Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C119

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Chapter 119: The Most Radiant Spirit of Soldiers

Pressure. A suffocating weight pressed against his chest, as if an immeasurable boulder had settled atop it, threatening to crush him entirely. More and more sentries raised their rifles, their trigger fingers trembling faintly, sweat trickling through the grooves of their palms.

“Don’t… don’t shoot,” one of the frontmost guards shouted, his voice cracking slightly. It was unclear whether he addressed his comrades behind him or Tang Fang in front of them.

“They’re ours—our people!” Squinting carefully at the powered armor worn by Tang Fang and his group, the guard’s voice rose several decibels. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, casting a flicker of light into the oppressive night.

Earlier, during the final assault on the Sea Falcon Commandos, he’d been fortunate enough to witness allied soldiers clad in that same model of powered armor. Without hesitation, he could say they were the reason everyone wasn’t still cowering behind cover like scared rabbits. Without them, the Sea Falcon Commandos would likely still be whistling, spitting, and flipping them off with smug grins.

A platoon of fewer than forty men had shouldered the brunt of the main attack and successfully torn open the steel-hard defenses of the Sea Falcon Commandos. Like a blade aimed straight for the jugular, they struck deep into the enemy’s throat.

They’d accomplished what seemed impossible. Each member of their team possessed the strength to take on ten, twenty—even thirty foes. Every time they charged alongside their comrades, courage and confidence surged within the ranks. They were a beacon on the battlefield, guiding others toward victory.

Nearly every rebel soldier considered it an honor to fight beside them. Witnessing one of them take down even a single Sea Falcon Commando—let alone multiple—was a story worth bragging about among friends.

Without question, after the counteroffensive in Makanda, these warriors had become idols in the hearts of the Northern Sunaru Alliance soldiers. Even Stivie, Shunette, and others regarded sharing a cigarette or cracking a joke with members of “Talos” or “Taloso” as a badge of pride.

Ninety-nine percent of this battle’s success—the defeat of the Sea Falcon Commandos, the liberation of the alliance command system—belonged to them.

“Second Brigade, Third Platoon, Sergeant Croft Kirk, reporting to you with respect.” The young sentry lowered his rifle, stepped forward, and saluted Tang Fang with textbook precision. Though he didn’t know where this group of over a hundred came from or what they’d done, nothing diminished his reverence for them.

“Relax, relax, Sergeant Croft,” Tang Fang said, glancing at the insignia on his shoulder before giving it a firm pat. “Is the fighting in the factory compound over?”

“Sir, the battle is nearing its conclusion. Your teammates are finishing up the cleanup operations,” Croft replied, his tone deferential.

“I told you to relax. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Just call me Talosal.”

“Yes… yes, sir—I mean, no… Talo—” Croft stumbled over the name, unable to bring himself to say it. The admiration and awe swelling in his heart simply wouldn’t allow such familiarity.

Seeing this, Tang Fang shook his head. “I’m heading in now. Get some rest tonight; there won’t be any more fighting.”

With that, he moved past Croft, leading the hundred marines behind him toward the factory walls.

The other sentries parted to either side, watching with excitement, admiration, and gratitude as they disappeared into the compound entrance.

“Oh, Anderson, did you hear that? He told me his name! Talosal—it’s Talosal…” Only after Tang Fang and his marine escort vanished from sight did Croft snap out of his daze. Turning to his teammate behind him, his face lit up with exhilaration. “Leading a hundred-strong unit—he must be outranking those two inside. Captain? Major? No, given the caliber of these soldiers, he’s probably at least a lieutenant colonel. Such a young commander, yet so humble and approachable. Oh God, if they joined forces with us against the damn government troops, it would be both heartwarming and something to be proud of.”

While Croft indulged in dreams of a brighter future, Tang Fang had already entered the factory grounds with his contingent of marines.

The battle might have ended, but the smoke still lingered. Medics scurried about, searching for comrades buried under rubble and debris. Even the wounded who could still walk pitched in, lending whatever strength they had left to the rescue efforts.

