20: Chapter 20 Trap Design, Unjust Scheme

The night wind blew in through the high windows of the Ore Vein Map Hall, causing the talismans on the edges of the Spirit Crystal Tactical Screen to tremble slightly.

Chen Wuwang stood before the sand table. A lock of his silver hair was blown loose, sticking to the metal frame of his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye.

He didn't brush it away. His right hand gripped a Titanium Alloy Dagger etched with runes, its tip pressed against the valley entrance on the west side of the sand table.

The sand table was polished from a single piece of obsidian, its surface shimmering with a layer of faint light that reflected the actual terrain of the Eastern Desolate Mining Area.

The long, narrow rift to the west looked like a gash carved out by a sword, with steep cliffs on both sides, wide enough for only two mechas to pass through side-by-side.

At this moment, his dagger traced a deep furrow along the bottom of the rift. Stone chips fell away, making a fine, rustling sound in the silent hall.

"The Zerg will attack from here."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was like an iron nail being driven into a wooden beam—steady, precise, and cold. He didn't look at anyone as he spoke; there was no one else in the hall.

He just stared at the scratch, as if he could already see the scene of a hundred thousand Zerg swarming in.

A stream of data scrolled deep within his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye: wind speed, terrain slope, underground rock density, heat conduction coefficient... All parameters were automatically overlaid, generating a red dashed line that extended forward along the path of his dagger, finally stopping at the location of a dried-up riverbed downstream.

He turned the tip of his blade and tapped it heavily.

"Uncle Tiezhu, plant Psionic Landmines here."

Still in an imperative tone, without discussion or explanation.

He knew saying this was pointless—Chen Tiezhu was currently guarding the furnace in the Artifact Refining Workshop and couldn't hear him at all.

But this wasn't a report; it was a deduction.

He ran the entire counterattack process through his mind, like debugging a core piece of code about to go live. Every node had to be locked in; not a single millisecond could be off.

He withdrew his dagger and turned toward the model of the eastern cliff. It was high ground that overlooked the entire Eastern Plains with a wide field of vision. The only problem was that it was too high and the wind was too fierce; a normal Sword Cultivator's hands would shake just standing there.

But Chen Xiaodao wouldn't.

He tapped the edge of the sand table with the back of his blade, producing a crisp sound.

"Xiao Dao, lead the Sword Cultivator Team to ambush here."

As the words fell, he squinted his left eye, and his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye instantly switched to simulation mode.

In his vision, countless blue light dots flooded in from the western valley, spreading out like a black tide.

Immediately after, seven silver lines lit up from the heights of the East Cliff. Meteor Sword Intent pierced through the sky, precisely cutting into the gaps of the Zerg's Floating Broodnest formations.

A single volley would destroy at least three.

But he shook his head. Restart simulation.

The second time, the Zerg split their forces, with one detachment circling around to launch a sneak attack on the Main Mining Tunnel. He immediately called up the reserve markings, only to find he had fewer than two hundred able-bodied men.

Thirty percent were wounded, fewer than ten mechas were intact, and the recruits hadn't even gotten used to sitting in the cockpits yet.

Pressure weighed on his chest like a piece of red-hot iron.

Mass production in seven days? Produce with what?

Materials were insufficient, manpower was lacking, and there wasn't even a shadow of a production line.

He dared to shout those words in the previous chapter because the System had given him instructions, giving him the confidence to take a gamble.

But now, the bets were placed. What followed wasn't waiting for destiny, but seizing life with his own hands.

He suddenly raised his hand, fingers spread wide, and slammed it hard against the edge of the table.

"Thud!"

A dull sound shook the Formation Flags at the edge of the sand table.

He looked down, staring at the area his palm covered—the exit of the Main Mining Tunnel, the core of the Family's defense, and the opening the Zerg Broodmother most wanted to tear through.

They couldn't just defend anymore.

They couldn't hold it.

Traditional defensive lines were like paper before a hundred thousand Zerg. In a head-on clash, even if everyone fought to the death, they wouldn't last half a day.

They had to play with tempo, use fragmentation, and strike where they least expected.

His gaze darkened, and a thought suddenly popped into his head: Since the mechas hadn't been built yet, he would act as if they were already finished.

