pappabearbooks Chapter 51 Two Keys
Chapter 51 Two Keys
Chapter 51 Two Keys (Seventh Update)
17:50 PM, rooftop of Berg City Hall.
Arthur stood on the edge of the rooftop, littered with spent shell casings and shards of glass, his Zeiss binoculars fixed on the cemetery on the edge of the city.
The atmosphere there suddenly changed.
If the previous battle was a meticulous game of chess, with both sides probing, pulling, and searching for weaknesses, then now, as those gray figures outside the city retreat, an oppressive, heavy sense of darkness is rapidly solidifying at the edge of the battlefield.
On the RTS system interface, the red square that originally represented the National Defense Force has completely detached from contact.
Instead, there were countless dark purple specks of light spreading like a virus.
Arthur's pupils contracted sharply.
In Arthur's system judgment logic, red represents armies that operate based on tactical logic, such as the National Defense Force; green represents friendly forces; and purple represents some kind of abnormal unit that "cannot be logically analyzed by the system".
Those were fanatics whose brains had been completely burned out by a virus called "faith".
He was no stranger to this eerie color that caused physical discomfort.
The last time I saw this dark purple color, like bruises that wouldn't dissipate, was when I encountered the SS 3rd Skeleton Division, which was marked by "skulls".
The "Leparadis Rescue," which rescued Major Ryder, was a brilliant victory in terms of casualties, but in Arthur's memory, it was a logical flaw that was difficult to erase.
What made him feel physically uncomfortable was never the opponent's brilliant tactics, but rather the irrational madness that transcended even death.
However, Arthur also noticed that this madness presented a bizarre "class divide".
The officers above were shockingly lucid, much like Fritz Konopka, the SS officer who had been executed earlier. Strip away the intimidating black skin, and you'd find nothing but a cowardly coward with no loyalty whatsoever to the Führer of Berlin.
But the soldiers below were different.
They were too young, most of them only in their early twenties.
That Austrian corporal used only a few constantly depreciating Reichsmarks and a few pieces of black bread mixed with sawdust to completely buy out the minds of these young people, turning them from living people into the cheapest and most durable fuel in the huge crematorium of war.
It's not just a change in color.
In Arthur's data view, there was one statistic in the attribute panel of these new units that sent chills down his spine.
[Unit Name: LSSAH—Leibstandarte (SS-Leibstandarte)]
[Unit Type: Motorized Infantry]
Organizational rating: 85% (slightly lower than the National Defense Forces)
[Tactical Proficiency: C+ (Lack of experience in combined arms operations)]
[Trait: Fanatical Believer]
Morale Status: LOCKED (∞/Fight to the death)
"Morale locked —"
Arthur muttered to himself in a low voice.
In previous RTS games, this attribute was usually associated with the Undead or the BOSS's guard in special story missions, such as skeleton soldiers.
This means that the fear brought by conventional suppression methods such as machine gun fire, the intimidation caused by artillery fire, and even the psychological impact of seeing comrades die tragically around them—cannot trigger their "rout mechanism".
For ordinary soldiers, when the casualty rate exceeds 30%, their psychological defenses will collapse and the troops will lose control; this is a basic human instinct.
But for these brainwashed lunatics, as long as the commander's whistle is still ringing, as long as the order to "advance" is not withdrawn, they will be like biological machines without pain, until they bleed to death.
This is the truly highest level of "high-risk unit".
It is also the thing that every ordinary soldier squatting in the mud least wants to encounter in the depths of his nightmare.
It wasn't because their tactics were particularly clever, nor because their weapons were particularly sophisticated—after all, the bullets were all the same caliber, and the bayonets were all made of Cold Steel.
The most basic human instinct for survival has been completely stripped from them; they are not afraid of death, and even, driven by a certain fanaticism, yearn to die in battle. Of course, the most terrifying thing is that they don't need prisoners of war.
