When Mercenaries Meet the Planetary Defense Force

The Auspex's buzzing broke the pre-dawn stillness.

Wade checked the situation immediately.

On the pale green scanning interface, thirty kilometers out, four red arrows were converging on the ranch from different directions.

Numbers flickered beside each arrow: 120, 130, 80, 64.

He pressed the communicator.

"Sir, we have a situation."

"Four teams thirty kilometers out, total strength close to four hundred. Equipment includes flight and ground vehicles."

"Fast." Fu Haoran wasn't surprised.

Life-extension tech, near-universal healing tech—these were no longer secrets in wealthy circles.

Even hiding behind the scenes, Fu Haoran knew anyone with enough determination could easily trace things back to him.

"Looks like someone thinks I'm a fat sheep holding a golden egg."

Fu Haoran turned to Wade. "Wait until the enemy closes in before opening fire. I want none of them leaving."

"Yes, sir!"

Wade's heart tightened. Their heavy firepower wasn't superior; close-quarters engagement would likely mean heavy casualties.

But he suppressed the thought and answered firmly, "Yes, sir!"

In the Warhammer Universe, casualties were just numbers. Victory was everything.

At the same time.

Gray Stone crouched beside the command vehicle, staring at a tablet.

The screen was split into four feeds—the real-time positions of the other three teams.

"Night Owl is three klicks northeast. Two Little Bird helicopters have already launched for reconnaissance." Deputy team leader Anvil lowered his voice.

"Lumberjack is on the west side. Their mortar teams are setting up. Ghost's people are scattered in the southeast woods. Snipers are in position."

"What are they waiting for?" Sniper Phantom chewed gum.

"For the other side to make the first move." Gray Stone sneered. "A hundred and twenty million in bounty. Everyone wants it all to themselves."

He pulled up the final infrared photo taken by the drone half an hour ago.

The ranch's outline glowed with faint thermal radiation on the screen.

Several large heat sources sat between the buildings, their heat-dissipation patterns strange.

As for those three thousand-plus people, Gray Stone didn't care.

Just hired illegal immigrant laborers. Even if they all had guns, how could they compare to his special forces with heavy weaponry?

"They sleeping?" a subordinate frowned.

"Sleeping people don't radiate heat like that." Gray Stone shook his head. "They're setting up defenses. Very standard defensive deployment."

"Setting up defenses? Impossible. Are they a regular army or something?!"

"That's what's wrong." Gray Stone shut off the tablet and looked toward the ranch. "Notify everyone. Don't move. Let the others go first."

"What if they succeed?"

"Then we play robber." Gray Stone patted the gun at his waist. "A hundred and twenty million. Worth the risk."

Static suddenly crackled from the communicator.

Then came Night Owl squad leader's urgent voice: "Gray Stone! Those bastards from Lumberjack are moving toward our flank! They're trying to encircle us!"

"Calm down." Gray Stone pressed the transmit button. "Everyone hold position. Whoever fires first becomes everyone's target..."

Boom!

A dull, heavy blast echoed far into the night.

The comm channel exploded instantly.

"Lumberjack, are you fucking insane?!"

"It wasn't us! We didn't fire!"

"Then how did the helicopter go down?!"

"It's the ranch! Muzzle flash from the ranch!"

Gray Stone adjusted his binoculars.

The ranch was pitch black.

But in that darkness, something lit up.

A crimson beam flashed again, and then the second Little Bird helicopter exploded into a fireball midair.

This time, everyone saw it.

The channel went dead silent for half a second.

Then Phantom's voice rang out, trembling with disbelief: "What... what the hell is that?"

Gray Stone didn't answer.

Because he saw something moving in the darkness at the edge of the ranch.

Finally, he made it out.

"A tank!" Gray Stone roared. "They've got a goddamn tank!"

"Open fire! All units open fire!" Gray Stone screamed into the comms. "Concentrate fire on that tank!"

It wasn't any model he recognized—the hull was tall and wide, like a WWII French tank, radiating obsolescence.

Yet as RPGs, grenade launchers, and rocket launchers pounded it, that "ancient" tank stood there like nothing happened, completely unscathed!

Even the exposed tracks weren't damaged!

Worse still, a mass of infantry followed behind the tank!

Gray Stone's squad machine gunner opened fire.

The M249's muzzle spat a tongue of flame into the night, tracer rounds carving bright trails as they tore toward the gray figures.

The bullets hit.

Gray Stone clearly saw at least three rounds strike the chest of the frontmost soldier.

Then they ricocheted.

Not piercing armor and getting stuck—they bounced off.

The sparks from the impacts were clearly visible in the darkness, but the soldier just staggered slightly and kept advancing, his speed unchanged.

"Armor-piercing! Switch to armor-piercing!" Gray Stone yelled.

It was too late.

Those gray soldiers raised their weapons, and dense crimson beams lashed out, like flashlight beams, accompanied by high-pitched hissing—like a nest of vipers all flicking their tongues at once.

The crimson beams swept through, piercing rows of mercenaries in an instant. Their body armor burst like paper, and they didn't even have time to scream!

Not even blood showed at the wounds!

"Fall back! Retreat!" Gray Stone shouted into the comms. "Everyone east! Helicopter extraction!"

No response.

He looked up to where the Black Hawk should have been hovering.

It was empty.

Only a burning wreckage drifted in the distant sky, spinning as it fell—the third Black Hawk, its tail rotor completely melted off.

A bone-deep chill ran through Gray Stone.

He grabbed his binoculars and took one last look at the ranch.

That unknown-model tank slowly rotated its turret, aiming straight at him.

Gray Stone snatched up an anti-tank missile launcher, aimed at the tank, and pulled the trigger. The missile screamed out, only to be deflected by a faint shimmer on the tank's surface, exploding against a tree trunk in the distance.

Gray Stone dropped the launcher and ran.

"Psssh~"

A bright red beam grazed past his heel.

Ten meters behind him, the turret of that Sherman M4 tank was completely melted through.

The main gun barrel bent like a melting candle, dripping down.

The ammunition stored inside the tank ignited, and the secondary blast's shockwave sent Gray Stone flying.

He hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

Through his blurring vision, he saw a gray soldier walk up to him.

The soldier wore a full-face helmet with a dark visor—his face was unreadable.

The weapon in his hands—that long tube—its muzzle still glowed faintly red, like freshly heated iron.

The soldier crouched down and poked Gray Stone's body armor with the barrel.

Then, speaking into his helmet's comms in English with a strange accent, he said:

"Sector A7 cleared. One prisoner, mild concussion, interrogable. Corpses can be used as Corpse Starch raw material."

After that, he muttered under his breath: "These primitives' weapons aren't even as good as the Lower Hive gangs'."

Gray Stone's vision went black.

Not from passing out.

From rage.