Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C68

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Most people had fled, while a few still stubbornly resisted. The Empire might show leniency or even overlook desertion among common soldiers, considering the unfavorable battle situation and overwhelming enemy forces. However, for junior officers, especially those from powerless civilian backgrounds, the punishments were severe and brutal to an appalling degree.

Take James, for example. Judicator grenades whistled overhead, their metal shards striking the trench edge and sending up clouds of gravel that rained down on him like droplets.

Even as fear, hesitation, regret, and confusion swirled in his heart, his legs began to weaken, making the hard rock underfoot feel like stepping on clumps of cotton.

He wanted to run but couldn't. Running would ruin his future and bring disaster upon his family.

Stay and fight? With what? This damned "M-506 modified bayonet"? It couldn't even pierce the enemy's powered armor.

James glanced at the sniper amidst the rubble and suddenly envied them—not for their 27mm "Thor's Wrath" heavy sniper rifles, but for their resolute and crazed hearts.

These men were executioners, bloodthirsty yet calm, akin to fierce lone wolves on icy plains, addicted to the game of hunting.

The more blood sprayed, the more it awakened their inherent savagery; the stronger the opponent, the more it ignited their indomitable spirit.

Just like now, everyone else had fled, but Bradley Eddie remained unfazed, steadfastly holding his post.

James didn't know him well. Such men were destined to live amidst blood and fire, accompanied by coldness.

Bradley Eddie held the rank of captain, with nine years of service. Oddly, despite reaching retirement age, he showed no intention of leaving the military and returning to normal life.

He had almost no friends and never contacted his family. Some in the unit called him mad, others a fool.

James harbored doubts too, but at this moment, gazing at the figure painted black like charcoal amid the rubble, a sudden realization dawned on him.

Once one walks this bloody path, there is no turning back. The craving for blood and slaughter was like a curse, clinging to them wherever they went. Compared to civilized society, perhaps the army and battlefield were their best destinations.

Bradley fired. A flash erupted from the gap in the rubble, the powerful recoil causing fine stone chips to fall.

About 1300 meters ahead, a zergling leaping along the trench to dodge rifle fire suddenly burst into green fluid and flew sideways, slamming into a protruding rock.

"Hit." Somehow, James felt reassured, like when he was a child afraid to go out at night and needed someone to accompany him. Bradley's presence gave him a sense of security.

Struck by a 27mm bullet, the zergling’s right leg was blown into two pieces. It could no longer leap around, flaunting its terrifying agility. James gave Bradley a thumbs-up from afar.

However, the next scene sent a chill down his spine. The fleeting sense of security vanished like a candle in the wind.

A beast the size of a tank leisurely moved its six slender legs toward the struggling zergling, spitting a glob of mucus. Veins spread, bones remodeled, and the once-disabled zergling stood up again... It simply stood up, twisted its ugly head, and let out a roar toward where the bullet came from.

Though in a vacuum where sound cannot travel, James seemed to hear its roar, like that of a hellhound, chilling to the bone.

Compared to him, Bradley remained much calmer. Another flash, another shot.

This time, it wasn’t the hind leg but the grotesque head that exploded. Perhaps accuracy was slightly off while moving, but the zergling foolishly stopped to roar defiantly, sealing its fate—death.

As a sniper who had killed thousands and shattered countless heads, how could Bradley’s mental fortitude compare to ordinary soldiers?

Bradley climbed out from the rubble, hoisted the "Thor's Wrath" nearly as tall as himself, leapt into the trench, and crept toward another concealed location.

He was like a specter, a grim reaper silently and tirelessly harvesting enemy lives.

James swallowed, hesitating whether to follow, when suddenly, a shadow passed overhead.

Looking up, he saw a creature nearly forty meters long, covered in many eye sockets. He remembered the base’s fixed orbital cannons being disabled by these hideous beings before being reduced to scrap by those clad in golden armor.

