Kunming, People's Republic of China — August 2035

Gone are the days when Li Wei commanded a ZTZ-99A main battle tank across the vast plains of Eastern Europe. Drafted into the army and rising through the ranks from enlisted man to senior NCO, he had seen more than his share of war. When the conflict ended and his demobilization order came through, he was more than ready to leave it all behind.

Now, back in his native Kunming, Li leads a team of UAV technicians in a sprawling maintenance hall nestled at the edge of the city's logistics hub. The facility hums with quiet precision—gleaming rows of advanced long-range drones line the bays, their sleek, angular frames a far cry from the rugged machines of his battlefield days. These autonomous aircraft, powered by next-gen batteries and AI flight systems, deliver vital supplies across the city and ferry medicine to remote mountain villages where roads are scarce and time is critical. He ushers a junior technician out of his small office, finally growing tired of the young man's endless, irrelevant questions—barely technical, mostly talk. The excuse is me, of course—"official business," he mutters, as he slides the door shut and draws the curtains. Inside, the office is a controlled mess: stacks of diagnostic chips and repair modules clutter the shelves, three command tablets lie scattered across his desk, glowing softly. Beside them, a worn picture frame with a picture of his wife and two children.

"Economy was in shambles. Everyone wanted to wrap it up—the brass, us grunts, even the suits watching the Shanghai Stock Exchange tickers. No one wanted us rotting in trenches forever. When the North Koreans touched down in northern Europe, and the Germans and Poles followed right behind them, we saw the writing on the wall. The end wasn't just near—it was overdue."

Li leaned back in his chair. "It was like watching the whole planet sprint into a wall," he said, almost to himself. "The war economy kept everything on life support. Assembly lines in Chengdu running day and night, ghost factories in Detroit flickering back to life, Seoul churning out drone swarms like they were rice grains. At first, it felt like the world had finally agreed on something—unite, produce, fight. But it burned too hot, too fast."

He reached for one of the command tablets but didn't turn it on. "Resources dried up. Lithium, rare earths, even clean water—hell, remember those riots in Brazil over food shipments being redirected to supply fronts in Europe, what was it? 30 dead? And stories like that were dime a dozen. Nations kept printing money to keep up appearances, but inflation was climbing like a missile. It wasn't just unsustainable—it was suicidal. And those were the lucky ones, how many regions of Africa, or what's left of India are still a free fire zone full militias, religious fundamentalists and mercenaries.

He glanced toward the hangar beyond the curtain, where a line of long-range drones was being rearmed for another mountain supply drop. "Eventually, someone had to blink. And when they did, the whole house of cards started swaying. You can only run a war economy for so long before the cracks start showing. It's built on urgency, on the assumption that itll all be over soon. Problem is, the longer it drags on, the more you start cutting corners and be stuck in an endless loop of what you've built. Infrastructure gets neglected. Civil projects freeze. Schools shut down. Hospitals start running skeleton crews because every goddamn engineer, every doctor with steady hands, every potential day labourer is conscripted or shipped off to some defense lab making guidance chips or ammunition."

"Didn't think of that when we rolled into Belarus," Li said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "My mind was elsewhere. First, there was me and my guys, trying to stay sane in that hell. My driver—god, poor guy—he'd missed some valuable hours of sleep before we set off, all because our company commander had him run some pointless errand. I remember the look on his face, like he'd been run over by a truck. My gunner's left hand kept shaking, and no one knew why, he wasn't faking it cause he didn't want to miss the operation. And me..." He pauses, a small laugh escaping his lips as he pulls a cigarette from his pack, lighting it with practiced ease.

"Yeah, me. The two girls I was seeing at the same time, they found out about each other. It was like the universe had a cruel sense of humor. I'll tell you, though, I was actually glad they cut the phones and Wi-Fi off at the base before they announced the operation. My phone kept vibrating from the endless messages they sent me, and I couldn't even dodge the calls anymore. You don't exactly want that kind of chaos while you're about to take part in one of the largest offensive in modern history."