Hypothetical equipment, virtual coordination.

He quickly constructed a combat sequence in his mind—Day 1, lure the enemy; Day 3, set the ambush; Day 5, feint; dawn of the seventh day, the total counter-offensive.

And this so-called "total counter-offensive" was built on the premise that "mecha mass production is complete."

As long as they could strike on that day, even with only thirty units, they could create localized dominance.

The timing was locked.

It had to be the seventh day.

A day early, and preparation would be insufficient; a day late, and the Zerg might dig straight through the Spiritual Vein core, triggering the self-destruct sequence to take everyone down with them.

He slowly released his hand, his fingertips lightly tapping the tabletop.

Tap, tap, tap.

It was the same rhythm as last night in the secret room, but faster and steadier, like a countdown starting.

He picked up the dagger again and drew three lines on the sand table:

The first line ran across the bottom of the western valley, marked with the word "Mine"-the Psionic Landmine zone, specifically designed to counter Burrowing Beast swarms;

The second line cut diagonally across the East Cliff pass, marked with the word "Arrow"-the long-range strike zone, where the Sword Cultivator Team would clear out aerial units;

The third line stabbed straight from the Main Mining Tunnel into the heartland, marked with the word "Spear"-the counter-offensive assault line, reserved for the yet-to-be-born mass-produced mechas.

A three-stage trap, progressing layer by layer.

Lure the enemy deep—fragmented annihilation—total territory counter-offensive.

He stared at these three lines and suddenly gave a low chuckle.

The laugh was short, like the slight ring of a blade being unsheathed.

"Let them think this is a slaughter," he murmured. "In reality... it's a trap we've set."

He put away the dagger and slid it back into his waist. The movement was crisp, without any unnecessary pause. Then he took half a step back, both hands propped on the edge of the table, leaning forward, his gaze fixed like a nail in the center of the sand table.

The entire tactic was now a closed loop.

Extremely scarce resources? Compensate with tempo.

Severe lack of manpower? Exchange it for terrain.

Equipment not yet in place? Deceive with time.

He didn't need to possess all the power right now; he only needed the enemy to believe that on the seventh day, he would.

And that was the ultimate killing move.

He straightened up and surveyed the empty hall.

No stirring speeches, no mobilization orders, no blood-pumping oaths. There was only him, standing under the shadows of the lights, like a war mainframe operating alone.

He spoke, his voice not loud but every word clear, as if issuing a final command to the Void Realm:

"In seven days, let the Zerg find no way back."

His tone was calm, without anger or excitement, only a nearly cold certainty, like molten iron being poured into a mold, solidifying into an unchangeable fate.

After he spoke, he didn't move.

He still stood before the sand table, his right hand lightly resting on the edge of the obsidian, his fingertips still retaining the lingering sensation of the tapping from before.

The blue light of his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye was still flashing, continuously scanning the virtual battlefront, the data stream scrolling silently, verifying the newly formed death trap over and over again.

Outside, the night was deep.

The Family was still resting, the wounded were healing, the craftsmen were counting Materials, and children were picking up parts to play with by the ruins.

Everything was as usual.

But in this hall, the fires of the seventh day's war had already begun to burn.

His breathing was steady, his heart rate maintained at sixty-two beats per minute, his body temperature normal, and his nervous System in a state of high alertness.

No fatigue, no anxiety, only an ultimate focus, like a programmer checking a line of code that would determine success or failure for the last time.

He knew that what came next would naturally be done by others.

Chen Tiezhu would lead the craftsmen to modify the mines, even if he didn't know the order had been given yet.

Chen Xiaodao would take the Sword Cultivator Team to train at the East Cliff, even if he hadn't received the transfer order yet.

Elder Lin would cough up blood at the Yin Hour, and the Pulse-Clearing Powder would eventually be brought before him.

Everything would follow the track.

Because he had already paved the way.

He just stood there, unmoving and silent, like a statue guarding the starting point of the battlefield.

His silver hair hung down, his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye shimmered, and the three claw marks on his right face appeared exceptionally deep under the light.

The three lines on the sand table lay there quietly, waiting to be stained red with blood.