This Game Is Too Realistic-Chapter 458.2: How About It Bro? Are You Satisfied With All Your Free Kills?

Chapter 458.2: How About It Bro? Are You Satisfied With All Your Free Kills?

Unable to withstand Yichuan’s persistent pressure, Chu Guang eventually relented and had McClennan and his adjutant transferred from the coal mine in West Continent Municipality to a small, isolated room.

That wasn’t solely due to the Highest Council’s request.

According to Yichuan, at the end of the month, reporters from Ideal City would be arriving to interview General McClennan and other captured officers.

If those reporters caught even a whiff of prisoner abuse, the hard-earned image the New Alliance had built would take a hit.

As Yichuan explained, the residents of Ideal City wanted to see the New Alliance reason with others, using the light of civilization to enlighten the prisoners, making them realize their actions were wrong and barbaric, and leading them to heartfelt repentance.

Chu Guang, of course, scoffed at their naivety.

Since ancient times, what tamed beasts was never civilization, but whips, clubs, and bigger fists. If one really wanted them to understand their mistakes, they should be thrown into coal mines to discover the difference between humans and animals through labor.

Besides, compared to how the Wislander treated slaves and other survivors, the New Alliance had already been merciful.

But considering the New Alliance still needed support from the Enterprise, Chu Guang didn’t press the issue further.

After all, the number of prisoners the New Alliance had was nearly a third of its population. One or two fewer mining coal wouldn’t make a difference.

...

In the southeast of Oasis No.3.

After lounging in the rear for over a month, Battlefield Cheerleader finally seized the opportunity to head to the frontlines, only to find a new place to waste food.

A desert-camouflaged open-top jeep pulled up at the foot of a sand dune.

Following Cowley out of the vehicle, Battlefield Cheerleader scanned the surroundings of the battlefield.

Crisscrossing trenches stretched between overlapping hills, forming an interconnected network as far as the eye could see, like a mountainside riddled with bullet holes.

In addition to the trenches reinforced with sandbags and planks, the defensive line featured camouflaged machine-gun nests and half-buried anti-aircraft guns.

More than 100,000 infantry were scattered along the multi-kilometer front, turning the position into a massive meat grinder. Not even a fly could slip through unscathed.

Once off the vehicle, Cowley addressed a soldier waiting near a bunker. “Notify the Acting Captain of the 7th team to gather the unit and report in.”

“Yes, sir!” The soldier snapped a salute and jogged into a nearby bunker. Soon, he returned with another officer jogging behind.

“Captain Beaufort of the 7th Team reporting!”

After a brief wait, squads from the trenches emerged from their posts and assembled near the bunkers under their captain’s commands, forming a barely passable formation.

To be honest, if Battlefield Cheerleader hadn’t seen how vicious clone soldiers could be in the battle north of Clearspring City, he wouldn’t believe those slack-jawed, slow-reacting, and often deformed soldiers were any good.

Unlike naturally developed clones, those soldiers bore obvious or subtle physical defects, either from birth or leftover injuries from prior battles.

They reached adolescence in two years, peak physical fitness in three, and were considered elderly when they reached five years old. They would retire soon after if they weren’t already dead. In fact... None ever lived long enough to retire.

The congenital defects were intentional. It was to prevent them from becoming long-term social burdens.

In the Prosperity Era, such technology would be condemned as inhumane.

But in the Wasteland Era, where nukes were casually thrown around, no one gave a damn about such details.

“We’re in charge of Defense Zone G53, and you’re assigned to sector G53-7... Starting today, these men are under your command!” Cowley spoke.

Standing beside Battlefield Cheerleader, Cowley squinted at the mass of clone troops in the trench before them, seemingly satisfied.

If only the supply situation were better... If they had more ammunition, there would’ve been no need to retreat. With their 100,000-strong army, wiping out the New Alliance would’ve been a breeze.