He exhales a cloud of smoke, his eyes distant for a moment. "It was stupid, I know. But we were all a little stupid back then, trying to juggle everything and nothing at once. High command wasn't any better. Six million artillery shells they'd prepared for Operation Bagration... Yeah, I know, same name as the 1944 one. But after that near mutiny with the Russian forces under Chinese control, I guess the Politburo had to throw the Russians a bone, or something.

Our objective was the Pripyat Marshes—50,000 square kilometers, a swamp the size of Slovakia. That's when we figured out what had been giving the guys in Ukraine such a headache. Our mission? Push the crabs back in—lock them inside—and let the nukes and heavier stuff do the real work.

"You're lucky to have been moving," I say.

"You weren't part of the thunder runs?" he asks.

"No. I was still playing push-and-hold in Luxembourg. Afterward, we got stuck securing crab-held towns that Western forces had bypassed on their way into Germany," I finish.

"Yeah... I wonder how that went," he says, nodding slowly. "The number of towns we skipped like that… crazy. And mind you—we fought tooth and nail to shove the crabs back into Belarus. Then command suddenly tells us to bypass the border towns and push deep. We thought they were sacrificing us.

"We'd roll through the outer rings of the cities on the highway, watching it all unfold. All around us, you'd see entire infantry groups quite literally encircling these towns. A few times we had to halt and hull down because both our guys outside and the crabs inside were trading fire. First few times we stopped, aimed our 125mm at the town, fired off a few rounds just to get the crabs to shut up. Then command would be yelling at us over the radio—'Not your mission! Move on!' They were right, I guess. Couldn't afford to burn ammo and fuel strong arming every town swarming with shrimps.

"We bee-lined it straight for Brahin. Sun and wind on our faces, engines pushed to their limits. A small town, more of a village just north of the Ukrainian border, right at the gate of that massive marsh. We had 40 ZTZs, four engineering recovery vehicles, at least two dozen utility trucks, and our recon boys in open-top 4x4s leading the way. Two tanks broke down—we didn't even stop to fix them. Just loaded them up on the trucks and kept going.

"But that wasn't all. We might've been the tip of the spear, but the spear had a hand behind it—and eyes. An entire air corridor covered us—drones, fast movers, strike birds ready for close air support. The Ukrainians and Russian used their last drones scouting every puddle, forest and field between the border and that cursed swamp. Tracking banshee refueling spots, hatcheries, crab midtowns where they were jerry-rigging banshees and tripods. All in a desperate bid to shut off the tap—stop the crabs from breeding in that marsh and pouring south and east."

"I don't even want to imagine what would've happened if that operation failed. The amount of resources we poured into it—manpower, armor, fuel, everything—failure wasn't an option. Nearly every reserve unit we had was thrown in. The front lines were stable, barely, but if we'd lost hundreds of thousands of men and vehicles in that swamp, and the crabs had managed a counterattack… we could've lost everything we'd gained. Hell, we might've lost Moscow in reparations."

He pauses, rubbing his face before blowing his nose in a tissue.

"We drove west, day after day, past more and more towns we had to encircle or detour around. Some were just dying villages with maybe a dozen souls, god knows if they had any. Others—major towns, tens of thousands, dug in deep. It took us a full week to reach Brahin. No real contact, thank god. A few tripods, scattered crab cohorts, some banshees trying to probe us. But they were just trying to apply pressure—nuisance tactics. Armored cavalry units got diverted to screen the flanks and hold those pests off while the air force and artillery did what they do best—cleaned up those little seafood buffets before they became a problem."

"When we finally made it to Brahin, my ass was numb from the ride. I climbed out to stretch my legs and take in the scenery. And yeah—it was fucking Belarus alright. Just fields, swamps, and forest so thick even a goddamn ladybug couldn't crawl through it without a machete.

