This heretic cannot be burned, he must be hung up and whipped!

Some noise was better than no sound. It at least proved that the rear was still trying to retake this position. If there had been no movement, they would have panicked. Neos fell asleep with the sporadic sound of artillery fire, and Valentine helped him keep watch to preserve his energy for possible battles the next day.

"Buzz——" "Ugh——"

Regular vibrations were heard from the ground, and the rotten wooden beams of the anti-artillery trench dropped fragments in the tremors. Neos curled up at the bottom of the 15-meter-deep trench and slowly woke up with sour water in his throat - he had not eaten for almost a day.

Seeing this, Sergeant Valentine began to pry the cans with his bayonet, and the tip of the knife made a harsh sound as it scraped against the iron sheet.

"Save your energy," Neos held down his shaking hands. "The heretic patrol might still be up there."

Neos leaned against the wall of the artillery trench, sipped his rum, and rested briefly, his rifle clutched tightly to his chest. Sergeant Valentine sat beside him, his eyes scanning the surroundings with vigilance. They both knew their only hope now was to await a counterattack from the rear. The darkness of night offered them a moment of respite, but it also concealed greater danger.

Before he finished speaking, the low-pitched humming sound became clearer. It wasn't the whistling of artillery shells, but rather the roar of some kind of machinery, with the shriek of metal joints rubbing against each other. The hairs on the back of Neos's neck stood up. The sound reminded him of the World War II documentaries he had seen before crossing over.

"Could it be that..."

His heartbeat suddenly accelerated, and an ominous premonition flashed through his mind. He quickly groped in the anti-artillery trench, found a trench periscope, quietly extended the tube, and tried to see the situation outside.

The sight before him made him gasp.

"Oh my God!"

As soon as the telescope emerged from the shelter, it was scorched by the heat wave. The damp soil on the ground was scorched black. Crushed and charred flesh flowed slowly along the path like asphalt scorched by the high temperature. The fallen cross became a twisted charcoal. At the end of the no-man's land where corpses piled up, a seven-meter-long black shadow rolled over the shattered statue.

A behemoth, over seven meters long and nearly three and a half meters wide, appeared on the battlefield. It looked like a tank made by heretics, and its first appearance before Neos deeply shocked him.

It was a surreal steel behemoth. Its double-layered armor was covered in cast stone (machined from basalt) that looked like solidified molten lava, while its inner layer of black metal was streaked with crimson veins like veins. Its two pairs of tracks, entwined with iron chains, plowed flaming furrows into the ground with each rotation. Molten iron dripped from the cracks in the tracks, instantly carbonizing any weeds it touched.

“Squeak——” “Put on your protective helmet quickly!”

The demon head sculpture embedded on the top of the turret suddenly opened its huge mouth and let out a scream exactly the same as the Nati-headed monster that almost killed Neos before. Neos quickly asked Valentine to put on protective equipment.

The heretic soldiers surrounding the tank cheered, as if celebrating the arrival of their war behemoth. Sergeant Valentine leaned over to take a look, his mouth wide open in surprise: "Oh my God! What is this thing!"

Neos' heart sank. Humans didn't seem to know what this thing was called yet, but he knew it all too well.

　Tank

Neos murmured this word, a word not of this world. He saw heretic soldiers swarming on both sides of the steel monster. As the tracks rolled over the barbed wire, mines exploded one after another, but the flying fragments only left smoke-filled indentations on the cast stone surface.

"Oh my God, this isn't even mortal..." Before he could finish his words, the demonic head atop the turret glowed bloodshot. The barrel of the gun suddenly retracted, and a shell struck a distant machine gun bunker. The concrete fortifications melted like wax figures, and the defenders' screams were silenced by the intense heat, leaving only the slowly solidifying lava on the ground.

Neos noticed the heretic commander whipping the infantry in the rear—those fools had let the tanks charge forward alone, completely unaware of infantry-tank coordination. But the sight before him still choked him: centuries of trench warfare, solidified, were about to be completely crushed by this infernal engine.

"We must tell the rear this bad news! The heretics have heavy equipment that can break through the barbed wire!"

"It's not all bad news," Neos said to the anxious Sergeant Valentine beside him. "They won't use this thing. Look, the muzzle is thinner than my wrist. I don't know why the barrel is so thick. Maybe the chamber pressure is high? It seems they're using this thing to clear the way for the infantry. The high-pressure, small-caliber ammunition—most likely armor-piercing—should be used to attack fortifications.

Even if we don't have tanks now, we can still modify cannons to use them against tanks, and we can also use mines with higher explosives or organize suicide squads to ambush it with bombs to stop it... probably.

