Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 460 A Battle Lasting Ten Minutes

After the frost-leaf bullets were released, the brief silence lasted only a few breaths.

Then the earth began to shake, not from the front, but from all around at the same time.

Heavy, dense noises emanated from deep within the woods, behind the ruins, at the opened cellar entrance, and even beneath the soil.

The Thorn Knights appeared from all directions, and the iron-clad encirclement was complete.

The warhorse accelerated, each stomp sending mud and water flying, quickly leveling the ground over a distance of several hundred meters.

Some knights were even able to use vines to climb the ruins and broken walls, running along the almost vertical walls, turning in mid-air, and pointing their lances at the Red Tide battle formation.

These monstrous knights are all around the level of high-ranking elite knights. Any one of them would be enough to tear apart the enemy lines on a regular battlefield.

Now they appear in large numbers, spreading rapidly across the field of vision, their dark red figures moving simultaneously, like an irrational tide coming from all directions.

However, the Red Tide formation showed no disturbance whatsoever, and did not make any unnecessary movements.

Second Army Corps Commander Gray stood beside an armored vehicle, his gaze sweeping calmly across the entire battlefield beyond the front line.

After confirming that there were no new directions of attack, he raised his hand.

"Beep—!"

A short, clear whistle pierced the noise of the battlefield.

The Knights line began to adjust, with a few subtle lateral misalignments.

The soles of his boots sank back into the mud, his heels pressing firmly, the Magic Marrow Rifle was tightened, and the pressure valve emitted a low hum.

The Thorn Knights continued to close in, judging the prey to be weak.

Two hundred meters.

Gray's hand fell.

The first salvo erupted, tearing open a whole patch of air at once.

"Bang! Tear—!"

A Thorn Knight who was leaping was hit.

More than a dozen armor-piercing bullets hit him almost simultaneously, penetrating the gaps in his armor from different angles.

Upon the first hit, the roots on the symbiotic armor immediately contracted inward, barely managing to cover the point of impact.

But the second and third shots followed closely behind.

The roots were torn off, the armor was ripped off, and the impacts converged within the body.

The body was disintegrated in mid-air.

Limbs were scattered, blood and flesh were thrown outwards, and broken armor tumbled and flew out, losing all form before even hitting the ground.

Immediately afterwards, the steam-powered rotary machine gun on the tank began to operate.

A torrent of metal swept across the frontier, skimming the ground.

"Splash—splash—tap tap tap!"

The team of knights that charged the fiercest head-on crashed into the area of ​​fire.

Their speed was abruptly cut off the moment they entered the firing range.

People and horses entangled in vines were smashed together, and blood mist spread across the charging line.

The anticipated close-quarters combat did not occur, nor did the sound of blades clashing with armor.

All of this happened too fast.

Those elite individuals who approached the extraordinary knights were stopped by steady and dense firepower before they could enter effective range, and were crushed in the billowing dust two hundred meters away.

High above the distant ruins, Hans opened his mouth wide, but no sound came out.

After a long while, he managed to squeeze out a faint sound: "It shouldn't be like this..."

He had expected a fierce fight, swords clashing, and people rolling and roaring in the mud.

But everything before him was completely different from the battlefield in his memory, and he couldn't understand it at all.

Amidst the interplay of smoke and fire, a few Thorn Knights still managed to break through the barrage of bullets.

They moved close to the shadows of the ruins, no longer in orderly charge, but with an almost instinctive stubbornness.

The collapsed walls became temporary shelters, and the broken beams and pillars served as stepping stones. Roots spread among the rubble, tearing several paths for them.

Dozens of dark red figures approached from different directions.

They no longer care about the front line, nor do they try to regroup.

The only remaining target was those massive steel structures that had stopped at the forefront.

A knight was the first to rush to the front side of the tank.

A deep, distorted roar was forced out of his throat as the spear was raised high and then stabbed fiercely into the structural component on the outside of the tracks.

Sparks exploded the moment the metal collided.

The spear tip only scratched a faint white mark on the armor, making the knight's arm go numb, but it failed to break through any layer of structure.

At the same time, another rider jumped up and tried to climb onto the vehicle.

Thorns grew wildly from the gaps in the armor, their barbs embedding themselves in the steel plates, attempting to entangle and lock the armor shut.

The roots climbed upwards along the weld seam, as if searching for a joint to gnaw on.

The secondary guns on the side immediately opened fire.

Short bursts of fire shot out close to the vehicle, making the gunshots at close range sound unusually muffled.

The knight who was trying to climb was struck in mid-air and crashed heavily to the ground.