One of the Japanese cavalry officers from the screening unitran up to me, sweating like hell. I shook his hand—reluctantly. Would've landed me in hot water if anyone had seen it. He started rattling off info in broken English until we both gave up and pulled out our UTDs—Universal Translating Devices for the draft dodgers who might read your book. Little smartphone-looking things, about a terabyte of preloaded data, made specifically for military comms. Translated just well enough to get the job done. Not perfect, but a hell of a lot better than trying to mime 'incoming artillery' with hand gestures.

Burned my damn palm climbing back onto the tank—steel was hotter than Satan's asshole. Plan was to hide out in my turret for a bit. Cramped? Sure. But it had AC, and more importantly, no one would bother me.

Or so I thought.

Knock-knock on the hatch.

Company commander.

One of those career-climbing twats who sews on new stripes every time he files a logistics report. Bet the bastard salutes himself in the mirror every morning. "Why didn't you inform us about the xiǎo guǐzi?" he snapped—'little devils,' that old curse for the Japanese.

I looked at him, deadpan. Half the damn battalion hadn't even shown up yet. Wasn't my fucking job anyway. I just told him the basics, said I was planning on putting it over the radio so everyone would be on the same page.

'Send a runner. Send in the logistical situation. And remind your men they still need to shave—come hell or high water,' he said, same condescending tone he always used. Like we were all dumb kids and he was our babysitter with a clipboard.

I swear, I nearly bashed my head against the display screen right then and there.

I sent him those reports, alright. Took me ten goddamn minutes to type out something that should've taken two, because the satellite uplink kept dropping every time a breeze passed through the trees. Lieutenant was as clueless as ever—guy couldn't find his way home with a GPS, let alone position his tank platoon properly south of that miserable little town.

So, like always, I did it myself.

Marked out the kill zones on the digital map, cross-checked elevation and tree cover, dropped pings for each squad's hold position, then rerouted the supply trucks that were about to drive straight into a fucking minefield left behind by the crabs two weeks ago. All while reminding Corporal Zhang to double-check the comms kit in the lead ZTZ because—shockingly—it still hadn't been updated since Battle of Incheon.

Then came the part no one talks about in the school.

I went around the line, tank by tank, making sure the guys had water, their ammo counts were logged, spare batteries swapped out, medkits topped off. Knocked on turrets, handed out smokes, listened to whatever gripe the loader or driver had about the gearbox or the air filter or their girl back home. I wasn't their shrink, but hell, sometimes all they needed was to be heard by someone who wasn't shouting orders or scribbling reports. I was glad in a way they talked to me, last platoon sergeant, beside being sub standard at his job was also the biggest asshole imaginable, guy who thought he could maintain morale by having half his platoon brush their teeth in front of him. I'm not joking that twat really made us do that. Worked a plan out with our last company sergeant to have him rotated to the supply company.

By the time I circled back to my own ride, the sun was already low, casting that weird orange glow over the swampy treeline. I slid back into the turret, lit a smoke, and just sat there—helmet off, head resting against the cool metal of the hatch.

The quiet wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that buzzed, like a power line stretched too tight.

We knew—thanks to recon—that the crabs were out there, just a few klicks away past the open marsh, watching from the treeline. Nestled in the swamps like ticks in rotted skin. Probably massing their beetles and tripods, getting ready for one of their textbook nighttime charges. That's why we were on 50% watch. That's why there were three more tank battalions behind us—just waiting to roll forward when, not if, the one ahead got wiped off the face of the earth.

Me? I was staring up at the sky, weirdly sad there weren't any storks or other big European birds flying overhead. Took me a second to realize—those don't stick around in Crab-infested zones. Nature knows better than we do. I'd always been an avid bird watcher, ever since I was a kid back in Kunming—used to spot wagtails and thrushes with my grandfather in the early mornings. Europe was supposed to be a dream for that sort of thing, but all I'd seen since landing were crows picking at corpses and the occasional pigeon too stupid to migrate. The skies felt wrong. Empty. Like even the birds had given up on this war.

I slid back into my turret, the metal feeling cold against my skin. My gunner, Hao had fallen asleep, sprawled across his seat, snoring so loud it was almost impressive. I didn't know someone could make that much noise and still be alive, but it was alright. Soon enough, we'd be in the thick of it. And for now, I was just glad he was peaceful enough to sleep through it all.