But we must have our own armored forces as soon as possible. Although they will not use them now, it does not mean that they will not use them in the future. They can change the battlefield - no, the situation of this war. "

"But, Neos, this...tank you mentioned? It doesn't sound that powerful. It won't change the situation of the war, right?" Sergeant Valentine frowned, obviously skeptical of Neos' explanation.

Indeed, this trench warfare had been going on for nearly a hundred years, and both sides had already formed a rigid mindset under this long-term imprisonment. Sergeant Valentine's suspicion was not surprising.

"Don't worry. Wait until our support troops arrive tomorrow morning and you'll understand how terrifying this thing is." Neos sighed, his heart filled with anxiety. He knew that if Hell's tank technology continued to develop, humanity's defenses would face an unprecedented threat.

--------

Hours later, the dawn light finally shone through the pile of corpses into the anti-gun trench. Neos and Sergeant Valentine were exhausted, but their vigilance remained unwavering. Suddenly, a clatter of footsteps and muffled prayers could be heard in the distance. Neos's heart tightened, and he quickly popped his head out to investigate.

Their reinforcements finally arrived.

However, the clothing of these reinforcements was nothing like the soldiers Neos knew them to be. They looked more like militiamen, poorly equipped, wearing ragged cloth and iron-pointed hats. They held a variety of weapons, from old-fashioned muskets to Molotov cocktails, and some even carried trench clubs and crosses. Their faces were filled with fanaticism and determination, as if they had put life and death aside.

"Are these militiamen?" Neos asked in a low voice, with a hint of doubt in his eyes.

"Militia? They're called Trench Pilgrims," ​​Valentine replied, his eyes fixed on the charging soldiers. "You could say they haven't received sufficient military training, but their faith is strong enough to allow them to face the devil head-on, donning protective iron-pointed helmets."

Neos's gaze swept across the front of the group. The leading prisoners were hunched over like shrimps, blood dripping from the breathing holes in their spherical helmets. They staggered forward, carrying what looked like an oversized bomb on their backs. Their iron helmets left only a slit for them to breathe, as if to prevent them from seeing the outside world and making any sound.

The heretic soldiers, seemingly caught off guard, began firing in twos and threes. Bullets whizzed by, striking several of the trench pilgrims, but they seemed unfazed and continued charging forward. The church prisoners were even more desperate, their steps heavy, as if they were fighting death with every step. Deep sobs emanated from beneath their iron helmets, as if they were praying for death.

"boom!"

A line of fire swept across the heretic soldiers' positions. Facing the enemy's machine guns, all the trench pilgrims crawled to the ground together and quickly crawled towards the trenches, but the church prisoners wearing helmets could not see this. They became living targets on the battlefield.

Soon, only the last "lucky one" was left among the charging prisoners, and he entered the position of the heretic soldiers.

Neos saw clearly that the only reason he was able to enter the heretic camp alive was probably because he didn't have a bomb on his back.

"Let me die! Let me die! Heretic! Die heretic!" a prisoner screamed, his voice a desperate cry through his iron helmet. His arms were bound by shackles, and he waved helplessly, trying to strike any enemy who approached him. The heretic soldiers surrounded him, kicking him around like a cat playing with a mouse. The prisoner, covered in wounds, attacked anything that came near him like a madman, as if he felt no pain.

"Ugh!!!"

"For redemption!"

A heretic soldier cruelly crushed the prisoner's slender calf. The prisoner let out a shrill scream, but continued to shout out maxims frantically. The heretic soldiers jokingly surrounded him and used their bayonets to pry open his prisoner's clothes. His exposed chest was covered with festering sores, and each wound was sewn with a miniature cross with wire.

When a heretic crushed his knees with his boot heels, the prisoner could no longer utter a complete sentence. A low whimpering sound came from under his iron helmet, as if he was praying for death. Finally, the heretic soldiers got tired of playing with him and were about to surround him to cut off his head when the prisoner tore his clothes.

There was a huge sutured wound on his stomach, and a fuse protruded from the wound that was bleeding and festering. He pulled the fuse open -

"boom!"

The bomb in the prisoner's stomach finally exploded. A massive shockwave toppled the surrounding heretic soldiers, sending flames and debris flying everywhere. Neos and Sergeant Valentine were thrown back a few steps, their ears ringing. When they looked up again, the prisoner was gone, leaving only a massive crater and scattered debris.

"Oh my God..." Neos muttered, his eyes filled with shock.

"They've finally learned their lesson. The success rate of placing the martyrdom device on the back is too low. It's better to hide it inside the body." Valentine sighed.

Neos remained silent, his heart filled with mixed emotions. These church prisoners, constantly tortured, could only seek relief in this desperate way on the battlefield. Their lives were worthless in the eyes of both sides, and even death was a luxury.

