Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C163

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Chapter 163: Storm Clouds Gathering

Night in the Arctic Circle shimmered with an ethereal silver glow, sunlight ceaselessly bathing the icy plains. This phenomenon would persist until the depths of autumn arrived.

No stars, no moonlight—only the pale luminescence of perpetual daylight mingled with the biting polar wind. Tang Fang stood on the balcony to the south of the banquet hall, a glass of whiskey in hand, gazing silently at the lingering twilight.

"Thud, thud, thud." The heavy footsteps behind him were unmistakable—it had to be Marion, the nearly seventy-year-old man who could down liters of liquor without batting an eye.

"What are you staring at so intently?" Marion placed his drink on the windowsill and wiped his beard, now dripping with crystalline droplets of alcohol.

"The night," Tang Fang replied curtly.

"The night? It’s broad daylight!" Marion paused thoughtfully. "Old age creeps up on us all... Who knows if I’ll see another tomorrow?"

"You will."

"I hope so."

Tang Fang turned to face the burly old man, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a small sip. A faint smile crossed his lips. "Tell me about your legendary past. I’m curious about the twelve of you."

"Legendary?" Marion's robust frame shuddered slightly. "Le…gend…ary?"

"If given the choice, I wish this legend had never existed."

Marion tipped half the glass into his mouth, his sharp eyes clouding over with nostalgia.

"In Garcia’s little town of Clozer, every dusk bathes the world in such enchanting light… there was a home sat on the edge of that town—a weathered old house passed down the older generation. Cracked walls, peeling paint on the fence, and a backyard overrun with weeds. And of course, there was that ancient green pickup truck."

"The mistress of the house passed away early, leaving only two sets of cutlery on the dining table—one for the father of the family, one for the son."

"The father was a mechanic, skilled enough to make ends meet while saving a bit for his son’s future education. But then…" Marion slid the rest of the drink down his throat. "One day, their quiet, monotonous life was shattered by a land purchase agreement. A retired official returning from the capital took a fancy to the plot where their house stood."

"No negotiation, no refusal—the father signed the papers outright. They demolished the house, filled in the basement. When the bulldozer reached the old sycamore tree in the yard, his son cried and screamed, pointing at the bird’s nest perched among its branches. The father stopped them, climbed the tree, and carefully retrieved the nest. But when he came down, the boy was gone. In the distance, the roar of excavators echoed—they were filling in the swimming pool."

"The father searched frantically, asking everyone he met. No one knew where the child had vanished to. The retired official offered nothing but cold indifference: ‘Your own child—you shouldn’t ask others.’"

"He scoured the area, questioned everyone. By midnight, his blood-stained hands unearthed the small body buried beneath the rubble. At just seven years old, his son was already cold, breathless. Clutched tightly in his tiny fist was a wooden brush—the tool they’d promised to use together to repaint the fence a brilliant sea blue."

"Not a shred of mercy, not a word of apology—not even a flicker of regret."

"Talosal, We are brave, fearless warriors, unafraid of pain or death. We march across planks soaked with our ancestors’ blood, wielding swords and sweat."

"But me… beneath my feet lies a crimson path paved with the life of my only son."

Marion’s expression remained calm, his tone as soft as the sagging beard resting against his chest. There was no trace of anger, hatred, or sorrow—only the weight of unyielding resolve, like a mountain standing firm.

Decades of struggle, wandering, revenge—his hatred for the dynasty had seeped into his blood, marrow, soul, becoming part of him. Heroes, legends—often, they’re simply men caught in circumstances beyond their control.

Tang Fang drained his glass in silence, raising his eyes to the horizon. The setting sun painted the sky with streaks of red, glowing like blood—or perhaps the dawn.

---

After the banquet ended, Tang Fang was dragged by some mid-ranking officers to the barracks for more drinking. Meanwhile, Marion received a call and descended via elevator to a small conference room deep within the missile base.

Two figures awaited him inside. One was Joseph Mario; the other, a tall, gaunt man in his sixties with piercing hawk-like eyes and a face carved from ice.

"So late at night—what’s this about?" Marion pulled out a chair and sat down, the pungent scent of alcohol filling the room.

"Marion, are you really letting him go?" The older officer glanced at him, frowning slightly as he leaned back in his seat.

"Do you have objections, Chief of Staff?"

The officer pushed several documents toward him. "If I were you, I’d do everything in my power to keep him here."

"Unfortunately, you’re not me." Marion’s expression hardened, transforming him into something akin to a finely honed spear. Gone was any trace of the earlier drunken haze.

"Friends, let’s talk this through calmly," Joseph interjected with a chuckle, attempting to mediate. "This opportunity comes once in a lifetime. Let’s deliberate carefully."

"Joseph, remember the tales of the heroes I once told you? Our blood burns hottest in the arctic winds. Only warriors who die gloriously ascend to heaven, joining the spirits of our forefathers in song, feast, and storytelling."

"You haven’t forgotten those stories, have you?"

Joseph’s face darkened momentarily. The tales spoke not only of heaven but also of Hell—where cowards dwelled.

"Marion, watch your words," the chief of staff warned, arching a brow. "Remember your position now—you’re a general commanding thousands. Every decision must weigh gains and losses."

"Gabrilles, spare me your Charles Federation pragmatism. This is my domain. Remember your role: Chief of Staff, not Commander-in-Chief. I don’t need lessons from you."

"You…" Gabrilles’ expression grew stormier. "Marion, surely you understand the advantages of pulling them into our fold."

"Gabrilles, I’ve said it before: this isn’t your concern. They may be my friends—but they’re certainly not yours."

"Friends?" Gabrilles sneered. Politics, like economics, revolved around interests, not friendships. Hearing the term “friend” from the mouth of an organization leader was almost laughable. "Marion, take my advice: consider carefully who has supported you all this time."

Marion’s gaze lingered on Gabrilles for a moment before he rose slowly and turned toward the door. Passing Joseph, he felt a hand grab his arm.

"Old friend, reconsider. What about the Charles Federation?"

Marion said nothing, striding swiftly out of the room.

The conference chamber fell under a suffocating pall, silent save for the faint sound of breathing.

"Marion…" Gabrilles tapped his finger lightly on the table. "You disappoint me. Without the Charles Federation’s aid, you’d fare worse than a pirate."

Joseph remained silent for a long while before responding. "Don’t rush. Those people aren’t leaving until the day after tomorrow. We still have time to sway him. He needs to grasp the stakes. After all, their backers are the ‘Silver Eagles.’”

"The Silver Eagles? Hmph. Broken-winged eagles…"

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