Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C146

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Chapter 146: The Battle of Apalus (Part 3)

The tires hissed against the asphalt, leaving a faint scuff mark on the sun-baked road. Ahead, at the city gates, a fully armed patrol unit of twenty-four soldiers moved back and forth like clockwork. On either side of the highway, turrets rose from the sand like chess pieces scattered across a board. Closer to the walls, rows of rapid-fire cannons stood ready, their dark barrels glinting in the morning light.

“Stop,” called the lieutenant leading the patrol. Several soldiers rushed forward, positioning themselves sternly by the vehicle’s doors.

The lieutenant held up a scanner. “Step out for inspection.”

“What? Inspection?” Arroz leaned out the window. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

“We did.” The lieutenant nodded but repeated firmly, “Please step out for inspection.”

“You got the memo and still want to inspect us?” Arroz didn’t budge.

“I’m sorry, but we need your cooperation.” The lieutenant was unyielding, his tone businesslike despite Arroz’s higher rank.

“Fine, I’ll cooperate.” Arroz pushed open the door, stepped out, and raised his hands as the lieutenant scanned him with the device. Every detail about Arroz—from the serial number of his power armor to his DNA—had already been synced to the military database via the Orbital Command Center. No matter how thorough the check, Arroz’s identity as an Imperial Captain remained ironclad.

Finding nothing amiss, the lieutenant moved to the other side of the armored car. He reached for the handle while repeating stiffly, “Please step out for inspection.”

Tang Fang frowned. Was this man blind or just painfully rigid? Government bureaucracy trickled down into every corner of the military hierarchy, yet here he was, addressing someone of superior rank without so much as a hint of deference. No wonder the guy was still a lowly lieutenant in his thirties. If not for some leniency from above, he’d probably have stagnated as a second lieutenant until retirement.

Before Tang Fang could react, Housen lost patience. With a loud kick, he swung the door open, swiped his foot forward, and grabbed the helmeted head of the bewildered lieutenant. “Listen here, punk,” Housen growled. “You see these stripes? Two ranks above you. Captain. Do you understand what that means? Now shut it.”

Both Tang Fang and Arroz exchanged grim looks. Only Housen would pull such a stunt, picking fights with subordinates when decorum demanded otherwise. But then again, that was Housen—a loose cannon who somehow made everything work in their favor.

Clicks echoed around them as nearby rookies raised their rifles, aiming squarely at Housen. Veterans and those more politically savvy, however, stood frozen, pretending not to notice.

“Do you really want to inspect me?” Tang Fang stepped out of the car, his Lieutenant Colonel insignia gleaming under the morning sun.

The lieutenant struggled under Housen’s grip like a snake caught by its throat, writhing but unable to break free.

“What the hell is going on here?” A captain in his late twenties stormed over, followed closely by a major whose face looked sour enough to curdle milk. “Sarulabama, what mess have you gotten yourself into now?”

At Tang Fang’s signal, Housen finally released the lieutenant with a dismissive snort.

“Good morning, sir,” said Captain Hood, saluting sharply. Turning to the lieutenant, he snapped, “Sarulabama, what were you thinking? We received confirmation from HQ with matching profiles. What’s wrong with you?”

As Hood berated the hapless lieutenant, the major approached Tang Fang, studying his face intently before offering a hesitant salute. “Battalion Commander Benthem Duncan, commander of Brave Bastion’s first battalion, greets you, sir.”

Tang Fang couldn’t help but smirk. The man seemed flustered—understandably so, given Tang Fang’s youthful appearance compared to his own seniority.

“Roy Daler,” Tang Fang introduced himself using a fabricated name.

“Lieutenant Colonel, forgive my tardiness. I assure you, it won’t happen again.” Benthem bowed deeply, internally cursing the fool who had stationed Sarulabama at the gate. These envoys were no ordinary officers; they reported directly to the Governor’s office. Offending them could mean disaster for everyone involved.

