Chapter Sixty-Three: The Crimson Crab Killing Formation

Having only just walked a dozen meters, with less than ten meters left to the slumbering Singer, Barclay suddenly caught a strange rustling sound. Quickly, the sound intensified—an incessant, swelling hiss, growing from a whisper to a surging tide.

"What is that?" The entire assault team was stunned.

Then, Barclay and his comrades bore witness to a sight they would never forget. A line of crimson crabs surged toward them from afar. Tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of crabs, their shells gleaming bright red, marching in dense formation like a scarlet tide pouring out from the jungle. These crabs were enormous and moved with startling speed, as though something terrifying was driving them from behind. Their scarlet pincers waved menacingly, and their legs scuttled rapidly, wave after wave, stretching as far as the eye could see! The tall grass fell beneath them, and in moments, the soldiers’ vision was swamped by an endless sea of red.

"The Great Red Crab Migration?" The soldiers were dumbstruck by the bizarre spectacle.

As members of the Poseidon Assault Squad, one of the Minian Federation’s elite special forces, they had, of course, studied geography and the habits of local fauna, and soon realized what was happening. Before it was abandoned and evacuated, Saint Emperor’s Bright Island had been a famous tourist destination, renowned above all for the Great Red Crab Migration. This particular species, unique to the island, typically lived deep within the jungle, feeding on dead leaves and blossoms. Each year, between late October and early January, during the rainy season, the crabs embarked on the most important journey of their lives: they would leave their forest burrows and migrate en masse to the coast to mate and spawn. It was estimated that there were over twelve million red crabs on Christmas Island.

At the migration’s peak, groups of crabs could be seen everywhere on the island. Sometimes, they would inundate entire highways in blazing red, visible even from ten thousand meters above. To protect them, the island’s administrators would close main roads during the migration. Where closure wasn’t possible, special “crab lanes” were set up—smooth plastic barriers guided the crabs along purpose-built bridges and tunnels to the sea.

But since the island’s abandonment, as roads fell into ruin and wild grass choked the forests, these millions of crabs could only follow the ancient instincts etched into their minds, moving northward along half-remembered paths.

Seen individually, these creatures were not large, and posed little threat to battle-hardened, physically fit soldiers. The problem was their overwhelming numbers! Watching these countless red crabs, pincers snapping, surging toward them in an endless flood, made everyone’s scalp tingle with unease.

But—“Damn it!” Ark Bevin suddenly sensed something wrong. It was May, not the breeding season for these disgusting creatures. Why such a massive migration now?

“Quick, clear the path!” Bevin had no time for further thought. He ordered the soldiers to give way, not to be harmed by these revolting crawlers.

The assault squad’s formation fell into chaos as soldiers cursed and bolted into the trees. Only Singer seemed lost in sleep, his head bowed against a tree, motionless.

“Hey, Singer, wake up!” Barclay leapt aside, dodging the surging crabs, and hurried to Singer’s side, pounding his shoulder. But after only two strikes, Barclay realized, to his horror, that Singer was limp and collapsing to the side—crab tide engulfed his body in moments.

“What’s wrong?” Barclay shouted, both shocked and frantic, desperately trying to pull Singer from the ground, clawing at the red monsters.

Watching from atop a large tree, Ark Bevin noticed the commotion. An ominous premonition seized his heart, and he cried out in terror,

“Don’t touch him—!”

It was too late. As Barclay tried to move Singer’s body, a Republic-made -18 fragmentation mine exploded with devastating force.

A thunderous blast, and a thousand steel balls scythed outward in a storm, riddling Barclay’s body in an instant.

He let out a blood-curdling scream and crashed to the ground, dead.

But it didn’t end there. The mine’s explosion seemed to be a signal. The next instant, as a soldier’s terrified cry rang out, Ark Bevin suddenly saw several points flare up with eerie red light amidst the crimson crab tide. Immediately, a chain of explosions erupted among the crabs.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The deafening blasts merged into a continuous roar—countless steel balls and fragments whipped through the air amidst shockwaves, fire, and searing wind. Crabs were blasted skyward, pincers and claws flying everywhere, mingling with soldiers’ screams and spurting blood, painting an infernal scene of hell amid flame and smoke.

A veteran of countless battles, Ark Bevin’s mind remained clear even in the sudden ambush. “Enemy attack—on alert!” he bellowed, grabbing his Model 32 assault rifle and firing a long burst skyward.

