Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C99

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Joey, Tang Feiyang, and the other surviving members of the rebel forces stared in dumbfounded disbelief at the scattered, broken Venom Scythes littering the hillside. Moments ago, these killing machines had driven them to the brink of death—now they were nothing more than useless heaps of metal. The armored soldiers who had appeared out of nowhere were terrifyingly powerful, each one like a walking artillery turret.

A similar scene unfolded on the northern slope. Survivors slumped to the ground, gazing numbly at the sea of Locust Swarm corpses strewn about like garbage after a storm. They turned their heads toward the mysterious soldiers who had arrived just in time, smoke still curling off their armor as bits of gravel crunched underfoot—"crack, crack, crack"—the sound sharp against the roar of nearby flames.

“You… It’s you!” Grant licked the blood from his lips, his voice thick with disbelief.

“Heh, all those drinks we shared weren’t for nothing,” Housen said, clapping him roughly on the shoulder.

Grant looked around—at Joey, at Tang Feiyang, at the few others who had escaped death—and nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”

“No, no, no, don’t thank me,” Housen interrupted. “If anyone deserves your gratitude, it’s our leader.” He stepped aside and pointed behind him to Tang Fang.

Leader? Him? So young? Grant blinked, stunned into silence for nearly half a minute before managing to speak. “Thank you for saving us.”

“No need.” Tang Fang shot Housen an annoyed glance before turning back. “You can call me Talosal.”

One Talos, one Taloso, and now this "Talosal"? Was this some kind of joke? Grant’s face twitched involuntarily as he forced out a strained smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“There’ll be time for pleasantries later,” Tang Fang replied curtly, stepping past him. “First, let me deal with these pests.”

Crack. The cockpit of one Venom Scythe opened from the inside, and three pilots scrambled out, panic etched across their faces. Just as they prepared to flee, Monroe leapt out of nowhere, leveling his W-505 rifle. A burst of gunfire erupted—"rat-tat-tat!"—and bright red blooms of blood exploded across their backs, pooling into rivers on the ground.

The remaining Venom Scythe pilots cowered inside their cockpits, too afraid to emerge. Jassir will send reinforcements, they thought desperately. We just have to hold out until then.

But hope was short-lived. The promised Locust Swarm reinforcements lay dead on the northern slope. Instead, what came next were grenades lobbed by marauders. Explosions shattered the glass cockpits, sending jagged shards flying everywhere. Then another Judicator grenade struck, detonating with a deafening boom that sprayed shrapnel in every direction. What had once been pristine cockpit chambers became charnel houses, reflecting crimson pools under the sun.

This grim lesson spread quickly among the surviving Venom Scythe pilots: escape meant death, staying put meant death. Despair replaced their earlier mockery and arrogance; fear clawed at their throats while desperation flickered weakly within them.

But no one pitied them—not the marauders, not Monroe or Joey. Their fate was sealed.

The slaughter ended swiftly. All thirty Venom Scythe pilots were dead. Meanwhile, the rebel survivors embraced one another, crying openly or whispering prayers to the heavens, overwhelmed by the sheer relief of being alive.

Grant walked over to Gray’s lifeless body, brushing his hand gently over the fallen man’s cheek. Gray’s wide-open eyes slowly closed, but the faint trace of contentment remained frozen on his lips. Then Grant knelt beside Marnee, straightened the young man’s body, and folded his hands peacefully over his chest.

“Gray, Marnee, Louis, Yang… Rest easy. I’ll stay true to the path we agreed upon, even if it costs me my last drop of blood. This rotten dynasty will fall someday.”

“Yes, it will,” a quiet voice said behind him. Grant turned to see Tang Fang standing there.

“No need to comfort me,” Grant sighed. “I know how hard this fight is. But someone has to walk this road. If we don’t pave the way through hardship, future generations won’t stand a chance. It’s our duty as pioneers, our responsibility as those who came first.”

Tang Fang stared at him, astonished. Even back at the bar, he’d admired Grant. Now, hearing these words, he felt a deep sense of respect—and sorrow. If only more people like Grant existed in the Empire’s upper echelons, perhaps there would be fewer wars, less bloodshed, fewer tragedies that left hearts heavy with grief.

“Don’t worry. That day isn’t far off. I promise you.”

His tone carried no dramatic flair, no poetic cadence. Yet when Grant heard it, the words seemed imbued with an unshakable conviction, filling him with trust despite himself.

