Power of Tanks

It turned out that the Tank's suppressive power in this era was, indeed, utterly unmatched. It was a force of nature, a harbinger of a new age of war.

Dutch rode on his horse, its hooves crunching on the ash-strewn ground, looking out at the still smoke-filled battlefield. A wide, almost childlike smile, one he couldn't suppress, stretched across his face, radiating pure triumph.

"Hahaha, Arthur, look, Arthur, you goddamn ruffian!" Dutch boomed, gesturing wildly with his arm, encompassing the scene of devastation. "This is our Tank, you hear? This is technology, this is civilization! It's the future, laid bare!"

Arthur, beside him, had wide, almost bulging eyes. Even though he had been inside that infernal contraption, had driven a Tank before, the sheer scale of this battlefield, the sheer, brutal efficiency of the Tank's performance, still shocked him beyond measure, leaving him speechless.

Sh*t! Arthur thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow, when had this group of desperate, ragged outlaws ever fought on a battlefield of this caliber, with such overwhelming, brutal power? It defied all their previous skirmishes.

Arthur, a legendary marksman whose aim was feared across the West, for the first time truly felt what a terrifying military machine was like. His very bones seemed to hum with the raw power he'd witnessed.

Especially something as utterly terrifying as the Tank completely refreshed his understanding of warfare, shattering all his prior notions of battle. It was a metal beast, unthinking, unstoppable.

"Oh, sh*t! Dutch, Mr. Marko, by God, Mr. Marko is truly a genius! A goddamn wizard!" Arthur's rough voice mumbled, hoarse with awe, the acrid smell of gunpowder in his nostrils making his hair literally stand on end. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down.

John, standing beside him, his face pale, also felt his scalp tingle, a profound sense of unease mixed with awe.

"My goodness, Arthur, I think we might really become world-famous, eh?" John whispered, his voice trembling slightly, his eyes wide as saucers, fixed on the distant, smoking wreckage.

If John's small, usually pragmatic mind could even conceive of such a thing, how could Dutch not? He had been thinking of little else for weeks.

In fact, even before this battle began, before the first shot was fired, he had already sent his swiftest riders to notify the Jon City Government, a subtle, intimidating invitation.

If the Mayor of Jon City was as cunning and pragmatic as Dutch expected, he was, at this very moment, observing the battle from afar with a powerful telescope, witnessing the grim spectacle.

Since Dutch Van der Linde was going to sell weapons, he naturally needed some grand introduction to them, a dazzling, terrifying demonstration. And this battle, this systematic annihilation, was a perfect, bloody advertisement of their weapon's strength. Of course, he wanted his customers to see it, to feel the profound fear and awe it inspired.

"Alright, children," Dutch announced, a grim satisfaction in his voice, his gaze sweeping over his victorious men, "let our troops start cleaning up the battlefield. All prisoners will be transported back to our mine. Sh*t!, from now on, they are our private property, our new workforce!"

Dutch pointed at the still-smoky battlefield, a silent gesture of ownership, and said to Arthur and John beside him. His purpose in coming to Mexico, he mused, was threefold: first, to sell weapons; second, to acquire vital resources; and third, to gather people, to swell his ranks.

Now that the battle was over, the entire Jon City must have understood the true, terrifying value of Mr. Dutch Van der Linde. All that remained was to collect his substantial profit!

The captured population, the defeated soldiers, must be taken away. Sh*t!, this was the most basic, most vital requirement for building a city, for fueling his new industrial empire! People were the ultimate resource.

"Alright, Dutch, oh, sh*t, our wagons are too goddamn troublesome for transporting these prisoners, ain't they?" Arthur complained, throwing his hands up in an exasperated gesture, his shoulders slumping. He gestured towards the slow-moving wagons. "Can Mr. Marko research something like the Tank, but a vehicle that can carry people, a proper troop carrier? We can't always be using these damned wagons, it's too much effort, too slow, too archaic!" He gestured impatiently at the surrounding gunmen, who were already beginning to gather the defeated soldiers towards the makeshift military camp.

Dutch laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, and playfully scolded Arthur, reaching out to cuff him lightly on the ear. "Sh*t! Arthur, you don't even want to do this kind of thing now? You damned lazy bum, you've gotten soft! Just like a rich man, eh?"

Dutch then leaned in, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "But don't you worry your pretty little head, I've already discussed this very issue with Mr. Marko. We're ahead of you, my boy."

He then straightened up, a proud smile on his face, gesturing expansively with his hands. "However, before researching troop carriers, I'd prefer him to research agricultural vehicles and mining vehicles first, the tools of true progress! After all, production is the primary driving force for development, the very engine of our prosperity! Developing more convenient and faster vehicles will make our progress rapid, unstoppable!"

Dutch had indeed discussed this crucial issue with Mr. Marko immediately after he developed the Tank.