I took a quick picture of him—just a habit by then. We had this tradition in the crew, whenever someone fell asleep on watch or between engagements. You snapped a picture, printed it later, wrote on the back when and during what it happened, and hung it up inside the tank. A reminder of the little things we survived, even when the world outside was hell. I was a bit grumpy when I had to close the hatch, though. I liked the fresh air coming. Some Kyrgyzstani infantry had set up around us, and they were making a hell of a racket installing their ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft guns. Those things were meant for helicopters and low-flying jets before the war, but they'd rip a crab to shreds if it dared get too close. Too bad, though—these guys had no way to see at night, and all they had were their mortars to light up the kill zones when the time came. Not exactly comforting when you're waiting for hell to come to you in the dark.

I ran a quick radio check to make sure 3_2 was still awake and on watch. Just four tanks in our platoon—two under the lieutenant's direct command, and me with 3_2. My shift started right as the sun began to sink behind the marshes. The light hit that strange hour—where everything turns copper and the shadows stretch long enough to swallow you whole. I scanned the landscape through the thermals and scope. Open marshland rolled out in front of us, then gave way to the dense swamp canopy kilometers off. You couldn't see them, not really—but you felt the crabs out there, past the treeline. Past the brush and the waterlogged flats, tucked behind those gnarled trees like predators in a blind. Watching. Waiting.

Thought about home. Wondered if the street in front of my parents' place had finally been finished—the one they'd been tearing up since before I got drafted. Thought about eating, but couldn't be bothered to warm up water, let alone stomach another ration pack. Then I thought about things I couldn't say in polite conversation. Wondered what those two girls were up to, half-smirking, until something flickered on the thermal screen.

Just a faint speck—white against the darker brush—moving slow, almost cautious, behind the layers of bushes. I switched to the commander's optic, regular visual first. Nothing. Already too dark. Switched to night vision—worse. Wasn't even sure if it was a glitch or something real. It was about three klicks out, maybe more. No way to get a proper ID on it. I hesitated, finger over the radio switch. Everyone knew they were out there. Would reporting a single speck change anything?

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I didn't get the chance to decide. The treeline behind it started to shake—like something massive was pushing through, snapping branches like twigs.

I shook Hao awake, hard. His eyes snapped open, still dazed, but he knew the drill. I called for Zhou my driver on the intercom, told him to wake the hell up and prep the engine. Switched over to platoon comms and reported the contact. By the time my report made it up the chain, that Beetle had already forced its way out—just barreled through the brush and snapped trees like matchsticks. No more guessing. It was real.

It stomped into the open marsh, towering at least three stories high. One came in behind it on the left. Then two more emerged to the right, spacing out like they owned the goddamn swamp.

"Third platoon, engage, engage, engage," our company commander's voice crackled over the net—sharp, no bullshit.

Our engine roared to life as I threw the hatch open, glancing behind us. Last thing we needed was to run over a Kyrgyzstani poor bastard who'd nodded off too close to our tracks. Not like anyone could stay asleep once our cannons started barking.

"Load dart!" I barked over the intercom. The war was back on.

The loader carousel whirred beneath us, that familiar mechanical hum rising as it spun into motion. Deep in the hull, below the turret floor, the autoloader's rotating drum sifted through the stored shells—each one nestled in its cradle like a sleeping giant.

With a dull clunk, it found what I'd called for—a dart round, APFSDS, the kind meant to punch straight through its knee joints. A hydraulic arm grabbed it, steady and precise despite the vibrations starting to roll through the tank. The breech slid open with a metallic snap, and the arm rammed the dart home with a solid, satisfying thud.

A small light on my panel flicked green—Loaded. Thirty seconds from when I spotted it until our breech was armed, give or take.

3_2 opened up first, their shot cracking through the still night and slamming into the lead Beetle. I took the one to its left.

"Target, Beetle, 3 o'clock, 3 klicks!"

