The bloody river II

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The same hellfire had been unleashed upon the profligates and their war dogs as they charged furiously at our trenches. The flames burned with such intensity that they seemed to consume everything, engulfing both enemies and the very earth itself. The roar of the fire drowned out the screams of the tribals as the massive flames erupted from the four power armors deployed at the front. They incinerated everything that moved, leaving only ashes and charred remains.

Most of the legionaries had followed my orders and retreated to higher ground, resisting the urge to charge into close combat. They knew that temptation was a death sentence in the chaos unfolding ahead. But, as always, a few couldn't resist. Drawn by their combative nature, they were now trapped in the line of fire, struggling to stay alive amidst the flames and the rabid dogs that managed to slip through the fire lines.

"Hold the line! Fall back if you must, but do not break formation!" I roared through the loudspeakers of my power armor, trying to impose some order amid the carnage. The battle had devolved into uncontrollable chaos.

The fire did not discriminate between friend or foe, and the few legionaries caught in the flames fell one by one. The power armors protected my best men, but the infantry legionaries weren't as fortunate. I saw one of them, engulfed in fire, screaming in agony as he desperately tried to escape the flames devouring him.

The mortars kept thundering, sending explosions into the enemy ranks. Despite the chaos, the profligates kept advancing. The waves seemed endless, and the dogs continued their brutal assault with an almost inhuman ferocity. The trenches filled with bodies, and the ground, now covered in ashes and blood, became harder to defend.

The sound of spent casings hitting the ground mixed with the relentless roar of the machine guns, which claimed life after life. Every shot echoed death, and with each passing second, more bodies fell. The waves of tribals kept coming, but our positions held firm. The trenches were awash with bullets and blood as the legionaries held their ground, firing nonstop.

With every burst from the machine guns, the enemy fell in droves, yet their numbers seemed endless. The machine gun nests along the river worked tirelessly, their implacable rhythm giving the enemy no respite. The air was thick with gunpowder, smoke, and the metallic scent of spilled blood.

My eyes scanned the line, searching for any sign of weakness, any spot where the profligates might break through. Despite the chaos, I knew we couldn't let up for even a moment. If they crossed the river in greater numbers, our position would become untenable.

Each wave we repelled seemed to give way to one more desperate and violent. The profligates, despite their massive losses, appeared to know no fear—or perhaps it was their lust for victory that drove them to throw themselves at our positions again and again. Bodies piled up along the riverbank, forming an improvised wall of flesh and shattered steel. Yet this only seemed to fuel the tribals' determination.

The machine guns roared on, their barrels glowing red-hot as the legionaries burned through clip after clip, firing with deadly precision. But for every wave we pushed back, another, more brutal and frenzied, followed. The mortars, effective as they were, began to run low on ammunition—a worrying sign.

The flamethrowers on the power armors continued their deadly work, incinerating everything in their path, leaving behind a landscape of charred and mutilated bodies. But the toll of the battle was undeniable.

The tribals brought in more armored vehicles, complicating the situation further. Although our machine guns managed to punch through weak points, these reinforcements were better prepared this time.

"Rocket launchers! Don't let those vehicles through!" I shouted to the men in power armor. Missiles launched from the trenches, slamming into the armored vehicles attempting to cross the river. Explosions shook the battlefield, reducing some of the vehicles to scrap, but others continued their advance.

Amid the attacks, another wave of rabid war dogs surged against our positions. These animals were swift and vicious, and while the power armors could withstand their attacks, the legionaries without such protection struggled to hold their ground. The dogs tore apart any limbs they could get hold of.

The battle raged on, brutal and unyielding. I knew we couldn't sustain this for much longer. The situation called for a decisive blow to shatter the enemy's morale before our resources were fully depleted.

Several profligates managed to leap into the trenches, hurling themselves desperately in an attempt to overrun our lines. Their war cries echoed around me as I drew my machete, a weapon made for brutality. The first profligate who lunged at me stood no chance; a single stroke was enough to sever his arm clean off. Blood sprayed, but I was already moving toward the next target.

