119: Chapter 119 The Underground City

They flew over the dense formations of the green-skinned army, the bomb bay doors beneath their bellies opening simultaneously.

Dozens of heavy aerial bombs plummeted toward the ground, letting out shrill, death-like shrieks!

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Violent explosions blossomed within the sea of green!

However, after the explosions, it wasn't ordinary gunpowder smoke that emerged.

Instead, it was a massive splash of dazzling white fire, flowing like liquid!

Large patches of white sparks clung to the bodies of the greenskins.

Instantly, eerie blue-green ghost fires ignited on countless greenskins!

Afu held up his binoculars, and seeing the burning flames clearly, he gasped in shock:

"Holy crap! It's white phosphorus!"

The horror of white phosphorus can only be truly understood by those who have witnessed it.

In the world of Warhammer, this stuff is practically a low-spec version of a Volkite Weapon!

The ignition point of white phosphorus is extremely low; once it attaches to an object, it burns frantically until the oxygen is exhausted or the target is completely burned through.

Just a tiny bit can burn straight through flesh and even incinerate the bones until they're clean!

Although greenskins lack pain receptors and don't even care if their flesh is on fire, continuing to charge forward while swinging their choppas...

This instead fanned the flames of the white phosphorus.

The intense airflow made the fire burn even more fiercely!

An extremely eerie and terrifying scene unfolded.

Many charging Orc Boyz had half their bodies burned to charcoal as they ran, subsequently turning into ash and scattering in the wind.

In this real-life version, they truly experienced what it meant to die without even knowing how.

The greenskin xenos player watched the battlefield turning into a sea of white phosphorus in the distance, his scalp tingling with numbness.

"Damn... Today I finally understand why anti-human weapons like White Phosphorus Bombs are completely banned on Earth. It's one thing for greenskins not to feel pain, but if this were ordinary humans, how miserable would their deaths be!"

Under the wanton, indiscriminate carpet bombing of the aircraft fleet...

The dense sea of greenskins in front of the defensive line was forcibly cleared into a massive, charred vacuum zone!

The front line fell into a sudden, dead silence.

There were no world-shaking war cries, no roar of artillery.

Only the long, echoing roar of the engines from those dozens of planes as they pulled up to return for resupply after dropping their payloads resonated through the clouds.

Coastal City, Lower Hive.

Unlike the magnificent Governors Mansion on the surface, sunlight never reached this place.

Thick, rusted pipes crisscrossed overhead, dripping with turbid sewage.

The air was perpetually thick with the sour smell of machine oil, sweat, and low-grade synthetic starch.

This sewer world, forgotten by the upper-class nobles, had its own rules of survival.

Inside a dimly lit but exceptionally clean underground bar...

There was no noisy music, nor the clamor of drunks.

Several burly men in black suits, their waists bulging with hidden weapons, stood expressionlessly at the door.

In the booth at the very back of the bar...

A middle-aged man with meticulously combed hair, wearing a decent old-era suit, sat quietly on a worn leather sofa.

In his hand was a clean white handkerchief, which he was using to gently wipe an old-fashioned revolver.

He was Cleon.

The biggest gang leader in the Coastal City Lower Hive.

In this lower hive where human life was as cheap as grass, Cleon was an anomaly.

He started out through smuggling and protection rackets, but he had his own bottom line.

He never touched addictive substances like Spirit Water or spirit leaves, and he absolutely forbade his subordinates from forcing women into prostitution.

If the lower-class civilians paid their protection fees, he would truly stand up for them with real blades and guns, resisting the exploitation of those Defense Force thugs.

In the eyes of the commoners, he wasn't a gang leader; he was a true Elder.

"Clack, clack, clack."

The heavy, metallic clicking of military boots broke the dead silence of the bar.

A man wearing a pure black Imperial military greatcoat and a peaked cap walked alone into this lion's den.

A Defense Force Political Commissar.

Cleon's subordinates immediately drew their guns, pointing them in unison at this officer who represented the ruling upper class.

The Political Commissar didn't even spare a glance at the muzzles.

He strode to the table in front of Cleon, pulled out a chair, and sat down directly.

His cold, hard face, looking as if it were carved from stone, was stained with undried greenskin blood and the soot of gunpowder smoke.

Cleon looked up and waved his hand.

The subordinates silently holstered their guns and retreated into the shadows.

"Lord Political Commissar."

Cleon placed the revolver on the table, his voice low and raspy.

"You come to my territory today smelling of gunpowder, yet without the Governor's arrest warrant. That is rare."

"The Governor is busy arranging his banquet."

The Political Commissar's voice was as rough as sandpaper, with no wasted words.

"The frontline Commander was assassinated by Kommando Boyz, the defense line is on the brink of collapse, and the soldiers under my command have suffered heavy losses. I need men."

Cleon's movements paused.

He picked up a half-filled glass of low-grade synthetic liquor from the table and gave it a gentle swirl.

"You need men."

Cleon looked at the vortex in his glass, his tone carrying a hint of restrained mockery.

"When the Defense Force came to the lower levels to squeeze out grain taxes, they didn't exactly treat us like people. Now that the greenskins are attacking and your high-and-mighty noble lords can't hold out, you remember us rats in the sewers?"

"Although the brothers under me live lives on the edge of a blade, they were raised by parents too. Why should I let them go be cannon fodder to fill the trenches for the Governor?"

The Political Commissar stared intently into Cleon's eyes.

