On the northern shore of Bartoya Province, at the garrison of the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team.
The soldiers digging trenches were in low spirits, their morale had hit rock bottom.
Across the sea was Welch Governorate, the shared homeland of their bodies and souls.
They couldn't understand why they had to aim their guns there, nor what their superiors were thinking or what they were guarding against.
If the Alliance wanted to land, wouldn't it be closer to land on the coast from the southwest?
To make such a large detour here is equivalent to placing the logistics supply line right under the Southern Legion's nose.
Moreover, they were even more puzzled by the actions targeted at civilians.
Even if it was to avoid civilian casualties by temporarily evacuating the elderly, women, and children to the north before the war reached their homeland, the entire evacuation plan was rather hasty...
The currents of the Whirlpool Sea are not from south to north, but rather circular and meandering.
For a body to be washed up on the northern shore meant there would surely be bodies washed back...
On a nameless beach in the area under the jurisdiction of the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team, about a dozen people were gathered.
Rifles slung over their backs, entrenching shovels hung at their waists, a bloated corpse lay before them, swollen by the seawater.
The man with the rank of Centurion had a nearly burnt-out cigarette in his mouth, the lines at the corners of his eyes twisted into a tangled rope.
They all felt the person seemed familiar, as if they had seen him at the dock just the day before yesterday, yet unexpectedly, they found him here.
The fact that the body could be washed up here obviously meant it fell into the sea shortly after leaving the dock.
Actually, there was nothing surprising about this.
After all, it was just a raft tied together with ropes, and being overturned by a big wave was within reason.
Looking at the bloated corpse, no one said a word.
No one uttered a sound.
Until a young man suddenly took off the steel helmet from his head, finally breaking the oppressive silence.
"Damn it! I'm done!"
With a look of despair, he threw his helmet forcefully to the ground, then pulled off the gun from his back and threw it on the beach.
"We're not fighting the Alliance at all! We're fighting our own people! So many days, I haven't seen even one Blue Ground Squirrel, it's all our own people!"
Seeing the young man suddenly go crazy, all the comrades around him were stunned.
A soldier beside him hurriedly grabbed his arm, widened his eyes, and shouted at him.
"Are you crazy?! Do you know what you're doing!"
Dropping weapons makes one a deserter.
In the Southern Legion, that's a death penalty!
He couldn't bear to watch a comrade he's been through thick and thin with act foolishly.
However, the young man was unappreciative, hysterically shouting, trying to break free from the hand clutching his arm, and yelled at the comrade stopping him.
"It's you who doesn't know what you're doing! It's all of you! Open your eyes and look, look at that face! Who killed him? It was us!!!"
The incoherent voice echoed on the beach, yet no one could respond to his anger.
The leading Centurion walked up to him, drew his pistol from his waist, and sternly stared into his face.
"You want to be a deserter?"
The young man ceased his shouting but still stared defiantly at the officer, his chest heaving violently.
The standoff between both sides persisted silently for a full five minutes.
The Centurion put away his pistol, took the spent cigarette from his mouth, and tossed it on the ground, stamping it out.
"Bury the man."
No point leaving the poor soul soaking in the sea.
The young man didn't say anything but nodded, acknowledging the officer's words.
The group carried the corpse away from the beach, found a tree as thick as a thigh on the shore, buried him beneath it, and placed the deceased's personal items on the tree.
No one spoke another word throughout the process, everyone remained silent, bottling up their complaints, confusion, and dissatisfaction.
On the other side, by the beach pier, the camp lined up in a long queue.
This was the area managed by the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team.
Other ten-thousand teams were responsible for bringing survivors here, while they were responsible for loading them onto boats.
Whether it was the people entering the camp or those leaving, their faces were full of anxiety and dread.
Stopping at the camp gate, a man carrying a suitcase looked at the soldiers on guard duty and questioned loudly.
"Where on earth are we going?"
The rifle-toting soldier's expression remained unchanged, standing tall and repeating the order from above like a recorder.
"Wait here until the boat docks, then take the boat to the Welch Governorate."
The minor incident at the camp entrance did not affect the overall operation of the camp, and the man persistently clamoring to go home was quickly taken away.
Meanwhile, beside the dock not far from the camp, the Ten Thousand Leader of the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team, General O'Frey, was frowning at the rafts sent by the 10th Ten Thousand Team of the Servant Army.
The craftsmanship of these rafts could only be described as beyond words.
Many of the logs bound with hemp ropes were freshly cut, simply stripped of bark and branches. Not only had they not been soaked in waterproof oil, but even the most basic drying steps were skipped, with some of the wood even showing cracks.