In the driver's seat, the accelerator was pressed.

The engine roared suddenly louder, the tracks started to turn, and without any hesitation, it pressed forward.

"Snap—Pfft—"

The sound of bones breaking was crushed by the heavy steel.

The flesh and blood lost their shape under the weight, and the roots that were not yet fully hardened were crushed into the mud.

The train, carrying tens of tons of material, continued to move forward without stopping.

The steel rolled over the mass of red and white flesh and dark red roots, and the tracks snapped back into place without the slightest deviation.

On the other side, a coaxial machine gun swept past the remaining figures.

The bullets swept across the ground, severing roots and tearing open armor.

The body, having lost its support, tumbled and fell, only to be immediately swallowed up by the advancing steel.

The tanks proceeded along the predetermined route.

It drove across a muddy field that had been repeatedly flattened, and the figures that had once struggled were no longer discernible.

The track surface was clean and cold, with no debris caught on it.

Behind it, the Crimson Tide Knights began to advance.

They weren't fast, but they always kept a steady pace.

The scattered remaining thorn knights were still twitching; some were being dragged up by roots as they tried to get up, while others were trying to support their bodies with their broken weapons.

The Crimson Tide Knight did not stop; he pressed down with his longsword, piercing directly into the side of the neck and the gap between the joints.

Soon, the twitching on the ground stopped one after another.

After the Thorn Knights disappeared one by one, the battlefield did not immediately quiet down.

At the entrance to the town, the defensive line formed by the interweaving of roots, bones, and soil is still active.

A living wall of thorns stretched across the end of the road, almost as tall as the city wall.

Dark red and blackish-brown rhizomes overlapped layer upon layer, undulating across the ground.

Those roots were not still; they were slowly wriggling, like a mouth that had not yet closed.

The tank tracks stopped at a safe distance and did not continue to advance.

The thorn wall sensed the approaching weight, and its root system suddenly accelerated its movements.

Dense barbs protrude from the surface, spraying outwards with a low, grinding sound.

The venom traced a short arc in the air before landing on the muddy ground, immediately corroding a patch of blackened residue.

Gray gave a brief command: "Salamander, move forward."

The flamethrower tank slowly rolled out of the formation. The vehicle was not tall, but rather low and heavy, with heat-resistant armor added to the front.

The fuel tanks on both sides swayed slightly as they moved, the alchemical fuel inside being continuously pressurized, emitting a faint but dangerous hum.

The nozzle rises, and flames shoot out.

The orange-red flames drew a low, steady trail in the air, like a straightened fire snake, skimming the ground as it lunged toward the thorn wall.

That wasn't an ordinary flame; it was made of fire-scaled viper oil. The fuel adhered to the root surface the moment it came into contact with the root system and spread rapidly.

The flames were not extinguished by being thrown off, but instead spread along the roots and penetrated inwards along the grain.

The thorn wall contracted violently.

Immediately afterwards, a shrill whistle burst forth from inside the wall.

The sharp, persistent sound echoed at the town's entrance, instinctively putting everyone on edge.

As the flames continued to advance, the roots rapidly carbonized under the high temperature, the outer layer cracked, and the moist tissue inside was instantly evaporated.

The fire spread downwards along the main root, penetrating deep beneath the earth, igniting the buried flesh and nutrients along with it.

The thorn wall began to collapse, and the once towering structure lost its support within minutes, with large sections of the surface peeling off and turning into rolling ashes.

The venomous stingers that were ejected were burned into bent black charcoal in the flames and broke off before they even hit the ground.

The shrieking sound gradually became intermittent, and then disappeared completely.

Only the low hum of the burning flames remained.

The flamethrower tanks stopped firing and retreated to their positions.

The heatwave slowly dissipated, leaving only a still-burning wreckage in front of the town entrance, with ashes drifting in the wind.

A steam-powered forklift then moved forward.

The massive bucket lowered, its edges pressing into the ground, the engine roared louder, and the steel structure propelled forward.

The burning wreckage was casually pushed aside.

The roots and bones that had once devoured countless corpses and formed the core of the defense line were treated as ordinary obstacles, repeatedly shoveled up, moved, and piled up on both sides of the road.

In no time, a road leading to the town center was cleared.

The steel continued its advance, and after the flames died down, all that remained was a road that had been reopened.

The battle that the town had been preparing for for half a month was over in just over ten minutes.

The flames at the town's entrance were still smoldering, and the charred roots of the thorns kept collapsing, making a soft crackling sound.

At the same time, the logistics corps began to move in.

