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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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Unlike the chaotic village, an eerie silence hung over the industrial area.
The only sound was the frantic chatter of a discarded walkie-talkie, as if trying to rouse its fallen owner.
“…Factory Unit 9 reporting, Factory Unit 9 reporting! We’re under attack! Highly trained individuals! Repeat, under attack…!”
“What the hell? I thought the village was the problem? What’s going on at the factory? The guests haven’t even arrived yet!”
“The biker gangs are circling the wasteland! Judging by the dust clouds in the distance, they’re waiting for reinforcements!”
Camilla pressed her full lips together, her brow furrowed.
The situation was escalating rapidly.
They had anticipated the auction, but the fact that the “guests” were bringing reinforcements was a clear show of force.
“Command, Command! We need orders! We’re getting hit from both sides!”
Camilla lowered the volume on the walkie-talkie and issued rapid instructions.
Her team drew their pistols: 9mm Rock automatics equipped with silencers and laser sights.
Stealth was no longer an option.
Speed was paramount.
The factory, unlike the forest, offered fewer opportunities for flanking maneuvers.
They had to rely on their firearms.
Forward.
Two quick shots to the legs of a gang member who was just raising his weapon.
The second operative waited for the man to crumple to the ground before delivering a single, fatal shot to the head.
Alerted by the gunfire, another gang member on patrol opened fire, spraying bullets indiscriminately.
Camilla calmly aimed, her shots finding their mark: the man’s shoulder and hand.
Her teammate followed up with two precise shots: one to the neck, one to the head.
Two-man teams.
One to disable, one to eliminate.
They avoided wasting bullets on areas protected by body armor.
The Liberation Front operatives moved swiftly, clearing each floor of the factory with ruthless efficiency.
They finally reached the rooftop, where three towering chimneys stood side by side.
Their rendezvous point.
The spiral staircase was long, but not insurmountable.
While two operatives, armed with a shotgun and a submachine gun, stood guard, Camilla and the rifleman quickly ascended the chimney.
As expected, the briefcase was gone.
“That V bastard tricked us. Or maybe he’s dead. I’ll stomp on his grave and grind his bones to dust,” Camilla muttered, slumping to the ground in frustration.
It was a colorful curse, but the rifleman couldn’t help but imagine the “reward” he would receive if he were the one subjected to Camilla’s wrath.
It wasn’t entirely a fantasy.
Before the war, Camilla had been an artistic swimming champion, a part-time fashion model, and now, the face of the Elza Liberation Front’s propaganda.
Yet, few people recognized her.
Even when she stood in line at food distribution centers in major cities, she blended in seamlessly.
That was her charm.
Depending on the camera angle, her outfit, her wig, her glasses, she could transform into anyone.
She was a chameleon, disappearing into her roles, highlighting the beauty of what she wore.
The type of model designers adored.
Her description evoked images of a femme fatale, a seductive spy.
Even the Elza Liberation Headquarters had considered utilizing her in that capacity.
But the role of “Fulcrum,” the high-level infiltrator tasked with seducing and extracting information from the Elza government and its elite, had been assigned to someone else.
And now, the woman who hid such allure behind a black balaclava was sulking on a rooftop.
The rifleman pulled out his phone and took pictures of the empty rendezvous point.
He was following Hans’s orders: “Go to the designated location, and if it’s not there, bring back proof.”
He tried to offer words of comfort.
“Maybe it’s for the best, Camilla. I never liked the idea of those briefcase bombs. Even if it’s to make an example of Römer’s puppets, innocent people would get hurt.”
Camilla pulled out her own phone and took pictures as well.
She also took pictures with the phones she had collected from the guards.
It would be ideal if all four of them returned alive, but if not, at least one of them had to deliver the message.
“It was Hans’s order. And ultimately, the decision of the Elza Liberation Front,” Camilla replied, her voice dejected.
“You should have been the leader, Camilla. Hans is impulsive and reckless…”
“Don’t say that. Hans carries a heavy burden too. I understand what you’re saying, but let’s not… talk about this. It hurts.”
Camilla was a paradox: a fierce warrior with a gentle heart, a fox on the outside, a teddy bear on the inside.
She loved Elza with all her being, and like anyone deeply in love, she was willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, for her beloved.
She was a woman of unwavering loyalty, willing to overlook 99 flaws for the sake of one redeeming quality.
“I’m sorry, Camilla.”
“…It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my composure. You go first.”
She was telling him to retreat while she provided cover.
The rifleman quickly descended the stairs.
Camilla scanned the surroundings with her binoculars.
There was no sign of the Lambert gang.
But she noticed the barrels of their weapons poking out from every guard post.
They had switched to a defensive posture.
It was probably because of the biker gangs circling the wasteland.
Their numbers had definitely increased.
Judging by the dust clouds in the distance, the reserve units, hidden in the surrounding area, were joining the main force, sensing a shift in the tide.
That’s a fire truck.
A fire truck armored with metal plates.
An unforgettable sight.
It wasn’t used to extinguish fires, but to silence the voices of the protesters who had dared to demand an independent Elza, its water cannons spewing tear gas and high-pressure jets of water powerful enough to tear through flimsy wooden walls.
The same people who had oppressed their own citizens in peacetime were now gangsters, looting and pillaging as they pleased.
She wanted to grab her rifle and mow them down.
Thump.
Thump.