The engineer in waterproof boots walked back to the shore and shook his head at General O'Frey with his hands behind his back.
"These rafts are unqualified. They won't last twenty nautical miles before falling apart on the way."
O'Frey looked at the bearded man standing beside him.
The man's name was Mur, the Ten Thousand Leader of the 10th Ten Thousand team of the Servant Army.
"You heard it, these rafts are unqualified."
In response to O'Frey's questioning, Mur showed a nonchalant expression.
"Do you think these things grow out of the ground? It takes our soldiers half a day just to chop down these logs and tie them together with ropes. You require 800 qualified ones every day, why don't you try it yourself!"
O'Frey stared at Mur with a sullen face.
Since the frontline situation became increasingly unfavorable for the Southern Legion, these once obedient Servant Armies had also started to become restless.
Seeing O'Frey left speechless, Mur suddenly smiled and looked at the people standing in line at the pier.
"Anyway, you're sending them to their deaths in the sea. Why care about the quality of these rafts?"
O'Frey glared at him with a murderous look, and the guards standing by gripped their guns tightly.
"Say that again."
Seeing the murderous expression, Mur sneered disdainfully.
But perhaps pressured by the dark gun barrels, this sensible man eventually refrained from acting rashly. He simply threw out a line, "I'll send you another batch later," then turned and walked away without looking back.
Watching the fierce Ten Thousand Leader, the adjutant approached, hesitating as he looked at his superior.
"Should we still let those survivors board the ship?"
"..." O'Frey said nothing, only casting his gaze toward the group standing in front of the pier.
They were the elderly, women, and children, shivering in the cold sea breeze, their faces full of fear, like mice cornered into a dead end.
They might be someone's father, someone's mother, or even children.
Their relatives shed blood on the frontline for the Southern Legion, expanding its territory, yet now Commander Teil still wants them to sacrifice themselves.
So what is all this sacrifice really for?
Where is the end of this war?
Why has even Triumph City become an opponent now?
Unconsciously, O'Frey clenched his fists, the veins on his arm bulging, suddenly squeezing out a sentence.
"... What are we really doing?"
Beside him, the adjutant stared blankly at him, his face gradually showing a guilty expression.
Having made up his mind, O'Frey strode to the pier and yelled loudly at the long line of people.
"Today's voyage is canceled! There's no ship to the other side, go back to the camp!"
He knew what this meant.
If today's quota wasn't met, Commander Teil wouldn't let him off.
Moreover, thousands of refugees stuck in the camp would continue to occupy beds, and more people were continuously pouring in, leading to more and more trouble for him.
However, no matter what, he couldn't bring himself to push these fellow citizens into the sea and watch them die.
Upon hearing the Ten Thousand Leader's "stay of execution," the people in line at the pier let out sighs of relief.
Some began to clap, while others shouted, "Thank you," and "Well done."
Seeing those faces filling with color again, a slight smile crept up on General O'Frey's lips. Then he turned back to his adjutant and gave a non-negotiable order.
"Burn all the rafts on the beach!"
The adjutant looked at his superior with solemn reverence and saluted with a grave expression.
"Yes, sir!"
Following General O'Frey's order, the civilians gathered by the beach were soon led back to the camp.
The soldiers poured gasoline on the rafts piled by the beach and then set them on fire.
The blazing flames burned on the beach, becoming the first light before dawn.
On the deck of the destroyer, Captain Maloc held binoculars in his hand, watching everything that happened on the beach, his eyes filled with anger rekindled with hope.
Seeing the soldiers on shore not forcing those civilians onto the ship but instead burning the rafts and letting them go, he was so excited that he punched the guardrail on the side of the ship hard.
"Well done!"
Everything that had happened these days was seen by him, making him both anxious and urgent.
Although more than once he wished he could order a cannon blast on those bastards, Triumph City hadn't declared war on the Southern Legion, and initiating this war wouldn't solve any problem.
The civilians would still die.
And more people would die.
Luckily, the soldiers on the other side awakened in time, voluntarily preventing this farce!
It seems that not every compatriot in Bartoya Province is like Teil, a complete madman!
Some have awakened—
They have hope!
As Captain Maloc thought so, far ashore, General O'Frey's situation was not optimistic.
His unauthorized decision resulted in 10,000 fewer "cannon fodder" being sent to Welch Governorate today.
This not only disrupted Teil's plan but also added 10,000 additional mouths to the "frontline" in northern Bartoya Province.
That night, a hundred soldiers wearing exoskeletons arrived at the camp under the responsibility of the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team.
Seeing the well-equipped soldiers and the crossbow-shaped insignias on their arms, almost every soldier and officer in the camp wore a solemn expression.
"Iron Cross" Rapid Reaction Force!
