It's 0000 in the dead of night, a few hundred miles south of Italica, a massive formation of tanks, AmTraks and Humvees of the 1st Marine Division, rolled down the lush, grassy plains of Central Falmart. The sounds and the effects emanating from the juggernaut of the war machine's abrupt arrival would be something this magical place had yet to experience, something out of this world – quite literally too. These troops, with their attached elements, were among the very first men to cross the literally other-worldly portal into this fantastical world.

  A gigantic armada of armored beasts moved through the plains of Empire, trampling over any Imperial position that stood in its path, the noise of their diesel engine filling the air all around them. Amidst the unperturbed mechanized march of the division, attack helicopters flew past, firing rockets and chain guns into the unprepared Imperial Troops, previously the masters of the continent, but now nothing but a mere sitting duck in the middle of the empty wilderness of the plains, untouched by modern civilizations, or at least, used to be. Coalition fighter jets flew high in the sky, carrying a variety of payloads as they headed off to bomb anyone that dares to stand in their march to Sadera in a maelstrom of missiles and bullets, their arrow-like body unseen in the darkness, only menacing red and green lights can be seen wafting through the darkness of the night, followed immediately by ominous orange lights flashing in the dark horizon ahead in its destructive wake. Yet another Imperial Legion bites the dust, another testament to the ruthless effectiveness of the countless bombing runs by Japanese and American jets flying unseen up in the heavens.

  At the tip of the spear is the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion and although they're a proud reconnaissance unit, just like what their name implies, what they're doing right now, leading a massive troop formation of 20,000 mechanized Marines from other units within the division, dauntlessly charging through the wilderness of this hostile Romanesque empire, is a far cry of their original purpose as the Marine Corps' finest Recon troop. They weren't supposed to be deployed this way. Artillery shells continuously land and combust miles in front of them in a mesmerizing show of yellowish light, the storm of steel flickering faintly in the distance like a broken lamp, as shells relentlessly bombard the Empire's static defensive positions non-stop, the hopelessly defenseless men bearing the continent's very first witnesses to the unimaginable horrors of combined arms warfare, and the uncertainty that'd follow in its devastating wake.

  At the foremost of the Battalion's eighty vehicle convoy of tin-plated Humvees, MTVR trucks and tanks attached from the 1st Tank Battalion, is Hitman-2, the callsign for Bravo Company's Second Platoon, led by the soft-spokenly calm, brown-haired First Lieutenant named Frederick Mistral. From the moment they stepped foot into the fantasy world named "Falmart" through a mysterious Gate that opened in Ginza and San Diego, both of them opening in Japan and US respectively, they've been tasked with mission they're not supposed to do, leading the 1st Marine Division's lightning charge to the heart of the Saderan Empire in tin-plated, lightly-armed Humvees straight out of MTV's "Pimp My Ride". It was truly a snide damage to their pride as the stealthily elite, ultra-violent Reconnaissance Marines of the Marine Corps' finest.

  These young men, profane and irreverent, cheeky and cocky, and most importantly, molded well by 21st century diverse culture, would be spearheading what would be America's first interstellar war. Throughout their journey to the heart of the empire, they'd kill people. They'd maim children with machine gun fires. They'd liberate villages and destroy towns. They'd meet humble people living their life in utmost simplicity, then moments later fire upon them because of massive foul-ups plaguing the cog in the machine that is the battalion.

  They are the foremost delivery men of America's most infamous exports : bombs, bullets and ultra-violence. In spite of their devilishly boyish, innocuously youthful faces, let no illusion pass, for they were a lean, mean fighting machine trained to perfection and spoiling for action.

  Overall, they'd kill a hell lot of people, and a few of those deaths the men will no doubt think about and perhaps regret for the rest of their lives.