Initially, he feared these behemoths, comparable in size to frigates, had other abilities. Over time, however, he realized they only posed a threat to large defensive structures via their "organic projectiles," not to mobile units or infantry.

James felt slightly reassured and had just slipped back into the trench when the seemingly harmless giant opened its Ventral Sacs. Its muscle tissue pulsated, ejecting three blobs of flesh.

The blobs hit the ground, kicking up sand. Then, he witnessed an eerie sight: lumps covered in energy tumors quivered, and a bizarre head emerged, followed by three sharp, trident-like claws.

They wriggled their muddy lower bodies, aided by their claws, quickly squirming to the edge of a trench and falling in.

James thought they might emerge with two legs, a pair of wings, or covered in thorns. Disappointingly, after causing chaos and scaring off a few soldiers, they fell silent.

It seemed the giant above mistook the trench for a latrine.

He turned his head to look at Bradley again.

The seasoned sniper had already changed positions, burying himself among the wreckage of armored vehicles. The "Thor's Wrath" was set up once more, ready to reap souls anew.

At this moment, a soldier stumbled from afar, crushing gravel and rocks under heavy metal boots into sand.

James frowned involuntarily. He didn’t want to see deserters, though he understood them.

The direction of the soldier’s flight was terrible, putting Bradley directly in his path. Who knew if this would draw the enemy's attention and expose the sniper’s position?

"Gunter, stop! Don’t run any further!" James recognized him from the number on his powered armor.

One second, two seconds, three seconds...

Time ticked by, but no response came through the communicator. As for "Gunter," he continued to sprint as if deaf.

"Huh?" James furrowed his brows, about to act when a sudden scene nearly scattered his wits.

Gunter finally stopped, but his position and movements were bizarre.

His originally metallic right arm twisted and morphed, forming three spear-like claws that swiftly pierced through a pile of charred metal plates, impaling the hidden Bradley through the heart.

The fire of the "Thor's Wrath" faded, much like Bradley’s gradually cooling corpse.

"How could this happen? Why did this happen? God, what kind of monster is that?" James felt his legs go limp and collapsed to the ground.

The ability to transform and disguise freely—how terrifying. Foolishly, he had thought it was a lump of excrement, only to realize his mind was full of it.

Bradley died silently, without a sound. James closed his eyes gently, the pounding of his heart echoing like a thunderous bell in his ears.

The monster in the sky had dropped three blobs earlier—what about the other two? Moreover, there weren’t just one but three monsters. Would the others do the same?

Images of fleeing soldiers darting out of trenches flashed through his mind.

"It’s over... all over..." James sighed deeply. With strong enemies attacking from outside and spies lurking within, the outcome was inevitable.

"Captain... what is that? Oh God... Ah..."

"Hu Feng, what are you doing? Put down your gun."

"Lieutenant Nickle, you... you’re not... Ah..."

"..."

Piercing screams came through the communicator. James stared blankly at the night sky, where battleship artillery lit up the outer void of Planet Namie, dazzling like clusters of flowers.

The universe was a free port, allowing you to soar and gallop, but it was also a vast graveyard, burying countless lives, endless years, and boundless ambitions and hopes.

"James? Oh God, you're alive." A voice filled with surprise reached his ears.

Familiar tone, familiar words, and that familiar "God"—it was Graham, the chatterbox and self-proclaimed prophet, Captain himself, who hadn’t died.

Seeing him approach, James tensed up, remembering something: no one could prove this was really Graham.

"Stop, don’t come closer."

He struggled to stand, leaning against the wall, and pointed his gun at Graham’s chest.

"What are you doing! James, it’s me, Graham, your Captain!"

"You’re the Captain? How can you prove it?"

"James, have you gone mad? For God’s sake, snap out of it."

"No, I haven’t gone mad." James sighed faintly. "Because I know, God can’t save us."

As soon as the words left his mouth, a spine as thick as a water jar lashed through the air. It blotted out their vision, and a massive shadow came crashing down from the sky.

It was an R50 "Rhinoceros" main battle tank.

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