"On!" Hao snapped back, hands steady on the controls.

"Fire!" I ordered.

The breech slammed back, the whole tank jolted from the recoil. Through the sight, I watched the dart strike high—too low for a kill. It clipped the creature's upper shoulder, but didn't stop it.

"Too low! Again!" I shouted. "Focus! Go for the shoulder blade!" The carousel was already spinning, hunting for another dart. No point aiming for the legs—those were buried deep in the swampy water. We needed disabling shots, clean and brutal.

"Fire!"

The second dart screamed through the air. Hao had found his rhythm—hit square on. Didn't take the arm off, but the Beetle staggered from the impact. Its thermal signature flared as it bled out hot, alien fluid.

"Again!"

Hao fired, the dart smashing into the same shoulder. This time it shattered, ricocheting into fragments—but it did its job.

In the corner of my vision, I saw the Crab beside it collapse, limbs folding as 3_2 nailed it clean through the core. It went down like a felled tree, crashing into the swamp.

"Again!" I barked.

Hao fired. The dart flew, slicing through the air before it slammed into the Beetle's shoulder. This time, it worked. The forearm sheared clean off, and the creature pitched forward, crashing face-first into the murky water with a wet, gurgling thud.

"Load HEAT! Now for the decapitation—go for its neck!" I yelled, eyes locked on the thermal outline of the beetle, its massive, twitching form now exposed. The upper torso was slumped, and the thick ridge of its neck—if you could call that alien thing a neck—was clear as day, glistening on the scope.

The carousel beneath us groaned into motion again, shifting from the sleek dart rounds to something meaner—wider. The hydraulic arm swept around and locked onto a HEAT shell—High-Explosive Anti-Tank. Heavier than the darts, shaped like a fat black spearhead with a copper liner in the warhead.

With a hiss and clang, the breech slid open, and the shell was rammed home. The green light lit up. Loaded.

"Up!" Hao barked.

"Fire!"

The HEAT round surged from the barrel with a roar, less speed than a dart but packed with savage purpose. It hit the back of the beetle's neck just under the chitinous plate. In an instant, the shaped charge did its job—molten copper from the liner liquified into a jet hotter than hell itself, punching straight through the armor, straight into the brainstem or whatever that monster had back there.

The effect was instant. The creature's head didn't just tear—it separated, ripped apart by the overpressure, and then came the secondary—boom. A flash of internal combustion, as the volatile napalm it used as a bio-fuel ignited. The whole upper body burst like a dying star—greenish-black gore and fire fountaining out, lighting up the marsh in a sick, glorious bloom.

I sat back for a second, stunned by the violence of it. Then leaned forward again. There were more.

As if on cue, another Beetle came lurching out of the swamp and onto the open marsh—this one bigger, darker, steam rising off its back like some ancient engine. And behind it, the second wave: Crabs in clusters, screeching, limbs flailing, blindly firing their blasters toward the village we were dug into. Their plasma bolts hissed through the air, searing into mud walls and dirt, gouging out trenches in the earth.

That's when the Kyrgyz mortars barked. Flare rounds soared into the night sky and burst overhead—suddenly the whole marsh was bathed in a harsh white light, cutting deep shadows across the swampy battlefield. And just as the light came, the ZSU-23-2s opened up.

The twin-barreled anti-aircraft guns roared to life like angry gods. That bone-rattling BRRRRRT of 23mm fire tearing through the night. Tracers streaked out in violent arcs, red-hot needles cutting through trees, water, and chitin. The muzzles flared nonstop as the gunners walked their fire through the crab masses, shearing limbs, tearing torsos open, lighting up the marsh in rhythmic bursts.

One gun jammed, I heard the metallic coughing stop, then it came back seconds later after they cleared the breach. The crabs didn't stand a chance in that light, caught in the open like roaches under a spotlight, torn apart by gunfire meant for helicopters. I saw on the thermals bits of alien flesh and glowing ichor flying into the air as the ZSUs carved a kill zone wide enough to land a jet in.