One by one, they fell beneath the edge of my blade. My movements were swift and precise, each strike deliberate. Their bullets bounced harmlessly off my power armor, and their knives, sharp as they were, couldn't pierce the plating. I saw the desperation in their eyes as they realized they couldn't hurt me while their comrades were cut down around them.

"No mercy!" I shouted to my legionaries, feeling the weight of the battle in my muscles, but also the adrenaline that pushed me to keep going. My men fought alongside me, forming an impenetrable line as we pushed back the invaders.

Another profligate came at me with a rusted machete. I blocked the blow with my armored arm and, with an upward swing, severed his leg. He fell to the ground, screaming, but his cries didn't last long. My machete came down one final time.

"Get the reinforcements in the line!" I roared, signaling my legionaries to maintain the pressure. I knew we couldn't afford to give them any breathing room.

The battlefield became a chaotic mix of flesh and steel. The trench floor was soaked with blood, and the mutilated bodies of profligates lay strewn everywhere.

As the fight raged on with unrelenting brutality, I noticed movement in our rear. My first thought was that the profligates had flanked us, but as I focused, I felt a wave of relief—they weren't enemies. More reinforcements had arrived. Another centurion and his cohort had made it just in time.

The sound of legionary boots marching in unison brought a sense of reassurance. I watched as they advanced, well-organized and ready to join the fight. In the distance, I spotted the centurion leading them, a broad-shouldered man directing his troops.

"Reinforcements, Centurion Gaius!" he called out as he approached, his voice firm and full of resolve. "What's the situation?"

"They're throwing constant waves at us. We've held off the first few, but they keep trying to cross the river. The line is holding, but we need more support on the flanks and to relieve the exhausted sectors," I responded quickly.

"We'll cover the flanks. Legionaries, take your positions!" the centurion ordered as he directed his men to the critical points of the battle.

The reinforcements wasted no time, moving swiftly to relieve the legionaries who had been fighting tirelessly. With them in the line, our defense strengthened, and the burden of the battle began to ease just a little.

Several more minutes passed, the roar of the machine guns filling the air as dozens of profligates fell under our fire. But slowly, I noticed something that made my face tense: the machine gun nests were starting to go silent, one by one.

"Damn it!" I shouted, knowing exactly what that meant. "We're running out of ammo!"

The legionaries in the trenches kept fighting with fervor, but without the support of the machine guns, the pressure on the line was growing unbearable. The profligates, though poorly armed for the most part, were relentless in their numbers. They knew if they managed to cross the river, it would be their chance to lay siege to us.

"Legionaries, hold firm!" I yelled, drawing my machete once more, preparing for the inevitable close-quarters combat. "Form a line, don't let them through!"

The legionaries responded immediately, raising their shields and machetes in perfect coordination, ready for the direct confrontation. The men in power armor took the front positions, knowing it was now a matter of steel against flesh.

"Nicodemus, we need to resupply those nests. We can't afford to lose this position," I said through the communicator, watching as the next wave of enemies approached.

"We're out of stock. I'll check the reserves, Gaius. Hang on," came his tense reply, fully aware of the critical situation.

With the machine guns silenced and the enemy infantry getting closer, it was only a matter of time before they reached our trenches. My men, well-trained and battle-hardened, knew this would be the true test.

"Legionaries, for Mars and Lord Caesar!" I roared, raising my machete high as the first profligates reached our line.

"Prepare your blades!" I shouted firmly, watching the legionaries fall into formation, ready to meet the next wave of profligates. Short weapons were all that mattered now—anything else would be useless in the tight confines of the trenches.

Those who still had ammo were sent to higher ground. From there, they could keep firing down on the unrelenting enemy hordes. The machine guns and automatic rifles continued their work, but the flow of enemies seemed endless.

"Don't engage until they're right on us!" I ordered. I knew close-quarters combat was our best chance. In such a narrow space, their superior numbers would mean nothing. If we let them advance just enough, the trench itself would become a controlled slaughterhouse, ruled by our machetes and knives.

The stomping of feet and the profligates' war cries mixed with the echo of gunfire. The first few rows of enemies fell under concentrated fire from the legionaries positioned in the elevated sectors, but soon the bulk of their forces reached our line.