When death ceases to be a deterrent and instead becomes a ticket to revelry; when an army no longer aims to conquer but takes pride in destruction and being destroyed—
The person standing before you is no longer a soldier. He is a veritable humanoid monster, dressed in human skin and crawling out of hell.
"Sir, what's that?"
Captain Higgins approached, sensing something was amiss as well. There was no roar of tanks in the distance, nor the overwhelming barrage of artillery fire.
Only silence.
At first, there was only deathly silence.
Suddenly, a unified singing voice, accompanied by a deep, organ-like melody, drifted from the direction of the German positions.
That wasn't an ordinary military song. It was "The SS Advances into Enemy Territory" (SSmarschiertin).
Feindesland.
In the twilight, the song sounded less like a battle horn and more like an ancient and sinister religious chant, exuding a chilling sense of ritual.
"What are they doing? That's—singing?" Higgins' eyes widened as if he were witnessing the most absurd sight he had ever seen. "Are they crazy? This is a battlefield! They're not even bending over!"
Through the telescope, Arthur saw the scene clearly.
Hundreds of SS soldiers formed a dense skirmish line, a style long obsolete in modern warfare. They did not crawl, seek cover, or even lower their helmets.
With their chests out and carrying Mauser 98K rifles, they marched in step towards the French lines, accompanied by songs.
In 1940, this group of SS soldiers, who had not yet suffered heavy losses on the Soviet battlefield, still retained this extremely amateurish yet extremely terrifying method of attack, which they had brought from street brawls and military parades.
They wanted to use this defiant attitude towards death to prove their loyalty to the leader and at the same time break down the enemy's psychological defenses.
"They didn't come here to fight."
Arthur lowered his binoculars, his voice as cold as ice: "They've come to offer sacrifices."
With a piercing, chilling whistle, the black formation began to accelerate.
"Für den Führer! (For the Führer!)"
The slogan erupted from the throats of hundreds of people, creating a massive wave of sound that even drowned out the sound of the wind.
"Fire! What are you waiting for! Fire!"
Arthur's roar traveled through the telephone lines to the ears of every frontline commander.
Da da da da da—!
The Hotchkiss heavy machine guns on the French positions finally reacted, spitting out deadly fire.
Ordinary infantrymen, faced with such a dense barrage of fire, would have instinctively dropped to the ground for cover. But today, in the twilight of Berg, the French soldiers witnessed a scene that would haunt their nightmares.
Bullets struck human bodies, sending up plumes of blood mist. SS soldiers in the front ranks fell in droves, like felled wheat.
However, no one lay down.
The people behind them didn't even glance at the corpses beneath their feet—even though those were comrades who had been smoking with them just minutes before. They stepped over the bodies, crossed over the still-convulsing wounded, and continued forward.
Some even continued firing their MP38 submachine guns with their other hand after their arms were shot off, roaring as they fired into the trenches until a second bullet blew their heads off.
"Monsters—they are monsters!"
A French machine gunner was on the verge of collapse at the sight before him. He had clearly hit the German three times, his intestines spilling out, yet the man continued to pounce on him like a demon. Fear made him instinctively want to release the trigger, screaming and trying to back away.
This fanaticism, which disregards the laws of physics, is rapidly eroding the morale of the defenders.
"Higgins!"
Arthur stood on the rooftop, watching his own morale bar on the RTS screen drop at an alarming rate.
He had to do something. He had to use absolute violence to break this religious fanaticism.
"Attach your anti-aircraft gun's direct fire sight."
Arthur grabbed Higgins by the collar and pointed at the black square formation: "See that flag? Use your Bofors. Blow that flag, along with the man carrying it, and everything within ten meters of him, to smithereens!"
"Use armor-piercing high-explosive (APHE) rounds! Now!"
Although they had also fired their cannons and roared during the previous fierce battle at the East Station, the Germans at that time at least knew how to find cover and how to tactically evade; it was a battle between soldiers.
But this time is different.
The scope revealed no heavy armor, nor any professional tactical maneuvers, only rows of unshielded, even chest-out, flesh-and-blood bodies facing the gun barrels.