“Enough talk,” Tang Fang said coolly. “Open the gates.”

“Yes, yes, immediately!” Benthem relayed the order through his communicator.

With a deep rumble, the massive titanium-reinforced gates began to part, revealing the interior of Brave Bastion. Tang Fang climbed back into the vehicle, motioning for Arroz and Housen to join him. Before driving off, he glanced at Benthem and Hood, his gaze cold and imperious. “We’ll take our leave. As for unloading personnel, arrange it yourselves.”

“Yes, sir!” Both men nodded vigorously. Such a young Lieutenant Colonel, clearly favored by Aldrich himself, must be destined for greatness. Whether noble-born or self-made, his arrogance felt entirely justified within the rules of Krotan’s military elite.

Had Tang Fang been overly polite, they might have grown suspicious. Instead, his haughty demeanor only reassured them—it fit perfectly with the entrenched culture of privilege and disdain permeating the Empire’s ranks. To borrow Housen’s crude phrasing, people like Benthem and Hood were “lowborn” to their core, steeped in servility so ingrained it warped their very spines.

Once Tang Fang’s vehicle disappeared from view, Benthem turned to Hood, seething. “Throw him in solitary confinement for two weeks. Let him reflect on his idiocy.”

“Yes, sir,” Hood replied with a vindictive grin, signaling to nearby soldiers to drag Sarulabama away.

“And send word to Jiang Deyi’s platoon—round up twenty men and bring them here immediately.”

Benthem watched the gates close behind the departing vehicle, its silhouette fading into the distance. Just half an hour earlier, an encrypted message marked urgent had arrived via orbital satellite. It announced the arrival of a special envoy sent by the Governor to oversee the transport of forty Heavy Armor Warriors to reinforce the eastern front.

Upon receiving the directive, Benthem knew better than to question it. The encryption level alone screamed importance, let alone the fact that these individuals served directly under the Governor. Even ten of him wouldn’t dare cross paths with such figures.

Meanwhile, inside the armored car cruising effortlessly past Brave Bastion’s supposedly impenetrable defenses, Housen propped his feet up on the dashboard, grinning ear to ear. “You know, Tang Fang, you really nailed the aristocratic act back there. All smug and untouchable, just like those prissy officers who bark orders but piss themselves at the first sign of danger.”

Tang Fang caught Housen’s reflection in the rearview mirror and chuckled softly. Not a single shot fired, not a single soldier engaged—and yet, they had breezed right through Brave Bastion’s legendary fortifications.

Perhaps Benthem thought three men posed little threat. But Arroz and Housen knew better. What Benthem had unwittingly allowed inside wasn’t a trio of minnows—it was a dragon swimming upstream, trailed by a host of serpents ready to devour.

An hour later, the armored car pulled into the outer ring of Apalus’s industrial complex. Towering tanks, furnaces, and crushers loomed in the distance, their acrid fumes hanging heavy in the air. This outer zone housed countless mineral processing plants, where raw materials mined from southwestern territories were refined before being shipped inward for assembly into ships, vehicles, and weapons destined for Cain Rudolf’s fleets—or exported abroad.

Arroz parked beside a steel mill under Tang Fang’s direction. The trio disembarked, and Tang Fang cast a glance at the security camera mounted atop a nearby traffic pole before striding toward it.

Inside Brave Bastion’s command center, nearly a hundred staff members lounged lazily in their chairs. Some chatted idly about celebrity gossip, others dozed off, and a few gathered around makeshift card tables gambling away their boredom.

But one vigilant guard sat hunched over his monitor array, stifling yawns as he kept watch. When the armored car appeared, he wasn’t surprised—they’d been briefed about the “escort mission.” But why had they stopped? For a bathroom break? Or perhaps they simply needed rest?

Then something caught his eye. That man walking toward the camera… why did he feel a chill run down his spine? And why was he staring directly at the lens?

The guard’s jaw dropped as flickering sparks danced across the monitors before him.

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