The rest, all seasoned fighters, instinctively dove for cover at the first sign of attack, weapons at the ready. As Bevin fired his warning shots, they quickly regrouped, forming trios in advantageous positions, linking up into a defensive network.

Yet not a single bullet was wasted. Special operations doctrine demanded their ammunition be used to maximum effect. In jungle combat, firing blindly without knowing the enemy’s position was not only futile but could attract an enemy sniper’s bullet.

But after the explosions ceased, no second wave of attack came. Two search teams advanced over five hundred meters, finding nothing.

Bevin’s face darkened as he surveyed the carnage.

Some of his men had facial wounds, some had lost arms or legs, others lay grotesquely twisted, motionless.

Their first encounter—seven dead, eight wounded—and they still had no idea where the enemy was.

“Captain, we found something,” came the hesitant voice of Sinclair, leader of the first search team, over the headset. “There’s... only one set of tracks, heading southeast.”

“Only one?” Bevin was taken aback, then erupted in rage. “First and second search teams, Sinclair in command—pursue him!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Understood!”

Two replies crackled in his earpiece.

“Damn it, those cunning yellow monkeys!” Bevin clenched his teeth, his eyes burning with fury and shame so intense he could barely breathe. Still, he was confident: the enemy was few in number; capture one, and their combat strength would be halved. Take out three, and they would collapse entirely.

Bevin gritted his teeth, when suddenly a warning flared in his mind. Without thinking, he dove to the ground.

Crack! A bullet slammed into the tree beside him, sending splinters flying.

“Nine o’clock! Eight hundred meters!” Bevin shouted. Two fire teams unleashed a hail of bullets toward the nine o’clock direction and charged forward. At the same time, three oddly-designed mortars were quickly braced on three soldiers’ shoulders. With a shriek, three shells soared skyward.

Lang Tianyu, having just fired a shot, clutched his Model 21 sniper rifle and was silently shifting to the right. Hearing the shells slicing through the air, he glanced back—and his face turned ashen.

“Holy hell! Those maniacs are using fuel-air explosives!” All thoughts of concealment vanished as Lang Tianyu ran for his life with every ounce of strength he had.

Behind him, rocket-shaped shells with stubby tails and three tiny fins spun rapidly through the air, reaching the spot where he had just lain in ambush. Suddenly, they flipped, plunging nose-first at an incredible speed and detonating midair just three meters above ground.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Three massive explosions erupted simultaneously. Uncountable droplets of fuel-air agent sprayed out over dozens of meters, and within seconds, the area around the three impact points was an inferno. The shockwave, like a violent typhoon, swept in a split second. Lang Tianyu flung himself to the ground, mouth agape, ears ringing so loudly he could hear nothing else.

Under the rising mushroom cloud, Lang Tianyu staggered to his feet, jaw working to restore his eardrums, which had almost been deformed by the blast. Cold sweat streamed down his face.

“Damn!” he muttered, frustrated. That last shot had been off by just a hair—if only he’d taken out the enemy commander! But who could have guessed the man would be so alert? Even more terrifying was their deployment of fuel-air explosives—such devastating weapons! Had he been a step slower, or not recently honed his skills to run faster than a rabbit, he’d be meeting his maker now.

“Crazy man, you need more practice with that marksmanship!” Before he’d recovered from the close call, Bei Shiliang’s teasing voice came over the earpiece, accompanied by the sound of feet rustling through the undergrowth.

“Screw you! You should be worrying about what it means to rig explosives in a crab migration. Those are protected animals!”

“Haha, no such law here, and nobody to enforce it! Besides, wasn’t my demolition work brilliant? The charge, the placement…” Bei Shiliang ran as he spoke, then, as if remembering something, quickly changed the subject: “Forget it, don’t try to dodge the issue. If Lei Dong were here, he’d have nailed that shot!” He paid no heed to Lang Tianyu’s feelings.

Mentioning Lei Dong left Lang Tianyu speechless. That first disciple of his had already surpassed him, becoming the top sniper of the Furious Dragon squad. How did that guy train to such a level? And his uncanny ability to guide a bullet’s path from over a kilometer away…

But sensing Bei Shiliang’s growing verbosity, Lang Tianyu wisely cut him off: “Enough chatter! Close in on Old Huang, I don’t want him alone out there! Lao Luo and I will draw off the pursuit!”

“Got it! You and Camel, just the two of you against a dozen—be careful!” Bei Shiliang replied, feet pounding through the jungle, though his thoughts drifted: he wondered how Wuyun and Song Jingang were faring over at the docks…