[The Ruins of the 13th Street]

  Gunpowder smoke mixed with acid rain created a suffocating gray smog. This was no longer a simple street brawl; it had transformed into a true furnace of war.

  Leonidas stood atop a half-collapsed clock tower, the highest point in the entire sector. He didn’t roar or wave his weapon like a hot-blooded manga protagonist. Instead, he stood like a silent statue, analyzing the situation with eyes that had seen thousands of ancient battlefields.

  "The enemy's tactics have changed."

  His voice was low and terrifyingly steady over the comms channel.

  "The previous attacks were thug-like 'zerg rushes,' relying on numbers and gear. But now... they are slicing the battlefield."

  Through his telescope (a monocular Bone had scavenged), Leonidas saw it clearly. The Guild's Scavenger troops weren't rushing.

  They used three heavy Titan Mechs as mobile fire support hubs. Between these hubs, countless Corpse Puppet soldiers spread out in standard "triangular formations," seeping into every alley and ruined building like mercury.

  It was a highly dangerous signal.

  "They aren't trying to 'occupy' anymore. They are 'cleansing'." Leonidas's tone turned grim. "They are using the Puppets' lack of pain and fatigue to conduct carpet searches and attrition. Once they find our people—even a single fire point—they call in rear mortars and snipers for pinpoint elimination."

  "This is 'Firepower Recon' combined with 'Precision Strikes.' For us, lacking heavy weapons, this is a dead end."

  John Doe lay beneath a pile of rubble, his breathing suppressed to the absolute limit.

  He understood Leonidas's analysis.

  We can't let them link up, John thought. Once their fire net forms, we'll be compressed into the central square and wiped out in one go.

  He looked at the scalpel in his hand, then at the Necromancer node directing the Corpse Puppets in the distance.

  Decapitation strike. He had to take out the commander.

  But he wasn't an Assassin's Creed protagonist who could parkour over walls. He was a hemophobic dropout mage, an ordinary person.

  He used the terrain.

  The 13th Street's sewer system was a labyrinth, his only cover.

  John slipped into a manhole cover. He crawled through the darkness, calculating the distance.

  The vibration on the ground told him a Titan Mech was passing directly overhead.

  "Now!"

  John slammed the manhole cover open. He didn't jump out; he only extended one hand.

  On that hand was a [Thunder Talisman].

  He slapped the talisman onto the exposed hydraulic pipe of the Titan's ankle, then instantly retracted back underground.

  "Burst!"

  There was no earth-shattering explosion. Just the sound of a hydraulic pipe bursting and high-pressure oil spraying out.

  But that was enough.

  The Titan lost its balance and stumbled.

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  That single stumble exposed the Necromancer hiding behind it.

  "NOW! Bite them!"

  Leonidas seized that fleeting moment of opportunity.

  "First Wave, Molotovs! Block their vision!"

  "Second Wave, Spartan Shield Bash! Cut off the infantry-tank coordination!"

  From corners that seemed dead and silent, roars suddenly erupted.

  This wasn't a blind charge.

  Behind every ruin lay a three-man cell: A Spartan warrior holding the line with a shield, a neighbor (like Butcher Zhang) acting as melee DPS, and a kid throwing interference items (Molotovs or lime powder).

  This was "Broken Tooth" tactics.

  Every point was a hard bone to chew.

  The Guild's Corpse Puppets rushed up, got blocked by shields, and then had their necks severed by butcher knives.

  The Mechs behind them tried to provide fire support, but their sensors were blinded by the thick smoke from the Molotovs.

  "Their reaction is too slow." Leonidas sneered.

  The fatal weakness of the Necromancy Guild was exposed.

  While Corpse Puppets were fearless, they lacked autonomy and relied on the Necromancer's micromanagement. Once the battlefield became chaotic, the commands suffered from latency.

  In close-quarters combat, even a second of latency meant death.

  Inside the rear command vehicle, the high-ranking Necromancer commander, codename "Wraith," broke into a cold sweat.

