Even though it felt redundant, Augustus still gave the ceasefire order again after the gunfire had fully stopped.
With Jim and a few squad members in tow, Augustus stepped down onto the train tracks. The scout vehicles belonging to the assault cavalry, now riddled with bullet holes, were smeared with indistinguishable bits of flesh and gore. It was the first time these rookies had witnessed such a grisly scene. Even Augustus, who had mentally prepared himself, looked visibly shaken.
"That was one hell of an ambush," Jim said, fighting the churn in his stomach.
"Check that truck—see what's inside," Augustus ordered, pushing through both the psychological and physical discomfort as he examined the damage to the recon vehicles. It quickly became apparent that unless they found water to clean off the remains, and managed to repair the engines and fuel tanks, these vehicles would be utterly useless.
The driver of the last truck in the assault convoy hadn't fared any better—he'd been hit by stray bullets and blown apart. Augustus made his way to the rear of the truck, and with Jim and a few soldiers covering him, they unleashed a hail of gunfire into the cargo bay. Only after emptying two magazines did they approach the truck and, under cover, open the back door.
"Just a few crates?" Jim slowly lowered his electromagnetic rifle and joined Augustus in inspecting one of the metal containers.
There were five of them in total—massive metal freight crates, each stamped with the KM emblem. They measured roughly 8⅓ feet long and 5 feet wide. When laid on the ground, they reached up to Augustus's waist.
Each crate was secured with a combination of password, fingerprint, and genetic locks. They were extremely solid and heavy—Augustus and Jim strained for a good while but couldn't budge a single one.
"They're safes—high-priority strategic government supplies," Augustus said, pointing to the inscription he found on one of the crates: From the Laffen Brothers Mine. Destination: a Starport on Brutus, satellite of Moria.
"My guess? Gold. Or something else just as valuable. The Kel-Morians never do anything unless there's a hefty profit in it," Jim commented.
"Laffen Brothers Mine... I remember hearing that name in the news. These must be Adien crystals. Crates and crates of Adien crystals," Augustus said, his lips curling into an involuntary grin.
"That's worth way more than gold," Jim said. He exchanged a glance with the other rookies, all of whom were now smiling with growing excitement—even if they didn't yet fully understand what they'd stumbled upon.
"All of this together is probably worth two million Federal credits," Augustus added, plopping down on one of the crystal-filled crates.
"Holy shit!" Jim and the rookies burst out in cheers and laughter. Hank and Kurt hugged each other tightly, more overjoyed than they had been after realizing they'd actually survived the battle.
In the world of interstellar warfare, high-purity crystal ore was not only a more precious hard currency than gold—it was also the backbone of Terran industry and technological advancement. Smelted crystal ore served as a top-tier material for forging weapons, building tanks, spacecraft, and starships.
These rare and astronomically valuable crystals were the most critical mineral resource in the entire Koprulu Sector, perhaps even the whole galaxy—strategic assets zealously guarded by every human government.
In fact, the war between the Terran Federation and the Kel-Morian Combine had erupted precisely because of these resources.
"But we're not going to see a single credit from it," Augustus said, pouring cold water over the soldiers' celebration.
"We've got no way to sell this stuff. All we can do is turn it over to the higher-ups. And if—if—the quartermaster happens to grow a conscience and files the right paperwork, we might each get a bonus. Now, if this thing were packed to the brim with cash, then we'd be rich."
The cheers died instantly. The soldiers' excitement over the cargo cooled dramatically.
"Ah, those fat bureaucrats ought to give you a damn medal, Augustus," Jim quipped. "Not only did we take out an entire assault cavalry squad, we delivered them a pile of treasure too."
"They had it coming," Augustus joked.
"This truck still looks usable. I'd say it can carry at least thirty people without a problem." Jim tore his gaze away from the crates. Like many of the new recruits, when Augustus mentioned the number, the thought of keeping the crystals for himself briefly flashed through his mind. But almost immediately, a wave of disgust surged within him—for his own greed.
He couldn't help but think: if he had that kind of money, the family farm could finally pay off the debt they'd taken on when fuel prices soared. They could also cover the license fees the Terran Federation had forced every farmer to buy. After taxes, the Raynors could finally live a stable and comfortable life.
But it was just a fantasy. Old man Raynor had told him countless times what justice really meant. And his mother had raised him to believe that people should earn what they deserved through the work of their own hands.
With Augustus setting the example, the rest of the soldiers managed to keep themselves in check.
"Go check if any of those scout vehicles are still running. If not, we'll just cram more people into the truck. If the command center still isn't sending any updates, we need to get out of here fast," Augustus said as he stepped down from the truck bed, waving to the soldiers still up on the platform.
The men hesitated—understandably so—after what they'd seen: blood and body parts everywhere. But after a glance at Augustus, they followed, their faces pale as they began clearing the wreckage of the shock troopers, gathering scattered weapons, and tidying up the vehicles smeared with gore and debris.
Temporary squad leaders from each unit quickly made their way to Augustus to report casualties. It was, oddly enough, a stunning victory—despite the intense combat, not a single member of the rookie platoon had suffered even a scratch.
At that moment, Omer came rushing down from the far end of the platform, running straight for Augustus. Earlier, Augustus had ordered him to look after the wounded and monitor any transmissions from the radio unit.
Augustus could only pray that Omer had good news.
"Polk's Pride command center sent a message five minutes ago. The closest unit is a reconnaissance company, designation 3423. They'll be here in fifteen minutes at the earliest," Omer reported, panting heavily.
"Thank God," Jim breathed out in relief.
"What about the critically injured guy? And Lieutenant Warfield?" Augustus asked.
"Lieutenant Warfield's still unconscious, same as before. He's breathing, but that's it." Omer's expression darkened. "The other guy... he's not going to make it. He's passed out several times already. I'm scared he won't wake up again."
"Jim, you take over and handle the aftermath. Reset the perimeter," Augustus ordered Jim, then followed Omer back into the station's waiting hall, where the wounded had been placed. Only Zander was left now, surrounded by a mess of overturned medical kits and opened supply crates.
"Sergeant, I couldn't save him," Zander said, eyes red and wet. He was kneeling by the stretcher, wiping his tears helplessly.
"You're not a doctor or a miracle worker. You did everything you could, Zander. It wasn't you who took him away—it was those damn Kel-Morians," Augustus said, kneeling beside the now lifeless soldier. The young man's face was still so calm, so peaceful.
"Did he say anything at the end? I want to know his last wish."
"He said... he said he was dying. He said he was turning into a snowflake, and the wind from his homeland was carrying him away," Zander whispered between sobs. He was so kind, so sensitive, too gentle to bear the pain of losing a comrade—even one he hadn't spoken to before today.
Max Zander was born in the slums of Tarsonis City. He grew up without ever attending school, barely literate. And yet, unlike so many others from the slums who had become hardened and cold, Zander still clung to his love for the world.
Augustus's noble classmates often referred to slum-dwellers as 'vermin', but he had never thought that way. To him, a person's background never determined the virtues they held within.
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