IDKjust
patreon
Chapter 383c
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 18:11:07 +0000 UTCChapter 383c
2-in-1-chapter
----------------
Just as the rebels indulged in fantasies of an impending massacre—naturally, the kind where they would be doing the killing—a barrage of incoming gunfire shattered their illusion.
The whistling bullets tore through the air, instantly dropping more than a dozen militiamen leading the front column.
The rest of the rebel forces instinctively scrambled for cover.
“What’s going on?!”
Truss, crouched behind the hood of an abandoned car at the roadside, looked toward the direction of the gunfire. What he saw froze him in place.
The far end of the street was blocked by several vehicles—not discarded at random, but clearly positioned deliberately as makeshift barricades and firing points. Behind the cars, government soldiers stood ready in tight formation.
Not only that, government troops had also taken up positions inside nearby buildings and on the rooftops flanking the street.
Truss stared in disbelief. The scene before him completely defied his expectations.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to unfold.
In his mind, the capital’s garrison should have already fled. There shouldn’t have been any organized resistance left to speak of.
How had they managed to entrench themselves here?
“Truss, what do we do?”
The unexpected resistance had clearly caught the rebels off guard.
A few began exchanging fire from behind cover, but most remained hunched down, too afraid to lift their heads. None of them wanted to die here. If the civilian district was going to be this heavily defended, they figured they might as well retreat to the affluent areas and enjoy themselves while they could.
Truss, despite being shaken at first, quickly recovered his composure. As one of the few rebel commanders capable of leading independent operations, he wasn’t new to battlefield pressure.
He cautiously peeked out again, studying the situation down the street. The probability of a successful direct assault was low, especially with the militia’s morale in decline. Forcing them to charge into heavy gunfire would be completely unrealistic.
So he issued his orders.
“Leave a squad here to pin down the enemy and draw their attention. The rest of you, follow me—we’ll circle around from the side street and hit their position from the rear.”
The men left behind didn’t know whether they were being sacrificed or not. That kind of order could only be entrusted to those Truss truly trusted.
His deputy volunteered immediately, assuring Truss that if the government troops attempted pursuit, they would hold the line and delay them.
The order to avoid a direct assault brought a visible sense of relief. The rebels moved quickly, following Truss through an adjacent street.
He deliberately avoided leading them through the narrow alleys, even though on the map they connected directly to the rear of the government position. If he knew that, then the defenders surely did too.
It wouldn’t take many—just one machine gun and a few dozen rifles positioned at the alley’s end—and even a larger force like his wouldn’t stand a chance of breaking through.
The broader street was the safer bet.
Before arriving in the capital, they had already learned from captured government soldiers that fewer than two thousand loyalist troops remained in the city—far fewer than the size of Truss’s rebel detachment.
Truss also doubted the will of the capital's defenders. He believed only a small handful had the courage or conviction to stay behind and fight.
So long as they could avoid those forward positions and flank the entrenched troops from the rear, Truss was confident the defenders would collapse quickly.
He had fought government soldiers many times before. Their combat effectiveness was abysmal—worse than Mussolini’s army in the Second World War.
With that mindset, Truss led the rebels down a new street. For a time, they encountered no gunfire at all, reinforcing his confidence that the government defense was merely a token presence.
But after advancing another two hundred meters, a sudden burst of machine gun fire erupted from the bell tower at a three-way intersection up ahead.
Even though the militia had been more alert after the previous ambush, they still weren’t prepared.
Over twenty militiamen were shredded in an instant, torn apart by the gunner's relentless fire.
The rest dove for cover, and someone called out to Truss:
“Truss, we should fall back. Just hold the rich district and wait for reinforcements.”
The one who suggested it had no idea what exactly was going on—but he knew his body wasn’t made of steel. One hit from that machine gun, and he was dead.
“Stay calm.”
Truss, having already endured one surprise attack today, didn’t show the slightest sign of shock.
He observed carefully.
The shots were coming from the top room of the bell tower. Judging by the intensity of the fire, there was only one machine gun.
That realization didn’t discourage Truss—in fact, it reassured him.
It confirmed his earlier assumption: only a small contingent of government troops had stayed behind. If they had any real strength left, there would’ve been more than just one gun firing.
“Chris, take a few men and get close. We’ll cover you. Use a rocket launcher and blow that thing off the tower.”
Although most of the rebels had poor training with weapons, their current distance was well within the effective range of a launcher.
The rebel troops were simply too unskilled—firing from this distance would almost certainly result in a miss.
That was why Truss had ordered his men to advance and close the distance before firing.
Chris was the kind of man who didn’t hesitate. He gave a firm nod, his expression grim and unwavering.
He silently pointed at a few militia members, tilting his head slightly without saying a word. Though their faces turned pale, the ones he signaled to stepped forward and quietly took rocket launchers from their comrades.
Chris was one of Truss’s trusted lieutenants, infamous for his ruthlessness—not just toward the enemy, but toward his own men as well. Those who disobeyed him often met punishments worse than being shot in battle.
“Suppressing fire!” Truss shouted.
He was the first to lean out from cover and opened fire on the bell tower’s machine gun nest. The others, seeing him take the lead, no longer hid behind cover.
Even if the rebel militia’s marksmanship was poor, with so many of them firing at once, even a blind shot could find its mark. A hail of bullets struck the outer wall of the bell tower, kicking up bursts of dust and smoke.
“We’re moving.”
Seeing that the suppressing fire had forced the defenders to duck, Chris broke from cover and ran forward, his men following behind.
Their target was a ruined wall roughly fifty meters ahead. If they could reach it, their accuracy would increase significantly. A few well-placed rocket rounds from that distance would have a much greater chance of hitting the target.
Chris knew that in an assault, speed was everything—the faster they reached their destination, the better their chances of survival.
As he charged ahead, he moved like a predator, leaving the others trailing behind him.
Though the rest couldn’t keep up with his pace, their numbers provided enough firepower to keep the enemy suppressed long enough to cover the fifty-meter dash.
“Get your launchers ready,” Chris ordered.
Panting heavily, the militia members unslung the rockets from their backs and began loading them into the launchers. Only after every man had completed the loading process did Chris’s expression ease slightly.
“Be ready. On my mark, we’ll all fire together. I’ll count to three.”
Though the machine gun in the bell tower had gone silent, Chris wasn’t confident they hadn’t been spotted.
A typical machine gun position included a primary gunner, a loader, and an ammo handler—there was no way only one person was manning it. It was entirely possible the enemy had already seen them.
That was why Chris couldn’t allow his men to fire one after another. A simultaneous volley was the safest bet.
“Three, two—”
Just as Chris reached “two,” two of the militia were struck violently, blood erupting from their skulls in a sharp spray. Both men collapsed with their rocket launchers, as if drunk, crumpling to the ground in unison.
“?!”
The rest of the men jolted in shock—then two more sharp cracks echoed through the air.
Two more militia dropped instantly.