The metal stairs vibrated. It was her cue to retreat.
Camilla pulled herself together and took one last look at the wasteland.
…What is that?
She noticed something strange on the distant horizon.
A dust cloud.
But it wasn’t the tall, billowing cloud created by a moving vehicle.
It was low and long, stretching across the horizon like a wave rolling in from a calm sea.
It was unnatural.
Was it a strong wind?
No. It felt deliberate, independent of the wind’s direction.
The more she looked at it, the more unsettling it became.
But she couldn’t get a clear view.
Bang!
Bang!
The stairs vibrated again, urging her to hurry.
Camilla tore her gaze away from the horizon and rushed down the stairs.
She and the rifleman returned the phones to their respective owners.
“How much ammo do we have left?”
“We used some pistol rounds, but we still have plenty of rifle ammo. About three magazines.”
The other two operatives reported similar amounts.
Enough for a small-scale engagement.
Camilla gathered them close.
“Alright, comrades. As you may have guessed, the briefcase retrieval was a failure. That V bastard played us. Under normal circumstances, we would switch to a rescue operation. But the situation…”
She tapped the walkie-talkie, her meaning clear.
The situation was changing rapidly.
The biker gangs gathering in such force suggested a full-scale conflict was imminent.
At least one gang would be wiped out before the day was over.
Was it worth risking their lives to infiltrate the village and rescue hostages whose location was unknown?
“I’m against it. The risk is too high,” the shotgunner objected.
“I’m in favor. We can’t just abandon the people of Elza who are suffering. The gang war might even work to our advantage.”
The submachine gunner shook her head.
The rifleman hesitated.
“Camilla, just give us an order. It’s easier that way.”
The other two operatives nodded in agreement.
“Like Hans?”
They all chuckled at Camilla’s joke.
She smiled and shook her head.
“No. I won’t give you an order. We’re comrades, and all comrades are equal. I just wanted to hear your thoughts.”
“Then don’t order us,” the submachine gunner continued. Camilla looked at her questioningly.
The woman smiled faintly.
“Decide for us, Camilla.
We might not agree with your decision, but we’re happy that you listened to us.”
“Me too, Camilla.”
“I agree, Camilla.”
Camilla lowered her head.
“…You guys just love to torture me, don’t you? You know I hate making these kinds of decisions…”
Static crackled from the walkie-talkie.
The three operatives looked at Camilla with adoration.
Their leader, the fearless warrior, struggling with a difficult choice.
It was frustrating, but it also made her more relatable, more human.
“I guess… I think…”
Camilla closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
“…Attention! Repeat, situation critical!”
A frantic voice blared from the walkie-talkie.
Camilla, as if trying to avoid making a decision, cautiously raised the volume.
“Mass slave breakout! Repeat, mass slave breakout!”
“You idiots! What did you do to make the slaves escape?”
“Switching frequencies! Switching to patrol frequency! Our radios have been compromised! Repeat, do not follow any orders…”
Static.
The transmission cut off.
The frequency had changed.
“…Camilla? What the hell is going on?”
“We’re going to rescue those people!” Camilla shouted.
The Liberation Front operatives charged down the stairs.
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Near the Lambert Village apple warehouse…
I had set up a simple trap: a shotgun propped up against a wall, its trigger connected to a sandbag via a shoelace.
I had then retreated to a nearby hiding spot.
When someone entered the building, the sandbag would pull the trigger, firing the shotgun.
Bang!
The trap worked perfectly.
The gang members, drawn by the sound, rushed into the empty building, their weapons raised.
I watched from my hiding spot, noting their positions based on the muzzle flashes.
I raised my .22 caliber rifle, aimed carefully, and fired.
“What the…?”
The guard in the nearby watchtower cursed as the bullet whizzed past his head.
Missed?
No. I had hit my target.
“Argh!”
I hadn’t aimed for the guard in the nearby watchtower.
My target was the man standing in the watchtower further down the street.
The bullet had pierced his forehead.
“I told you not to shoot, you idiots!”
I shouted, then ducked back into cover.
The guards in the two watchtowers opened fire on each other, their radios and megaphones spewing a torrent of obscenities.
But there was no reasoning with them now.
They were blinded by rage and paranoia.
The gunfire intensified.
One watchtower fell silent, but a lone guard in the other continued to fire wildly.
I put him out of his misery with a single shot.
Footsteps approached.
I leaned around the corner, my hand raised in surrender.
“Over here! Over here! He’s in the watchtower! Be careful!”
I offered a friendly warning.
My fellow Lambert gang members, seeing me stumbling towards them, covered in someone else’s blood, rushed to my aid.
I rewarded their kindness with a hail of bullets to the back of their heads and necks.
I was one.
They were many?
No problem.
I could always “borrow” some reinforcements.
If their loyalty and trust had been stronger, this unfortunate incident of gang members turning on each other wouldn’t have happened.
I had heard that the French counter-terrorism unit had a tradition of shooting new recruits in the chest with a .357 Magnum while they wore bulletproof vests.
A demonstration of their unwavering trust in their comrades and their equipment.
These fools lacked such faith.
That’s why they had met such a tragic end.
A single accidental discharge had triggered a bloodbath.
Pathetic.
“Identify your target before you shoot, you morons! You’re falling for his tricks!”
That’s what you get for broadcasting your strategy over an open channel.
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Thank for the chapter