The heavy tal gangplank clanged loudly under Ghostface's tactical boots, like a declaration, completely separating him from the crowded, noisy assembly point behind him. A unique scent, a mixture of machine oil, ozone, and the sweat of countless people, wafted towards him. Far from making him uncomfortable, it invigorated him.
"Lord Commander, please follow ." A crewman in a grey uniform, with a solemn expression, was already waiting at the gangway. He bowed slightly and gestured for Ghostface to follow.
Ghostface nodded, the corners of his mouth under his full-face helt irrepressibly turning upwards. He followed the crewman's steps, entering the interior of the behemoth. His eyes glead with childlike curiosity and fervor as he eagerly surveyed his surroundings.
The cold steel do hung high overhead, covered with thick pipes and cables, like the ribs and sinews of a giant beast. At regular intervals along the walls, illuminating runes emitted a dim yellow light, casting dappled shadows down the long, deep corridor. The echo of boots on the deck, the low hum of distant engines, and the faint, tide-like buzz of human voices from various cabins collectively composed a symphony of steel and war.
At this mont, this troop transport was carrying a full one hundred thousand players, just like him.
Don't think this number is large. After Terrabyte completely lifted restrictions and launched a global open beta, the ga's active player count once exceeded the terrifying unit of "hundreds of millions."
However, the overly realistic cruelty of this world soon delivered a resounding slap to everyone's face. The terrible air quality and the terrifying battlefields, where flesh and blood flew and death was a constant companion, quickly deterred tens of millions of normal people after the initial novelty wore off.
But similarly, various people stayed for various reasons. So were for the high 1:10 thought acceleration; so were to personally touch those cold, deadly firearms, to feel the recoil and the primal thrill of killing; and so were to escape their frail, incomplete bodies in reality and gain a strong, powerful physique here…
Of course, there were also players with other deeper motives, but since they don't represent the majority of players, they won't be elaborated on here.
In the eyes of a normal commander, one hundred thousand mortal-level troops might be too few. In an apocalyptic-level war where casualties are often calculated in "tens of millions," this small force would likely be completely wiped out in less than half an hour.
However, in the view of Ghostface, this uniquely-minded psychopath, the math was entirely different. He believed that if these one hundred thousand people only fought small battles, it wouldn't be much, but the bigger the battle, the more formidable he beca.
Because players could revive after dying!
Fighting a low-intensity small battle, on average, each person would die only two or three tis a day. Calculated this way, the "troop consumption" for a day would only be two or three hundred thousand person-tis.
But if he fought an apocalyptic-level major battle, so fierce that he would die once every thirty minutes, then over twenty-four hours, he would have a four-point-eight-million-strong army, wouldn't he? That would be incredibly impressive to say!
As for how Ghostface, who was just a small squad leader before, managed to assemble this force of one hundred thousand people in a short ti… it's quite a legendary tale.
At the beginning of the open beta, the chaotic scene of people packed like sardines in a can made Ghostface's already not-quite-normal brain heat up. He casually found a high ground and, facing the dense crowd below, began an exciting impromptu speech with the earth-shattering opening, "Do you want total war?!"
Then, the one hundred thousand equally thrill-seeking players below also got caught up in the excitent and, in a daze, just went along with him.
So, the situation now was this: Ghostface, as the Commander of the nascent Perditia Third Suicide Legion, was being led by a crewman through layers of steel passages, heading to his command center—the bridge.
The guiding crewman stopped before a heavy armored bulkhead, emblazoned with the emblem of a two-headed aquila. As he input his authorization, the bulkhead slid open with a low hydraulic hiss, and a cool breeze, entirely different from the corridor's air, mixed with static electricity and filtered air, wafted out.
Ghostface stepped in, and the scene before him imdiately opened up.
This was a magnificent, cave-like command center. Beneath the towering Gothic do, countless data screens and indicator lights, shimring with an eerie green glow, ford a star sea of information.
Tech-priests in deep crimson robes softly chanted prayers, placating the servo-skulls, which were integrated with control consoles, their flesh intertwined with brass. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the hum of machinery, creating a solemn and oppressive atmosphere.
However, in this solemn atmosphere, an abrupt movent broke the silence.
"Swish—"
Accompanied by a uniform rustle of armor, all personnel on the bridge who were still able to move freely, whether the helmsn at the helm, the navigators deciphering star charts, or even the captain, whose face was weathered like granite, standing in the center of the bridge, all turned sharply at the sa mont, facing Ghostface. With right fists clenched, arms crossed over their chests, and thumbs interlocked, they perford a perfectly standard aquila salute.
Ghostface raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes. He hadn't expected these NPCs, who seed even "more professional" than him, to show him such respect. But he reacted quickly, imdiately imitating them, raising his arms to return a sowhat casual aquila salute.
"Sir," the captain, who was at the forefront, lowered his arms. His voice, modified by vocal implants, was deep and hoarse, like tal grinding. "I am the captain of this vessel…"
"Hello, just call Ghostface," Ghostface automatically ignored the Na that sounded long and troubleso. He scanned the bridge, his gaze finally returning to the captain, and asked directly, "So, am I the highest-ranking person here?"
His logic for this deduction was simple: in the Empire's rigid hierarchical system, soone higher ranking would most likely not give him such a formal aquila salute first.
"Uh… yes, Sir." The captain's reply carried a trace of imperceptible hesitation, clearly caught off guard by Ghostface's unconventional style, but this also proved Ghostface's deduction was correct.
"That's odd then," Ghostface stroked his chin, saying with interest, "What about the Astra Militarum? Aren't they managing us? Didn't they give a mission briefing or designate a destination or sothing?"
"Theoretically speaking, that is indeed the Astra Militarum' business," the captain responded in a businesslike tone. "But if we truly followed theory, we would likely wait on this orbit until the hull rusted and we died of old age at our posts, and no Astra Militarum official would ever arrive with a stamped parchnt to convey orders."
"OK OK, I get it, bureaucracy kills people." Ghostface let out a knowing chuckle. He strode towards the massive Cogitator array in the center of the bridge, where a vast, slowly rotating three-dinsional holographic star map was projected. Countless stars twinkled in the darkness, weaving a boundless cosmic web.
"So, I get to pick where we go, huh… Let see."
His gaze swiftly swept across the star map, automatically filtering out the peaceful-looking green areas and the stable blue light bands of established routes. Unsurprisingly, his eyes were imdiately fixed on a constantly flashing, dazzling red area in one corner of the star map.
That area was marked with several crossed skull warning signs, and the surrounding data streams were a chaotic, deep crimson, indicating extre danger. It appeared to be the largest, reddest, and most dangerous point on the entire star map.
"Bang!"
Ghostface unhesitatingly reached out and slapped the blood-red holographic projection directly, causing the light and shadow to tremble violently.
"This is it," he grinned. "Jersey Sector!"
User Comments
0 comments from readers