The battle on the eastern front was far more brutal than Amalfi had expected.
Every defensive line was being fought over again and again!
Gaining ground only to lose it again was the norm in this brutal battle. Almost every moment, this same story played out everywhere—nearly identical, yet never quite the same.
Whenever the Marauder Group's warriors thought they had captured a position, the rebels' artillery, heavy boltguns, and psychic blasts would rain down from the flanks, from behind, and even from the orbital rail supports overhead!
Meanwhile, assault teams lying in wait in tunnels along the flanks and abandoned pipes would suddenly burst out like nimble daggers, stabbing straight into the middle of their ranks and cutting their forces in two!
They would capture a position, only to find themselves plunged into another battle of attrition less than fifty meters away. On every stretch of abandoned track, in every derelict cargo hold, around every corner, and in every shadow, rebel soldiers would burst out at them.
And the rebels' strongholds were scattered everywhere, like a shower of blossoms. Most of them held only a single combat squad.
Engaging them meant wasting time and slowing their advance.
But if they left them alone—those combat squads would ambush them from behind, inflicting heavy losses on the Marauder Group!
But what terrified the Marauder Group even more was this:
Every sniper's nest, every position, every combat squad they encountered—without exception, not a single person chose to surrender, and not one of them backed down.
Even when they ran out of weapons and ammunition, they wouldn't give up a single step of their positions. They would charge in with crude monomolecular knives, just to take a bite out of them!
These people were—complete lunatics!
The farther the Marauder Group's frontline warriors fought,