  At the tip of the spear, inside the very first vehicle leading the Platoon is a Humvee commanded by the 23-years old Sergeant Simon Williams. Recently promoted to the position of Team Leader, the usually stoic green-eyed brunette is eager to prove his skills in America's Newest War in an alien planet with fantasy creatures that wouldn't look out of place in a LOTR Film. He'd be in charge of the lives of another 3 of his fellow Marines in his team. For weeks, they've trained and rehearsed maneuvers. They've blown things up with artillery, memorized air strike protocols and a whole lot of other things associated with invading an Empire with a combined arms army, at a blitzkrieg-like speed.

  None of it however, would've prepared him for the incompetence coming from their own side.

  "Jesus fucking Christ man, I'm so lost right now." Simon complained, his Southern accent coming out extra hick. With his red-lensed flashlight dimly lighting the poorly sketched outline of their area of operations, the brunette stoically continued in disbelief, his lithe hands holding tightly onto the grenade-equipped M4A1 rifle of his as the Humvee weaved past a hole. "Map is unreliable as fuck; we're supposed to swing west toward the 1st Tanks' flanks 30 minutes ago so they could provide support once we get along that highway near Italica. But now look at us, instead of a tank battalion supporting our movement, we got ourselves a fucking tank platoon instead."

  "I told ya Sai, the battalion didn't even bring enough of anything that matters," His driver, Corporal Evan Carson, nodded in agreement with his Team Leader's complaints with a cheeky, affectionate use of the brunette's nickname. "they don't even bring enough fucking maps and batteries for our night vision."

  He pointed towards the darkened horizon ahead, the unseen expanses beyond occasionally lightened by deadly combustion of artillery rounds and guided bombs landing upon their unfortunate targets

  "Dude, would you fucking look at this mess?" Evan remarked, his tone full of sarcasm and unusually energetic in spite of their on-going mission in the dead of night. Then again, the team leader happens to remember that his trusted driver is currently wired on unhealthy doses of energy drinks and dry humor for the sake of staying awake. After all, nobody wanted to miss the opening day – night – of the invasion. "All of this wouldn't have fucking spiralled down the shitter if it weren't for that fucking retard Molt."

  The 21 year-old driver, and the vehicle team leader, 23 year-old Simon – both young Afghan War veterans – have already reached a profound conclusion about this campaign: that the battlefield that is Falmart is dangerously filled to the brim with fucking retards. There's the absolutely retarded commander in their battalion who took a wrong turn near the border, delaying the invasion by at least an hour as the whole division regrouped itself on the designated LOD because of the easily avoidable mistake.

  There's another officer, a classic motherfucking retard, who has already begun chasing through the scorched remains of the Imperial camp on Alnus foothills to pick up and loot the souvenirs thrown down by dead, horribly mangled corpses of the Saderan legionnaires: helmets, glistening swords, honest to god magical staffs and jewelries, a lot of jewelries. There are the hopelessly dumb-ass POG retards in the battalion H&S who screwed up the radios and has forgotten bring enough batteries to operate the Marines' thermal-imaging devices and night vision goggles – a must in a modern military.

  But above them all and easily topping other goofy idiots, one retard reign supreme : Emperor Molt Sol Augustus of the Saderan Empire, the rightful protector of the Imperial Realm and the absolute ruler of its territories. For the Marines of Hitman 2-1 however, he's simply referred to as the king of kings, the chief of the retards in this magical continent.

  "I don't even wanna waste my fucking time in this shithole man, but because of this fucking retard," The energetically wired Evan amusedly babbled, his words filled with extreme profanity. Just another everyday culture in the Corps. Simon merely glanced at the rambling driver, his green eyes shrouded by the even greener visage of the NVGs as he keenly studied the shoddy map in his grip. "motherfucker ruined my, no, the entire battalion leave and chances of banging some chicks with his little Gate structure. What a huge fucking retard, dude."

  Amidst the bemused ramblings of the Rip-Its energy drink powered driver in the opening night of the invasion, the radio buzzed and hissed almost out of the blue.