We hadn't even fired again yet—and already the air smelled like ozone, burning marsh, and alien death.

Maybe half an hour later—soaked in sweat, ears ringing from constant cannon fire, eyes raw from staring through thermals—I yelled again through the intercom:

"Load HEAT! Finish it!"

I couldn't believe it. After three full waves, they still hadn't made it halfway through the marsh. Whatever the hell drove them, they just kept coming.

"UP!" Hao barked, voice hoarse.

Barely had time to scream "FIRE!" before the round was already out, slamming square into the mouth of a limbless Beetle dragging itself through the muck. The HEAT charge cooked off perfectly—direct hit. But instead of the torso bursting outward, the pressure bottled inside. The thing's entire head and upper body exploded inwards and up, like a melon in a microwave.

It vomited napalm—literal liquid fire—out of the ruined stump of its throat. The jet of glowing, bubbling fluid splashed across the marsh water, igniting instantly. A sheet of burning magma spread over the surface, hissing and snapping as it kissed the wet reeds. I don't know if any Crabs were still crawling through that patch, but if they were? They burned alive in the most awful way imaginable.

Then I heard the Tunguska open up behind us—its twin 30mm autocannons roaring to life, unloading rounds with surgical precision into the advancing crabs. The air hummed with the sound of the radar-guided guns ripping through the swamp's dense air, each shot cutting down another enemy as they crawled across the marsh. The crabs that had been trudging through the water, now under fire from the anti-air vehicles, were torn apart as the heavy rounds chewed into their armored shells, making sure nothing got through.

With the anti-air guns taking over, we had to fall back. Our role had shifted. The Tunguskas would handle the aerial threat, and now it was time for us to pull back and reload. The battlefield was theirs.

That's when the order came through: "Third Platoon, reverse and RTB to dump for rearm. Second Company and attached Tunguskas will take over forward positions."

I didn't need to tell Zhou twice. He slammed the gearshift into reverse, and the engine growled low as we backed away, leaving the burning swamp and the crabs to whatever was waiting for them next. We rolled into the ammo dump, the engine sputtering to a halt as the low hum of the tank faded. The air was thick with the scent of burnt fuel and dust, mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of spent rounds. Around us, the maze of cargo containers and makeshift barriers gave the place an isolated, almost sterile feeling, a stark contrast to the chaos only a few kilometers away. I didn't have time to think about how this had been nothing but an open field just six hours ago.

We got to work quickly. I climbed up to the turret while Zhou worked the hull, passing me fresh shells. I handed them off to Hao inside the turret, watching him load the 20-kilo rounds into the carousel with impressive speed and strength. The guy had some serious muscle in his arms. As we worked, I couldn't help but glance past the ammo dumps, through the endless fields, and back toward the battlefield we had just left. I saw tracers from anti-aircraft fire bouncing off their targets, arcing into the sky. I saw the explosions as the beetles went up in flames, their massive forms bursting apart in a blaze of fire and metal. The sights and sounds of it all were burned into my mind, but there wasn't time to dwell on them.

We threw caution to the wind, loading the carousels as full as we could before the call came in that the company replacing us was running low on ammunition. Zhou quickly detached the refueling mechanism, and we had just a few minutes to light up cigarettes while I ran through the status of my platoon. The radio chatter was growing more frantic by the second. Sure, we had other battalions lined up behind us if things went south, but the pressure was still there. Full speed, bumper to bumper down the narrow roads, until we finally made it back to Brahin.

The scene was chaos. The mortar and command units were entrenched, working like they had no tomorrow. They'd used the engineering vehicle to dig up improvised dirt walls, forming a makeshift defensive position around their command staff. As we rolled in, we saw the commander and a staff officer shouting into their radios, desperately trying to make themselves heard over the unrelenting roar of mortar fire, tank shells, and anti-aircraft rounds. The air was thick with the sound of war, only seemed to grow louder as we approached.

