Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C67

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"Soldier! What the hell are you doing? It’s been 20 seconds—why haven’t the anti-air missiles launched yet? And what’s with the damn alarm? If it’s overheating, shut off that blasted warning system!" Though Hodgson was just a lowly civilian major, he had mastered the arrogance and cold demeanor of the imperial nobility down to an art.

"C-Captain! The missile launchers have been attacked by an unknown source—they’re… they’re mostly destroyed!"

"What? Attacked?" The gunner’s words were like dropping an effervescent tablet into a pot of boiling water—the entire fire control center erupted in chaos.

"Impossible! How is this possible? The missile silos are located deep behind the front lines—how could they possibly be attacked? Unless the enemy is a god capable of instantaneous teleportation!"

"Could it be an equipment overload? Has the system gone haywire? Where are the maintenance crews? WHERE ARE THEY?"

...

"Look!"

As everyone in the room scrambled to guess the cause of the malfunction, the scene captured by the surveillance cameras outside the perimeter walls left them collectively gasping for air.

At some point, eight grotesque creatures had appeared before the six missile launchers. Streams of dark green saliva spewed from their mouths, landing on the launchers and corroding holes through the heat-resistant, explosion-proof ceramic-metal composite barrels.

Some missiles detonated inside their tubes, triggering a chain reaction of secondary explosions. The launchers resembled cheap fireworks, bursting one after another from the inside out. Others collapsed entirely as their lifting mechanisms snapped, sending "Squid" anti-air missiles careening wildly like drunken revelers at a night market. Some slammed into the base walls in fiery explosions, while others veered into the front lines, leaving trails of screams and mushroom-shaped plumes of sand, shrapnel, flesh, and smoke.

"How did they get past the front lines? Can someone explain this to me?!" Hodgson roared, his face pale with fury.

No one answered. No one could.

On land, there were fortifications; in the sky, radar and satellites. How had these creatures evaded the full-spectrum reconnaissance?

"Soldiers! Return fire! Take out those damned bugs!"

Groups of four 80mm anti-air cannons unleashed torrents of fire at a rate of 300 rounds per minute, weaving dense nets of flame into the sky. Fixed railguns crackled with electricity as electromagnetic coils charged, flinging arcs of dazzling light along their tracks. Twin-barreled 120mm cannons rotated their circular bases slightly, their dark muzzles trained on the roaches swarming below the walls.

Meanwhile, the chaos subsided as the soldiers on the front lines regained their composure. Under Graham’s command, they gradually began to counterattack. Anti-air missiles, heavy machine guns, autocannons, aerial mines, and electromagnetic pulse bombs formed a dense web of firepower, descending upon the approaching Overlords like a suffocating shroud.

The hail of bullets struck the Overlords’ thick hides, erupting in bursts of flames.

Bullets under 50mm barely scratched these beasts. While spinning projectiles could penetrate the Overlords’ outer shells, their dense, flexible muscle tissues absorbed the impact through high-frequency vibrations, then expelled the fragments harmlessly.

Even 80mm anti-air shells and standard small anti-air missiles couldn’t inflict significant damage. Beyond superficial injuries caused by shrapnel, the heat from explosions was absorbed by the Overlords’ cellular tissues and converted into trace amounts of psionic energy, which accelerated their flight speed further.

These Overlords were like balloons—clumsy and bloated in appearance, but with defenses so absurdly strong they defied belief.

Through the Ventral Sacs, which resembled portholes, Tang Fang watched the explosions bloom nearby and far away, transforming into dazzling displays of pyrotechnics. He shifted slightly, leaning back against the Overlord’s elastic muscular tissue to make himself more comfortable.

The tissue was springy, soft, and comparable to the finest sofa. In the nearly thirty-meter-long Ventral Sac, only Tang Fang, Arroz, and Housen remained. The explosions, missiles, and chaos outside were entirely irrelevant to them. If only there were some whiskey or brandy, perhaps a beautiful woman in his arms—this would truly feel like a serene journey through space.

Arroz and Housen also overcame their initial discomfort, gradually adapting to their surroundings.

"This is the ultimate VIP experience," Housen remarked. "Tang Fang, these things could easily be repurposed as luxury sightseeing vehicles. We’d make a fortune."

"Housen, are you insane? We’re in the middle of a war! A WAR!" Arroz shouted back.

His words fell on deaf ears. Housen, lost in his fantasies of revolutionizing the tourism industry, was already envisioning a glorious future.

Tang Fang paid them no mind. His attention was fixed on the fixed railguns, which were now fully charged and ready to fire. Even from thousands of meters away, the jagged arcs of high-voltage electricity crackling between their extended electromagnetic rails were unmistakable.