  "All Hitman-2 Victors, quick halt! Hitman-3 has a vehicle down"

  The voice of Lieutenant Mistral, their platoon commander, echoed throughout the battalion's comms amid their night drive. Surprised by the sudden orders and impulsively reacting without much thought, Evan immediately slammed on the brake of his Humvee, almost crashing into a ditch by the roadside. Everyone inside the cramped interior of the rusting venerable vehicles held onto anything solid as it abruptly screeched to a sudden halt.

  "Sorry dude, didn't mean it." The previously boisterous Evan curtly apologizes for the sudden halt as he quizzically glanced towards the team leader, his voice almost devoid of the mocking sarcasm earlier.

  "Yeah, yeah, it's fine, what the fuck happened anyway?" Simon stoically waved it off with a sigh just as he inquired regarding the sudden halt, curious about what happened to their sister platoon behind them. "The fuck did their platoon commander do this time?"

  "Wait one," Evan replied spontaneously as he reached for the handset of the PRC-119 SINCGARS radio on the Humvee's dusty center console, his hands wildly fumbling around in the dark interior of the aging vehicle before finally getting on it.

  Besides being the team's sole driver of their venerable ride, Evan also happens to be their skilled radio operator evidently shown by his casual handling of the device, now pressed to his ears as he listens on to the chatter of Bravo Company's communications. The team leader, Simon, with his own shorter ranged but still reliable Personal Role Radio – PRR, issued to all team and platoon leaders, comms headset mounted around his head, similarly listened through just as the first sign of jumbled chaos slipped into the company's net.

  Far away ahead of the halted battalion, artillery and bombs rumbled faintly in the ignited horizon. Explosions and combustions of varying munitions in biblical proportions brightly flickered in the expanse beyond, their devastating rhythms and deadly light illuminating the dark panorama of Central Falmart's majestic, verdant rolling plains. The sight of man-made fires relentlessly blanketing the grassy fields in the distance itself, was hauntingly beautiful as the duo listened to the panicked chatter of their sister platoon. Evan was the first to comment on the jumbled chaos unfolding within the communications channel much to his dismayed amusement.

  "Apparently gents," Evan spoke up with a snidely mocking voice, the SINCGARS radio handset pressed tightly against his keen ears as he continued on babbling in disbelief. "The severely fucking retarded platoon commander of our sister platoon, who, by the name of Tom Richman, in his infinite fucking retardation, had decided to drive on muddy fields instead of the Roman highways we are on right now, thought he was being tactical John Basilone sort of shit by trying out some shortcut and stuff. Now look what happened, his Humvee is stuck in a muddy-ass pool, because the fucking retard didn't even bother to look outta his fucking vehicle!"

  "Un-fucking-believable."

  Pulling up his AN/PVS-31 night vision goggles in evident exasperation, the boisterous Evan promptly takes a sip from the Rip-Its energy drink that had bought from Camp Sledgehammer's – Alnus Hill – relatively PX before the start of what would have been the biggest military operation ever conducted on the soil of a foreign planet in American history. He hasn't slept a wink in 36 hours, and are currently running solely on darkly humorous jokes, babbles about the battalion's stupidly incompetent actions and absurd amount of energy drinks. Refreshed slightly by the little sip amid the chaos unfolding nearby, the driver on the wheels then decides to continue his rant on the situation.

  "I mean dude, look at this shit, no matter what we do, someone always fucks it up." He exasperatedly slammed his hands audibly on the steering wheels, before quickly stealing a glance of the stoic brunette to his right. "Fuck sakes Sai, we couldn't even have a mission going smoothly without someone fucking it up. I'm betting that by the time Hitman-3 un-fuck their shits up, some other grunt units would probably be rollin' around our objective and jizzing all over it in glory."

  "I mean, you're not wrong, some asshole officer in the Division's HQ will probably assign the mission to some other Marine unit after seeing our current situation." A voice comes out behind the driver's seat, perturbing through the rusty confines of their Humvee.

