Governor's Manor to somewhere safe.
Clutching his head, he let out a pained groan. “Damn it... this was Duke Garawa’s idea! Why are you coming after me?! Go after him! That idiot is in your Dawn City!”
The gunfire outside had nearly stopped, yet the panic in Nihark’s heart intensified. Trembling, he reached out with his index finger and pulled back the curtain a narrow crack, intending to peek outside, when the door behind him was kicked open with brutal force.
“FBI, OPEN UP!”
“Did you order some prostitutes? That’s illegal, this is a spotcheck!”
“Don’t move!”
A group of people burst in shouting gibberish he couldn’t understand. In the blink of an eye, the black muzzles of guns were pressed against his forehead.
Nihark threw his hands up in terror, screaming at the sight of the black exoskeletons crowding into the study. “I surrender! Don’t... don’t kill me!”
A player in an exoskeleton stepped forward, pulled out a tablet, snapped a photo of his face, and confirmed his identity as the governor of the settlement.
Putting the tablet away, Free Sniper looked at him and said, “Nihark, Governor of Port Gallon. We suspect you are connected to the attack that occurred at French Fry Harbor the night before last. According to the testimony of Dilrang and other informed parties, the battalion that attacked us came from ships in Port Gallon. Please cooperate with our investigation.”
There was no color left in Nihark’s face. He couldn’t even muster a rebuttal.
Seeing that he had nothing to say, Free Sniper couldn’t be bothered to waste words speaking to him any longer. He simply gestured to the rest. “Take him away!”
Two players strode forward, hauled him up from the ground, slapped handcuffs on him, and escorted him out the door.
The fighting downstairs was over.
More than 100 players occupying the Governor's Manor began a meticulous search of the premises, leaving no detail unchecked.
To be honest, the luxury he was enjoying was astonishing. From the grand, imposing gates to the marble-tiled floors and the relief carvings on the supporting pillars, everything proclaimed extravagance taken to the extreme.