Bullets under 50mm struggled to penetrate the Overlords’ subcutaneous tissues, and ordinary high-explosive warheads or fragmentation missiles posed little threat unless they struck vital areas.

But the fixed railguns were far from ordinary. Their massive turrets, elongated electromagnetic acceleration rails, and access to 40% of the base’s power supply endowed them with devastating destructive capabilities. Against magnetic projectiles traveling at near-light speeds, even frigates within a hundred meters—or destroyers between 100 and 200 meters, or cruisers between 200 and 300 meters—would be reduced to Swiss cheese in a single volley.

The Overlords, with their 36-meter width and 60-meter length, boasted defenses comparable to battleship armor. But against magnetic projectiles carrying immense kinetic energy, even their formidable resilience wouldn’t save them.

If the "Squid" surface-to-air missiles were the shield of the logistics base, then the six fixed railguns were its spear.

Electric charges converged, forming arcs of lightning that danced rapidly between the dual rails, sliding swiftly toward the muzzle. Preheating complete, the magnetic projectile was ready, and the fire control radar had locked onto its target. Next, electromagnetic force would propel the projectile along the narrow track, accelerating it to sub-light speed in an instant. The colossal kinetic energy would obliterate anything in its path.

This was the 3789th Division’s ace up their sleeve—and, undoubtedly, the enemy’s doom.

Hodgson clenched his fists tightly, his lips turning pale with tension. Through the monitors, his gaze fell on the three Overseers that had broken away from the main group and were rapidly closing in. Though he couldn’t fathom why the enemy would send them directly into the line of fire, one thing was certain: the closer they got, the higher the accuracy and deadliness of the railgun shots.

"A sacrificial gambit, eh? Hmph. Those who dare challenge the empire’s authority will all meet their end," Hodgson muttered. He aspired to noble life and often mimicked the demeanor and gestures of figures like Edward and Francis. He relished the feeling, as if, in his subconscious, he already considered himself one of the aristocracy.

Honor, arrogance, fervent patriotism—all who encountered him described him thus: "Oh, Hodgson, you were born to be a noble. Composed, elegant, and imbued with a guardian’s spirit…"

Hodgson narrowed his eyes, imagining the projectiles piercing the grotesque flying insects, the friction igniting their bodies into heaps of charred flesh. This battle would earn him a sword emblem on his chest, securing his place in the emperor’s favor forever.

The turrets adjusted slightly, fine-tuning their angles. Everything was set. The gunner pressed the firing button.

Reality, however, is like a car model posing seductively in the car, striking provocative poses with her chest thrust out and hips tilted. Your eyes are drawn only to her curves, causing you to overlook other details.

For instance, she might have athlete’s foot—or hemorrhoids. She might average ten abortions a year.

Hodgson had never imagined he’d encounter something like this—it infuriated him more than anything. If not for the need to maintain the composed elegance expected of imperial nobility in public, he would’ve surely lost his temper.

On the monitors, the three Overseers braved the intense anti-air fire. Just one second before the fixed railguns fired, they somehow spat six round "organic projectiles" from thousands of meters away.

To most of the grizzled soldiers, this evoked a crude term—"ejaculation." Paired with their turtle-like heads, the sight was eerily reminiscent.

The "organic projectiles," each five meters in diameter, were encased in a thin yet resilient biological membrane. Upon landing on the railgun tracks, the membranes ruptured, releasing sticky organic material that spread like magic seeds from a fairy tale. In the blink of an eye, thick sinewy tendrils sprouted, wrapping around the railguns like spider silk, tightening with every passing moment.

But the transformation didn’t stop there. The thick tendrils began secreting a brownish-yellow viscous fluid, seeping into the equipment’s crevices and internal components. The liquid quickly solidified into a flexible, durable substance, not only shielding the magnetic fields of the dual rails but also immobilizing critical parts like the rotating base, projectile chambers, and electromagnetic generators.

From a distance, the railguns looked like they were wrapped in grotesque cocoons. Forget firing—even moving was impossible.

All six railguns were rendered useless. Everyone in the fire control center stared blankly at the monitors. Hodgson’s face darkened to the point where it seemed ink might drip from it.

A similar scene unfolded in the base command room. Hu Qing felt a chill run down his spine. What the hell were those things? Biological warships nearly forty meters long, capable of disabling fixed railguns—where had they come from? How could they possibly fight this battle?

They had thought the enemy had already shown their full strength, only to discover that their tricks were endless. A profound sense of helplessness washed over him.

The surface-to-air missile launchers had been ambushed and completely destroyed. The fixed railguns were disabled, their critical systems neutralized. With both weapons rendered useless, what could they rely on next? The 120mm automatic cannons? They were currently being toyed with by the six-legged roaches scurrying about like rats.