  Brooklyn-accented and soothing, it's none other than the 21 years old platoon medical corpsman, the relatively boyish-faced red-haired Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Justin Clancy, giving his own input on the recent fuck-up. He sighed, his bluish oceanic eyes staring out of the venerable vehicle towards the wilderness outside through the grainy visage of his NVGs.

  "Fuck me, bro, as if putting us Recon guys in rotting fucking Humvees isn't enough of a massive horseshit."

  Amidst the brooding mood shared by pretty much everyone crammed inside the Humvee leading the battalion's advance, the radio suddenly hissed and barked out, loudly so with a single panicked transmission.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "All callsigns this is Hitman-3! We are under attack, I say again, we are under enemy attack, possible footmobiles to our 11 o'clock, over!" The deathly panicked voice of Hitman-3's – Third Platoon – CO, Tom Richman, known to the Marines simply as Lt. Superman for his crippling short-sightedness and wannabe action-hero-like acts in battles, is heard resounding audibly across Bravo Company's frequency. Contrary to what the disdained platoon commander of their sister unit thought, there seems to be no enemy attacks in full swing whatsoever.

  "Did he just assume that the peasant and the sheeps near his position are actually enemy personnel?" Silently stoic and with his steely gaze directed outside, towards the horizon scorched by the relentless barrages upon barrages of Marine artillery rounds, Simon is evidently amazed by the sheer stupidity of what he's hearing right now. Tom is panicking, perhaps mistaking that the shepherds – working in the night for some reason – they had just passed earlier are actually enemy personnel much to the confusion of others listening onto the radio, their eyes full of intent.

  Wafting through the night's spring air, amidst the constant faint roar of the artillery bombardment igniting the horizon beyond asunder, the sound of an amused snicker being suppressed with a Herculean effort resounded through the interior of the Humvee as the radio crackled on, the fearful, panicked voice of Lt. Superman clogging the net. While they're supposed to be professional, this kind of sheer stupidity and incompetence being displayed in all its glory is so amazingly ridiculous, they can't help but laugh at it.

  "Oh my god, is he crying?" Evan ebulliently inquired as he eavesdropped closely on the Humvee's radio, his suppressed laughter targeted towards the current situation being held back with a mischievous grin.

  "No, he's not, he's just nervous." Simon replied immediately to his question with a steely, stoic voice, his aloof gaze spying the distant verdant expanses of grassy field scorched by guided bombs and cluster artillery unyielding as chaos unfolded in the background.

  "WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE IF THEY DON'T GET US OUT OF HERE, BREAK!

  "ENEMY FOOTMOBILES, TO OUR 8 O'CLOCK, HOW COPY?" The radio on the vehicle's dusty central console and the headset on his head, audibly screeched out with the terrified voice of Lt. Superman, evidently still assuming that the shepherds they had just seen earlier were the literal personification of the enemy themselves. Almost immediately after, in its wake, the held-in snickers of the men crammed inside the Humvee, were let loose with a faint howl.

  "Okay, scratch what I said earlier, he's fucking crying now." Simon finally acknowledges the driver's earlier remark, slightly laughing in the process as the previously unyielding gaze of his, was swiftly swept away by the appearance of a slight smile stretching out of his lips. He shook his head in disbelief at their current situation. "Jesus fucking Christ, man."

  His gaze was interrupted mere seconds later, the disrupting voice of the red-haired Clancy sitting just behind the driver's seat worriedly making its way to the brunette's keen ears.

  "Uhh Sergeant," The Corpsman's perturbed tone slipped into his voice as the red-headed spoke, his vibrant blue eyes darting left and right, staring outside towards the darkened countryside as it intently searched. "Hitman-3 got any casualties?"

  "They're fine," Simon, being the stoic team leader of Hitman 2-1 he is, assuringly replied, his aloof yet soothing voice causing Clancy to merely breathe a sigh of relief. "although it seems like the lead vehicle of Lt Richman's platoon is well buried a couple of feets under the mud."

