Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C96

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The main body was divided into two parts. One part was a circular load-bearing chassis connecting the four legs, equipped with lighting fixtures and multi-functional launch tubes for grenades, smoke bombs, and signal flares. The other part was the cockpit—a transparent, high-strength glass alloy dome with a flat base and curved top, forming a semi-circular shape. It connected seamlessly to the chassis below and housed three people comfortably. On the left, right, and rear sides, three 12.7mm sliding-barrel machine guns were mounted, capable of rotating 360 degrees to provide full coverage firepower.

"What the hell is this?" Owen muttered under his breath. He had never seen anything like these armored vehicles before.

"We call it the Venom Scythe," Jassir said proudly, his tone dripping with the kind of pride only a parent boasting about their child’s achievements could muster—bragging about grades, salaries, or accomplishments while their ego inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

"The Venom Scythe?"

"Precisely. Cold as a snake, deadly as a scythe reaping its enemies."

As soon as Jassir finished speaking, one after another, the Venom Scythes sprang to life. With a press of their clawed feet against the ground and a slight bend in their joints, their jump systems activated. In an instant, they leapt diagonally through the air like cannonballs, soaring over a hundred meters and clearing the road barrier to land gracefully on a gentle slope.

The thin legs of the Venom Scythes were forged from a special alloy with incredible flexibility. Paired with various balancing components, they formed an automatic suspension system that allowed them to move effortlessly across uneven terrain, swift and agile as wolves.

Before Owen could recover from his astonishment, another hissing sound echoed behind him. The last truck began shedding its outer armor, revealing cracks along its cargo compartment. Slowly, honeycomb-like modules extended outward, sparking with electricity. One by one, drones poured out like a swarm of bees.

These were small turbo helicopters with balanced wings, each barely more than 30 centimeters in size, carrying spherical metal pods beneath them. Within seconds, over a hundred of these drones filled the sky. Owen swallowed hard, his gaze shifting toward the truck. Through the gaps in the honeycomb modules, he could vaguely make out several figures seated inside the compartment. Each wore helmet-like devices on their heads, connected by rubber tubes of varying thicknesses.

"Brainwave remote control?" Owen’s mind raced. Weren’t these things still in the experimental stage? How had they been deployed so suddenly?

Jassir offered no explanation because the battle ahead had already begun. The Venom Scythes made several bounds, appearing on the southern slope within moments. Rows of gunfire erupted, sweeping across areas invisible to the naked eye.

Meanwhile, the turbo drones turned northward, spreading like locusts across the horizon. By now, the front panels of the spherical pods had opened, revealing high-magnification optical lenses beneath which barrel-like structures resembling grenade launchers slowly extended forward.

Then Owen witnessed something truly horrifying. As flashes of light burst forth like fireworks, hundreds of mini-missiles shot out of the launchers. Like writhing dragons, they carved twisting trails of smoke through the air before plunging into the northern peak.

“Boom, boom, boom…”

Explosions thundered relentlessly, waves of fire illuminating the landscape. Rocks and debris were flung into the air, raining down like hail, hitting the ground with a deafening patter.

After the initial shock wore off, a sardonic smile crept onto Owen’s face. “YES, YES, wipe this trash off the map.”

---

While Owen found himself gaining the upper hand, for Grant, this sudden turn of events spelled disaster.

The Venom Scythes moved like supercharged kangaroos descending from the heavens. Their 12.7mm bullets tore through the crowd, raising crimson storms wherever they landed.

There were only 60 men stationed on the southern slope, including Grant. The ten Venom Scythes mowed them down like agricultural harvesters cutting wheat. Casualties mounted, screams filled the air, and blood pooled between the rocks, spreading in chaotic rivulets.

These were his brothers—men who had shared laughter, memories, and hardships. Just moments ago, they’d been reminiscing about old rivalries and youthful adventures. Now, in the blink of an eye, they lay cold and lifeless, unable to speak, unable to slap him on the shoulder and call him “Boss” anymore.

Grant had anticipated losses, even prepared for goodbyes, but never imagined such a one-sided massacre. What should have been a flawless ambush had turned into a catastrophic reversal.

Why? Why weren’t the trucks carrying what he expected? Instead, they unleashed these monstrous machines bent on destruction.

“Boss, no… it’s bad. Heavy casualties—we can’t hold on much longer!” Walton’s panicked voice crackled over the radio. He was positioned on the northern slope, commanding operations there.

“Boom, boom…”

“Ratatatat…”

The roar of explosions and gunfire drowned out Walton’s voice as a shower of stones overwhelmed the transmission. Owen raised his head, looking directly at one of the Venom Scythes. Inside its glass cockpit, the rotating seat allowed the operator to aim three machine guns in rapid succession, firing torrents of bullets at 3,000 rounds per minute.