Anti-air mines? Machine guns? Missiles? These weapons were too weak. Unless their energy could be focused into a concentrated beam, they couldn’t even pierce the balloon-like creatures’ hides.

Dear heavens, tell me—how do we fight this battle?

Though Edward was broad-minded, it didn’t mean he lacked ambition. Truthfully, he enjoyed seeing Hu Qing humiliated. But at this moment, he hoped more than anything that Hu Qing could turn the tide. Because if the base fell into the hands of this unfamiliar enemy, who knew what fate awaited them?

Escape? That was a ridiculous idea. Walker Stuart was a ruthless butcher who killed without hesitation.

Silence—deathly silence.

At this moment, the contrast between the front lines and the base interior was stark. The Overlords had arrived overhead, and "Black Bears" and "Mountain Panthers" slid down their long tendrils. Judicator grenades exploded in the trenches, sending shrapnel flying and sand swirling. Rows of metal spikes swept through, impaling soldiers before they could react. The sharp needles pierced through steel armor, flesh, and bone, exiting through their backs and leaving trails of blood.

A Saber-Tooth anti-armor vehicle burst out of a trench, its rear treads kicking up clouds of sand, making it an easy target. Judicator grenades rained down on its hull, blowing gaping holes in its frame. The explosion spread to the ammunition compartment, and within moments, the vehicle’s top was blown off, exposing its molten-red metallic innards and the charred remains of the driver.

One after another, Queens were dropped by the Overlords. Their sharp bone spikes impaled fleeing soldiers through the back, emerging from their chests and embedding themselves into the base walls, shattering titanium plates in the process.

Two Overlords braved the anti-air fire and flew directly above the walls. Golden flashes lit up the night, and in the blink of an eye, eight golden-armored warriors stood atop the walls. Their braids swayed without wind, their movements fluid and graceful. Moon-white energy swords sliced through the air, leaving trails of azure light. It was less a slaughter and more a dance.

With a single swing, the energy swords cleaved the twin-barreled 120mm cannons in half like slicing ripe watermelons. Explosions erupted, and shockwaves tore apart the outer shells. One zealot leapt forward, using the momentum to somersault mid-air. At the apex of his jump, he flipped upside down, executing a move akin to "Celestial Meteor." A blazing silver light ignited the void, and the core of the cocooned railgun emitted a pulse of energy. Two breaths later, it detonated like a miniature nuclear bomb, bathing the battlefield in a blinding radiance.

Amidst the flying debris, a golden figure darted and leapt, finally planting its foot on a thick steel plate four meters in diameter. A silver shockwave rippled outward from the point of impact, countless cracks racing toward the edges until the plate shattered into pieces.

The recoil propelled the zealot like a golden cannonball, streaking diagonally toward the ground battlefield.

A machine gun bunker, following Hu Qing’s earlier battle plan, spewed tongues of fire at the marines sliding down. The flames illuminated the path ahead but failed to reveal the death descending from above.

The energy sword sliced through the bunker’s roof like a knife cutting tofu.

There was no visual, no detail—only the screams transmitted through the communicator.

Similar scenes played out across the battlefield. Soldiers cowered in the depths of trenches, hid in the shadows of wrecked vehicles, or blindly sprayed bullets in all directions.

They were like frightened birds, their faces pale with terror as they fled from the celestial warriors. No punishment, no matter how cruel, could overcome humanity’s primal fear of death. The officers’ shouts over the communicators had long been tuned out.

Escape, escape immediately, and flee as far as possible.

The collapse spread like an avalanche—from individual soldiers to localized units, then to the entire front line. The snowball grew larger and larger, unstoppable. Who knew when another monster might burst from the ground, devouring them with streams of emerald acid? They didn’t want to face the ferocious "Mountain Panthers" or the terrifying "Black Bears."

And then there were the dog-sized aliens, leaping and bounding through the trenches like bloodthirsty hounds of death. Once they pounced, death was the only outcome.

But these were secondary threats. The true reapers were the golden-armored warriors leaping from the walls—the harbingers of hell’s requiem.

Against the hail of bullets, autocannons, and rockets, they didn’t retreat or even dodge. An unknown cerulean light enveloped their bodies, forming a high-energy shield that absorbed thermal radiation from explosions and deflected high-speed shrapnel.

The fixed railguns were reduced to scrap metal. Half the heads of the 120mm cannons were sliced off. As for the machine gun bunkers, they became natural coffins, burying their comrades and allies.

Talk of holding the line or launching a counterattack was meaningless. Charging at such enemies was suicide—they were simply an invincible force.

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