Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C143

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Chapter 143: War is a Man's Arena, Not a Woman’s Art

In a small meeting hall behind the command building of Droznyr Naval Port, an assembly of elite soldiers from the Marine Corps’ special operations units, reconnaissance teams, and specialized assault squads sat in orderly rows, their expressions stern and focused. The rhythmic thud of military boots echoed through the room like the muffled beat of a drum.

Adelaide stepped to the front of the stage, his slightly stooped posture straightening as he gestured to a female officer nearby. With a soft click, the holographic projector hummed to life, casting a three-dimensional map between him and the gathered troops.

"The dire situation facing the rebel forces has already been explained by Colonel Flavius, so I won’t repeat it," Adelaide began, descending from the podium. He pointed to the highlighted section on the map labeled “Brave Bastion,” which surrounded the military-industrial complex in the northwest region of Odin Continent. "After careful deliberation, Command has determined that the only way to resolve this crisis is to organize a special operations team to infiltrate the bastion and sabotage the facilities within. Simultaneously, our comrades in hiding around the area will initiate uprisings to pin down the 606th Division stationed there and push eastward toward Miluo Plateau. This diversion will force the enemy’s frontline forces to retreat, relieving pressure on the eastern front."

Adelaide scanned the silent crowd, his tone heavy with gravity. "Let me be blunt: each one of you is among the finest warriors in the Northern Fleet—the sharp tip of our spear. This mission is a do-or-die operation for us. Success will ease the burden on the eastern front; failure will spell disaster for all our efforts on Odin."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "Two hundred volunteers are needed for this task. Specific operational details will be disclosed before deployment. Today, I am here to say this: Soldiers, your courage and conviction are about to be tested. Those willing to volunteer should step forward now."

Though Adelaide hadn’t revealed many specifics, everyone understood the grim reality: infiltrating an enemy stronghold bristling with defenses and automated systems was a suicide mission—a one-way ticket to oblivion.

The silence lasted only a few seconds before murmurs, curses, and self-deprecating jokes broke out across the room.

"If I’d known this would happen, I’d have stayed home and farmed potatoes instead of joining the rebellion," grumbled a soldier whose cap sat askew atop his head. Despite his complaints, he moved swiftly to join Adelaide at the front.

"Blake, you still owe me 200 MYD! You’ve had six months—pay me back when we return!" called out a man with a hint of petulance in his voice.

"Hah! If you die, I won’t have to pay you back, will I?" Blake, a tall black man, grinned broadly as he patted the shorter creditor on the shoulder. "And if I die, same deal—I’m off the hook either way!"

Amidst the banter, most soldiers silently rose from their seats, marching resolutely toward Adelaide. In some corners, scuffles erupted as men jostled for position, fighting over spots in the deadly roster of two hundred.

No one hesitated. No one shrank back. Perhaps they cursed the unfairness of fate—why should nobles lounge in comfort, wrapped in silken sheets with youthful beauties while they faced bullets, smoke, and death itself?

Perhaps memories surfaced unbidden: steaming bowls of potato soup made by loving mothers, drunken fathers hiccupping late into the night, bitter breakup texts from girlfriends, or even dog-eared copies of PLAYBOY hidden under dormitory mattresses alongside posters of the seductive “Galactic Siren.”

But when duty called, they answered without hesitation. These were men who had tasted oppression and understood the value of hope. Even if the path to freedom was paved with blood and strewn with obstacles, they would not falter or turn away.

Within moments, more than six hundred soldiers crowded around Adelaide. The hall emptied save for Tang Fang, lounging in the back row sipping coffee, Arroz puffing on a cigar, and Housen nodding off despite the commotion.

"You... I said only two hundred," Adelaide stammered, his face flushed with emotion.

"General, let my unit go! We just won the shooting competition last year—every man here is a crack shot!" declared Captain Billy of the assault team.

"Sharpshooting won’t cut it!" interrupted a gravel-voiced captain from the reconnaissance unit. "My men are versatile and work seamlessly together. They’re perfect for this kind of mission."

"Pick us..."

"No, our special ops squad..."

Several officers glared at each other like roosters ready to fight, tension thick enough to slice with a knife.

Before stepping onto the stage, Adelaide had anticipated their bravery but never imagined such fierce competition. Was it courage driving them? Or rivalry? No—it was neither. It was the boiling blood coursing through their veins. To these men, dying on the battlefield amidst fire and fury was far preferable to rotting in prison, perishing on execution grounds, or wasting away in a hospital bed. Battlefields were where true warriors belonged.

Adelaide stood frozen, unsure how to proceed, while aides flanking the hall exchanged equally bewildered looks.

"Enough arguing." A languid voice cut through the chaos. Tang Fang tossed his coffee cup carelessly into Claire’s hands, stretched lazily, and cracked his neck with a series of audible pops.

"Use whatever weapons you want—if you can beat them, General Adelaide will grant you permission to join the mission." He waved casually at a group of Marauders standing in the corner, beckoned to Arroz, kicked Housen awake, and strode toward the exit.

As he passed Claire, he paused briefly, his gaze lingering on her. "Too much sugar. Next time, remember to add less. Desserts are for women..."

"What?" Claire snapped her head up, anger flashing across her beautiful features. As a captain, a strikingly attractive woman revered by her subordinates for her aloof elegance, she found his criticism intolerable. How dare he critique her coffee-making skills after she’d deigned to serve him?

Just as Claire prepared to unleash her fury, Tang Fang reached out, plucking a strand of ash-gray lint from her golden hair. His voice carried a note of finality. "War is a man’s arena—it shouldn’t be your art."

With that, he walked out, leaving behind a conflicted Claire, a stunned Adelaide, and a roomful of soldiers processing his cryptic words.

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