it would be greatly appreciated if you could leave your review to show the score to people who are interested in the story.
-------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------
I quickly descended behind our lines, making sure to keep the vertibird out of range of enemy fire. I knew that a well-placed shot to the rotors, which were the only part not shielded by armor, could bring us down. A single hit in the wrong place would spell disaster.
As soon as we touched down, I jumped out of the vertibird and connected to the communications of my legionaries. The battle was intense, and the radio operators of each centuria were exchanging crucial information.
"The profligates are dismounting from their vehicles and charging our positions in the village. We've secured elevated positions and are inflicting casualties," one of the operators reported.
"We see them. We have a direct line of fire on them. The light mortars are ready. Where do we drop the barrage?" the other centuria operator asked.
"One hundred meters north of the village entrance," responded the operator.
The light mortars fired, their projectiles tracing a perfect arc before impacting with a deafening blast. The explosions shook the ground, sending up clouds of dust and debris, momentarily forcing the Sundogs to retreat from their charge.
"Good shot! Keep up the pressure, don't let them regroup," I shouted to my operators, watching as the enemy scattered under the impact. The attack had worked, but we couldn't relax just yet.
"Preparing another barrage, awaiting your command, centurion!" the mortar operator informed.
"Hold for my signal!" I ordered, as I sprinted toward the frontlines to join the legionaries in the village. From my slightly elevated position, I could see the profligates still advancing, slower now but with grim determination.
Bolt-action rifle shots rang out from the rooftops, with my men reloading quickly and with precision—just as I had trained them—while the tribals charged recklessly in straight lines. Some Sundogs were cut down before they reached the first trench, but others, armed with pistols and blades, made it dangerously close.
I finally reached the position where Cato, leading my centuria, was holding back the onslaught of the Sundogs. The sound of rifles cracking and the brutal clash of machetes filled the air. Cato, covered in dust and sweat, was shouting orders as he fought to keep the enemy at bay.
"Hold the line! Do not fall back!" Cato yelled, firing his anti-material rifle at a Sundog who had gotten too close, tearing him apart with the immense power of the shot.
"Centurion! You're finally here! We're holding, but these bastards keep coming. Their vehicles are bringing them in waves," Cato shouted when he saw me.
The other centuria, stationed at a higher position, was raining mortar fire on the enemy vehicles on the far side of the village. Explosions rocked the area, sending debris and bodies flying, sowing chaos among the Sundogs as they tried to regroup.
"They're trapped in their own strategy. We've got them right where we want them. If they advance, we have the advantage to wipe them out, and if they try to regroup, the mortars will tear them apart," I said, watching as the Sundog vehicles began to retreat under the barrage of explosions.
"Keep firing! Don't let up!" I shouted to Cato's men. "We hold the line, and they'll cover us with the mortars. If we keep this formation, they'll have no choice but to retreat."
The booming sound of the heavy mortars added to the chaos of the battlefield, each blast hammering down on the Sundogs' heads. The explosions decimated everything in their path—vehicles, men, and any attempt to organize another offensive. The mortar fire from the west was doing its job, breaking the enemy lines with every barrage.
From our elevated position in the buildings, the legionaries kept firing with precision, protecting the main access to the village. The Sundogs, though fierce, were beginning to fall back. Each wave they sent was met with a relentless combination of mortars and bolt-action rifles.
"Don't let up, they're about to break!" I shouted to my men at the entrance.
Cato came up to me, covered in dust and smoke. "The heavy mortars are tearing them apart. I don't think they'll hold much longer."
"Perfect. Keep the men in their positions. I don't want anyone getting cocky. These profligates have a reputation for being unpredictable," I responded, keeping my eyes on the enemy lines. Despite being weakened, the Sundogs still fought with a dangerous desperation.
The gunfire continued, and the explosions gave no respite to the Sundogs. I saw some of their vehicles trying to retreat, but the mortar fire reached them before they could escape. Even so, a few of the more desperate tribals kept charging on foot, only to be swiftly gunned down by our legionaries.
Finally, the tribals, after suffering relentless punishment, broke ranks. Chaos erupted among them as they decided they'd had enough and began to flee, abandoning their precious vehicles that had been destroyed by mortar fire. The area where their transports had been stationed was now a field of destruction, with burning wrecks and bodies scattered everywhere.