The trench pilgrims continued to charge forward, their faith making them fearless. Despite their poor equipment, despite facing the demons of hell and the tanks of heresy, they still moved forward resolutely.

"squeak----"

The heretic tanks finally appeared on the battlefield, and the harsh sound of their tracks crushing the barbed wire attracted the attention of all reinforcements.

"Charge!" "Boom!"

Amidst the splattering of blood and flesh, the reinforcements rushed into the trenches. The sound of metal tracks crushing skulls echoed from the ground. The roar of the demonic head drew closer, and Neos saw the turret turning—the 66mm barrel seemed unable to find a target on the ground and began firing indiscriminately at any fortifications.

"Take off the martyrdom device!" "Cover me!"

The pilgrims untied bombs, known as martyrdom devices, from the bodies of fallen prisoners and rushed through the trenches toward the enemy tanks. This was destined to be a battle without return. Although the trench pilgrims' faith was firm, it remained uncertain whether they could persevere to the end in the face of such an enemy.

"We must survive, Valentine," Neos whispered, his eyes fixed firmly on the distance. "We must tell the rear that this war is no longer what it used to be."

Sergeant Valentine nodded and tightened his grip on the rifle. They all knew that the battle ahead would be even more brutal.

PS: 100 votes for the next update 4k meow!

Rising Flames: 1914: Chapter 6: I Am the Iron Man of Europe! (4.**)

Gun smoke condensed into rust-colored clouds above the trenches. Neos huddled against the damp mud walls of the anti-artillery ditch, acid boiling in his throat. Through the shattered glass of his periscope, he saw three broken bodies dangling from an inverted cross—the pilgrims who had attempted to assault the tank with Molotov cocktails ten minutes earlier. Their iron helmets had been melted into twisted metal by the infernal flames, their charred fingers still clutching the empty bottles.

The heretic soldiers used local materials and erected several inverted crosses on the ground, which was both a provocation to God and a deterrent to the enemy.

"Neos, you're right..." Sergeant Valentine lit a cigarette, the spark flickering in the dim light, "They didn't even touch the tank's tracks."

Neos turned the periscope. The demonic head sculpture of the Hellclaw tank was slowly turning toward the position. Its crimson eyes suddenly burst into flames, and the blasphemous runes made of cast iron on the side of the turret began to glow. He suddenly retreated back into the trench.

"boom!"

As the explosion shook violently, foul-smelling mud gushed out from the cracks in the pit wall.

"It fired three times in one minute." Neos wiped the mud from his face. Five new cracks appeared in the periscope. "There are signs of welding at the seams of the outer armor. I wonder how they designed the tank armor. Why not use integrated casting? Rolling would also be fine?"

"Wait, Neos, look at that moon!"

Valentine patted his shoulder, and he suddenly fell silent. Twenty meters away, in the communication trench, twelve trench pilgrims, covered in high explosives, were crawling forward. The tinned cross on the chest of the leader, a priest, gleamed coldly in the smoke. His bandaged left leg peeked from beneath his linen robe, leaving a dark red trail in the mud with every inch he crawled.

"They're courting death." Valentine bit down on his cigarette butt. "That thing's turret is made of demonic metal forged in the furnaces of Tartarus. Even holy oil incendiary bombs can't penetrate it... What can they use to fight it?"

The poorly equipped trench pilgrims had only their unwavering faith to rely on. But faith couldn't be used as a cannonball! Looking at the pilgrims advancing in the trenches, Neos sighed, "Faith can't help them penetrate the thick armor of the heretic tanks."

...

"Perhaps a martyrdom bomb will work." The Hanseatic priest said to the communicator behind him.

"Father Hanseatic, I suggest conducting the test according to the plan in the combat manual." The communicator behind him, Sister Anastasia, took out a combat manual.

The battle manual clearly outlined how to deal with heavy units like the heretics. The Hanseatic priest took the tattered manual, and on the pages blackened by artillery fire it read: "Facing heretic units that cannot be destroyed by guns and swords, they can be destroyed with the aid of martyrdom devices. If this is not possible, call for support immediately from the rear, and preserve as many trench pilgrims as possible to provide the necessary 'sacrifice' and 'protection' for our heavy units."

"But the manual says to preserve as many people as possible for the sacrifice." Sister Anastasia pointed to the end of the pilgrims' group, where two teenagers were strapping hand grenades to their chests with wire. Around their necks were the holy medals they had been given when they first joined the army. "Look at those kids! They don't even have gas masks."

"Then let's keep them here. If we succeed in destroying that thing, they can survive. If we fail, they can also be used as "sacrifices."

"boom!!"

A shell from a heretic tank pierced the fortifications to the side, exploding through a wall and transforming the interior into a molten inferno. The radio antenna swayed from the shockwaves of the shell, and the combat manual accidentally fell, only to be retrieved by Sister Anastasia.