As the approaching formation drew ever closer, Higgins felt as if he were holding not the crank of an elevation control machine, but a chainsaw used to dismember living people.
His hands were trembling violently, and his white non-slip gloves were soaked with sweat.
As a well-educated English gentleman who tried to maintain his dignity even on the battlefield, his soul screamed in resistance.
But his soldier's instincts and Arthur's cold gaze beside him compelled him to turn that heavy gear.
At that moment, he was no longer an artillery captain; he was forced to become a butcher on the assembly line.
The cannon slowly lowered, and the crosshairs locked onto the densest group of people.
Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!
The four Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns roared like thunder.
If machine guns are like mowing grass, then Bofors are like shredding meat.
The 40mm armor-piercing high-explosive round was originally designed to tear apart the aluminum alloy skin and duralumin structure of an aircraft. When it struck the soft human body at a speed of 880 meters per second, the laws of physics revealed their most brutal side.
The first shell hit the flag bearer directly in the chest.
There was no "falling down" process.
The man's upper body vaporized instantly. The exploding warhead, mixed with bone fragments and flesh, became a shotgun that sprayed indiscriminately in all directions.
Then came the second and third shots —
With each shell that landed, a crimson storm of blood erupted. Severed limbs, entrails, and shattered weapons were blasted into the sky like fountains.
In the center of the originally neat square formation, a terrifying blank area with a diameter of ten meters suddenly appeared.
There was no one there. Only a pile of indistinguishable pieces of flesh.
"Oh my God—" Higgins looked at the scene in the scope, his stomach churned, and he turned to the side and dry heaved.
That wasn't war. That was a slaughterhouse.
But what froze everyone's soul was—
Before the blood mist from the explosion had even dissipated, the SS soldiers on both sides miraculously closed the gap again.
A SS 3rd Strike Force captain (equivalent to a second lieutenant), his face covered in blood, picked up the torn flag from the pile of corpses. One of his eyes had been blinded by shrapnel, but he still blew that damned whistle.
"Vorwärts! (Go forward!)"
They continued forward, stepping over the shards of flesh scattered on the ground.
They were like a group of skeleton soldiers who had no sense of pain, no fear, and not even a soul.
17:53 PM.
Arthur stared blankly at the RTS interface on his retina.
Only 180 seconds had passed since the first whistle blew.
But in those brief three minutes, in the system logs that were refreshing like a waterfall, the casualty figures representing the SS attacking forces were jumping wildly at a frequency that chilled all tacticians to the bone.
It wasn't a linear decline, but a precipitous collapse.
Enemy casualties: 5% — 4% — 45%
In just three minutes, that was half a battalion's worth of troops. If converted into blood, it would be enough to fill the entire underground wine cellar of the city hall; if converted into corpses, it would be enough to cover the open ground in front of the entire trench.
According to conventional warfare logic, and even according to the basic algorithms of RTS, this force should have been judged as "collapsed" and disappeared from the map two minutes ago.
But now, that number is still ticking.
This means it's not over yet.
These purple dots of light are still crawling forward.
Morale Status: LOCKED (Fight to the death)
That glaring red label seemed to mock Arthur like a bug.
"They are not human, sir—they are devils."
Higgins' psychological defenses finally crumbled at this moment.
He released the firing pedal, and the thick Bofors gun barrel was red-hot from the long period of rapid firing, emitting a suffocating smell of burnt paint and metallic acridity.
"I clearly hit him—that person was even blown to smithereens, turned into a cloud of mist—but the people behind him didn't even blink."
The captain trembled, his face pale. He stared at the distant, bloodied, yet still undulating black tide, accompanied by the whistling sounds, his voice filled with a primal fear of the unknown—the helplessness of a civilized man facing a barbaric cult.
Even wild beasts know to cower when they are injured—but they never stop.
"Sir, we can't kill them all—"
Higgins turned his head, his pupils dilated, and mumbled incoherently, "This isn't an army—this is Satan's legion—we're fighting a bunch of ghosts."