The most technically challenging part of a vehicle, Dutch knew, was always the engine, its very heart. And now, with the brilliant Mr. Marko at their disposal, the engine problem had been decisively solved, a major hurdle cleared. The remaining aspects of development, the various vehicle types, could easily be completed by the well-staffed research institute he had already established.

Currently, all research was progressing simultaneously, a hive of innovation, and it was very possible that agricultural vehicles, mining vehicles, and military industrial vehicles will all be developed and perfected after the initial agricultural vehicles are completed.

While Europe, smug in its supposed superiority, was still painstakingly researching the oldest, most rudimentary small Mercedes, struggling with basic automotive design, they, the Van der Linde Gang, were already preparing to research powerful, efficient Tractors, the workhorses of the future. This, Dutch reflected with a satisfied smirk, was a truly monumental technological leap.

Of course, this technological lead was actually built on the tireless efforts of countless dedicated researchers, their minds burning bright. If Europe also had a forward-looking vision, a true strategic mindset, and invested heavily, not just in military but in general vehicle research, the progress of vehicles would certainly be much faster.

Breakthroughs don't necessarily require a specific, single person to make them, but rather depend on who is present, who is driving the innovation. At the same time, one person researching an engine certainly can't match the blistering speed of a thousand brilliant minds researching an engine simultaneously; this was a fundamental truth. Otherwise, technological progress wouldn't have been so explosively rapid during World War I, World War II, and the relentless Cold War!

"Hosea, Hosea!" Dutch rode his horse onto the still-smoky battlefield, its grim beauty a backdrop to his triumphs, loudly calling Hosea's name, his voice booming.

"Here! Dutch," old Hosea replied, his voice a little strained, as he awkwardly opened the Tank's hatch and, with a grunt, climbed out, his face flushed, whether from the stuffiness of the metal beast or the sheer, exhilarating excitement of battle, it was hard to say.

Judging by his wide, genuinely smiling and excited expression, it was likely from the pure thrill of participating in the battle, of riding inside that iron behemoth.

"Come on, Hosea," Dutch urged, reining in his horse beside him, a triumphant gleam in his eye, "I think it's time we went to meet our business partners, eh? Time to make some coin."

"Sure, Dutch." Hosea climbed out of the Tank, rubbing his temples, and a young, eager gunman immediately rushed forward to help him jump down from the massive vehicle, offering a steadying hand.

"Hahaha, kid, thank you for your help!" Hosea happily patted the shoulder of the young gunman who helped him, a benevolent grin on his face, then let out a sharp, piercing whistle for his horse, a familiar sound.

"Whoosh!" His horse, well-trained, galloped towards him.

"Hahaha, Dutch, you have no idea how goddamn exciting it is to participate in battle sitting inside this Tank!" Hosea exclaimed, his eyes shining. After mounting his horse, he affectionately patted the Tank parked beside him with emotion, feeling a bit like a proud, but slightly past-his-prime, hero. "Oh, I feel like I've become much younger, back in my prime!"

"Oh, I think you'd be a little younger if the Tank's barrel was pointed at your forehead, Hosea," Arthur, who had ridden over on his horse, drawled, a sarcastic smirk playing on his lips, speaking before Dutch could even open his mouth.

"Sh*t! Arthur!" Dutch cursed, a playful glare at his lieutenant, then turned his horse sharply and galloped towards Jon City, the dust rising in his wake.

"Come on, gentlemen," Dutch called over his shoulder, his voice filled with a triumphant urgency, "I think the powerful figures of Jon City must be waiting impatiently, eh? Time to make our demands."

Meanwhile.

On a small, dusty hill outside Jon City, commanding a clear view of the battlefield.

Javier and Bill stood rigidly at their posts, their rifles held steady, binoculars pressed to their eyes, observing the grim, distant battle on the hilltop, their faces impassive.

Beside them were three hundred of Mr. Van der Linde's loyal gunmen, their formations disciplined and silent, and in their midst, a tightly guarded group of Jon City's most prominent figures, dressed in lavish, if now slightly rumpled, gentleman's attire, their faces pale with fear.

Each of these prominent figures, from the Mayor to the gang leaders, held a powerful telescope to their faces, their hands trembling visibly, watching the terrifying scene on the distant hilltop along with Javier and Bill, unable to tear their eyes away from the sheer brutality.

Even before this battle began, Dutch had, with his characteristic foresight, sent them to split into two groups and visit the major forces in Jon City, delivering his chilling invitation.

For example, Mr. Martinez, the trembling Mayor of Jon City; Kyle Moss, the leader of Jon City's largest gang, who had originally agreed to foolishly resist Mr. Van der Linde with Mr. Amalfetano but ultimately, wisely, broke his promise; and the leaders of other medium-sized gangs in Jon City, as well as various wealthy merchants and influential council members, all brought here by force of arms.

The first time they came to Jon City, Arthur and his group had brought fifty fully armed gunmen, a subtle but undeniable hint of the powerful force behind this diplomatic team.