The ace paratroopers of the Southern Legion!
And that's not all—
These guys are also personal bodyguards of Commander Teil! It's said that every soldier is an Awakener injected with the inducement evolution serum!
Looking at General O'Frey standing at the dormitory entrance, Captain Haines didn't remove his mask, only speaking expressionlessly.
"General O'Frey, I need an explanation as to why not a single ship has been sent from the camp you manage today."
General O'Frey looked at him unemotionally, raising his chin defiantly.
"Because we haven't seen a single ship."
"This isn't in line with the intelligence I have," Captain Haines took out a tablet from his waist, tapped it twice with his index finger, and several photos appeared on the screen, "These are photos submitted by the 10th Ten-thousand Troops of the Servant Army, claiming to have delivered 812 ships to you."
Looking at the images on the screen, O'Frey felt a surge of anger.
He wished he could crumple this thing into a ball and smash it into the guy's face.
"You call these tied-up logs ships? Why don't you try it yourself and see if you can cross the Whirlpool Sea with this thing?"
He yelled in fury, eyes fixed on Haines, then pointed at the gas mask on his face.
"And what's with your outfit? Biochemical combat equipment? Don't tell me you forgot to take it off after a drill!"
"That's classified," Haines had no intention of explaining, only staring back expressionlessly, "And right now, it's me who should be questioning you, General O'Frey, you should be explaining to me."
General O'Frey let out a cold laugh.
"I have nothing to explain. Until I see ships capable of crossing the sea, don't expect me to drive anyone into the water!"
Haines's pupils narrowed slightly.
The murderous gaze pierced through the tactical goggles, making General O'Frey feel a chill in his heart.
Aware of the killing intent, the guards behind General O'Frey instinctively placed their hands on their waists, gripping the submachine guns hanging there.
The atmosphere between both sides was tense, as if a fight could break out at any moment!
"General O'Frey," Haines raised his chin slightly, "due to your refusal to execute Commander Teil's orders, I'll have to take you back to Yavente City for further instructions."
Pausing, he glanced around at the surrounding officers and continued in a methodical voice.
"As for the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team, I'll arrange for a new commander to take over."
General O'Frey squinted his eyes at him.
"What if I say no?"
Haines replied with a cold laugh.
"It seems you intend to defy orders."
"I don't need to follow orders that don't come through proper channels," General O'Frey retorted with a cold smile, "If you want to order me, let someone of higher rank do it!"
He wasn't afraid of this guy at all.
The Iron Cross Rapid Reaction Force's reputation sounds intimidating, but they are a special operations unit. If it really comes to a fight, it's not certain who would win.
Besides, he had over ten thousand men under his command; even if each spat once, they could crush these hundred or so grasshoppers.
"It looks like there's no further need for discussion between us."
Haines let out a chuckle, suddenly seeming to relent.
He waved his hand to those behind him, and with a group of soldiers clad in exoskeletons, he walked out of the camp without looking back, as if they had never been there.
Watching the disappearing figures at the entrance, the adjutant beside General O'Frey slowly breathed a sigh of relief.
Although he wasn't afraid of these people either, a fight would inevitably lead to casualties.
But looking at General O'Frey, a smile of helplessness appeared on his face.
"You've really gotten on Commander Teil's bad side this time..."
General O'Frey chuckled.
"If I was afraid of offending him, I wouldn't have disobeyed his orders."
At worst, he would go to a military court after this war.
He had already decided not to be a Ten Thousand Leader anymore.
Just as he was about to walk back, a crisp swoosh passed over his head.
Before General O'Frey could react, a boiling flash and roar crashed into his face.
In an instant, he was thrown out, landing like a rag in a pool of blood.
There was no doubt he was dead from the blood loss.
Whether it was a fragmentation missile or a guided mortar shell that killed him was unknown.
The gear of the Iron Cross Rapid Reaction Force was matched to corporate standards.
Just like O'Frey had thought, their frontline combat power wasn't strong, but their assassination capability was first-rate.
He just never expected the respected Commander Teil to strike without any warning.
Under normal circumstances, such a thing was almost unimaginable…
The deafening explosion alarmed the entire camp, and the guards on duty quickly took combat positions and evacuated the survivors gathered at the southern gate of the camp.
The unarmed civilians screamed as they rushed from the southern part of the camp towards the sea, trying to get away from the battlefield.
At the same time, a cold voice carried over the cries of babies and the shouts of adults, floating in from the southern part of the camp.
"Attention, the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team, your Ten Thousand Leader has refused to follow orders and attempted armed defiance. He has now been dealt with by military law."