We watched as they fled in disarray across the dusty plain, no longer organized, like animals running for their lives.
"They're fleeing, no vehicles! They've got no way to regroup!" Cato yelled, pointing to the disorganized exodus of the Sundogs.
"Cease fire! Conserve ammunition!" I ordered, watching as the battle had finally turned in our favor.
The Sundogs were fleeing, tails between their legs. The dust kicked up by their feet and the panic in their movements made it clear they had been utterly defeated.
"Alright, make sure no profligate is left alive, and begin searching the bodies. I want any useful equipment recovered," I commanded my legionaries as I adjusted my power armor. "Cato, you're with me. Let's check the Sundogs' vehicles, maybe there's something worth salvaging."
Immediately, the orders were relayed over the radios. The legionaries moved quickly, organizing a sweep across the battlefield to recover any valuable gear from the fallen. I knew the Sundogs, though defeated, might have some technology worth salvaging—perhaps parts that could be useful in future battles.
Cato joined me quickly, rifle in hand, as we headed toward the charred wreckage of the enemy vehicles. As we approached, the stench of burnt metal and oil hit us hard, with smoke still rising from the debris.
"Think we'll find anything worth salvaging from this mess?" Cato asked as he inspected one of the wrecked vehicles.
"It's possible. The profligates aren't idiots. Even though they fled, it's likely some of their vehicles had equipment we can reuse. And if not, we can at least strip them for parts to maintain our own vehicles. If we find any intact vehicles, we'll have more capacity to transport loot."
We began examining the wrecked vehicles. Most were too damaged to repair, but I found some electronic components and weapons parts that could be recycled. I also stumbled upon a few crates of ammunition that, miraculously, hadn't exploded during the bombardment.
"This could be useful," I said, hefting a crate of ammunition. "It's not much, but it'll do for training."
"These are just copies of our own vehicles," Cato said with disdain, kicking at a half-melted wheel.
"Paullus's legacy," I muttered, as I began dismantling the engine of another vehicle. "When he lost to these damned tribals, he didn't just bring back defeat—he brought back the shame of having our equipment stolen and copied."
The engine I was working on was a basic design, but functional if repaired. With some modification, we could mount it on another chassis and have an additional transport vehicle ready to haul more equipment to the front lines
Some of my legionaries spread out across the field of bodies, slitting the throats of all the profligates who were still breathing but crippled by the intensity of the fire we had rained upon them. Those who seemed capable of recovery were quickly chained and collared as slaves, ready to be handed over to the slave master.
"We've killed hundreds of these profligates," Drusus said as he approached from his position.
"It was a good massacre, but we can't relax," I replied, eyes still fixed on the bodies. "I want all the captives in chains and ready to be sent to camp. We can't afford to waste time here—too much ammunition spent, and another attack like this could leave us dry. They outnumber us, and that would be a problem."
Drusus nodded and continued overseeing the task. The legionaries worked efficiently, chaining the captured profligates and preparing them for transport.
Our victory had been decisive, with few casualties on our side—just a couple of dead from close combat when a few Sundogs had managed to breach our defenses. Despite their numbers, the Sundogs were a fierce and war-hardened people, used to battle and conflict.
For several days, the skirmishes continued without pause. The tribals fought with fierce resistance in every village and defensive post we encountered as we advanced. Despite our superior weaponry and organization, the profligates managed to ambush and force us back at times, using their knowledge of the terrain to their advantage.
One centurion, too confident in his progress, overextended his unit and was surrounded. When we reached his position, we found his entire group massacred. The bodies of his legionaries were strewn across the ground, with clear signs that they had been ambushed and picked off one by one.
"This is what happens when you underestimate the enemy," Drusus muttered as we surveyed the battlefield. It was a reminder that any mistake in this campaign would be paid for in blood.
"Gather what we can use and bury our dead. Lanius won't tolerate more failures. Next time we face these tribals, we won't be as lenient," I ordered, beginning to oversee the collection of bodies and whatever equipment we could salvage.
The centurion's failure cast a shadow over us, a reminder of the consequences of carelessness. Lanius would not let this go unanswered, and soon we were launching fierce attacks on the remaining settlements, which had been evacuated of their civilian population, leaving only defenders behind.