Rifle bullets couldn’t penetrate their defenses. Though the glass appeared fragile, it was far stronger than conventional armored vehicles. Against rocket launchers, the Scythes simply jumped, avoiding danger with ease.

Turning toward the northern slope, Owen saw the sky swarming with drones, dark clouds blotting out the sun like Pandora’s box unleashing a plague. The mini-missiles fell like hail, carpet-bombing the area. Primitive missile launchers stood no chance against them, reduced to flaming heaps of scrap metal.

The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Comrades shouted orders, wounded cried for help, and static buzzed through the radios—but all these sounds paled in comparison to the relentless barrage of the Venom Scythes’ bullets.

In just three or four minutes, the original force of 60 men dwindled to fewer than 20. Despite their desperate resistance, the survivors fought valiantly to cover the evacuation of the wounded. But against these powerful, agile reapers, their efforts felt tragically futile.

“Monroe, go tell Old John to contact Montgomery and prepare for a strategic retreat,” Grant barked, grabbing a young soldier beside him and shoving him toward the bottom of the slope.

Though the trucks hadn’t carried what they anticipated, facing these combat machines and the endless swarm of drones meant Montgomery’s forces would suffer dearly.

“Boss, what about you…?” Monroe hesitated, his voice trembling.

“Forget about me! Go!” Grant glared at him fiercely, snatching up a rocket launcher and sprinting toward one of the Venom Scythes.

At the feet of the Scythe lay a young man with a bullet wound in his shoulder. Blood dripped steadily from his short hair onto his jacket.

It was Joey—the younger brother of his late wife, Selena.

Grant hoisted the rocket launcher onto his shoulder. With a roar, he pulled the trigger. A trail of smoke streaked through the air as the missile flew straight toward its target. Inside the Scythe’s cockpit, the pilot smirked coldly, pulling the controls. The massive machine leapt high into the air, dodging the rocket before landing with a thud to Grant’s right.

When Grant turned, one of the Scythe’s machine guns had already locked onto him. The pilot’s lips curled into a mocking grin.

“Boss, look out!” a gruff voice shouted.

A sudden force slammed into Grant’s shoulder, throwing him off balance. As he stumbled sideways, he saw a towering figure step into his place.

Gunfire erupted, and the figure crumpled to the ground. Blood gushed from his chest, pooling on the parched earth in vivid red stains.

“Gray!” Grant choked out, his voice thick with grief and sorrow.

As if hearing his call, Gray turned his head weakly, his blood-soaked face breaking into a faint, satisfied smile. “Boss… next year today… remember to bring me… a flask of Old John’s finest brew… and… don’t forget our… promise…” His voice trailed off.

Another comrade had fallen. Gray’s rifle shots had struck the Scythe’s cockpit but merely sparked against the glass, leaving faint scratches.

Tears streaming down his face, Grant nodded. He scrambled to his feet and yelled toward Joey, “Retreat! Split up and run!”

---

As Grant led Joey and the others in retreat, the roar of motorcycles echoed through the narrow streets of the town.

“Screech…” The sound of tires grinding against asphalt pierced the air, followed by hurried footsteps. Then, the bar door burst open, revealing Monroe, his clothes stained with large patches of blood.

“Old John, quick! Warn Montgomery to prepare for defense. The intel was wrong—it’s not in the trucks.”

“Monroe, what happened?” Old John asked, his hands shaking as he nearly dropped the glass he was polishing.

Monroe wiped sweat from his forehead with his bloodied sleeve. “Damn it, the trucks were hiding new military weapons. The boss is holding them off while I came back to report.”

The glass slipped from Old John’s grasp, clattering onto the counter. Ignoring the puzzled looks from Arroz and Housen, he turned and disappeared through a side door.

Monroe grabbed a half-empty whiskey glass from the table, downed its contents in one gulp, and strode decisively toward the exit.

Little Sam hopped off his barstool. “Monroe, I’m coming too.”

“No, you’re staying here.” Monroe snapped, his blood-speckled face contorted with frustration.

“No, I’m going,” Sam insisted, his eyes blazing with determination. “I must go. Besides my brother, you’re the closest family I have. I won’t sit idly by and watch you die without doing anything. Monroe, I refuse to hide. I’m one of you—even if it means dying, I’ll stay by your side.”

“Clack, clack,” Housen’s fingers tightened around a small square glass, making it creak under the pressure. Arroz sighed and glanced at Tang Fang. “Tang Fang, if it were you, what choice would you make?”

Just then, he noticed the fingers of the young man lying on the couch twitching slightly.

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