“Will they understand what I say?” Battlefield Cheerleader frowned and asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?” Cowley smiled and patted his shoulder. “I get what you’re worried about, but there’s no need. They may look dumb, but once the blood starts flowing, they become fearless mad dogs, fighting until the last man. They're much easier to command than regular troops.”

He paused before continuing, “Also, the decurions here will assist you. They’re officers from the Falcon Kingdom, trained by the Army. If you’re unsure about anything, feel free to consult them.”

Cowley didn’t doubt Battlefield Cheerleader’s combat prowess, his bravery and loyalty were proven. But a good soldier wasn’t always a good commander. It was a rare opportunity for him to gain battlefield experience and prove his strategic value.

Knowing the weight of this opportunity, Battlefield Cheerleader nodded earnestly. “I understand.”

Seeing the serious ‘Pangolin’, Cowley smiled and clapped him on the shoulder again. “Relax, there probably won’t be any action soon. But just in case, stay sharp and stay safe.”

With those parting words, Cowley boarded his jeep and headed back the way they came.

As the dust trail vanished into the horizon, Battlefield Cheerleader’s face remained composed, though inwardly he was signing to himself.

If only things were really that optimistic.

Just the day before, he had posted his defensive position on the forum, and his bored brothers immediately began scheming a welcome gift.

He estimated the attack would immediately arrive that very evening.

Planning to put on a good show, Battlefield Cheerleader decided to patrol the trenches to get familiar with the terrain.

Turning to Beaufort, the now demoted captain whose rank was also a centurion, he asked, “Your name’s Beaufort, right?”

“Yes, sir!” the man replied with a salute.

Battlefield Cheerleader nodded solemnly and addressed the soldiers assembled before him. “From this moment forward, I am your officer. I don’t care where you come from or your status. Here, your only identity is a soldier under my command! Your only duty is to obey orders and maintain discipline. When I tell you to charge, you charge. Understood?!”

The clone soldiers looked around blankly, clearly unsure how to respond.

Fortunately, their superior officers had some intelligence, quickly snapping to attention. “Understood!”

“Good.” Battlefield Cheerleader nodded in satisfaction, then turned back to Beaufort. “Send the men back to their positions. Take me on a tour of the trenches.”

“Yes, sir!” As expected of Army-trained officers, Beaufort’s discipline was solid.

Given that officers who weren’t Wislanders had little hope of promotion, no one dared challenge a newly assigned centurion, especially one known to be a mighty awakener and close with Cowley.

Beaufort was all too eager to curry favor, sensing an opportunity in this new superior.

But Battlefield Cheerleader wasn’t paying much attention to the flattery. He casually acknowledged Beaufort’s work and then started probing about their supply situation, bullet count per soldier, number of machine guns, rifles, and squad structures.

In the Army’s terms, a team of 100 men was a company, and a team of 1,000 men was considered a troop. By understanding the situation of a company, Battlefield Cheerleader could extrapolate it since the Clone Corps were the same either way.

The moment he asked about ammunition, Beaufort began to grumble. “... It’s been a long time since we last saw a supply truck. The men average less than 60 rounds each. We were given just two crates of machine gun ammo. Sir, can you speak with Cowley to see if we can get more?”

To Beaufort, it was a simple matter of calling in a favor. Even if supplies were tight, they could always find extra for someone with connections.

To his surprise, Battlefield Cheerleader struck a righteous pose and refused sternly. “We’re not the only ones in trouble. Everyone is suffering! We can’t trouble Cowley over something this trivial!”

“But sir, with this little ammo, we probably can’t hold out through a single battle!”

Beaufort panicked and tried to explain, but Battlefield Cheerleader cut him off coldly. “Probably?! What happened to your spirit? Your loyalty? Your oath to lay down your life for our Marshal?! Just because we lack bullets, we can’t fight? Where is your will? Where is your backbone?!”

Beaufort stood dumbfounded, eyes flicking nervously toward Battlefield Cheerleader’s nose.

What the fuck do you mean our Marshal? His nose isn’t big... Is he even a Wislander?

He sounds more insane than one.