It wasn't just Higgins. The entire French defense line was stunned by this sight that defied their biological instincts. Gunfire began to thin out, and fear spread like a plague among the defenders.
Faced with a group of people who are not afraid of death, the people who are afraid of death will break down first.
This is the SS's tactical logic: using extreme fearlessness to create extreme fear.
On the RTS interface, the morale bar of our own troops is rapidly turning from yellow to a dangerous red.
[Warning: Our morale is wavering]
[The second platoon of the third company showed signs of desertion.]
Damn it.
Arthur cursed under his breath. He had calculated the trajectory of the bullets and the tactics, but he had underestimated the mental corruption that the word "fanaticism" could have on the battlefield.
He must pull these terrified "NPCs" back from their fear. He must turn this "paranormal event" back into a "physical event."
"Higgins! Look at me!"
Arthur grabbed Higgins by the collar, his eyes contorted with rage: "They're not devils! They're not ghosts!"
Arthur pointed at the approaching phalanx, his voice booming: "Devils don't bleed! Ghosts don't get blown in two! Look closely! That ground is covered in their guts! They'll die! They'll rot! They're just a bunch of lunatics with their brains fried!"
"Since they want to be heroes and go to Valhalla to see their leader, then we'll grant their wish!"
Arthur shoved Higgins aside, snatched the telephone receiver leading to the lower positions, and roared at all the frontline officers, "What are you all standing there for? Push the machine guns down! Aim for their legs!"
"Break their legs! Let's see how these bastards with only faith and no knees manage to charge!"
"Even if it's ten thousand pigs, as long as they're within range and we have enough bullets, there's no reason we can't kill them all!"
"Fire! Send these Nazi scum back to their mothers' wombs!"
Perhaps it was Arthur's roar that had an effect, or perhaps it was the specific command "break the leg" that gave the soldiers a new operational logic.
Gunfire intensified again.
This time, the French machine gunners no longer blindly fired at the torso, but instead lowered their guns and fired wildly at the SS soldiers' knees and legs.
Rows of SS soldiers fell to the ground like felled trees.
This time, physics finally triumphed over theology.
Even with their burning will, their broken thigh bones couldn't support their bodies any longer. They struggled and crawled through the mud, trying to drag themselves with their elbows, but their pace eventually slowed.
The black tide was finally held back when it was less than fifty meters from the French trenches.
Night had completely fallen.
The battlefield fell into a strange stalemate.
In that death zone known as the "no man's land," the mutilated corpses of SS soldiers littered the ground. The air was no longer filled only with the smell of gunpowder, but also with a strong stench of blood and the putrid smell of ruptured entrails.
Arthur remained seated on the roof.
On the RTS interface, the rows of "LOCKED" morale statuses were still lit up like red lights.
This reminded him of an old fable.
There are two keys in this world.
One key was faith. It could transcend the limits of the physical body, turning ordinary people into demons unafraid of death. Even if it was an evil faith, its power was still terrifyingly real. The SS held this key, the key to the gates of hell.
The other key is rationality. It uses cold numbers, precise ballistics, and ruthless calculations of self-interest to build a dam called "civilization." Arthur holds this key.
Now, the two keys collided violently in the small keyhole of Berg.
Either lock it in place, or break it.
"Sir."
Higgins approached with a cup of hot coffee, his hands still trembling slightly, but his eyes were more determined than before: "Do you need to rest? Your eyes—are bloodshot."
Arthur took the coffee, feeling the slight warmth travel to his cold fingertips.
He looked at the faintly flickering campfires in the distant German positions and gently shook his head.
"No, Higgins."
Arthur took a sip of bitter coffee, his gaze deep as he looked into the endless night: "I'm not tired."
He raised his hand and gently stroked it in the air, as if touching the system interface that only he could see.
A new countdown is ticking on it.
[Next wave of attacks expected to begin: 04:00:00]
"Because in this game called war, the round will not end as long as one side is not completely wiped out."
"This is not just a war, Higgins."
"This is an exorcism ritual."