  "I wouldn't call that exactly a fucking improvement from whatever the fuck that retarded Rambo-bullshit Lieutenant Superman was trying to pull off." The exuberant Evan was quick to chip into the chit-chat of his compatriot. Hushed and clearly amused by the ridiculous situation befalling their sister platoon, the driver exasperatedly groaned as yet another can of energy drinks went down his throat.

  They waited for any development to come from the ever-crackling radio in tedium, everyone evidently bored out of their minds as they numbly stared ahead, their eyes fixed firmly on the show of light igniting across the veil of night beyond. Above and out of their naked eyesight, the buzz of attack planes zooming back and forth between their humble abode in the foothills of Camp Sledgehammer and their hopelessly outclassed targets faintly roared through the darkness – their objective represented as nothing but mere black and white dots from the jets' sophisticated laser targeting system, circling high in the heavens as bombs and missiles detached from their hardpoint and in its wake, grisly fate of shredded intestines and gory blown-up body parts, mangled and covered in bloodbath of bilical proportions, grimly followed. The Marines of 1st Recon Battalion, for the most part, had been spared from being witness to such horrifyingly gruesome aftermath of coalitions' countless bombing runs. At least, not yet.

  Amidst their mindless dwelling on the beauty of Falmart's pristine countryside – the vibrant tall grasses and the lush treelines flanking the MSR, their verdant leaves and branches rustling and swaying from the spring's chilly breeze, the sound of far-away gunfire faintly reverberated through the symphony of distant artillery barrages and bombing runs that teared any illusions of tranquility in such fantastical landscape asunder. Evan, with his keen ears and heightened alertness from the ridiculously huge amount of Rip-Its he had consumed, was the first out of the many men crammed inside the Humvee to point out.

  "You hear that?"

  "Hear exactly fucking what, Evan?" The steely-faced Simon shot back in puzzlement, his gaze slowly averting towards the unusually serious driver. Before Evan could continue any further, any semblance of boredom was hurriedly ripped apart by the sudden arrival of a dangerously close symphony of gunfire, the abrupt barrage of lead coming from the darkness beyond spitting streaks of tracer rounds less than perhaps, 10-20 meters to the right of the battalion's long single-file convoy in a dazzling performance. Once again, the other-worlders' wonder weapons had torn the untouched, pristine tranquility of this fantastical landscape with the horrors of their modern warmachines.

  The radio crackled and buzzed audibly, coming to life with a rhythm of panicked chatters. As if to accompany the sudden melody of chirrups coming abruptly from the device on the Humvee's central console and Simon's PRR headset, the staccato of gunfire that had ruined the previously untouched tranquility, significantly increased in its intensity. Tracers danced across the dark, grassy landscape as it tore apart any vibrant vegetations associated with a majestic spring it came across with a brilliant performance, and 40mm grenade rounds crash into the soil and grasses uncomfortably close the Humvees of Second Platoon, the hail of dud projectile bouncing from the short impact it had traveled into the sky above – as if to reach for the heavens above, before spontaneously combusting mid-air in a wall of orange gleam hanging against the illusive darkness.

  By now, everyone within the platoon had entered into a state of controlled chaos and composed pandemonium. It was especially the case for the Humvee at the tip of the advance, as friendly rounds and grenades viciously grazed closer, and closer towards the idle Marines inside, the tracers as if there to warn them of their impending doom approaching.

  "What the fuck?" The previously stoic complexion of the brunette team leader contort into one of confusion, his vibrant green eyes illuminated brightly by the barrage of rounds igniting against the veil of the darkness, impacting and combusting in all its magnificent glory viciously close to his team's lightly-armored venerable Humvee. "Where the fuck did that come from? Kirito! Can you fucking see where the fuck did the tracers came from!"

