The gunfire in the eastern flank never stopped.
Kimmy and Yunera huddled inside one of the reinforced structures behind the lines.
"The battlefield," Kimmy muttered. "It has become steady once more."
She tilted her head slightly.
In her mind, the battlefield spread across like a living map. Hundreds of faint lights flickered across the plains.
Hans's soldiers burned brightly—steady, organized, unyielding.
The infected were the opposite.
They moved like a tide of dull sparks, advancing forward only to disappear whenever explosions or gunfire landed near where they were.
At the center of that storm were the defensive lines—four layered arcs of resistance.
The unoccupied trenches were now buried beneath mountains of corpses.
The second line barely remained intact.
Infantry squads carefully picked their targets, shot controlled bursts, then reloaded when out of magazine rounds.
The third line burned brighter.
The Machine Gunners. Grenadiers. And Missile Infantries.