Within seconds, the profligates were leaping into the trenches, and the fight became brutal. Chaos reigned as blades sliced through flesh and bone. The legionaries, hardened by years of combat and trained in the art of close-quarters fighting, responded with ruthless efficiency. Every enemy that entered the trench fell quickly, either cut down or stabbed by the swift hands of our veterans.

My machete cut through them effortlessly. Their weapons were useless against the resilience of my power armor. The few who managed to shoot at me were met with bullets bouncing harmlessly off my plating. At that moment, the trenches were a hellish scene of blood, mud, and agonized screams.

The minutes dragged on in a brutal melee. For every one we killed, another took their place. We were trapped in a cycle of endless bloodshed and violence, our weapons growing heavier and the bodies piling up around us. The air was thick with the scent of metal, sweat, and gunpowder. We knew that if we faltered, we would be overwhelmed by the tide of profligates besieging us.

Suddenly, through the chaos, a war cry pierced the air. "Ave, True Caesar!" It echoed like thunder. At first, I thought the profligates were mocking us, but soon the truth became clear—Lanius had entered the fray.

Hundreds of the most battle-hardened legionaries, veterans of countless campaigns, charged with overwhelming brutality, led by dozens of centurions. At the head of the charge, with his Mars mask gleaming under the bloody sun of battle, was Lanius himself. Like an unstoppable force of destruction, he cut down the enemy forces with shocking ease. Every swing of his sword was precise, every movement deadly. The profligates fell like leaves in a storm.

The sight of Lanius in action reignited our men's spirits. The fatigue left our muscles, replaced by a renewed sense of determination. Our war cries joined his, and one by one, the profligates began to retreat in the face of the Legion's relentless charge.

The enemies, who just moments ago seemed endless, were now being driven back to the river, falling under the fury of the veteran legionaries. The tide had turned. The profligates' resistance crumbled in the face of Lanius and his elite guard.

In a display of pure martial fury, all the legionaries began to throw down their firearms, raising their machetes and swords as they charged the profligates. The Legion's brutality in close combat was unmatched, and the enemy began to break under the unstoppable advance. Armor clanged, helmets gleamed, and cries of "Ave, Caesar!" echoed across the battlefield as the sound of steel slicing through flesh filled the air.

The profligates, now desperate, tried to mount a defense. Every attack they launched, every attempt to form a line, was brutally dismantled by the advancing legionaries. The first to face Lanius' veterans were massacred within seconds, and those who survived quickly followed suit.

The massacre extended all the way to the river, where the profligates, now disorganized and without clear leadership, made a last-ditch effort to hold their ground. But it was already too late. What had once been a small wall of corpses quickly became a mountain of bodies, piling up in the narrow ford they had used to cross. Their bodies floated and gathered at the riverbank, blocking the passage and turning the water into a torrent of red.

Terror spread among the profligates, many of them throwing down their weapons and fleeing in a panic as the legionaries chased them relentlessly. What had started as a war of attrition had now completely turned in our favor. The Legion showed no mercy, and the fury of Mars was unleashed in full force.

At the front, Lanius continued cutting through enemies as if they were mere obstacles in his path, his Mars mask bathed in the blood of those who dared to challenge the Legion.

I approached the killing field surrounding Lanius, the air thick with the stench of blood and rusting steel. "Do we pursue the profligates, Legate?" I asked, observing how his eyes, hidden behind the Mars mask, seemed to radiate a deep, contained fury.

"No," Lanius replied, his voice low and booming like distant thunder. "This slaughter should have pleased Mars. We have done enough for today. Let the cowards flee and carry with them the fear of the Legion." He paused, surveying the blood-soaked river, the piled bodies, and the dying screams that still echoed across the battlefield. "We will wait for the rest of the cohorts. Once they arrive, we will march north and crush every profligate that dared threaten Lord Caesar's holdings. There will be no truce. We will sacrifice them all."

His eyes, filled with a deep, burning rage, made it clear that the slaughter had not ended—it had only been postponed.

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