Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C98

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Tears instantly blurred his vision. Even though he was over thirty, no longer young, no longer passionate, and had lost his fervor. Even though he had mentally prepared himself and pre-erected his tombstone beside his late wife’s grave. But at this moment, facing the sacrifice of his comrades, thinking of their past smiles, tears flowed like an unstoppable spring.

He hated his own cowardice. As a commander, he couldn’t calmly face death, nor could he rationally accept sacrifice. He wasn’t a qualified commander. But to hell with being a commander—if only it were him lying on the ground motionless, staring blankly at the blue sky instead of them.

He twisted his body and pulled the trigger with all his might. The machine gun bullets rained down on the glass cockpit of the Venom Scythe, sparking countless flashes.

Inside the Venom Scythe, a fierce-looking soldier shot him a mocking glance, like a cat playing with a mouse. They fired a grenade towards the trio, watching as fragments of rock and sand hit them, landing on their heads.

Grant's face, smeared with hot tears, seemed to inject the Venom Scythe drivers with adrenaline, driving them into a frenzy.

"Rat-tat-tat..." Explosions erupted behind them, the vibrations from bullets hitting rocks traveling up through their feet. Grant couldn’t hear the laughter of the Venom Scythe pilots; he could only see their faces filled with violence and a hint of mockery.

Not far away, a figure fell, blood mixing with sand and gravel. Under the scorching sun, it refracted dazzling red hues.

That was Marnee. He had an older brother, Mihal, who served eight years in the military. Just before retirement, Mihal was mistakenly injured by friendly fire, losing a leg and subsequently being forcibly discharged, sent back to his hometown in Krotan.

As for compensation, it was meager—only 50,000. Not wanting his younger brother to follow in his footsteps, Mihal bribed the military recruiter with that money, sparing Marnee from conscription.

To save money for Marnee's university education, penniless Mihal, dragging his disabled body, entered the military’s pharmaceutical research institute as a test subject, trading his life force for a salary that was insignificant in the eyes of imperial nobility. Only in this way could he quickly earn his brother's tuition despite having one leg amputated.

Since then, Marnee hadn’t seen his brother again, much like how he would receive gifts from him every Christmas. That Christmas, he received his brother’s final gift—a check with the prominent “10,000” written in vivid red ink.

Marnee didn’t go to university because education couldn’t change his fate, nor could it bring his brother back. In this country, what met the eye was more oppression, bullying, and the sorrowful, helpless gazes of the poor.

He wanted to tell Mihal that what he lacked wasn’t money but freedom and dignity. But he couldn’t even find his brother’s grave.

Grant gazed at Marnee’s fallen body, muttering, "Marnee, when you see your brother, apologize to him for me. I couldn’t take care of you... Of course, if the journey is lonely, you can wait for me a little longer."

The rate of gunfire increased, the sparks on the glass cockpit fluttering like tin foil in the wind.

Grant seemed to see the faces of his fallen comrades, smiling at him so brightly, like the warm sunshine of spring.

They opened their mouths, softly uttering a string of notes: "Don’t forget our promise."

Grant felt a pang in his nose: "Promise..."

If it were in the past, he would have sneered, pointing at their faces and saying, "This thing is too heavy, don’t expect me to carry it alone." But now, he couldn’t say it. The words stuck in his throat, leaving only a powerless sob.

Perhaps the Venom Scythe pilots grew bored; their pupils gradually contracted, their gaze turning cold and somber. With a slight lift of the control stick, the gun barrel, faintly glowing red, pointed at Grant, whose ammunition was depleted but still mechanically pulling the trigger.

...

Bodies collapsed on the ground, the Venom Scythe leaped like flying predators, unmanned drones swarmed the sky, and blood splattered everywhere...

Watching the rapidly flashing scenes of war on the monitor, Jassir, dressed in a well-fitted suit with neatly waxed hair, sat comfortably on the leather sofa inside the truck command center. In his right hand, he swirled a highball glass of specially brewed brandy, humming an incomprehensible folk tune, thoroughly enjoying the fun brought by "Venom Scythe" and "Locust Swarm."

These two weapons were his proud inventions. Watching the leaping and dancing combat machines, he looked at them like a mother admiring her children—with such focus, pride, and even affection.

As for the bodies thrown by explosions and the fountains of blood spurting from bullet-pierced bodies, he chose to ignore them selectively.

"Lieutenant Owen? How do you find my children? Cute?"

"Cute?" Owen took a sip of the drink handed to him by his assistant, his lips twitching. "Doctor, are all these your inventions?"

"Hmm, you could say that," Jassir sipped his drink and pressed a green button on the touch panel beside him.

In the central imaging system, a larger monitor flashed a scene.

It was the northern slope, where a makeshift missile launcher made of a pickup truck and missile launchers lay overturned on the hillside. Thick smoke billowed into the air, flames crackling loudly. The intense heat refracted sunlight into light waves, resembling a water curtain, blurring the view.

