Chapter 38: Purgatory

Having just achieved the "Middle-Gate Artillery Duel" feat, Zhang Shan was feeling incredibly full of himself.

As for his self-proclaimed title of "Artillery King," his personal guards wore subtle, nuanced expressions. Antonov, however, was straightforward. Holding the title of Viscount, and barring any unforeseen circumstances, he would be swearing his allegiance to His Majesty Andrei once the current Grand Duke retired due to illness and surrendered the crown.

No noble would be foolish enough to compete for glory against their own liege. If the lord was capable in battle, what was there to criticize? Just keep flattering him!

Antonov performed a noble salute: "The enemy's life is your glory—Your Highness, the Artillery King!"

At that moment, the word "vain" could not even begin to describe Zhang Shan. Yet, his face was so smug and so dashing, and coupled with his concrete achievements, one could not help but admire him.

Applause and shouts of "Ura!" erupted in the command center.

Truth be told, Zhang Shan could never have imagined it—before crossing over, and for nearly a hundred years leading up to his arrival, the game was artillery combined with trench warfare. Even after crossing over and discovering "Mechs," the game was still artillery combined with trench warfare. If not for the existence of Steam Knights, Zhang Shan would have thought he had merely traveled through time, not to another world.

With the cacophony of the command center echoing in his ears, phones ringing incessantly, and Lieutenant General Antonov and his staff officers barking out order after order, the basement hall sounded like a bustling marketplace. Interestingly, Zhang Shan enjoyed this scene. From start to finish, he only made two calls: one to give the coordinates to the artillery brigade, and the second to order their withdrawal.

Though he didn't think the Yamato people's counter-battery technology was all that formidable, it was better to be safe than sorry. No one knew if the equipment for the few divisions behind the Asgardians would actually arrive, so Zhang Shan treated every piece like a precious treasure, working with the mindset that every one lost was one less he had.

The soldiers of the Third Division on the front-line Height 114 watched in a daze as this arrogant artillery whirlwind arrived, fired a few rounds, packed up their guns, hooked the towing rings to the trucks, and sped off like a gust of wind. It felt as if these guys had just come for a military parade.

Yet, the entire hilltop could see the massive, glowing mushroom clouds at the edge of the horizon and the raging inferno that followed. The Prince’s private army had come and gone, leaving nothing but a field of enemy corpses behind. How dashing that was!

It was unclear which soldier from the Eighth Division started it, but soon the cry of "Ura!" echoed across the entire hill. The enthusiastic slogan even infected the soldiers at the foot of the mountain.

In the trench area along the railway, obscured by the fog of war caused by enemy smoke grenades, the soldiers of the Territorial Defense Brigade could not clearly see the massive explosion behind the Yamato lines. That did not stop them from seeing the light that seemed to set the very clouds ablaze, nor from hearing the thunderous roar of the blasts. For a time, the morale of these ragtag units soared.

So much so that no one even noticed the continuous artillery fire from the Titan Train "Duke."

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" The roar of the guns from dozens of barrels never ceased, pounding the charging Yamato armored units in waves.

Honestly, thick fog was an effective tactic to block line of sight. Normally, tanks wouldn't have much of a problem as long as they weren't hit directly. The gunners on the Titan Train "Duke" could only fire wildly according to the firing solutions calculated before the battle.

A comical scene unfolded: many of the Yamato's "little bean" tanks—or rather, almost all of their tanks—were built using riveted steel plates. Even if the shells didn't hit the tanks directly, the shockwaves caused by the 76mm "heavy" shells hitting the ground nearby were enough to rattle the rivets right off the armor.

"Wahhh—"

The tanks remained intact, and the armor wasn't pierced, but suddenly the large iron nails on the tank plates turned into bullets without gunpowder, instantly piercing the bodies of the tankers inside. Who could the tankers complain to about that?

Seemingly inexplicably, many little tanks came to a "damage-free" halt. This also happened to their "Giant God Soldiers." The shockwaves were enough to loosen their pitiful 12mm armor plates; under the immense force, the rivets acted like bullets fired from a chamber, ricocheting wildly inside. The pilots of these giant humanoid mechs were somewhat luckier, as their wooden structural bodies largely cushioned the impact of the explosions; as long as it wasn't a direct hit, the damage remained non-lethal.

These Yamato soldiers, their heads filled with nothing but the charge, had no idea what was happening behind them. Thousands of accompanying infantry shouted "Tenno Heika Banzai" as they launched their assault in skirmish lines. They still held hope of reaching the enemy trenches, unaware that the artillery positions behind them had already become a living hell.

The howling winds of the successive explosions turned into turbulence above the charred battlefield, roaring hideously as if a terrifying ghostly face were perched in the sky, looking down upon this hellish scene.

Private Matsumoto huddled beside a cannon overturned by an explosion; he did not understand what had happened. The artillery battalion had just fired two salvos when the Russian shells arrived the moment the whistling sound ceased. Like a heavy hammer smashing an eggshell, a 75mm field gun was blown to pieces right in front of him.

Tinnitus mixed with intermittent whimpering assaulted his eardrums; heat waves peeled the skin from the back of his neck; scorching metal fragments grazed his helmet, and the smell of sulfur mingled with the scent of burning flesh flooded his nostrils.

He saw Major Takeshita calling out.

"Who is it? Come here! Anyone!"

Matsumoto struggled to stand and stumbled over.

"Sir..."

"Who are you? Tell me the truth, what happened to my body? I... I can't feel my legs."

Matsumoto glanced once, instinctively turning away from the Major's gaze, looking around in a daze. The remaining two tractors were twisted into grotesque lumps of iron in the sea of fire, and melted rubber tires dragged charred, stinking furrows across the ground. Half a palm was buried in the scorched earth, the finger wearing a ring still twitching nervously. Hot wind blew through the misty smoke, and the distorted sky reflected in the broken fragments of an observation lens.

After a long while, he realized with a start that the Major's lower half was hanging on an anti-aircraft machine gun mount more than ten meters away, charred intestines trailing from the ruined uniform pants, dripping black-red mucus.

"Ugh!" The young private began to retch.

At this moment, he sensed a piercing gaze from behind and turned his head timidly.

Takeshita seemed to realize something, bubbles of blood spilling from his mouth: "Damn it, we're so far from home, I might not make it to 'Kudanzaka'!"

A few seconds later, he went silent.

Matsumoto's fingernails dug into the still-scorching sand, and he muttered to himself like a madman: "Sleep, sleep, it won't hurt once you're asleep."

Everything on the entire battlefield seemed destined to turn into scattered ash in the next second; the scene was much like dragonflies dispersing at the end of a summer festival.

Home felt like a distant dream. He wondered if he, this lonely ghost, would ever have a day to return to that dream...