In those days of Plants vs. Zombies

Chapter 671 makes neither concealment of its intentions nor provides an opportunity.

Several hours earlier, Fyodor had led his elite troops to a location near the zone where the Free Armed Forces and the Empire were engaged in combat.

However, instead of going to support his own side, he chose to remain inactive, allowing the rebel soldiers of the Free Army to suffer heavy losses under the fierce offensive of the Imperial 59th Army.

After all, in the eyes of this former federal major general who took "iron-bloodedness" as his creed, those comrades who died on the battlefield were merely making necessary sacrifices to achieve a great cause.

Moreover, removing some old dogs whose fangs have become dull and who are unwilling to obey commands is far more cost-effective than spending a lot of time and energy cleaning them later.

Fyodor lit another expensive cigar for himself and stood in front of the newly established artillery position, leisurely smoking.

The communication equipment was filled with the angry roars of frontline officers, mixed with the agonizing cries of soldiers on the verge of death.

Fyodor remained unmoved, even slightly frowning as if he found the sounds too noisy.

He was waiting, waiting for the Empire to advance its front lines to the front of the Free Army's defenses, waiting for large numbers of low-level zombies and Imperial troops to enter the range of the cannons.

"General, the Third Infantry Regiment responsible for guarding the western defense line... has been almost completely wiped out."

Fyodor's adjutant strode over, his voice trembling slightly: "Their remnants are requesting reinforcements, even just to slightly hinder the Imperial forces' flank..."

"Don't worry about it."

Fyodor chuckled softly, his gaze piercing through the distant smoke and landing on the war-torn streets: "The Third Infantry Regiment has fulfilled its mission of holding the line. Their sacrifice was worthwhile, drawing a large number of enemies into our artillery range."

"But···"

The corn pitcher, Zhiling, who had just taken over as adjutant, seemed to want to say something, but was forced back down by Fyodor's cold gaze.

“There are no buts, Lieutenant Colonel Tridmi.”

Fyodor flicked the ash from his cigar, his tone unusually calm: "War is just an arithmetic problem of constant subtraction. If you can exchange the lives of the entire Third Infantry Regiment for the lives of a main Imperial battalion, even an elementary school student knows how to do that."

"clear."

The corn pitcher named Tridmi lowered his head shakily and continued to observe the battlefield through his binoculars.

Through the high-magnification lens, what he saw was not a battlefield, but purgatory.

The western defense line, which was under the responsibility of the 3rd Infantry Regiment, had completely collapsed. Blood and corpses were everywhere, and thick smoke billowed up, obscuring the sky above.

Tridmi spotted a lieutenant he recognized, the cabbage pitcher, Plant Spirit, who was dragging a broken leg as he crawled with difficulty through the craters.

He clutched the Freedom Army flag, which had already been torn to shreds by artillery fire, tightly in his arms, leaving a long trail of blood behind him.

But this loyal Freedom fighter was not so lucky; the blood flowing from his wounds attracted several excited low-level zombies.

They swarmed forward and instantly swallowed up the remaining trace of blood red.

Fyodor suddenly raised his wrist, looked at his expensive gold watch, and a look of anticipation appeared on his lips.

"It's almost time."

When the barrage of artillery fire rains down, it spreads across the battlefield, turning everything from low-level zombies to Imperial troops into ashes.

Fyodor abruptly threw his cigar on the ground, raised his military boot and stomped on it hard, grinding it several times before finally stopping.

"Pass down the order."

Tridmi shuddered, instinctively lowered his binoculars, and stood at attention: "Please give your orders."

"Bring my cannon over, then notify everyone to prepare for shelling."

Fyodor's voice was cold and hard, carrying an unquestionable authority.

In his crimson eyes, there was no pity for his fallen comrades, only the calm and cruelty of a hunter about to close the net.

Soon, Fyodor's cannon was pushed over by several corn pitchers, Plant Spirits, who were responsible for its maintenance.

Adjust the firing angle of the cannon, and use plant energy to shape and load the shell into it.

Fyodor employed both the hundredfold increase and the hundredfold split in succession, attempting to replicate his tactics from when he attacked the military base.

He planned to fire a shell first to test the strength of his opponent.

"Let me see what methods this Imperial brigade will use to take on my carefully prepared 'appetizer'."

Once he confirmed that everything was ready, Fyodor did not hesitate and pulled hard on the fuse in his hand.

With a deafening roar, Fyodor's cannon fired a giant shell into the sky.

······

The golden streak that appeared out of nowhere cut across the sky and split the giant cannonball in two, causing Fyodor's pupils to shrink slightly.

"Oh?"

Instead of being annoyed, he let out a low sigh of admiration.

"To be able to respond so quickly is not only due to the divine weapons in their hands, but also to their own formidable strength... I'm even a little curious, which important figure from the empire did they encounter?"

Tridmi, who was standing nearby, also saw the golden streak and was still somewhat shaken.

Upon hearing this, he asked in a trembling voice, "General, the first shell has been intercepted. Should we... halt the shelling preparations?"

"stop?"

Fyodor chuckled, his gaze suddenly turning cold as he looked at his adjutant with a hint of mockery: "Lieutenant Colonel Tridmi, do you think my 'Hundredfold Split' is just for show?"

He suddenly raised his hand, pointing to the shell wreckage that had been cut in half in mid-air.

"Watch closely, you idiot. That shot wasn't meant to hit the target directly."

With a thought, the shell in the sky immediately exploded, turning into countless shrapnel that fell to the ground.

Turning to look at the artillery positions behind him, Fyodor issued new orders.

"Three minutes later, all sixteen corn cannons began firing simultaneously. Target—that block ahead! Bombard them to death!"

Fyodor turned his head, his crimson eyes fixed on the distance.

In the blink of an eye, a grand and three-dimensional ink painting of mountains and rivers appeared in the sky, intercepting and blocking a large number of shrapnel.

That was a spiritual energy fluctuation completely different from the previous golden ribbon, clearly belonging to another unknown imperial powerhouse.

"This ink painting... Ah... So it's from that person..."

Having recognized the true identity of the second imperial powerhouse, Fyodor narrowed his eyes slightly, his cold smile deepening: "Interesting, but in the face of overwhelming firepower, even you, how long can you hold out?"

Three minutes passed in the blink of an eye. Fyodor used the same trick again, pulling the fuse once more and firing a second giant cannonball.

Behind him, in the artillery position, sixteen corn cannons simultaneously raised their muzzles.

This time, Fyodor made no attempt to conceal his intentions and did not want to give the enemy any chance to catch their breath.