  On the holographic sand table, the green lights representing friendly forces were extinguishing at an alarming rate.

  "Why?!" Wraith couldn't comprehend it. "My tactics are flawless! Firepower coverage, infantry-tank synergy, segmentation and encirclement... This is textbook siege warfare! Why can't we push through?!"

  He didn't understand.

  Textbooks are dead. The battlefield is alive.

  He wasn't facing a mob. He was facing a "Hybrid Legion" commanded by a Spartan King, fortified by Mozi, powered by Tesla, and fighting on home turf.

  More importantly, his soldiers were dead (corpses), while the enemy soldiers... were alive.

  Living people feel fear, but living people also erupt.

  When Butcher Zhang saw his meat shop blown up, the strength he unleashed surpassed that of the Puppets.

  When Bone saw Margaret almost get hit by a stray bullet, his skeletal frame literally tanked a rocket.

  "Because you are an idiot."

  That elegant, cold voice cut into the channel again.

  Moriarty looked at the battle damage data on his screen. There was no anger in his eyes, only a disgust for "inefficiency."

  "You are trying to fight a 'Policing Action' with 'War of Attrition' tactics. Every shell you fire costs 5,000 New Currency, while the Molotov cocktail they throw costs less than five bucks."

  "You are using gold bars to smash stones. Even if you break the stones, you go bankrupt."

  Moriarty's fingers tapped a rhythm on his desk.

  "This is the quagmire of 'Asymmetric Warfare.' Retreat."

  "But High Priest..."

  "I will handle the High Priest. If you don't retreat now, by daybreak, when reporters and citizens see the invincible Scavenger troops getting beaten senseless by a bunch of beggars..."

  Moriarty paused.

  "Then the Guild won't just lose money. We will lose face."

  "Withdraw."

  The faint light of dawn finally shone onto the ruins.

  The gunfire stopped.

  The Guild's troops retreated, leaving behind wreckage and corpses.

  John crawled out of the sewer, covered in mud, clutching the scalpel tightly. He looked around. The Spartans were clearing the battlefield; neighbors were digging through rubble for survivors.

  There were no cheers of victory.

  Only heavy breathing and low sobbing.

  His mom, Margaret, pushed her squeaky wheelchair to the center of the square. In her uninjured hand, she held a pot of soup that was still steaming.

  It was leftovers from last night. Dusty, cooled down, and reheated.

  "Children, have some soup."

  Margaret's voice was soft, yet incredibly clear in the deadly silent battlefield.

  Leonidas walked over. This King, accustomed to mountains of corpses and seas of blood, looked at the pot of soup with an expression he had rarely shown before—Respect.

  He took a bowl, didn't complain, and downed it in one gulp.

  "Good soup."

  He wiped his mouth and looked at John.

  "Kid, do you know why you won?"

  John shook his head.

  Leonidas pointed at the soup, then at the neighbors gathering around Margaret.

  "Because you have something to protect."

  "Dead men (Puppets) have nothing to protect. They just follow orders."

  "But the living... as long as the soup is warm, as long as the home stands, this breath... will not scatter."

  John looked at the soup, tears streaming down his face silently.

  Tonight, they held the line.

  They not only protected their homes but also preserved this steaming hot hope.

  [Cloud Office]

  Moriarty turned off the battlefield livestream. He turned around, facing the portrait of High Priest Mordred hanging behind him.

  He raised his teacup to the portrait, a mocking smile curling his lips.

  "My dear High Priest, your strategy of 'Total Blockade' was truly... abysmal."

  "Sun Tzu once said: Wei Shi Bi Que (Surround an army but leave a gap)."

  "It means when you surround an enemy, you must leave an opening so they think there's hope of escape. That way, their will to fight crumbles."

  "But you? You forced them into a dead end. Cut off water, cut off power, and threatened massacre."

  Moriarty took a sip of tea.

  "You forced a pack of rats that just wanted to survive into wolves that dared to bite a lion to death."

  "Only a fool forces his opponent to fight... with their backs to the river."

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