Corpses in various uniforms lay scattered across the rocky slope. Some had limbs blown off by miniMINI missiles, others had their skulls blown open, and some had fresh red wounds carved into their bodies by shrapnel. Blood flowed across the ground, quickly evaporating under the scorching sun, leaving behind crisscrossed trails of crimson.

Occasional flashes of fire signaled the futile resistance of the few remaining enemy militants. A row of bullets flew past, striking the armor of "Locust Swarm," sparking a flare.

"Bunch of trash," Jassir frowned, his impatience growing. "Venom Scythe" and "Locust Swarm" were his precious babies. As a parent, seeing his children injured—even with just a minor scratch—was unbearable.

At that moment, Lieutenant Owen asked an untimely question. "Doctor? Why didn’t you deploy these combat units immediately when we were attacked earlier?"

Jassir glanced at him coldly. "What does your life or death have to do with me?"

Owen’s pupils dilated instantly, and his right hand trembled, spilling most of the drink. What kind of cold-hearted person was this Jassir? Did he value nothing but his inventions? The soldiers lying around him were his own people, sacrificing themselves to protect him on the truck.

Madman, a real madman who regarded human lives as worthless. Owen shuddered, looking at the impeccably dressed Jassir as if seeing a demon from hell wearing human skin.

"It’s getting late. It’s time to send those arrogant bastards to hell," Jassir said nonchalantly.

"Yes," the assistant replied and walked to the communication station to relay Jassir's orders to the combat units.

Owen swallowed the brandy in his mouth with difficulty. The rich fruity aroma of the brandy now tasted extraordinarily bitter. He turned his head and looked at the monitor.

On the northern slope, Locust Swarm gathered into a circle, surrounding the last five militants in a small hollow. Over a hundred dark barrels locked onto the targets.

On the southern slope, the Venom Scythes began their final cleanup operation. They leaped high, pouncing on their enemies, lowering their machine gun barrels onto their heads.

With a pull of the trigger, their heads would explode like burst watermelons, spraying a large pool of red pulp.

The Venom Scythe pilot behind Grant seemed to know what he was thinking. He lifted the control stick and jumped directly in front of Joey and Tang Feiyang. The dark rotating barrel moved horizontally, and the pilot's mocking smirk deepened.

Grant turned to see this scene, his body involuntarily trembling. The 7.92MM LG-301 Apostle slipped from his hands and fell to the ground with a dull thud.

A complex mix of helplessness, frustration, and powerlessness overwhelmed his heart. How many times had he told himself that if these two young men were to lose their lives, these damn machines would have to step over his corpse first.

As a leader, as a commander, besides leading them forward in pursuit of light and warmth, he must also be prepared to shield his followers who trusted him with his own body.

Bleeding was nothing, pain was nothing, and even death, in his eyes, was no different than sleeping. If it were him who died, he could face Selena, Gray, Marnee, and all the comrades who sacrificed in this battle with a smile in the afterlife.

But why, why did these bastards refuse to let him have his wish? Out of the original team of 116, fewer than ten remained, with a casualty rate of 90%. His heart bled, but facing the current situation, all resistance seemed futile. Hope, always on the tip of his tongue, now felt like distant clouds—visible, yet unreachable.

The driver laughed, like a proud fighting rooster, arrogantly raising his head. Finally, he sent Grant a cold smile and pressed the machine gun's firing button.

"Rat-tat-tat..." Tongues of dazzling flames spewed forth.

"Joey!" Grant roared, feeling a wave of grief and anger crash against his heart. His lower lip was bitten, and blood trickled down the corner of his mouth.

He really wanted to fight back desperately, but... with what? Flesh and blood? Or that useless 'Apostle' on the ground that couldn’t even pierce the enemy's glass shell?

"Selena, I'm sorry, I..." Grant muttered in despair.

But halfway through his sentence, he suddenly stopped. He rubbed his eyes hard. Joey stood not far in front of him, completely intact. Beside him, Tang Feiyang sat on the ground, lifting his butt inch by inch and moving backward.

Was the enemy planning to further insult him? Or... were they going to capture prisoners?

Grant raised his head and looked up. That Venom Scythe wobbled like a drunkard, swaying left and right.

A silver flash streaked by, followed by a loud explosion. Flames erupted where the suspension system connected to the chassis of the Venom Scythe. Like a camel collapsing under the weight of the last straw, amidst the terrified cries of the pilot, the Venom Scythe's body fell to the ground with a thud, like a house washed away by rain.

"What... what happened?" Grant looked around in confusion.

Through the gap between Joey and Tang Feiyang, a figure raced towards them from the horizon.

It was Monroe, damn it. Didn’t he tell him not to come back? Why didn’t he listen to orders? Just as he was about to reprimand him, suddenly, a streak of unusual color appeared behind Monroe.

"Is... is that them?" Grant saw Arroz, Housen, and Tang Fang in the middle. "How did they get here? And who are those soldiers in powered armor beside them?"

"Boom, boom..." Amidst his stunned state, several consecutive explosions echoed. He mechanically turned his head and saw that the other nine Venom Scythes scattered across the southern slope had almost instantly met the same fate as the one in front of them.