The Hanseatic priest spread the torn combat manual on the ammunition box and ran his finger over the page that read "Instructions for Use of the Martyrdom Device." Sister Anastasia was debugging the radio, her gas mask covering her face but unable to hide the unhealed wound on her pale neck.

The Hanseatic priest looked at the wound covered with sutures and was silent for a long time.

It was he who donated blood to her at that time.

"Sister," the priest's voice was hoarse, "I need you to stay back."

Anastasia's fingers paused on the keypad. She turned, her gray-blue eyes peering through the lenses of her gas mask, like the surface of a frozen lake in the dim light.

"Is this an order?"

"It's a request." Hansa pulled a tin box from the inside pocket of his robe. "If I don't make it back, please give this to Mother Mary at St. Nicholas's Church." He paused. "Inside is a fragment of the wafer from your first Mass."

The nun took the casket, her fingertips trembling slightly. She pressed the casket to her heart and whispered, "May the peace of the Lord be with you."

Hansa looked at the martyrdom device in the corner of the command post. The nearly one-meter-tall bomb was covered in runes anointed with holy oil, and the fuse tube glowed coldly in the dawn light.

"A new weapon of the heretics," he muttered. "We must obtain its data. Even at the cost of our lives."

"The manual says to conserve our forces." Anastasia's voice suddenly became sharp. "You are disobeying the Lord's orders!"

"That's the church's command, not the Lord's."

"And sometimes," Hansa pressed the silver cross to his lips, "faith requires us to go beyond orders."

He pulled out a somewhat tattered war zone map and said, "Look here, and here, the heretic forces are breaking through the defense line. If we can't find their weakness..."

The nun suddenly grabbed his wrist. Her palm was cold, yet held an undeniable strength. "Let me go. The Strategic Prophecy Committee is focusing their attention here, and my equipment can support their efforts."

"No." Hansa gently broke free from her hand. "Your value does not lie in this."

He pointed to the radio station and said: "Carrying the will of the martyrs and continuing to walk through this thorny situation requires more courage than martyrdom."

Outside, the roar of exploding shells echoed, and the antenna shook violently. Anastasia's hood cast a shadow over her face, as if she were suppressing something. Ultimately, she simply tucked the box back into the radio case and put her gas mask back on, covering the exposed skin on her neck.

"May the Lord be with you, Father Hansa." Her voice was muffled through the filter. "I'll make sure the data gets back to command."

Hansa nodded and turned to walk towards the waiting pilgrims. His steps were a little unsteady—an old injury to his left leg flared up in the chilly weather. But he didn't turn back. He simply placed his hand on the cross on his chest, feeling the coolness of the metal.

As he led his troops out of the trench, he heard the tapping of electric keys behind him. The rhythm matched his heartbeat, like a silent farewell.

...

Sister Anastasia, protected by two other trench pilgrims carrying rifles, hid a few meters away from the anti-artillery trench where Neos was. Seeing this, Neos quickly climbed out of the trench with Valentine: "Come in! It's dangerous outside. We have a periscope here for observation!"

The nun's face was covered by a gas mask, her gold-rimmed hood and the golden cross prayer tablet dangling from her chest silently proclaiming her "value." The nun nodded and, with swift movements, she and two soldiers leaped into the anti-artillery trench. As soon as they landed, the two soldiers unpacked the radio box the nun had carried. One went outside to set up the antenna while the other assembled the radio. Neos, curiously observing the retro radio, didn't notice that the nun's face was constantly turned toward him.

"Periscope." The nun's voice was muffled through the gas mask canister, and the lines of her open gloves were stained with gunpowder residue. When Neos handed her the instrument, her fingertips lingered on the back of his hand for half a second, cold as tombstone.

After reporting their identities, Sergeant Valentine began to tell the communications sister about the heretical tank. The sister's rhythmic tapping of the keys gradually matched the sound of the explosion. Neos stared into her gray-blue pupils behind the irises of her gas mask, reflecting the hellish scene in the periscope: the Hanseatic priests had closed in on the right side of the tank, and the teenagers were removing the safety pins from the detonators on their waists.

Suddenly, something unexpected happened. A hexagonal armor plate suddenly popped off the side of the tank, revealing a machine gun. The moment red flames swept past, the three pilgrims' bodies exploded like overripe tomatoes!

The nun's tapping of the keys paused for a moment.

"boom!"

A martyrdom bomb exploded before it got close to the tank, and the flying debris fell on several people.

Valentine pulled Neos behind the sandbags. A piece of gravel spun and struck the prayer board on the nun's chest. The nun seemed oblivious, having tuned her key to an encrypted frequency. Neos heard the broken prayer emanating from her throat: "...May the Lord have mercy on His servants..."