  The puzzled team leader shouted, his gaze snapping away from the tracers dancing across the grassy tranquility of the countryside, and above, towards the Humvee's cramped turret cupola. His eyes met ones of the vehicle's skilled Mark-19 grenade launcher gunner, the asiatic Corporal Manato Kirigaya – evidently referred to as 'Kirito' for sharing the name with a certain protagonist of an anime, that in the words of the green-eyed brunette, sucks ass. The Corporal was similarly worried like Simon, yet did not hesitate to act upon receiving the orders. He climbed back up into his circular abode above, his protective goggles donned on his eyes illuminated occasionally by the relentless maelstrom unfolding outside.

  Silence, save for the deafening symphony of the seemingly unstoppable gunfire obscenely grazing against the tranquil night's breezy embrace, followed soon afterwards. It seems to be as if the fires of hell itself had descended upon the soil of Falmart, blazing it away in a show of light of biblical proportions for its unforgivable sins committed against each other.

  Soon enough, after what had felt like an eternity or two spent staring hopelessly at the creeping ignition, cleansing away the prevailing darkness of the night, a reply came from the gunner.

  "Uh Sergeant!" The gunner hurriedly exclaimed, his voice full of disbelief and evidently horrified by the revelation he had just bore witness to. In the background, in its breezy, fragile veil of darkness, a brilliant cluster of light streaks seared past at unimaginable speed. "Those guys are the fucking Japanese SDF recon grunts we heard on the net an hour ago! The motherfuckers are laying down a solid FPF on those peasants we passed earlier thinking those guys are the Romans!

  "What the fuck?" An exclamation of disbelief immediately came from the red-haired Corpsman situated cramped behind the driver's cab, his voice distraught and his deep blue eyes gazing towards the searing comets of death, watching in disbelief as it swiftly flew past. It's as if, the passing radiant lights themselves were the bearers of the bad news that would shortly come from the bewildered gunner above.

  "Shit man!" Kirito shouted down to his comrades below, each of their visions fixated on the brilliantly illuminated ambers of death wafting past like an illusive grim reaper. His voice was clearly distraught as he delivered his findings. "It's completely fucked up!"

  "Evan, get those guys on the fucking radio!" Wasting no time dwelling on such prospect and acting immediately upon receiving the bad news, the team leader was quick to avert his attention away from the bewildered gunner and towards the unusually silent driver of his, the previously ebullient tone written across his complexion earlier had all but disappeared along with the tranquility of the night as Simon authoritatively gestured.

  Once again and for the second time amidst the pandemonium that had reared its ugly head in the wake of the maelstrom that had befallen the earlier tranquil landscape, Simon's lean neck averted, swiftly turning towards Clancy in hurried concern, both men worried about the same thing that had lingered within their minds from the moment the revelation was delivered by their gunner : the Falmartian shepherds they had just saw earlier, inexplicably strolling through the spring's night.

  Much to the usually calm and stoic team leader's dismay, the news wasn't exactly good.

  It certainly wasn't good.

  "Aw fuck! One of them got hit in the leg! It's all fucked up!" The Corpsman, with thinly-veiled terror and evident disbelief all within his voice, shouted with all the might he had mustered, hopelessly watching as one of the guiltless shepherd figures in the distance – personified simply as a person's silhouette, no older than the age of adolescence, against the puke-green vision of his half-powered NVGs, fell down towards the embrace of the earthly soil upon being struck in the leg by the ruthless lights searing past, uncaring of the boy's status and wealth as it zoomed on into the horizon beyond. "The guy legs' legit a complete fucking mess!"

  "...those fucking retards. Doc, don't go out there, you'll get schwacked by their fucking FPF." His first instinct as a team leader immediately came to life, a plea-like warning swiftly coming out of his mouth with a distraught tone, the brunette's dismayed eyes gazing at the worried ones of Clancy. Multitasking without even realizing it, he spoke up once again, this time his hurried words directed towards the blank-faced driver of his sitting by his side. "Evan, did you manage to get those guys on the radio net?"