As hulking black-armored soldiers emerged from the shadows of the rocks, one after another Venom Scythe collapsed. The elliptical cockpits, like glass cages, trapped groups of three military soldiers inside.

Most of them were squeezed together, their faces pressed against the glass, flattened into meat pies. Their expressions were bizarre; the mocking smirk on their lips had yet to fade, but their eyes already showed a hint of fear.

The remaining four Venom Scythes went berserk, firing countless bullets at the marauders. However, the unexpected happened again, just as it had with them earlier, except this time, the main characters were those bear-like behemoths.

12.7MM bullets rained down on the marauders’ bodies like a violent storm. The clanging of metal rang ceaselessly, sparks flying everywhere. One by one, the marauders were pushed back by the immense force, falling on their butts.

But just as the Venom Scythe pilots thought they had successfully killed the enemy, the marauders coolly rolled over and got back up. Then, grenades shot from the quad launchers on their arms exploded on the cockpits in bursts of silvery-white flashes.

"Crack, crack..." Web-like cracks spread across the high-density glass alloy that the pilots were so proud of.

"Boom, boom." Another dazzling white light flashed, the chassis and leg suspension systems severely damaged. Sharp, ear-piercing alarms sounded, the red lights on the dashboard reflecting on their bewildered faces like the shadow of the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

In just a few breaths, nine Venom Scythes became cripples under the Judicator grenades, looking like dying insects kicking and flailing in vain from afar.

The pilot of the last Venom Scythe panicked, maneuvering it backward to use its jump ability and escape this cursed place.

Unexpectedly, "Boom!" A grenade exploded at the chassis, blowing the 12.7MM rotary machine gun into a mass of steel fragments. The control stick had been lifted, but to the horror of the three soldiers inside the cockpit, the Venom Scythe, like a glutton who had eaten something bad and run to the bathroom countless times, had weakened legs. Forget jumping—it could barely walk.

"How is this possible? How? What are those grenades made of? Why do they have this effect?" Their minds were filled with countless question marks.

Reality didn’t give them much time to think. Several marauders approached from all sides, a flash of fire appearing in front of their arms. At the joints of the Venom Scythe’s four legs, several bursts of light flashed consecutively. Then, like an old man who accidentally sprained his ankle, it plopped down on its butt.

The pilot frantically waved the control stick, but aside from the dazzling sparks erupting from the joints of its legs, all that responded were the figures drawing closer on both sides.

"What happened? How could this be? Who are they? Where did they come from?" Sharp and frantic roars came from the truck command center.

Jassir stood in front of the array of monitors, watching the images transmitted by the onboard cameras of the Venom Scythe, screaming wildly. His meticulously styled hair was now a mess, and the tie around his chest had been torn open, hanging crookedly to one side.

The assistants kept their distance, not daring to breathe a word. Owen’s face was pale, his hand holding the glass trembling slightly. Where did this unit that suddenly stormed the battlefield come from? Why were they saving those anti-government militants? What was the relationship between them?

"Order the Locust Swarm cluster to the southern slope. Make these guys regret it, regret it," Jassir turned around, waving his hands forcefully, his expression serious and earnest, as if giving a rousing speech before soldiers set off to battle.

"Do... Doctor." A female assistant pointed to the monitor behind him.

"What?" Jassir glared at her, turning to look behind him.

At just one glance, he froze. Nine figures clad in powered armor, wielding large assault rifles, launched a surprise attack on the Locust Swarm cluster.

Silver flashes shot out of the gun muzzles, accurately striking the circular abdomens of the Locust Swarm. The carbon steel alloy armor, capable of withstanding bullets under 10MM, was directly blown apart, exploding into flaming balls of fire that tumbled from the sky, crashing to the ground and causing chain explosions.

"Only nine people? Just nine people want to challenge the Locust Swarm cluster?" Jassir grabbed the communicator beside him, shouting, "Blow them up, blow them up!"

Without needing his orders, the remote-control team started controlling the Locust Swarm to retaliate.

Mini missiles danced in the air like fish underwater, trailing long plumes of smoke, overwhelming the sky as they surged toward the nine marines.

"Boom, boom, boom..." A series of explosions resounded, the swirling sandstorm forming a straight line, rapidly spreading into the distance.

The marines, injected with stimulants, moved as agilely as jungle leopards, dodging one mini missile after another. Every time they turned and rolled, they didn’t forget to throw a trail of fire behind them.

The unique capacitor control system of the C-14 "Impaler" Gauss assault rifle provided them with exceptional shooting accuracy. Almost every time they pulled the trigger, one drone exploded into a ball of flames.

Jassir stared blankly at the monitor, his left cheek twitching, then his right. Each time a Locust Swarm fell, he shuddered. Each time flames ignited, he let out a strange cry.

In the end, his face was contorted beyond recognition, and his voice was piercing and eerie, akin to a night owl's screech.

In just a few minutes, 100 Locust Swarms turned into piles of steel junk underground. As for the nine marines, two were dead, and two were injured.

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