"I do not represent the Governor; I only represent this defense line."

There wasn't a trace of the arrogance common among Imperial officials in the Political Commissar's gaze, only a purity of determination that was chillingly cold.

"The Governor has a private airship to escape, but you don't, and neither do the civilians under you. Once the line is broken and tens of millions of greenskins pour into the Hive City, do you think these pieces of scrap metal in your hands can stop an Orc's Chainaxe?"

Cleon fell silent.

He knew very well that what the Political Commissar said was an ironclad fact.

The Lower Hive was a sealed iron can.

Once the greenskins got in, this place would be a slaughterhouse.

The Political Commissar leaned forward, his hands pressed on the table:

"Provide men, take up arms, and go fill the trenches. This is to save your own lives."

Cleon raised his eyes and met the gaze of this iron-blooded Political Commissar.

"I understand the principle of mutual dependence. My thirty thousand brothers can all be pulled up to fight this messy war with you."

Cleon folded the white handkerchief neatly, placed it on the table, and pressed it down over the revolver.

His eyes became as sharp as a hawk's.

"But I am a businessman. For this deal, I must demand a guarantee for the people of the lower levels."

"Speak," the Political Commissar said, his expression unchanged.

"I want you to owe me a favor."

Cleon said each word deliberately.

"If we win this time, I want you, on some future day when the Governors Mansion's guns are pointed at the civilians of the Lower Hive again, to stand on our side—you, and the gun in your hand."

The air in the bar seemed to freeze instantly.

This was a treasonous condition.

Asking a Political Commissar loyal to the Empire to potentially betray superior officials in the future to protect a group of gangsters and civilians.

But the Political Commissar did not hesitate for a second.

For a pure soldier, as long as the position could be held, he would even execute the Governor if necessary.

"Deal."

The Political Commissar stood up and readjusted his peaked cap.

"I'll give you one hour to mobilize. I'll be waiting for you at the third defense sector."

Having said that, he turned and strode away.

Leaving behind a resolute and determined black silhouette.

Cleon looked at the handkerchief on the table and let out a long breath of turbid air.

He knew that a favor promised by a man like the Political Commissar was the heaviest and most difficult to repay in this world.

"Blow the whistle, tell the brothers to grab their gear." Cleon stood up and threw on his trench coat.

...

North of Coastal City, the wreckage of the frontline underground command post.

The Political Commissar rushed back to the front line in an armored vehicle.

The bloodstains in the command post had been simply cleaned up, and several surviving low-ranking officers were sweating profusely as they re-established communication lines.

"Reporting, sir!"

A signalman saw the Political Commissar walk in and immediately stood up to shout.

"Ten minutes ago, there was a sudden military intervention by an unknown force in front of the defense line! An unidentified aircraft fleet conducted high-altitude bombing on the greenskin positions! They dropped a large number of white phosphorus incendiary bombs!"

The Political Commissar strode to the damaged tactical sand table, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Unknown aircraft? Why didn't the anti-air positions report this?"

"Radar didn't capture their takeoff signals at all. It was as if they appeared out of thin air!" The signalman swallowed hard. "Sir, should we aim our anti-air fire at them?"

"Who are they bombing?" the Political Commissar asked coldly.

"All greenskins! The effect is excellent; the greenskin offensive has been directly cut off!"

"Then ignore them."

The Political Commissar issued the order without hesitation.

"As long as they are killing xenos, even if they crawled out of the Warp, they are our allies for now. Tell the anti-air positions to conserve ammunition and keep their eyes glued to the ground!"

"Yes, sir!"

Just then, another officer in charge of monitoring rushed over, scrambling and crawling, his face pale.

"Sir! This is bad!"

The officer pointed at the red dots flashing frantically on the radar screen.

"To the west! In the desert region west of Coastal City, a large force of unidentified mechanized units has suddenly appeared! They are massive in number and are approaching the flank of our defense line at full speed!"

"Furthermore, the underground military railway in the direction of Shahe Town, which has been abandoned for over a decade, has suddenly resumed its traffic signal! A heavy train is heading toward Coastal City West Station!"

The Political Commissar's pupils contracted sharply.

The frontline Commander had just been assassinated, the Defense Force was leaderless, and morale had plummeted to rock bottom.

Defending against tens of millions of greenskins from the front was already overextending their lives.

At a time like this, if the flank was suddenly raided by a massive unknown army, the entire defense line would collapse in an instant!

"Have you identified which faction the army belongs to?" The Political Commissar clenched his fist.

"No identification signals! But looking at their origin from the western desert and Shahe Town... they are likely those wasteland warlords and Nomads taking advantage of the chaos!" the officer's voice trembled.

The Political Commissar's gaze became cold and resolute.

In his eyes, those refugee warlords coming out of the western desert had shoddy equipment and low combat capability.

But the Defense Force was currently incredibly weak; even a group of barbarians with rusted iron pipes could be the straw that broke the camel's back.

They absolutely could not be allowed to strike the flank!

"Pass on my orders!"

The Political Commissar drew the Bolt Pistol from his waist and slammed a fist onto the western edge of the sand table.

"Immediately redeploy two battalions from the second defense line! Have them turn their guns and set up defenses on the western heights!"

"Regardless of what they are here for, if they dare to approach within five kilometers of the defense line, do not issue a warning—fire directly! Hold the flank at all costs!"

"Yes, sir!"