Countless lives had been lost on the Wasteland battlefield. Fourth-Generation Tactical Mecha worked like meat grinders, reaping lives with ruthless efficiency, while ordinary soldiers served as cannon fodder, operating all manner of weapons from a distance just to bring down a single Fourth-Generation Tactical Mecha.
And now, a new turning point had come to the Wasteland battlefield.
"Every time I see these soldiers trading their lives for Tactical Mecha, I feel like their fate could just as easily be ours. What good does it do them to cram their bodies full of cybernetics? They still end up dying at someone else's hands. Just like us. So what if we have psionic energy? We still have to obediently serve as the Federation's dogs."
Two Psionics chatted as they advanced.
They were not really any different from those soldiers. They were simply treated a little better and paid a little more, but the risk of death they faced was far greater than that of ordinary soldiers. They had to carry out all sorts of life-threatening missions. They were all the Federation's dogs; the only difference was how quickly they died.
"Hey, hey, hey, don't put it like that. Some of these soldiers on the battlefield are death-row inmates, and some have undergone cybernetic modifications, but their lives definitely aren't as important as ours. If they die, they die. What does that have to do with us? In the end, aren't we Psionics the ones who decide which side has the advantage?"
"Low-grade cannon fodder is still cannon fodder, and the higher-grade version might just be us Psionics. If you ask me, neither soldiers nor Psionics decide who has the advantage. It's the Fourth-Generation Tactical Mecha. Those things can slaughter their way across a battlefield. As long as they aren't completely wrecked, they