Whether dead or alive, they vowed to dig out every last comrade trapped beneath the ruins. The injured were rushed to medical care, while the fallen were gently laid to rest. Their eyes were closed, their appearances tidied, and they were moved aside with solemnity. A final salute and a volley of gunfire accompanied their departure—a warrior’s send-off.

Comrades-in-arms were those who shared ideals, thoughts, and lives. Perhaps, in death, these souls smiled somewhere beyond, whispering softly, “I am not alone.”

In Tang Yan’s memory, the government army never wasted time or energy on such rituals for ordinary soldiers. Only officers and nobles received such treatment.

Farewells? Coffins? Proper burials? Ridiculous notions in the eyes of imperial aristocrats. To them, commoners—and especially deceased soldiers—didn’t deserve dignity. The thunderous roar of warships and the flash of cannons served as their requiem. Why bother with memorials when the bodies were cold, lifeless husks?

Drifting wreckage became their natural coffins. Barren planets devoid of oceans, blue skies, or vibrant life offered their resting places. At least in the vacuum of space, there was no risk of scavengers desecrating their remains.

Government spokespeople would inform grieving families that their loved ones had been given a space burial. “The glory of Celtic will forever accompany these martyrs who gave their youth and lives for the empire,” they’d intone solemnly, handing over a fresh uniform and dog tags engraved with the soldier’s name. With measured tones, they’d add, “These are your son’s (or brother’s) belongings. Please accept our condolences. The empire honors their sacrifice.”

But the truth? Those soldiers might lie forgotten in some corner of the universe, unclothed, eyes wide open, or reduced to scattered fragments. As for the so-called mementos, the uniforms were brand-new, mass-produced in factories. Careless bureaucrats often mixed up sizes, serial numbers, or even stuffed two pairs of pants into a single box.

And the dog tags? Even more absurd. After every major space battle, accessory factories received massive orders. Government employees dumped data cards containing tens of thousands of names onto negotiation tables, instructing manufacturers to sprinkle fake blood—dog, pig, or otherwise—on the finished products for authenticity.

Compared to the government’s callousness, Tang Fang saw something different in these rebels—a warmth akin to family. Bidding farewell to fallen comrades, burying friends—though heartbreaking and sorrowful—stirred a current of warmth in the chest. The tears shed by the rebel soldiers gleamed brighter than crystal and warmed the soul more deeply than the strongest liquor.

Perhaps this was why, even facing overwhelming odds against government forces or the menacing imperial fleet, they dared to stand and fight.

They weren’t alone. On the ship pursuing freedom and hope, tens of thousands of their kin stood alongside them. This gave them courage, responsibility, belief, and the fearless resolve of revolutionaries staring down the barrel of tyranny.

Though the Northern Sunaru Alliance was little more than a ragtag army of miners, farmers, artisans, and street thieves, they possessed something the government lacked: a soul.

As Tang Fang walked among them, his gaze filled with respect, he received smiles, gratitude, admiration, and trust as solid as sibling bonds.

“Talosal.”

Rounding a relatively intact section of the factory, a familiar voice called out ahead. Tang Fang looked up to see Grant approaching quickly, flanked by Monroe and little Sam.

“Thank you.” There were no elaborate words of gratitude. Grant stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Tang Fang’s bulky frame and giving his back a hearty pat.

Though Grant didn’t understand why Tang Fang hadn’t appeared during the earlier battle, he knew that without his leader’s approval, those reinforcements wouldn’t have returned to aid the rebellion.

This act of kindness, this debt of gratitude, was something Grant felt he could never repay, even if he gave his life.

“Monroe, quick! Look at that…” little Sam’s jaw dropped into a perfect O, staring dumbfounded at the hundred marines trailing behind Tang Fang.

When they’d parted ways in the Blue Lake region, fewer than twenty soldiers wore powered armor. Now, aside from Arroz and Housen’s elite platoon of thirty-six, another full hundred had joined their ranks.

Those thirty-six alone had held off naval bombardments and torn gaping holes in the Sea Falcon Commandos’ defenses. Adding a hundred more to the mix meant this force of 139 could unleash devastation beyond imagination. The mere thought sent shivers down spines.

Grant released Tang Fang, turning to gaze at the hundred-strong unit behind him. Swallowing hard, he hesitated. “They… they…”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air.

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