Chapter Seventy-Two: Forcing Through the Tank Formation

A month passed.

More than half of the two million troops of the Three Nations Alliance had invaded French cities, clearing out the remaining German forces and liberating much of the French territory. Now, the next phase of their advance was the German border itself.

This was the most formidable line of defense yet. The German army had stationed their steel-clad tank divisions and armored units along the border cities, establishing layers of heavy firepower in their defensive lines.

The Alliance, which had swept forward with unstoppable momentum, suffered heavy blows upon reaching this zone. Artillery bombardments rained down, isolating tens of thousands of vanguard troops outside the defenses.

“If we can just break through this line, our forces could drive straight into Germany’s heartland, maybe even seize the enemy’s capital in one strike!”

Fury, one of the leaders of the Alliance vanguard, furrowed his brow and peered out from behind a crumbling wall, scanning half a mile ahead with a military-grade telescope. There, stretching in an unbroken line, stood colossal tanks like iron fortresses, their countless black gun barrels slanted menacingly toward the front.

Everyone understood the stakes. But breaking through the enemy’s tank defense wasn’t so simple. This was not a gap that numbers alone could fill—no matter how many soldiers rushed forward, they would only become cannon fodder.

Fury waved his hand and asked a frontline communications officer, “Where are our bombers? Why haven’t they arrived to provide support?”

The communications officer, just off the telegraph with headquarters, reported, “Germany has sent nearly all their planes into the air, greatly hindering our bombing missions. It’s unlikely our aircraft can get here in the next few days.”

“No planes, no tank reinforcements—are we expected to break through this wall of fire with our bodies alone?” Fury clenched his teeth, searching for a solution. In his mind, a cold, youthful face flashed before him.

If only he were here, he’d surely find a way to break this line.

Fury sighed. A month ago, Kyle had vanished from the front; not a single soldier had seen him since. Where had he gone? With his abilities, he wouldn’t have left the main battlefield without a pressing reason.

Lost in thought, Fury was startled by a sudden outburst from a group of soldiers nearby.

“Lieutenant Fury! Two people just charged the tank line on motorcycles—one of them is Major General Kyle, it’s him!” The communications officer, clutching binoculars, slapped the earthwork in excitement.

Kyle?

Fury’s heart skipped a beat. Forgetting where he’d put his own binoculars, he grabbed the ones from the officer and stared at the front line.

At that very moment, the German tank divisions seemed to awaken. Several tanks swung their barrels toward the area, the roar of their guns deafening as they transformed the battered ruins ahead into a sea of fire and explosions.

Yet the growl of engines could still be heard through the chaos. Two modified motorcycles burst from the inferno, racing headlong under the tanks’ muzzles, undaunted.

On one bike rode a young man in black combat gear, a signature single-edged sword strapped to his back. The other bore a weathered man in a jacket and jeans, a cigarette clamped between his lips.

The two didn’t seem to be dashing through a bombardment for their lives—they looked more like rivals in a daily motorcycle race, neither yielding an inch as they sped forward side by side.

“So it really is Kyle. I worried for nothing all this time,” Fury murmured, lowering the binoculars. Realization striking him, he stood and issued a command in a booming voice: “All vanguard units! Ready your weapons. Once Major General Kyle breaches the enemy tank line, advance immediately in sync with their assault!”

A shell whistled through the air, striking the ground and pulverizing everything within three meters to dust, fire and shockwaves tearing outward.

Kyle, however, navigated his motorcycle with ease, deftly steering to evade the concentrated shelling. Any shockwaves that reached him were easily absorbed by the venom suit he wore.

Logan’s eyes glinted cold with killing intent. As he rode, shards and debris from the bombardment grazed his face, but he showed not the slightest change in expression.

“Are you sure the man is among those tanks up ahead?” Logan asked in a low voice.

“Absolutely,” Kyle nodded. “Sabretooth has been extremely cautious this past month, not showing himself in any uncertain engagements. Only this morning did Blue Eagle spot him hiding with these German troops. But which tank exactly, I can’t say for sure.”

“That’s enough,” Logan growled. “Once I get close, I’ll know by his stench.”

“Okay. I’ll create chaos and break the tank formation. You find him and force him out!” With that, Kyle twisted the throttle, his motorcycle accelerating to top speed as he hit a low rise, launching into the air.

A moment later, several shells slammed into where he’d just been, the shockwave knocking his airborne motorcycle aside. Kyle planted his foot on the seat, leaping off to hurtle forward.

In an instant, he closed the ten-meter distance, landing almost atop the tanks that had been firing relentlessly.

“The first one,” Kyle said coldly. Before the tank could fire again, he sprang high, driving his right fist into the gaping maw of the cannon.

A shell met his vibranium-braced fist at the muzzle, detonating inside the tank with a blast that consumed it in fire and screams. The steel beast was reduced to a heap of scrap.

Withdrawing his arm, his shoulder only slightly bruised by the blast—an injury quickly healed by the venom suit—Kyle felt invincible.

The blue “Regeneration Factor” ability card! He’d drawn it on his first day of negotiating with Logan. The perfect physique of a super soldier didn’t amplify strength or speed as much as it improved stamina, vitality, and self-healing. This allowed Kyle to take risks that seemed suicidal—his regeneration card was his insurance, making his body a true weapon.

He sprang onto the next tank, drew his sodium-carbon steel sword, and sliced through the steel hinges, yanking open the hatch. Flashing a cool smile at the soldiers inside, he pulled the pin on a high-explosive grenade and tossed it in.

He slammed the hatch shut. The muffled bang echoed through the tank’s armor, black smoke leaking from the seams and gunports.

“Second,” Kyle counted dispassionately, standing atop the ruined tank. As he prepared to attack the next, a hail of bullets rattled against his body, each one bouncing harmlessly off his venom suit.