As our advance continued and we reached larger settlements, the resistance grew even more intense. What started as skirmishes turned into full-blown battles. The profligates, desperate to defend what little they had left, fought with a brutality that made each victory bloodier than the last.
However, the ferocity of the enemy was not what worried me most. It was what happened after each victory. The legionaries, worn out by the prolonged campaign and driven by a thirst for vengeance, became unchained beasts after each triumph. Conquered cities turned into slaughterhouses, with legionaries carrying out summary executions and mass killings. The smoke from burning bodies mixed with the screams of survivors.
Rape became a daily occurrence. Every village conquered, every settlement destroyed, became a scene where the power of the Legion was asserted not just through weapons but through fear and submission. The legionaries saw it as another reward of war, a way to affirm their dominance over the defeated. There were no restrictions, no rules to limit this behavior. Brutality was part of the Legion's daily life, and rape was simply seen as another facet of victory.
It was during this time that I discovered my reputation within the Legion. While other centurions rewarded their men with slaves or indulged themselves after victories, my approach was different. I did not hand out carnal rewards, nor did I allow chaos in my ranks. Word spread that, under my command, such rewards weren't to be expected. Instead, I offered something far more valuable: the chance to live and serve for many more years under Lord Caesar.
My focus was clear: anyone under my command would live longer than those in any other century. I personally funded the equipment of all my men, ensuring they had the best gear money, iron, and ammunition could buy. I didn't offer immediate gratification, but the guarantee that they would walk away from battles with their bodies intact. Every rifle, every piece of armor I acquired for them was an investment in their survival—and my own stability as a centurion.
Because of this approach, my century had become one of the deadliest, and yet the one with the fewest casualties during the three weeks of skirmishes against the Sundogs. While the casualty rate for a new legionary in the Legion often ranged from thirty to seventy percent in their first battles, the rate in my century was less than one percent. My men, better equipped and trained, achieved feats that surpassed veteran decanus from other centuries.
This would all be tested in the coming days. After weeks of attacks and retreats, the Sundogs had finally gathered all their forces. Lanius, with his ruthless strategy, had provoked them into leaving their hiding places and facing us for a final, decisive battle in the open field. This wouldn't be another skirmish or ambush—this time, both armies would meet face to face.
------------------------
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
----------------------
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
----------------------
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
it would be greatly appreciated if you could leave your review to show the score to people who are interested in the story.
-------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------
As both sides prepared for a brutal fight, I used the days leading up to it to make multiple trips between my refuge and the Legion's camp. For three days, I did nothing but fly back and forth, bringing as much mortar ammunition as possible. I knew this would be the perfect opportunity to use it, and every load I transported in the Vertibird was vital to ensure our advantage.
The Sundogs' camp was only a few kilometers from our position, perfectly vulnerable to a massive bombardment. All we needed was enough ammunition to saturate their defenses and prepare to unleash hell upon them. The 81 mm mortars, carefully distributed in our positions, were ready to rain fire on the Sundogs as soon as we had Lanius' green light.
With the Vertibird running at full capacity thanks to the cold fusion generator, fuel was no longer a concern. The technicians at my refuge worked tirelessly, loading munitions and preparing more rounds to keep the flow constant. Meanwhile, I coordinated with my men at the Legion's camp, ensuring all the mortars were operational and in position for when the moment arrived.
Lanius watched me, still with that air of distrust toward my approach. His warrior nature drove him to prefer direct brutality, hand-to-hand combat, while I proposed a more calculated strategy.
"So your plan is to defeat them from here, without even facing them directly," he repeated with a slight tone of disapproval as he watched my men prepare the mortars.
"Exactly, Legate," I replied calmly, pointing to the lined-up weapons. "From this position, we can bombard their camp before they even manage to advance. The profligates have made a mistake by positioning their camp so close to us. They're within range of our long-range mortars, and with a massive barrage of high-explosive rounds, we'll soften the ground for the legionaries' charge. Once weakened by the bombardment, the resistance your forces will face will be minimal."
Lanius was silent for a few seconds, contemplating the possibility. I knew he wasn't one to favor long-range tactics. For him, glory lay in the clash of swords, in the blood spilled in combat. But he wasn't a fool, and if there was something that could offer him a crushing victory without unnecessarily wearing down his men, he was willing to listen.
