Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C72

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Katherine Garcia was a young lieutenant, her face as pleasing to the eye as her name suggested. Back in the military academy, she had no shortage of suitors—boys from noble families and imperial heirs who would line up from the rear shooting range all the way to the academy’s front gates, vying for her affection.

As the capital planet under Prince Walker Stuart’s jurisdiction, Planet Muur was one of the empire’s most prosperous worlds. Katherine’s family lived there; her father was a materials engineer at an aerospace research institute, and her mother was a skilled surgeon.

In such an environment, Katherine received a top-tier education. Her parents envisioned her becoming an excellent doctor, lawyer, or perhaps a university professor.

But fate has a way of laughing at plans. One summer afternoon, as Prince White Stuart rode his majestic snow-white stallion through the central plaza, basking in the adoration of the crowd, something stirred deep within Katherine’s young heart.

That late summer, she secretly applied to the military academy against her parents’ wishes and was accepted into Zelas Naval Academy. Once the decision was made, her parents could only accept it. Four years later, upon graduation, Katherine had blossomed into a striking beauty but was deeply disappointed when she wasn’t assigned to the prince’s elite "Thunderclap" squadron. Instead, she was placed in the 3789th Division, tasked with logistics management—a role far removed from the front lines.

As a supply coordinator, her duties typically kept her safely behind the scenes, far from the chaos of combat. But while others faced bullets, Katherine spent her days obsessing over the prince's glamorous military exploits. She envied him, fantasized about him, rejoiced in his victories, and mourned his absences.

Death surrounded her daily—not physically, but on the monitors where footage of battles replayed endlessly. Over time, whether out of numbness or indifference, Katherine began to believe death was distant, a hundred years away, perhaps more.

But today, death felt close—too close.

The sound of gunfire echoed around her, bullets ricocheting off barriers like demonic laughter. Katherine glanced down at the rifle wedged between her legs. She desperately wanted to pick it up, turn, and fight back. Yet her hands trembled uncontrollably, her body paralyzed by fear. Even lifting a finger seemed impossible.

Her once rosy cheeks were now pale, drained of all color.

Under Hu Qing’s orders, even non-combat personnel like Katherine had been thrust onto the frontlines, their lives reduced to cannon fodder. But what good did it do? None at all.

Watching her comrades fall one by one, Katherine felt herself unravel. Tears streamed down her face like broken beads, splashing onto her cold, trembling hand.

Those who had once chased after her, clutching flowers or roses, professing undying love, now lay lifeless on the ground—cold, unseeing corpses. In their dead eyes, Katherine saw fear, regret, longing, and perhaps a lingering trace of sincere affection.

Maybe I should have given them a chance… maybe…

Fear, regret, despair, pity—all these emotions crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Drip. Drip.

A faint sound snapped her back to reality. She looked down to see a thick stream of blood trailing across her arm, leaving behind a horrifying streak of red. It belonged to Susan, the internal affairs officer who just yesterday had shared coffee and gossip about Princess Olivia Stuart’s arranged marriage to Prince Michelson Olibert of the Turanics United Kingdom.

Susan’s delicate features, once so radiant, were now smeared with blood, her empty gaze frozen wide open. She looked like a vengeful spirit bathed in gore.

“Mom… Dad… I’m sorry,” Katherine whispered, curling into herself, burying her head in her knees.

The rifle slipped from her grasp, its barrel reflecting eerie glimmers of light.

The air reeked of blood and screams. Shockwaves from grenade explosions whipped her hair into her face, tickling her skin. Normally, she’d cry out, “It’s so itchy!” But now, it felt like Death’s caress before the final blow.

…

The cries faded, the gunfire thinned, and soon the battle ended.

Tang Fang stepped over the battered barricade, striding toward a middle-aged man with a leg wound. Blood pooled beneath his feet, splashing several inches high. Housen followed closely behind, stepping over debris until his gaze fell on Katherine, huddled and shaking in a corner. He hesitated, raising his weapon, its dark muzzle aimed at the trembling girl.

“Wait.” Arroz caught up, lowering Housen’s arm. “I don’t kill those who can’t fight back. She poses no threat.”