Several boxy field kitchens with long chimneys drove along the newly cleared road into the ruins of the square.

After the vehicle comes to a stop, the side panels are folded down, and the metal structure unfolds outward, revealing the neatly arranged steamer and pressure cooker inside.

"Hiss—" White steam suddenly shot out.

The rich, authentic aroma of food exploded in the air, like an unreasonable gust of wind, instantly dispelling the smell of blood and that lingering, cloyingly sweet odor.

Meanwhile, a medical and health camp was set up on the other side.

Temporary tents were quickly erected and a cordon was set up.

The soldiers set up a makeshift spray disinfection gate at the edge of the square.

The townspeople who had fallen asleep on the battlefield were carried over.

The nozzles were turned on, and warm water mixed with the medicine fell from above, washing away the dirt, bloodstains, and residual golden soup from their bodies.

Then came the injection, bandaging, and warming, all carried out according to the Red Tide Department of Health's procedures, without any unnecessary rituals.

Meanwhile, rescue efforts are underway in the muddy areas north of the town.

To avoid injuring the children with shovels, the soldiers threw all their tools aside and knelt directly into the cold mud.

His hands, clad in tactical gloves, frantically dug into the dirt.

"There's still gas here!"

"Medic! Quick!"

"Life-saving potion!"

The frost-leaf bullets did indeed put them into a deep sleep, preventing them from detonating.

But the Vatican buried these lightly dressed children in the frozen ground for too long in order to set up a defensive line.

The deputy corps commander, Vance, personally pulled the little girl named Amy out of the mud.

Her lips were purple, her limbs were cold, and her body was stiff as if she were not alive. Only a faint but rapid heartbeat proved that she was still alive.

The medics immediately took over, wrapped her in a thermal blanket, and carried her away.

Vance didn't stop; he turned around and continued digging.

When he touched the boy next to him, his movements slowed down.

The boy remained in the position of holding the explosives, his body completely stiff, stuck to the frozen ground as if cast into the earth.

Vance turned around and dug up the next one; he no longer needed to confirm.

The statistics continue, and the children are being pulled out of the pit one by one.

One survives, three die; one survives, two die...

Of the nearly one thousand pit urinals, less than half were still able to breathe.

Old Hans climbed out of the mill's chimney and had barely landed when he was pinned against the wall by a group of Red Tide Knights who were clearing out the remaining enemies.

"Don't move! Hands up!" The gun was pressed against his forehead.

Knight Ron roughly pried open his eyelids, letting the sunlight shine directly into his pupils.

People who have drunk the golden soup have dilated gray-gold pupils and do not react to strong light.

The instant the light shone down on Hans, he let out a short scream, instinctively closed his eyes, tears welled up uncontrollably, and his body trembled violently from fear and cold.

Ron pinched the raw flesh on his arm hard again.

"It hurts! It hurts!" Hans screamed, curling up into a ball. "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

Ron was taken aback.

He put down his gun, took off his helmet, revealing a young face filled with surprise.

“Damn it…” he whispered, “Captain! There’s a living person here. I mean… a real person.”

The nearby knights all gathered around.

They looked at Hans as if it were the first time in the depths of the occupied territory that they had seen someone who hadn't been completely emptied out.

“Old man,” Ron asked curiously, “how did you manage to hold on?”

Hans was still trembling, but he straightened his back, an instinct he had retained from his time as a novice knight.

He pulled a small handful of raw wheat grains from his pocket and spread out his palm, which was covered in black ash.

Ron didn't ask any more questions. He reached into his pack and took out his rations bag, tearing open the oil paper.

A soft white bread was revealed.

"Here you go." He shoved the bread into Hans's hand.

Hans held the bread; it was made from pure flour without any additives.

He took a bite, and the long-lost aroma of wheat exploded in his mouth.

"Waaaaah..."

Holding the bread, he burst into tears in front of a group of young knights, completely losing his composure.

He cried as he desperately stuffed bread into his mouth, choking until his eyes rolled back, but he wouldn't stop, as if he was afraid the bread would disappear in the next second.

On the other side of the square, white smoke billowed from the chimney of a kitchen cart.

Rows of people, wrapped in thick military blankets and holding stainless steel lunchboxes, were mechanically drinking steaming hot vegetable and meat soup as they woke up.

Hans sat on the stone steps of the ruins.

He wiped his face, glanced at the half-eaten bread in his hand, and then looked up at the flag rising in the center of the square.

The sun emblem slowly unfolded in the smoke, while the shattered papal emblem beneath their feet was trampled into the mud.

(End of this chapter)