  As if to answer his ponderings, the already overwhelmed radio barked once more to life, the one of the very few messages discernible amidst the unrelenting symphony of death zipping past to the glum men crammed inside the dusty interior of the rusty, age-old Humvee. The calming, yet authoritative voice belonged to their platoon commander, a certain Lt. Mistral.

  "All Hitman-2 Victors, this is Hitman-2 Actual, hold your fire, those are friendly! Over!" In spite of the optimistic-sounding transmission of their beloved Lieutenant, worse has yet to come. In the background, the staccato of ceaseless gunfire continued on, sounding akin as if it were the searing march of a hundred thousand grim reapers, advancing willingly towards their hopeless prey.

  One could only wonder, how the fuck did Japan's "self-defense force" manage to stockpile such amount of machine-gun ammunition and grenade rounds in a company-sired unit to be wasted against a couple dozen figures, vaguely-discernible through their night vision nodes and completely invisible against the prevailing darkness.

  "Fuck! It got passed down, we have no absolutely no fucking communications with that JSDF reconnaissance company." Finally in what felt like an entire eternity or so, Evan finally spoke up, his voice albeit clearly disappointed and devoid of any hope. Depraved of any innocence he had prior to the opening of the invasion, the fatigued driver, deadpanned and powered solely by the ridiculous consumption of energy drinks, resorted to the most well-known and tried coping tactics : dark humor amidst a completely fucked situation. "I don't know, maybe those fucking retards will ran out of ammo or something."

  "This is gonna be a long night." As he stared at the driver in the wake of the driver's crudely-made joke, Simon couldn't help, but give in to the urge to slightly snicker at the dark humor of the present situation. He shook his head in disbelief, and pity too, mostly at the shot-up shepherds, and for the humongous amount of peoples, whether it be innocent civilians or murderous legionnaires, they're going to kill in the near future but also for themselves, for their innocence now forever lost.

  Any semblance of the night's fragile tranquility, any illusions in regards to its fantastical rolling fields and untouched wonders, had been ruthlessly swept away by the ever-continuous barrage of brilliantly lit fires, for they were the searing harbingers of death itself. Any hints of innocence prior to embarking on this blitzkrieg-like invasion of an interstellar adversary, the memory of the better times of their teen years, spared from the ongoing horrors of maelstrom unfolding right now before their very eyes, left within the Marines, were gone forever.

  There will be no turning back, for they're now fully committed to the first interstellar invasion executed by the Marines as the tip of the spear itself.

  Their story, the bizarre odyssey of Marine Corps' elite 1st Reconnaissance Battalion and its grittily visceral journey through the heart of a fantastical empire as it led 1st Marine Division unrelenting charge to Sadera, had just begun.

  Note :

  Hospital Corpsman - A US Navy medical position, they're not Marines, but the reason why they're attached to Marine units is because USMC lacked organic medical support, medical supports are provided by Navy's Hospital Corpsman. Which means that Clancy is a sailor that got attached to marine unit.

  NVGs - Night Vision Goggles. NOD (night optical device) could also work as a substitute.

  FPF - Final protective fire which is a military term for shooting anything you got in a general direction when you're in the danger of being overran. The reason why the grunts in the chapter relentlessly mocked the Japanese use of FPF is because, obviously, that JSDF recon company certainly weren't in danger of being overran by hordes of Saderans charging through the plains of Falmart.

  Victors - Vehicles, in NATO phonetic alphabet.

  Footmobiles - Enemy on foot, duh.

  MSR - Main Supply Route, military term for any kind of roads in use by the military.

  LOTR - Lords of The Rings.

  LOD - Line of departure, which is an imaginary line before a military operation, where once you cross it, you're fully commited to an attack.

  POG - Persons Other than Grunts, the insulting term in the Marine Corps (and the rest of armed forces as a whole) referring to troops working in supply, logistical, artillery and other rear-echelon units away from the grunts (infantry) fighting tooth and nail in the frontlines.

  (This is a rewritten chapter of the earlier version of this chapter, now deleted in Wattpad.)