Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C64

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The thrusters of the Skyfire shuttle roared to life, and a flare of icy blue flame instantly lit up the night sky. Then, Marshall saw something that could only be described as a nightmare. A grotesque creature—something between a dog and an alien abomination—was crouched atop one of the soldiers. Its razor-sharp claws had sunk completely into the soldier's powered armor, and blood spurted through the gaps, splattering across its face like paint.

Even more horrifying were the larger reptilian creatures nearby. Their shells were impossibly thick; even after being struck by twenty-millimeter autocannons mounted on the armored vehicles beside them, they merely shrieked in pain. These monsters spat a greenish saliva with corrosive properties so potent it rivaled industrial acid. Under their assault, the outer plating of the armored vehicles dissolved like rice paper catching fire, melting away to form gaping holes that left everyone staring in horror.

Marshall had even witnessed a soldier drenched head-to-toe in this acidic spit. The man’s screams echoed in his ears, conjuring images of traitors burned alive on imperial execution grounds. For years, he’d believed reinstating capital punishment was a regression of human civilization—a violation of human rights. But now, compared to the agony inflicted by these corrosive attacks, those executions seemed merciful.

In just half a minute at most, the reinforced steel alloy armor turned into a pool of sickly green molten metal. Inside, the soldier’s flesh melted away, organs liquefying as they writhed and howled before collapsing like broken skeletons. Blood and pus mingled together, spreading across the cold ground.

True obliteration. No remains left behind.

The shuttle’s searchlights swept over the battlefield, illuminating the sinuous bodies of the crawling beasts as they spewed wave after wave of lethal acid. The pilot cursed furiously, trying to drown out the terror gripping his heart. The fire-control radar locked onto two targets. He shifted his sweat-soaked right hand slightly and pressed the firing button with force.

Two "Headcrusher IV" anti-tank missiles launched from beneath the wings of the shuttle, streaking through the air like fiery comets toward two roaches. At such close range, given the speed of the roaches, dodging the missiles should have been nearly impossible.

But then, something utterly unexpected happened. Midway through their flight, both missiles suddenly detonated without warning, bursting into flashes of light resembling fireworks. Almost immediately afterward, the shuttle shuddered violently as if struck by some invisible blade. Flames erupted from the left thruster, sending the craft spinning uncontrollably downward until it crashed into the earth with a deafening impact.

Chaos spread like wildfire. Soldiers who had only moments ago awakened to the chaos scrambled desperately toward the flanks, fleeing in panic. It was too terrifying. Everything felt futile against those monstrous aliens.

Meanwhile, a group of human soldiers approached the battlefield silently—twenty-four men strong, forming a single platoon. They split into two squads of twelve, each led by a commanding officer, and began hunting down the scattered remnants of troops retreating along the flanks.

One squad, clad in bulky black armor and carrying cooling towers on their backs, bypassed ordinary infantry altogether, charging straight for a Warthog I anti-armor vehicle retreating while exchanging fire. A grenade trailed silver-white exhaust as it arced through the air, exploding against the tank’s portside armor in a blinding flash. The previously retreating vehicle slowed abruptly, as though sinking into quicksand, before five enemy soldiers surrounded it from both sides. Strange conical grenades rained down like meteors, striking the hull repeatedly.

Explosions lit up the night, and Marshall imagined the deafening booms accompanying them. Under relentless bombardment, the anti-armor vehicle was reduced to scrap metal.

Turning his gaze to the other side, he saw another squad—smaller and more agile—cutting down their fleeing comrades with ruthless efficiency. In the darkness, there were no muzzle flashes, no tracer rounds slicing through the air, just rows upon rows of bodies falling like cut grass, never to rise again.

A chill ran down Marshall’s spine, as if he’d plunged into an icy river in the dead of winter. The cold seeped into his bones, suffocating him.

And then, at the edge of his vision, a figure strode forward calmly. Clad in a Monya Empire-standard “Guardian Knight” suit, the man moved as though strolling through a garden. With a casual flick of his right arm, a massive needle-like appendage—thicker than a water barrel and tipped with an anchor-shaped point—shot through the swarm of insects, impaling a Jackal tank that was adjusting its firing angle. Effortlessly, the tank was lifted into the air and hurled it aside.

The tank smashed into the ground, creating a deep crater. Shards of debris rained down like hailstones.

“Who… who is he? Why are those creatures obeying him?” Marshall tightened his grip on his W-219 Boxer assault rifle, swallowing hard.

It was over. Everything was over. Nearly two companies’ worth of troops hadn’t faltered under the artillery barrage of the 3789th Division or crumbled before seemingly impregnable fortifications. Yet within mere minutes, they had been utterly routed by this mysterious force of fewer than fifty individuals.

The cries of despair replayed endlessly in his ears, interspersed with Captain Claude’s hoarse voice crackling through the communicator.

“Fall back! Hold your positions! You cowards, stop running and get back here…”

But the retreat continued unabated. One vehicle after another burst into flames, morale collapsing like a dam breaking under pressure.

“Sigh…” Claude’s weary voice came through the comm.

There was no way they could resist such an opponent. Marshall licked his cracked lips, preparing to slip away quietly behind a veteran soldier nearby when a shadow darted around the corner of the trench.

His heart clenched, and the foot he’d already extended froze mid-step. It was Captain Claude.

“Marshall, Wilson, follow me,” Claude ordered briskly, striding toward the command vehicle hidden behind cover. He yanked open the rear door and slipped inside.

Marshall glanced at Wilson, who was slowly rising from beside the command vehicle, sighed helplessly, and followed suit.

“What are you two still dawdling for?” Claude barked through the communicator.

By now, Wilson had entered the command vehicle. Marshall cast one last glance at the advancing swarm of creatures, his expression darkening as he quickened his pace.

“Mom, Dad… take care.” He tore the pendant from around his neck, stuffing it into the storage compartment of his power armor. Grabbing hold of the handle, he pulled himself up with grim determination.

When he stepped into the rear compartment of the command vehicle, ready to face whatever awaited him, the sight before him froze him in place, leaving him speechless.

Why?

Claude stood motionless in front of the communications console, stunned.

Wilson’s right hand protruded from Claude’s chest, emerging from his back, dripping with blood and fragments of internal organs like a crimson waterfall.

“You… who are you?” Claude’s fading voice whispered through the communicator.

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