Otaku Translation: Carrying the Bases of Starcraft C169

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Chapter 169: The Battle of Somalon (Part 1)

", take 247 Marines, 29 Marauders, 28 , and 28 Medics. Move west from here, flank the . Wait for the sound of cannon fire as your signal to attack."

", lead the eastward, circling around to the airbase’s flank. When you hear the cannons, smash through their defenses and charge the airstrip. Target any aircraft that haven’t taken off yet."

"Understood."

"Got it." Both men acknowledged Tang Fang’s orders and departed with their respective units.

Meanwhile, the Widow Mines had stealthily maneuvered into position, encircling the airbase in a ring formation. Time ticked by, and soon Housen and Arroz confirmed they were ready. Tang Fang cast one final glance toward the airbase before climbing into a .

With a hiss and metallic clatter, the tank's stabilizing arms extended, anchoring themselves firmly into the ice. The twin plasma turrets rotated, their barrels splitting apart and reforming into a single aimed squarely at the north.

Tang Fang selected a watchtower as his first target, gripped the control lever, flipped the safety catch, and pressed down with his thumb.

A crackling surge of electricity danced around the barrel as superheated plasma was magnetically accelerated along the railgun system. Finally, the near-light-speed plasma bolt tore free from its magnetic constraints, streaking across the sky like a meteor trailing flames.

The electromagnetic noise crescendoed as forty Siege Tanks lined up across the snowy plain, their glowing muzzles spitting out round after round of dazzling plasma projectiles. The night sky lit up like a meteor shower—beautiful, radiant, mesmerizing.

But beauty often masks destruction. Beneath the brilliant facade lay searing plasma hotter than flame, wilder than inferno. As most soldiers gazed in awe, the radiant object resembling an aurora smashed into a watchtower with a deafening roar. Golden molten liquid erupted outward, raining fiery death over hundreds of meters.

Buildings collapsed amidst bloodcurdling screams. Alarms blared, bathing the night in flashing red lights. The howling shrieks of plasma tearing through the air jolted every soldier awake from their stunned reverie.

Watchtowers crumbled like melted candles, armor melting away, structures warping under intense heat. Radar stations fared worse; high-temperature plasma consumed antennas, melted skylights, and incinerated personnel inside, leaving behind charred remains reeking of burnt flesh.

Turrets and missile systems on the airbase’s perimeter spun frantically, ammunition loaded, missiles primed—but before they could lock onto targets, plasma bolts reduced them to smoldering wreckage.

Chaos spread like wildfire, engulfing both the airbase and Somalon’s grounds. Explosions rippled continuously, melting steel, igniting fuel trucks, storage tanks, planes, and buildings. Kilometers-wide swathes turned into blazing infernos. Screams, alarms, and thunderous blasts wove together into a symphony of hell beneath Antarctica’s skies.

Columns of smoke rose high into the polar winds, choking the base under acrid clouds. Fragments of steel and gravel sprayed everywhere, sparking against concrete surfaces like bullets.

Amidst the chaos, five "Nighthawk" fighter jets roared into the sky, heading straight for the source of the plasma barrage—a desperate countermeasure organized by the emergency command team.

Equipped for low-light combat, the Nighthawks were the perfect response force. But the soldiers, pilots, and even himself couldn’t comprehend why their seemingly impregnable airbase was suddenly under attack. Weren’t the rebels teetering on the brink of collapse?

All they could do now was assess the enemy’s strength and adapt accordingly. With the base’s vast military reserves, Michelson believed victory was inevitable. Compared to the well-equipped government forces, the rebels were nothing but amateurs. Once he identified their numbers and movements, the waiting fleet of fighter jets would make short work of them.

How dare these vermin bring the fight to his doorstep? Let them prepare for the wrath of divine punishment, he thought grimly.

And then, the flames descended—not from Michelson’s forces, but from the southern horizon.

A blinding flash swept across half the southern sky, crimson clouds staining the endless snowfields. Roaring winds carried dragon-like tongues of fire, illuminating the Antarctic night like a second sun.

"Nuclear... nuclear weapons?" Michelson stared blankly from the rear command room, his voice hollow.

Static burst through the communication channels linked to the Nighthawks. Sensitive electronics overloaded from the electromagnetic pulse, plunging many systems into paralysis.

"How many are they?" Everyone in the command room exchanged uneasy glances.

Who were these enemies? The ? Or someone else entirely? Plasma cannons and nuclear weapons—how could those ragtag rebels possess such advanced technology? Who were they?

"... it must be the Sulru Empire attacking!" A female officer on the verge of mental breakdown cried out.

"Yes, yes! Only the Sulru Empire’s fleets have firepower this devastating..."

Fear took root in everyone’s hearts—even Michelson felt doubt creeping in. He didn’t believe it was the Sulru Empire, but who else could breach the airbase’s defenses so effortlessly?

"Calm down! Stay steady!" As the commanding officer, everyone else could panic, but not him. "Evacuate the runways immediately. All aircraft retreat to hangars. And at Somalon—seal all products, lower the factory aboveground, transfer operations underground... hurry!"

"General!" Just as Michelson barked orders to relocate critical equipment, the intelligence officer pointed to the central screen. "They’re... they’re inside."

"What?" Everyone turned to look. Beyond the shattered wall pulverized by plasma bolts, strange lightweight off-road vehicles breached the perimeter, skidding wildly across the ground. One executed a sharp drift, screeching to a halt near the evacuating fighters. Mounted flamethrowers atop the vehicles unleashed torrents of fire, painting the planes in crimson infernos.

Screams echoed—pilots and navigators trapped in agony as flames devoured them mercilessly.

Forty flamethrower-equipped vehicles—fast, agile, stable, devastating, with wide-area damage. Like wolves slaughtering sheep, they left trails of fiery ruin wherever they passed.

Explosions rocked the airfield. Drones, fighters, gunships, even lumbering strategic bombers—all ablaze. From above, the runway resembled rows of torches, flames roaring, thick smoke billowing.

The explosions never ceased. Each round of siege tank bombardment painted the airbase and Somalon grounds with fiery bursts of shrapnel—dazzling, terrifying.

"Michelson, send reinforcements quickly! The enemy has broken through!" On the communications screen, Somalon’s director, , spoke urgently.

As he spoke, nearby intelligence officers transferred footage to auxiliary monitors. Conditions at Somalon were worse than at the airbase. Flames and explosions surged like rivers of lava, ravaging the facility’s surface level.

Flashes of gunfire illuminated the battlefield. Between cracks in the buildings, figures leapt and darted. Some hulking brutes, nearly three meters tall and a meter wide, hurled grenades into the heart of the factory. Others, lean and swift, targeted security personnel. Every gunshot, every flash of silver light, sent another soldier crumpling to the ground.

Michelson also spotted soldiers with jetpacks swooping like nocturnal predators. Their faces were grotesque—ugly enough to haunt dreams.

While these three types of attackers caused significant damage, what truly overwhelmed Michelson were the figures wielding flamethrowers on both arms.

Twenty-meter flames, ultra-high-temperature plasma. Steel melted instantly, organic materials ignited, pipelines exploded. They weren’t just masters of fire—they were demons born of hell, kings of destruction.

Amidst this apocalyptic battlefield, there were also white-clad angels in sleek power armor, adorned with ornate helmets and fair faces. Like true angels, they cast beams of healing light.

Oh, heavens... but they healed demons—demons who brought hellfire to Earth.

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