Lanius looked at me, evaluating my words with his typical coldness. Despite his reservations about my strategy, my promise of total devastation seemed to stir something in him.
"How much damage do you think you can inflict on the profligates from here?" Lanius asked, keeping his gaze fixed on me.
I smiled, confident in my plan. "I have over two thousand rounds, and I swear by Lord Caesar, I'm going to use every one of them. I'll cause a massacre so great that even the god Mars will be eager to witness the profligates being torn apart. I won't stop firing until the ground is a crater so deep it can be seen for kilometers."
The smile didn't leave my face. The impact would be monumental, we could destroy their camp from a safe distance. The mortars were already lined up, my men ready to fire as soon as the order was given.
Lanius slowly nodded, his mask of Mars giving him an even more imposing appearance. "Then, Gaius, do not invoke Lord Caesar's name in vain—make sure your promise is kept. Let the profligates know the true power of the Legion."
The Legion's forces outnumbered the Sundog tribals by a wide margin. We would strike first, while the bulk of the Legion positioned themselves in the triplex acies. The attack was to be launched in the early morning, ensuring that as many tribals as possible were caught off guard, maximizing terror.
My men, well-prepared and disciplined, were ready to unleash hell upon the Sundogs.
"Centurion Gaius," Drusus called out as he inspected the mortars, ensuring they were spaced adequately to prevent catastrophic explosions should one malfunction. "Everything is ready, just give the word, and we'll rain fire on the profligates."
The first rays of sunlight illuminated the battlefield, and that's when I saw it: a torch moving from right to left. It was Lanius' signal. The time had come.
"Very well, gentlemen… no mercy for the profligates!" I ordered, motioning to the ammunition. My men, trained for this moment, responded with speed and precision. With a single motion of my hand, they began loading the mortars.
The sound of the rounds being fired surrounded us. Within seconds, dozens of mortars thundered in unison, as if the very sky were exploding. My legionaries worked like a well-oiled machine—loading, firing, and cleaning the mortar tubes in perfectly synchronized cycles. There was no room for mistakes; they had practiced for hours to perfect this moment.
From a distance, I could see the red flashes far off, as explosions began to consume the enemy camp. Dust and debris clouds rose swiftly, obscuring the tribals' view as our projectiles rained down upon them.
Each shot was a death sentence for the Sundogs. The flashes continued, each one a fulfilled promise of total destruction. My men did not relent, firing at maximum speed, the deafening sound of the mortars filling the air as the ground trembled beneath our feet.
"Keep it up!" I shouted. "Don't stop firing until there's nothing left."
I could imagine the chaos on the other side—the screams of the profligates, their confusion as their vehicles exploded and their warriors fell, one after another, under our rain of destruction.
For endless minutes, the mortars roared without pause. Occasionally, we saw massive explosions in the distance, likely indicating that we had hit some fuel depot, lighting up the horizon with a fierce glow. Smoke billowed, and the echo of the blasts reverberated in our ears—a symphony of destruction that went on uninterrupted.
The legionaries around me maintained a steady rhythm, firing without rest, but slowly the massive stockpile of ammunition we had brought began to dwindle. The last round was loaded and fired, marking the end of our artillery barrage. Still, through my binoculars, I saw the explosions continue—residual echoes of the devastation we had unleashed.
The legionaries descended like a hurricane of destruction, organized into their three characteristic lines of the triplex acies. Every soldier knew their role in this grim dance, a lesson etched into them through blood and fire during their training. The vexillarius marched at the front, bearing the bull standard like a beacon for the men following behind, infusing them with almost superhuman strength. The rifles spat fire, perhaps shooting once or twice, and the real combat began when the legionaries threw down their firearms and unsheathed their machetes, gleaming in the first strike of the morning sun.
In the Sundogs' camp, chaos reigned. The defenders, caught off guard by the violent bombardment, desperately tried to organize, but the legionary tide was unstoppable. The swords and machetes of the legionaries struck with deadly precision, cutting tendons and shattering bones. A single slash to the side was enough to spill the guts of the tribals, who, despite their savage fury, could not match the brutal discipline of the Legion. The screams of the dying mingled with the dull sound of steel slicing through flesh and the clash of blades.
