Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C111

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It was a squad of twenty-five soldiers. The front row consisted of about twelve men equipped with jetpacks, hovering mid-air like futuristic warriors. Behind them stood thirteen others clad in unfamiliar power armor, their massive assault rifles catching Ferdinand’s attention. He’d never seen weapons like those before—not even heard rumors of them.

"Look! They’re… they’re coming out!"

"Are these guys part of the Northern Sunaru Alliance? Why haven’t we ever seen them before?"

"OH MY GOD. What am I seeing here? Jetpacks? New-model power suits? Since when does that rabble have units like this?"

The comms buzzed with exclamations from the Sea Falcons as shock rippled through their ranks. Ferdinand narrowed his eyes, an inexplicable chill creeping up his spine. When the rebels seized Makanda Arsenal, they looted stockpiles of "Guardian Knight" exosuits. In previous assaults, they’d sent armored troops to breach the perimeter—but every time, under relentless fire from both naval artillery and the Sea Falcons, those attempts ended in failure, leaving behind heaps of twisted metal and flesh.

After so many defeats, how could they still be foolish enough to send another armored unit?

Mysterious origins, cutting-edge gear, flawless coordination, iron discipline—it didn’t matter. The Sea Falcons would make them regret stepping onto this battlefield.

"Sapir, call for naval support. Request heavy bombardment," Ferdinand barked, flipping over and extending the barrel of "Thor’s Wrath" beyond cover. "Everyone else, follow my lead. This time, let’s teach those rebels that not even gods descending from heaven can change their fate."

He was right—no divine intervention could save the insurgents. But there was one crucial detail he overlooked: leading the charge of the “Reapers” and “Marines” wasn’t a deity—it was Arroz, a man who wouldn’t give two shits if the gods themselves showed up.

Bang! A shot rang out as "Thor’s Wrath" spat flames. Its 27mm sniper round roared forth like a ravenous tiger unleashed, hurtling straight toward Arroz, who led the enemy formation. With an A-grade marksmanship rating and wielding such a precision-crafted weapon, Ferdinand expected nothing less than a clean headshot—a brutal reminder to the rebels that challenging the Sea Falcons meant courting death.

But reality delivered its own cruel lesson—and it wasn’t aimed at Arroz or Stivie, watching from the ruins nearby. No, it struck Ferdinand himself, the brilliant, capable deputy commander of the Sea Falcons.

Stunned, he stared at the scene, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. Instead of collapsing into a bloody mess, Arroz stood firm, utterly unharmed. His head had tilted just half an inch to the right—a minuscule adjustment—but enough to render Ferdinand’s bullet useless. The projectile slammed into the concrete floor, detonating with a deafening boom and sending shards of debris flying everywhere. It landed like mocking laughter, taunting Ferdinand’s ineptitude.

"How... why... impossible! Impossible!" Ferdinand froze, overwhelmed by cries of astonishment flooding the comms. Human reflexes surpassing bullets traveling faster than sound? Preposterous. Yet denial couldn’t alter facts—he had no choice but to believe.

And it wasn’t just him. Every attack launched by the Sea Falcons proved equally futile against the mysterious squad. Those armored soldiers wielding colossal rifles moved with agility far beyond comprehension, dodging and weaving with uncanny speed.

"Are they even human? They’re monsters... phantoms of destruction."

Even though the jetpack-equipped soldiers weren’t as nimble, yet propelled by fiery thrusts, they danced through the air like agile hawks. Neither "Thor’s Wrath" nor the V-M Viper could lock onto their erratic movements.

"Sea Falcons? Sea... Falcons?" Sapir muttered bitterly. "Compared to them, we’re just a flock of squab pigeons."

For the first time since the war began—and perhaps for the first time in their lives—the Sea Falcons tasted bitter defeat. Some switched their rifles to full-auto mode; others hoisted rocket launchers onto their shoulders.

Pew-pew-pew! Bullets rained down like a storm, tearing up the ground around the advancing enemies. But it made no difference. Even explosions erupting inches away failed to faze them.

Rockets streaked through the air, trailing plumes of smoke as they spiraled toward their targets. Then, with a sudden flare of light, the Reapers activated their backpack thrusters, soaring high above the battlefield. Gauss pistols flashed in their hands, unleashing arcs of electricity that pierced the incoming warheads. One after another, the rockets exploded mid-air, transforming into dazzling fireworks.

"Sapir! Why hasn’t the naval bombardment arrived yet?" Ferdinand shouted.

Before he finished speaking, a magnetic railgun shell eighty millimeters wide screamed across the sky, leaving a white contrail in its wake. It plunged into the no-man’s-land between the two forces.

BOOM! Shards of stone erupted like rain, and a shockwave rippled outward, flattening everything in its path. Several Marines closest to the blast were hurled backward, tumbling across the ground. Yet moments later, they leapt back to their feet and resumed charging forward.

"What’s going on? How are they unaffected? WHY?!"

To ordinary humans, such impacts would leave legs trembling and heads spinning. These soldiers, however, shrugged off the chaos like it was nothing. Their resilience defied logic.

Whooooosh! Another missile approached, its tail flame distorting the air.

KABOOM! Before it hit the ground, a bolt of energy sliced cleanly through its warhead. The resulting explosion scattered fiery shrapnel in all directions, smashing into buildings and splashing into wastewater pools.

Swoosh-swoosh! More shells tore through the air, their sharp tips slicing through turbulence with ear-splitting shrieks. Explosions carved craters into the concrete, filling the battlefield with smoke and debris. Billowing flames and choking clouds obscured the horizon.

Under such relentless bombardment, no life should survive, no vehicle remain intact. Ferdinand licked his dry lips, lowering the barrel of his rifle slightly. Through the scope, he focused on the buffer zone ahead of the special metallurgy workshop.

Amidst swirling smoke, a shadow flickered. The figure who had evaded "Thor’s Wrath" earlier leapt forward, followed closely by armored soldiers carrying oversized rifles. They breached the frontline and closed in on the workshop.

Meanwhile, the jetpack-equipped fighters moved with balletic grace, their rounded movements almost artistic as they appeared along the edges of the factory.

"DAMN IT! Why isn’t our bombardment working? Who ARE these people? How can they possibly fight like this?" Ferdinand snarled, his voice trembling with agitation. Despite the climate control of his power suit, sweat slicked his palms. For the first time in his career, he felt the crushing weight of pressure. This small team of fewer than thirty men felt like an insurmountable mountain pressing down on him.

Thirty-plus Sea Falcons trained their weapons downward, leveraging their elevated position and open terrain for accuracy. But... facing opponents with such supernatural agility, could they truly succeed?

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