Am I imagining things? Grant shook his head. There was something undeniably strange about these three men, especially the heavily armored soldiers whose equipment far surpassed anything the Imperial forces possessed. But what did that matter? Infantry alone couldn’t possibly challenge the Empire’s fleets.

“All right, let’s move. Enemy reinforcements are coming.”

With one last lingering look at the bodies of his fallen comrades, Grant exhaled heavily and followed Tang Fang toward the road.

Eleven marauders and five marines surrounded three trucks. Jassir was dragged by the neck by a marauder, tossed onto the scorching asphalt like a ragdoll. White-coated assistants and Locust Swarm operators were herded together under the blazing sun. As for Owen and his team—they were already piles of corpses.

Walton and the four remaining survivors from the northern slope rushed forward upon seeing Grant safe, embracing one another tightly.

From afar, Tang Fang watched silently, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. In all the battles Tang Yan had fought, he’d never witnessed such camaraderie. Military units were cold, impersonal places where selfishness wasn’t just a trait—it was a survival tactic. Soldiers learned to hide behind their comrades during sieges and endure loneliness during attrition warfare. Weapons, food, even the bodies of fallen comrades could become tools for survival.

Colcrav I had fully internalized the ruthless pragmatism of Maxwell Stuart, the Empire’s founding emperor, embedding it deeply into the military’s culture—from generals down to foot soldiers. The army had decayed, politics had rotted, and the Stuart dynasty now stood propped up only by the icy edge of the “Celtic” Holy Sword and the populace’s fear of death.

“Talosal, what should we do with him?” Arroz asked, pressing the barrel of a Paladin M5 against Jassir’s forehead.

“Hmm?” Tang Fang snapped out of his thoughts. “Who?”

“He’s apparently a doctor—a designer of those murder machines.”

“Oh.” Tang Fang nodded, approaching Jassir. Gone was the polished suit and confident demeanor; now Jassir’s clothes were wrinkled and covered in dust. “Don’t kill me! Please! I’m a weapons engineer—I can develop countless new weapons for you. Don’t you want to overthrow Colcrav I? Advanced weaponry is essential! Spare me, and I’ll work for you!”

“Weapons development? Working for me?” Tang Fang smirked coldly. With the interstellar system at his disposal, he didn’t need help designing weapons. Besides, machines like the Venom Scythe and Locust Swarm might intimidate ordinary troops, but against marauders and marines, they were laughably inadequate.

Moreover, his presence on Planet Krotan was circumstantial. While he sympathized with Grant, lending assistance once or twice was enough. He still needed to travel to the Meijar star system to rescue Tang Lin and Tang Yun. There was no time to waste here.

Why not pass the favor along?

“I don’t need him.” Tang Fang took the Paladin M5 from Arroz and tossed it to Grant. “He’s yours. Do what you will.”

Jassir immediately redirected his pleading gaze to Grant. “Don’t kill me! I’m useful—I swear!”

Grant took a deep breath. His wrist flicked, and a single shot rang out. The .50 caliber bullet pierced Jassir’s forehead, blowing his skull apart and splattering the truck’s armor with fresh red.

“The living may agree, but the dead won’t.”

“Well done, Grant,” Joey muttered through clenched teeth, visibly satisfied.

Only Walton understood the weight of Grant’s decision. A brilliant engineer familiar with military technology could have been invaluable. But how could Grant justify sparing Jassir when so many brothers lay dead on both slopes? Reluctantly or not, the choice was clear.

“Let’s go. Reinforcements are almost here.” After executing Jassir, Grant led his group toward the town.

Monroe glanced at the assistants trembling nearby. “What about them?”

“Kill them,” Tang Fang ordered. No sooner had the words left his mouth than C-14 Impaler rifles spat silver streaks of light, piercing the skulls of the six assistants in swift succession. Six more bodies joined Jassir’s on the ground.

“You go ahead. I need to check the northern slope again.” Once the cleanup was complete, Tang Fang, Housen, and Arroz returned to retrieve the bodies of the two fallen marines, storing them in the system space.

Since Namie, Tang Fang had discovered that whether alive or dead, Terran units could be recalled to the system space. This proved convenient, ensuring none of their gear fell into Imperial hands to be reverse-engineered and used against them.

“That’s everything. Let’s head back.” With a wave, Tang Fang turned and made his way toward the town.

On the way, he dipped into the system space to repair the damaged marine armor using SCVs. But as he finished issuing commands and prepared to exit, his eyes caught sight of the resource readings in the corner—and froze.

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