Mind you, it was night—around 1 a.m., if I remember correctly. But with all the explosions and fire lighting up the distance, it felt like broad daylight. Command had clearly spotted something. We could see them shouting louder and louder into their radios as we waited for the other company to pull out of the village so we could move in. My lieutenant had the battalion frequency, and I tried to yell over at his gunner, who was looking out of his turret, to find out what was going on.

Turns out, battalion wasn't keen on sharing what the drones had seen ahead, but whatever it was, it had them spooked. Enough that it convinced them that 40 main battle tanks, countless anti-air guns, and infantry wouldn't be enough to stop it.

That Japanese officer from earlier—one finger jammed in his ear, other hand clutching the intercom—was screaming like there was no tomorrow.

That's when it hit me. This was it. We must've struck the motherlode. The bait had worked—draw the crabs in, get them to throw everything they had at this corner of the swamp. And now all we had to do was hold until we could bomb them into oblivion.

Zhou asked me why the hell artillery wasn't falling. I explained it to him as politely as my nerves allowed—that they were being hit, alright, hammered by every howitzer and rocket system we had left standing. What I didn't have time to spell out was that soft ground eats explosives. Those shells were landing in marsh and mud, not pavement or packed dirt. Half the force just got swallowed up. Until they started dropping heavy nerve agents, it was all just noise and fury. The real killing hadn't even started.

We were told to perform a "gorilla manoeuvre"—and yeah, it was exactly as dumb as it sounds. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. The idea was to feint a full-on charge, like a pissed-off silverback, and hope the crabs blinked first. Russian tanks couldn't do it worth a damn, not with their reverse gear basically nonexistent. But ours could. The whole point was to slam into them with all we had—forty-odd tanks storming forward, firing main guns, coaxial MGs, and DShKs like madmen—scare the frontliners into retreat and trigger an accordion-style collapse of whatever came behind them.

If they weren't red elites, the chances were decent they'd break formation and fall back. That was the gamble. But in a goddamn marsh? One wrong step and we'd sink ourselves. They told us the ground was only a meter deep in the area picked for the charge. We had to trust them. Not like we had a choice.

Our sister company got the short end of the stick—they were told to hold position instead of rotating back to rearm. If we got bogged down mid-charge, we'd need every barrel pointed forward and every vehicle capable of towing a stuck tank out of the muck. Nobody liked it, but they didn't argue. Orders were orders, and we were all in too deep to start questioning them now.

We formed up at the edge of the village, right where the last paved stone met the sea of mud and shallow water. No trees, no cover—just the husks of houses behind us and the open marsh ahead, wide and glistening like a wound. Tracks dug into the soft shoulder of the road, engines growling low, hulls steaming from the last fight. The air stank of ozone, scorched fuel, and wet earth, and you could already see the outlines of crabs scattered across the mire—some stumbling forward, others crouched low like they were sniffing the air for fear.

It felt less like a battlefield and more like a waiting room for hell.

Then came the signal—two flares shot up, one red, one white and a command on the radio as I realized how suicidal this manoeuvre was. That's why I made sure our smoke pots were armed incase we had to abandon ship and waddle our way back from the marsh back to the village.

I slammed my fist on the intercom. "Go! Go! Full throttle, keep formation!"

Zhou threw it into gear and the tank surged forward, the suspension groaning as we hit soft mud. Water splashed up over the sides, and the entire chassis bucked like it was trying to shake us loose. We kept pace with the others, the roar of forty engines tearing across the open marsh, each of us spitting fire and steel. Cannons thundered, coaxial MGs stitched lines of lead into the enemy, I manned our roof-mounted DShKs and made it rattle nonstop, didn't even bother to aim too much I was watching if our tanks kept their formation.

The crabs froze at first, startled, unsure if they were about to be swallowed whole. Some stood their ground, others broke rank—exactly what we hoped for. That ripple of hesitation, that panic in the front lines, started spreading like wildfire. You could see the confusion travel backward, creatures turning, crashing into each other, trying to figure out whether to press forward or flee.