Housen said nothing, lowering his weapon and moving forward. Arroz surveyed the scattered bodies, sighing deeply. War knew no morality, but this carnage felt especially cruel for these young lives.

“Chief of Staff Hu Qing?” Tang Fang called ahead.

Hu Qing slumped on the ground, gasping for breath. “Yes… that’s me.”

“And Francis? Where is he?” Tang Fang asked calmly.

Francis? Hu Qing frowned, some color returning to his pale face. “Who are you?”

“You really want to know?”

Hu Qing didn’t respond, staring intently at the figure before him.

“As you wish.”

With a loud bang, a marine destroyed a surveillance camera in the corridor. The helmet visor lifted, revealing a youthful face.

Hu Qing squinted, studying the man carefully. His brow furrowed deeper. Though the 3789th Division boasted ten thousand soldiers, familiarity should linger. Yet this man stirred no memory. Was he disguised? A decoy?

“Don’t recognize me?” Tang Fang smirked, leaning closer, whispering a few cryptic words.

Hu Qing’s face shifted like seared meat—from red to white, then an ashen purple. He remembered. Finally, he remembered.

This man… this man was the young soldier Francis had sent on a suicide reconnaissance mission before the war began. Hu Qing himself had orchestrated that plan. And yet here he stood, alive and leading an assault on the base.

Now everything made sense: why he killed Kim Youngho, why he betrayed the empire, why he attacked the base. Revenge. Pure and simple.

“It seems Lieutenant Colonel understands now,” Tang Fang said coolly. “Let me ask again: where is Francis?”

Hu Qing stared at him for half a minute before bursting into laughter. “Do you think I’ll tell you? Dream. On.”

“At this point, there’s no harm in telling the truth. That reconnaissance mission was my idea.”

Losing the base meant execution, and capture wouldn’t spare him either. Hu Qing preferred the latter—at least he’d die a patriot, sparing his family.

As for Francis, he’d protect him to the end. First, because the colonel had shown him favor. Second, if Francis survived, he’d ensure Hu Qing’s family remained cared for.

“Well said,” Tang Fang nodded. “If I’m not mistaken, Francis is underground somewhere.”

As commander of the 3789th, if Francis were still in the command room, he wouldn’t have sent Hu Qing to lead the defense. Given the situation, the old man must have retreated into the Epsilon ruins.

“What… what do you know?” Hu Qing paled at Tang Fang’s pointed words.

“Lieutenant Colonel, let me share something too. I know far more about what lies beneath than you do.”

“How? How is that possible…”

Ignoring Hu Qing’s muttering, Tang Fang gestured behind him. Seven roaches twisted their bodies, claws slicing through the reinforced floor. Acid secretions softened the rock, turning them into burrowing eels that vanished swiftly into the earth.

Hu Qing watched, his heart sinking. It was over. All his strategies, all his efforts, undone by this young man. Defeat tasted bitter.

Bang. A single gunshot rang out, blood spraying vividly across the metallic wall.

As Hu Qing’s hand dropped limply, Tang Fang sighed softly. Suicide. Perhaps the best ending.

“Let’s go,” Tang Fang called to his companions, heading back the way they came.

The roaches had located the Epsilon ruins. With Hu Qing dead, only Francis remained.

“What about the command room?” Housen asked hesitantly.

“Francis is underground,” Tang Fang replied via communicator.

“Right.”

The two exchanged glances and followed.

More than twenty bodies littered the ground, rivers of blood pooling together. The stench of iron filled the air.

In the corner, Katherine sat motionless, her chest rising and falling faintly. She was alive, merely unconscious—the sole survivor of the massacre.

…

Inside the command room, Edward Oliver lounged on a leather sofa brought down from his flagship. His right hand swirled amber liquid in a glass, watching it catch the light.

He couldn’t forget the disdainful look Hu Qing had given him before leaving. It mocked him silently: Look at you—a nobleman, deputy commander of the 3789th, yet too cowardly to face the enemy.

Edward glanced at the Paladin M5 pistol resting on his knee, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. Courage? That had long since evaporated. Staying here was simply a dignified way to die.

Minutes ticked by. Most of the whiskey bottles were gone. Outside, silence reigned except for the rhythmic hum of electronic devices.

Why hadn’t the enemy arrived yet? Why…

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