From my vantage point, I watched as a section of veterans flanked one of the Sundogs' defensive positions. The tribals, huddled behind destroyed vehicles, tried to fire their weapons in a desperate defense, but the legionaries quickly surrounded them. Machetes fell with force, slitting throats and severing limbs, while the Sundogs were reduced to a bloody mass.
Further away, a group of Sundogs attempted to flee toward the hills, but the prime legionaries, armed with their bolt-action rifles, took them down one by one, like hunters picking off helpless prey. The gaps in the enemy line widened with every passing minute, and the prime legionaries showed no mercy. In the narrow streets of the camp, the tribal resistance crumbled under the relentless advance of the Legion's ranks.
The terrain, already devastated by the mortar fire, became a swamp of blood and debris. The legionaries, fueled by their thirst for revenge, crushed any remaining resistance. There was no order to stop, only to advance, destroy, and claim.
The carnage in the Sundogs' camp continued without respite. The ground, blackened by previous explosions and stained with blood, bore witness to the Legion's relentless fury. Every step the legionaries took was marked by the crunch of bones underfoot, the metallic clang of swords striking against makeshift defenses, and the agonizing cries of the wounded and dying.
I could see survivors from the Sundogs trying to make a disorganized retreat. Many fled on foot, abandoning the wrecked vehicles that had once been their greatest advantage at the start of the battle.
The vexillarius continued to wave the bull standards, as if Caesar himself were watching over the battlefield. The wind, heavy with the smell of blood and gunpowder, made the banners flutter while more and more legionaries swept through the camp's last defenses. It didn't matter where I looked—the same fate awaited them tribals torn apart, legionaries advancing without pause, and a palpable sense of despair among the remaining Sundogs.
A small group of Sundogs had tried to entrench themselves in the ruins of a building, improvising a barricade with rubble and bodies. The veteran legionaries showed no mercy. They tossed improvised explosives to clear the way, and within seconds, flames and smoke engulfed what remained of the tribal resistance.
When the legionaries finally broke through the line and entered, the sound of swords cutting through bodies echoed like a funeral drum. The screams died out, and the once-bustling camp prepared for battle was now nothing more than a graveyard for the Sundogs.
I took a moment to lower my binoculars and assess the scene. The Sundogs, who had once faced the Legion with such ferocity, were completely defeated. There was no mercy in the legionaries' eyes, no truce. This wasn't just a victory; it was a message: the Legion does not forget, and it certainly does not forgive.
The battlefield was littered with bodies—some mutilated, others charred, and many torn apart by the explosions. The legionaries continued to advance among the debris and remains, finishing off any Sundog who still breathed. It wasn't just the brutality of the Legion that made this scene so striking, but the fact that the Sundogs, once feared for their ambushes and tactics, now lay in the dust like any other tribe crushed under Caesar's boot.
I looked at my men, still on the hill, watching everything unfold. It felt strange to think that while the Legion carried out the bloodiest part of its work, we had remained above, serving as the precise artillery that had paved the way for this massacre. My century stood firm, ready for whatever was needed, but our task was complete.
With the battle practically decided and the Sundogs defeated, I ordered my men to pack up the mortars, making sure not to leave anything behind. Every piece was essential for the next battle, and though the victory had been decisive, we always had to be prepared for whatever came next. The work was not over, and we knew well that the Legion never wasted anything.
We descended the hill swiftly, advancing toward the devastated camp. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with the stench of death, gunpowder, and smoke. The legionaries had already started gathering the surviving Sundogs. Those who hadn't been killed in the fight were now captives, soon to be turned into slaves—just another cog in Caesar's war machine.
My men joined the efforts, searching every corner of the camp for useful equipment. Weapons, ammunition, vehicle parts—anything that could be of value. The Sundogs' wagons, though mostly damaged, could be salvaged with the right repairs. "Every piece counts," I reminded my legionaries as they scoured the area.
On the other hand, we began placing slave collars on the captives. Some tribals were still breathing heavily, wounded but not enough to have died in battle. Those would be useful. The legionaries placed the collars without mercy, knowing that one way or another, the Sundogs would now serve the Legion—whether in construction, forced labor, or as future soldiers.
As the sun began to set, we ensured that no corner of the camp was left unchecked. Every man knew his task, and though the battle was over, the work of the Legion never truly ended. We knew this was just a small victory, as there were still many more tribes to conquer
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.