Mud and water sprayed everywhere, the air thick with smoke and tracer fire, crabs screeching as rounds tore through them. We were in it now—no turning back.

The company rolled out in a single, brutal wave—forty ZTZ-99As pushing forward into the marsh like a steel tide. Treads churned the mud, water splashed and hissed against the armored skirts. The marsh was just shallow enough to cross, but you felt every meter like the ground wanted to suck you under and hold you there. Visibility was poor—mist hanging low, kicked up by our advance—but we held formation, spacing out just enough to avoid cooking each other if things went sideways.

Halfway through, one of the tanks—3_5—bogged down hard. Rear sank, engine howling as the driver tried everything short of praying to get it free. No dice. The commander popped the hatch, shouted something we couldn't hear, and within seconds the crew were scrambling out, boots disappearing in knee-high sludge as they ran toward the nearest vehicle and climbed on the hull to the bewilderment of its crew.

Then came the reversal order, sharp and loud over comms.

"Back it up! Everyone reverse! Artillery inbound!"

I didn't have to tell Zhou twice. Our engine growled, treads screamed against the suction of the marsh, and we reversed fast enough to feel the suspension buck.

We didn't get far before the first barrage landed—right into the swamp ahead. Not the marsh we were crawling through, but deeper, past the waterline where the thick mud turned to full-on swamp. The sky lit up in violent flashes—no warning whistles, just a sudden crack and roar that made your bones shudder.

I slammed my hatch shut just in time. A second later, the shockwave slammed into us like a fist. The tank rocked in place, mud splashing over the glacis. Even with the hatch sealed, I felt the pressure in my chest, the dull thunder rolling through the hull like we were caught in a giant's heartbeat. I couldn't hear Zhou cursing, but I knew he was. Hao looked at me, eyes wide, as the flicker of fires reflected through the optics.

I was just glad I wasn't outside. I hoped 3_5 atop that other tank would manage—they'd be in for a rough ride. We lost two more tanks trying to make it back. It was a miracle we recovered them the next day, but by then the crews' pants were still wet. Reversed out of that hellhole and managed to reach the village just in time to hear the roaring overhead. Russian Tupolevs, too high to see but their engines were unmistakable. We couldn't spot them, but we sure as hell heard their ordnance drop. Must've been four of them, hitting the areas that hadn't been wiped out by the rocket artillery yet.

The sky lit up again, this time with the deafening sound of those bombs falling. It wasn't just the explosions that rattled you; it was the waiting for the impact, the seconds dragging out like they would never end. And when it hit? The shockwave was different—more violent, more immediate. I couldn't even imagine what was left after that. All we could do was brace ourselves, knowing the worst was yet to come.

If even one of those bombers fucked up and dropped his ordinance over the village, we would've been done for. Simple as that.

The deafening roar of the bombs ceased, and for a moment, the sky was eerily silent. Then the engines faded, the ZSU's stopped firing, the tanks quit engaging the last of the straggling crabs, and even the mortars and artillery went quiet. The waves of crabs and beetles seemed to evaporate in that stillness.

Our sister company pulled out, heading back to rearm. As the sun crept up, we were left standing overlooking the wreckage, holding our positions like we had hours before as the recovery vehicles dragged two tanks out of the marsh. Hao wasn't the only one whose hands were shaking after that. A few crewmen went over to pay that company commander a visit, to let them know what they thought of his suicidal manoeuvre and the shaving every morning.

The sun climbed higher, and once my hand stopped shaking, I climbed out of the turret. I'd been too busy thinking about everything that could've gone wrong to really notice the world outside.

Then Hao, trying to lift the mood, asked, "Weren't there trees there last night? What did I miss?"

I glanced up, seeing the barren wasteland in front of us. "Put the kettle on," I muttered, sinking back down into the cramped space. A lesser man would've cried right then, but I was just busy preparing my log reports, my hands shaking as I sent the data on the tablet—checking the status of our ammo left. There wasn't much to say except that it had been a hell of a night, and that was that. If only I knew then we helped liberate western Ukraine and Eastern Belarus.

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