This Game Is Too Realistic

The soldiers still alive inside the military base were all veterans. They were crouching behind cover, ready to counterattack at any moment!

Not to mention... There were also those mutants!

These physically overpowered monsters were practically human tanks.

The 100-man teams of mutant mercenaries had been eager to fight; as soon as they saw those people rushing into the camp, they let out roars and charged towards the Death Corps.

"Tear them apart!"

"Twist off their heads!"

"Roar!"

A thirst for flesh flashed through their eyes.

Those beast-like monsters weren't just using primitive weapons. They could also shoot, use grenades, and some homemade gadgets. Though their aim was a bit off, but they still caused quite a bit of trouble for charging Death Corps.

Fortunately, the Death Corps' Team C finally moved to the northern side of the dunes. They set up their heavy machine guns and Lances, pointing their grim black barrels and guns at those mutant mercenaries.

"Fire!"

Lying on the sand dune, Drumhead Washing Machine commanded, initiating the attack.

Upon receiving the team leader's order to fire, everyone else squeezed their triggers. Flames spewed out of their barrels. The thick tracers tore through the curtain of night.

The mutant mercenaries who rushed out of cover to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the Death Corps were instantly killed or injured, their armor shattered along with their flesh and brains painted the ground.

Although their wounds could heal at a visible rate, it didn't mean their heads could regrow after being blown into pieces.

Under the command of Drumhead Washing Machine, the teams operating the mounted weapons poured a barrage of bullets towards the sea of fire in the military base, covering Team A and the following teams. They quickly pushed further into the base.

"Everyone, off your bikes!" Sideline Slacking shouted, leading the charge off the tricycles. He commanded them to form a line, covering each other as they advanced over the sticky, bloody trails.

At the same time, in the night sky...

Just as the team successfully completed the handover of firepower, the Seagull drone in the air had also run out of ammunition. It started to withdraw from the battlefield to save its battery life.

Now it was the ground forces' turn!

Five robust Hellhound unmanned vehicles followed Team A over the sandbag wall.

Those machines and payloads might not compare to Gale's A-1 Ground Weapon Platform, Alpha Dog, but with a massive ammunition supply of 1,000 rounds of 12mm machine gun bullets and 24 60mm airburst grenades, they still managed to exert firepower comparable to armored vehicles.

Under the control of the intelligence type players, these five Hellhounds were like wolves entering a sheep pen. The triangular gun barrels spun like windmills, creating a curtain of bullets inside the camp, weaving a tight net to cover the following infantry squads as they advanced.

Not only that, but the alliance-produced Y-2 Butterfly Knife quadrotor drones were also advancing with the infantry.

Compared to the Switchblades tied with explosive packs, the improved Butterfly Knife with enhanced power and control systems had stronger sustained support capabilities. In addition to a variable camera mounted underneath, it also carried a 5mm small caliber caseless coaxial rifle.

The drone could perform close-range observation tasks, coordinate frontal assaults on fixed covers with front-line troops, or form a swarm of drones to strike enemy lines from multiple angles.

It was extremely versatile.

Faced with the Death Corps storming into the military base, the soldiers of the Army tried to organize a defense, but the overwhelming close-range firepower was too fierce! Especially the drones' saturated firepower on targets near the garage almost completely wiped out the armor troops, with more than 5 tanks breaking down in the garage without even starting their engines.

Together with the preemptive strike by EMP weapons causing communication blackouts...

Let alone the command center knowing their situation, even the chief commander of the camp, Piman, was unclear about how many of his men were still alive. He didn't know where each team was located or who they were engaged in combat with.

Not only had Piman not expected it, but even the centurions and decurions fighting at the frontlines were also disoriented by the sudden change.

There was no way around it. The previous few gas canister bombs were too deceptive, leading them to mistakenly believe that the attack was just by a few guerrilla teams. All they did was to deploy a Weasel reconnaissance vehicle and four troop carriers, while heavy equipment like Conqueror tanks hadn't even been deployed.