"You have two roads to choose from now—"
"Lay down your weapons, leave the camp, surrender and accept reorganization by the 10th Ten-thousand Men Team."
"Or continue to be stubborn and take your disgrace to the grave as traitors."
The cold voice echoed incessantly on the south side of the camp, stimulating the eardrums of every soldier in the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team.
Their eyes widened in disbelief, the emotions in their pupils were at first shocked, then gradually turned to anger.
General O'Frey was dead.
Commander Teil had discarded their general like a dirty rag, and now he wanted someone else to command them to kill each other.
The Centurion, crouched behind cover, cursed "Damn" under his breath, extinguishing a cigarette butt on the ground as if to vent his anger into the earth.
The young man beside him had eyes completely reddened, trembling violently as he held his gun, with only one voice left between his clenched teeth.
"I'll kill you all..."
On the other side, the adjutant, affected by the explosion, finally struggled to climb up from the rubble.
He staggered to General O'Frey's side, only to see that the Ten Thousand Leader he respected had become a corpse.
Rage and sorrow surged to the top of his head in an instant.
His eyes were bloodshot, staring intensely at the pitch-black night outside the camp.
Traitors?
Who exactly are the traitors?
Before the broadcast could repeat, he grabbed the communicator that had fallen on the ground and screamed hysterically.
"Attention all units!"
"The 117th Ten-thousand Men Team's headquarters has been bombarded by enemies! We will never surrender!"
"Everyone, pick up your weapons, prepare for battle! Fight them to the end!"
At the same time as the adjutant of the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team took over command, Captain Haines, standing about a kilometer outside the camp, put down his communicator and signaled to the soldiers with loudspeakers to stop.
The persuasion work ends here.
From their attitude, it's clear they've completely given up on cooperation.
Hearing the gunfire from afar, Haines looked at General Mur, the Ten Thousand Leader of the Servant Army's 10th Ten-thousand Men Team, and said without any emotion in his voice.
"These people are yours now."
Afterwards, this conflict will be seen as an internal feud between the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team and the Servant Army, but the reckoning with the Servant Army can be postponed a bit since Commander Teil still has use for them.
Nonetheless, the plan to send refugees north cannot be interrupted. They don't have the time or capability to persuade those "striking" soldiers to continue their work.
Those soldiers engaged in "end work" have almost reached the limit of their moral capacity; mutiny is inevitable. It would be better to get rid of them early.
Besides—
The rebels in the north might see this as an opportunity and attack.
The Mortal Serum has already been fermenting within the Southern Legion; the longer this war drags on, the worse it is for them.
Since a fight is inevitable, it's better to strike now.
Unaware of being used as a pawn, Ten Thousand Leader Mur wore a bloodthirsty grin.
He was already prepared to show Commander Teil a trick, his fists clenching and cracking.
"Leave it to me."
"I won't let that person down!"
...
At the same time, in the Glory Court of Triumph City.
An Imperial Guard strode into the newly designated Leader's office, saluted solemnly, and reported to the Pangolin who was approving documents.
"There has been a military conflict on the north shore of Bartoya Province!"
At the desk, the Battlefield Atmosphere Group froze for a moment, sitting up straight.
"What's going on? Didn't I order the frontline troops to avoid conflicts with the Southern Legion?!"
The Imperial Guard quickly explained.
"It wasn't our people clashing with the Southern Legion, they had an internal strife. Intelligence reports that the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team stationed on the north shore of Bartoya Province mutinied and had a firefight with the Servant Army's 10th Ten-thousand Men Team. The cause seems to be the beheading of their General O'Frey Ten Thousand Leader by Teil's Personal Body Guard."
Battlefield Atmosphere Group slightly frowned.
"Beheading? At this critical moment..."
The Imperial Guard continued.
"Allegedly because General O'Frey refused to execute Commander Teil's orders. Our troops at the front line saw them burning the rafts intended for the sea crossing that day."
Commander Raze, standing at the desk, spoke in a deep voice.
"It seems not everyone is willing to accompany this madman to his antics. If we launch an attack now, it might be a good opportunity; perhaps some will respond to us. However, it could also lead to outcomes we haven't anticipated, as there's always a chance this could be a trap laid intentionally by Teil... What do you plan to do?"
Battlefield Atmosphere Group closed his eyes in deep thought for a while, then opened them.
"The New Federation's fleet has reached the Whirlpool Sea, right?"
Commander Raze nodded.
"They should arrive around dawn tomorrow."
"Contact the 117th Ten-thousand Men Team, and tell them to hold on until dawn!" Battlefield Atmosphere Group said firmly. "Also, notify the New Federation army to put on full tri-proof gear, clear the decks of their warships, and prepare to help our comrades cross the sea!"