The faint light of dawn pierced the sulfur-slling thick fog, illuminating the wasteland known as Kaldburg.
At the border between the Usar Union and the Victorian Empire, the Permafrost Defense Line stretched across the land like an ugly scar.
On one side were the Usar's ant-swarm dense concrete bunkers and crudely made steam pipe networks; on the other were the Victorian steel fortresses gleaming with the polish of intricate gears.
And sandwiched in between was Pavel's current ho—or rather, his grave.
The 404th Independent ch Punishnt Camp.
Every person here was a scumbag, a degenerate, or a hopelessly unlucky scapegoat.
Equipnt was scavenged, supplies were looted, and even this thug-iv type ch was a patchwork monstrosity pieced together after passing through who knows how many hands.
"What a terrible situation."
Pavel controlled the ch, trudging heavily through the muddy trenches.
The thug-iv type ch, which had just earned such 'glorious achievents,' was now spewing black smoke like an asthmatic patient.
Although he had inherited the na and number of this body—Private Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov, ID 404-631—he had absolutely no idea what the original owner had done.
Did he steal the Commissar's vodka? ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) Or sleep with the General's youngest son?
His mory was a blank slate.
But he knew one thing clearly: here, no one expected you to survive the next battle.
Crunch—Splash—
The ch's heavy hydraulic foot crushed a frozen corpse in the trench, splashing black plasma mixed with ice shards onto the armor plate.
As they approached the camp, sparse cheers erupted around them.
It was the welco ceremony of a group of desperados.
"Oh! Pavel is back!"
"Gods, I can sll the roasted at on those swine even from three kiloters away!"
"Well done, Pavel! You cunning bastard, hahahaha!"
Several greasy, one-ard, or one-legged Punishnt Camp veterans heavily slapped the leg armor of Pavel's ch, producing dull thuds.
In their eyes, 'cunning,' 'despicable,' and 'cruel' were the highest forms of praise.
It ant you could keep everyone alive, even if your thods were as dirty as a sewer rat.
Pavel did not stop his steps.
He simply turned on the loudspeaker, his voice filtered and carrying a distorted tallic texture that obscured his original tone.
"High praise, gentlen," he said. "I rely helped those Victorian masters turn up the heating a little. After all, it is the first day of the Frost Moon; one must mind the warmth."
A burst of rough, wild laughter erupted around them.
Grigori followed behind him, head held high like a victorious rooster, as if he were the one who started the fire.
Bidding farewell to the raving madn, Pavel piloted the ch straight toward a row of dilapidated hangars in the corner of the camp.
The so-called hangars were actually just sheds built from corrugated steel sheets, drafty on all four sides and leaking from the roof.
Here, there were no logistics or maintenance technicians.
Want to live? Fix it yourself.
Can't fix it? Then you can look forward to becoming at paste in an iron coffin on the next battlefield.
Pavel backed the ch into his designated dim compartnt.
This compartnt had been specially reinforced by Pavel, even featuring so rudintary soundproofing.
His nerves had been highly strung the entire way.
It wasn't because he feared enemy fire, but because he feared the ch itself.
Once off the battlefield and the adrenaline subsided, the bone-deep fatigue washed over him like a tide.
Clang!
He maneuvered the ch to pull the heavy iron gate of the hangar shut, then cautiously inserted two reinforced bolts from the inside.
He even propped two discarded gearboxes against the door.
Only after confirming there were no prying eyes around did Pavel let out a long sigh of relief.
The hangar was dark, illuminated only by the faint fluorescence of the ch's instrunt panel, which lit up the dust motes floating in the air.
"System self-check complete. Boiler pressure decreasing. Spinal nerve connection... preparing to disconnect."
It was ti for the mont he dreaded most, yet had to face.
In this deford world, controlling a steam ch wasn't done via levers and steering wheels; that was too slow, incapable of adapting to the ever-changing battlefield.
In the pursuit of ultimate reaction speed, mad scientists had developed a direct spinal interface operating system.
Dozens of tal probes pierced the skin of the pilot's back, stabbing directly into the spinal nerves, fusing the human brain with the ch's steam core.
Man is ch, ch is man.
Pavel maneuvered the ch to the fixing fra in the center of the room.
With a grating sound of tal friction, the ch slowly settled into a kneeling position on one knee.
The roar of the boiler gradually diminished, leaving only the subtle crackling sound of the heat fins.
"Disconnect."
Zzz—Zzz—!
A noise like an electric current passing through sounded.
Imdiately following, excruciating pain exploded like lightning.
The sensation was as if soone were physically ripping your spine out of your body, every single nerve screaming.
The hydraulic probes located at the back of the ch's cockpit began to slowly retract.
They pulled out from the gaps in Pavel's vertebrae, bringing with them viscous bio-gel and traces of blood.
Pavel gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to make a sound.
Sweat instantly soaked the bandages on his body.
His vision switched back from the panoramic monitor to his naked eyes, his hearing returned from the loudspeaker to his eardrums, and the omnipotent feeling of controlling steel instantly vanished, replaced by the heaviness and weakness of flesh.
Finally, the last probe detached.
Hiss—
The ch's chest armor slowly sprang outward with the sound of depressurized air.
Scalding steam surged out of the cockpit, carrying a strong stench of blood and disinfectant.
A frail figure tumbled out and fell heavily onto the cold floor.
Thud—
It was a girl who looked absolutely no older than sixteen.
Perhaps even younger.
She had short silver hair that appeared dry and brittle due to long-term malnutrition.
Her small face, sared with engine oil and gri, was pale almost to transparency; her features were delicate but contorted by pain.
Her body was covered in scars of various sizes—so were old wounds, already scabbed into dark red marks; others were new, still oozing blood.
Her back was a horrific sight: the area along both sides of her spine was densely covered with puncture marks, the traces left by the nerve probes.
Every puncture site was surrounded by bruising and swelling, and so places had even festered.
She lay on the floor, gasping for air, sweat mixed with blood spreading out on the floor.
This was the body of Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov.
And the main reason why 'he' never dared to disconnect from the ch in front of outsiders.
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