Faced with the heavily armed Death Corps, the chaotically organized soldiers could hardly organize a full 100-man team. They only managed to fight in smaller 10-man or even smaller groups around limited cover.

Their ammunition and morale wouldn't last long, especially after seeing the four-legged Hellhound and the whizzing Butterfly Knives.

Their fragile lines moved back again and again, eventually disintegrating.

An Army soldier carrying a rocket launcher had just aimed at a Hellhound, but before he could pull the trigger, an bomb exploded in his face, blasting away half his head.

Leading the charge, Sideline Slacking held his LD 47 rifle. He sprayed a burst of bullets, turning the soldier trying to pick up the rocket launcher into a sieve.

Two agility type players quickly moved to the side, and with several bursts of gunfire, quickly cleared the riflemen behind cover.

Far away, flames burned.

Sideline Slacking could feel that the stationed troop was at the end of their line.

He tapped the communicator, ordering loudly, "Team B, take the garage! Prevent the enemy from using their tanks!"

"Teams D and F, continue to advance and take the southern positions! We still have a full 100-man team in the south. Take the machine gun fort as soon as possible, and immediately support our allies!"

"Team A, follow me to attack the command center! Capture the enemy officers!"

"Move!"

The location of the command center was already marked on the map.

These were pieces of intelligence Battlefield Cheerleader obtained through a stroke of luck. They couldn't let him down!

Sideline Slacking led his brothers straight to the command center.

The makeshift command center was already deserted, clearly moved to the nearby bomb shelters.

A 10-man squad guarded the entrance to the bomb shelter, trying to make a last stand using the low walls as cover.

However, the players responsible for the assault gave them no chance to see their faces, nor did they waste words. All they did was to call in a Hellhound.

An airburst grenade smashed behind the cover, followed by a loud explosion. The triple-gun triangular gun barrel turned twice, grinding the 10-man team crouching at the bomb shelter into a pile of minced meat.

With cover fire supporting them, Sideline Slacking personally led a 10-man squad close to the target.

A stun grenade was thrown into the bomb shelter, and following a flash of white light, he entered first with his LD 47 rifle that had its bayonet already attached.

"Don't move!"

"Surrender immediately!"

"Drop your weapons, and you won't be killed!"

The same old lines were yelled loudly by Construction Boy at Sideline Slacking's side.

One of the guards evidently didn't believe it. His eyes hadn't even opened fully before he raised his gun to return fire.

But before he could aim, a burst of gunfire swept across his chest.

The man grunted, unable to even scream in pain before falling to the ground like a torn rag.

Antonite pulled out his pistol intending to kill himself, but before he could unlatch the safety, he was hit on the wrist by a shovel. He screamed in pain before dropping his gun.

"Damn..." Sideline Slacking stepped forward, kicked away the gun beside his hand, grabbed his arm with one hand. He twisted it, pushing Antonite's head to the table.

Struggling desperately, Antonite was about to curse out loud, but before he could utter a few syllables, a shovel chopped down next to his neck like an ax.

The cold touch and the sharp edge close at hand made a chill run down Antonite's heart.

Pinned to the table, his chest heaved violently, barely gathering the courage to end it all, but the dark shovel soon slapped his hand down again.

Sometimes, courage needed to be accompanied by a bit of impulsiveness.

He wasn't afraid of death and was prepared to sacrifice himself for the Marshal, but those people clearly wouldn't let him die simply. He felt that they surely intended to torture him with the shovel until they extracted all the intelligence from him.

Antonite couldn't help but tremble when he thought of the possibilities, inadvertently wetting his pants.

Thinking he was still going to resist, Sideline Slacking glared at him, gripping his neck tighter. "Behave!"

Standing at the side, Piman had done nothing from the start to finish. All he did was to watch everyone enter the bomb shelter with his ashen face.

Vanguard exoskeletons...