Chapter 654 — The Body of a False God
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 4
The plains reeked of scorched earth left by raging fire. A dry, hot wind from the eastern reaches swept up dust and sand, lashing against the track skirts of the tanks. Twelve war machines rolled in a guarded marching column, bearing into the slowly sinking sun as they ground across the charred expanse of the Holy Spirit Plains.
Company Commander Senior sat inside the command vehicle, studying the distant terrain through the periscope.
This was a reconnaissance unit—a reconnaissance unit of formidable firepower and excellent survivability, fielding nine Warhammer main battle tanks and three Iron Ambassador war machines, along with several dozen experienced, loyal, and courageous soldiers. Under normal circumstances, a force like this could rout a noble army ten or even several dozen times its size, and breach a fortress held by supernaturals of middling rank or below. For a "reconnaissance unit," it was arguably overpowered—yet on this scorched stretch of warzone, Senior still had to exercise the fullest caution.
Because the plains were crawling with wandering Crystal Giants, and he and his company had already entered territory that had not been "purified."
The area around Fort Soren was the region hardest hit by the Crystal Giants' rampage, and the wounds the land and its towns had suffered were correspondingly more brutal. Along the way, Senior saw countless collapsed and abandoned walls and desolate farmsteads. The ornate houses the wealthy had built were torn down into ruins, and the once-precious fertile fields were trampled into a wasteland of scars—while still in possession of their reason, the Crystal Giants had at least retained a shred of order, but ever since they fell into madness, they destroyed everything along their path, and wherever they had gathered, almost nothing survived intact.
The vibration of the tank's engine ran through his body from below, and this heavy, solid machine of steel gave Senior a sufficient sense of security—only a few months ago, he had been a novice machinist who had barely been introduced to magitech devices, sent to the northern battlefield after a short crash course. It was the pressure of the battlefield and real combat experience that had truly made him proficient, and had even made him a company commander—for the entire armored corps, newly formed and hurriedly trained, commanders like him who had grown rapidly and been promoted rapidly on the battlefield were hardly few.
Senior pulled his eye away from the periscope, yielded the position to the observer, and made his way to the vehicle's communications console: "Stay alert. We're getting close."
For mid- and low-level command nodes and ordinary tanks, the onboard communications console was a simplified magic-net terminal—the projection crystal had been removed to cut costs, and it could only transmit sound signals within a limited range. It could be regarded as the most basic messaging spell, yet even such simplified equipment played an invaluable role on the battlefield.
Responses came back from the various tanks. The twelve-vehicle reconnaissance force slowed its advance slightly, and the three Iron Ambassadors adjusted their positions forward to ensure the emergency shield boosters could promptly cover the entire column. Senior, meanwhile, pushed open the armor plate slanting above him, poked half his head out, and observed the plains directly with his own eyes.