The second time they came to Jon City, this powerful force brought three hundred fully armed gunmen, along with wagons mounted with formidable Maxim guns and wagons mounted with heavy artillery. This undoubtedly further highlighted the profound, overwhelming strength of this mysterious force.

Even when preparing for a decisive battle with Mr. Amalfetano, a major conflict, they could easily dispatch three hundred gunmen to "invite" the major powerful figures of Jon City. This hidden, undeniable strength behind them left no one in Jon City daring to act arrogant, daring to resist. Almost all the powerful figures, upon hearing Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's "invitation" to watch the terrifying show, had no choice but to give up their meager resistance, board their carriages, and, under the armed protection of the gunmen, arrived here, where each was grimly given a telescope to observe the distant, bloody battlefield.

Therefore, they truly witnessed the entire battle, from its brutal inception to its devastating conclusion, which undoubtedly perfectly matched Dutch's ultimate goal of using this battle for a terrifying, unforgettable advertisement.

The smoke on the distant battlefield was almost gone, dissipating into the clear air, but the powerful figures standing on this hilltop had not stopped their continuous, involuntary trembling, their bodies shaking with residual fear.

Mr. Martinez, the Mayor of Jon City, his hands trembled incessantly, his grip on the binoculars tenuous, yet he tried his best to maintain a façade of calm demeanor on his face, a pathetic attempt at composure.

And Kyle, the remaining leader of Jon City's largest gang, his legs had literally turned to jelly, threatening to collapse under him, but he forced himself to stand, his knees locked, squeezing out a forced, sickly smile on his face to show that he still possessed some semblance of courage, some shred of his former swagger.

Even those who had seen big scenes, who were accustomed to violence, were in such a state of utter terror, let alone the leaders of smaller, less hardened gangs.

Some even collapsed to the ground, their faces ashen, struggling to hold their binoculars steady. Others were pale, their inner arrogance completely vanished, replaced by primal fear, their backbone almost gone, turned to water.

When had this group of sheltered, self-important men ever witnessed such a terrifying, large-scale war? And even if they had, they had never seen a war conducted under such complete, relentless firepower suppression! It was a massacre, not a battle.

Sh*t! the onlookers surely thought, a shared, silent horror, only those who witnessed the entire process from afar, seeing its chilling efficiency, truly knew how terrifying the battle just now was! It was an absolute nightmare!

From beginning to end, the attacking side's shells and bullets never stopped! An unending deluge. Expensive bullets and shells poured out as if they were free, a seemingly inexhaustible supply, covering the entire battlefield like dense, metallic rain!

Even during the American Civil War and the Mexican War of Independence, brutal as they were, there had never been such a terrifying, meat-grinding scale of battlefield, such relentless slaughter!

In this era of undeveloped weapons, where firearms were still rudimentary, war was more like jungle warfare, slow and painful. Everyone hid in rudimentary trenches, taking turns shooting, and most of the time, fighting for a day and a night wouldn't kill more than one or two people. It was a slow, agonizing grind.

For example, in the 1898 Spanish-American War, after several hours of intense fighting, only eight American soldiers were injured, a remarkably low casualty count. Spain lost because their warships were hit, leading to their personnel drowning and burning, with over three hundred people dying a horrific death.

In such an era, the sporadic battles of desperadoes, brutal as they were, were often even more intense than most official battlefield engagements, raw and desperate.

But today's war, what they had just witnessed, was completely different! It was a paradigm shift.

Sh*t! the onlookers surely gasped, their minds reeling, have you ever seen a curtain of light formed by ceaseless bullets, a shimmering, deadly wall of lead? Have you ever seen a barrage formed by shells, a relentless, earth-shattering downpour? Have you ever seen black steel beasts rampage, rolling forward, killing all soldiers, crushing everything in their path, leaving only mangled bodies?

No person or creature, no matter how brave or desperate, could possibly survive under such a terrifying curtain of fire, such absolute suppression, and no one could see this World War II battlefield, decades ahead of its time, a glimpse into the future of mass destruction, without feeling profound, soul-chilling fear!

A meat grinder, they realized, their stomachs churning. This was a true meat grinder, pulverizing human flesh and spirit!

Mr. Martinez's lips trembled uncontrollably as he laboriously lowered the binoculars from his trembling hands, his arms weak, his heart already chilled to its very core, frozen by what he had seen.

It's over, he thought, a wave of utter despair washing over him, he's finished, Jon City is finished, Mexico is finished. No army, no force on earth, can defeat such a terrifying army, none!

Mr. Martinez, in front of the leader of such an unstoppable team, could only be a dog, forever a dog, subservient, utterly powerless!

The Mayor's heart was chilled, and Mr. Kyle's heart was even colder, a block of ice in his chest.

He had originally thought he could profit from this battle, cunningly manipulating the situation to his advantage, and become the largest, most dominant force in Jon City, carving out his own petty empire. But now, he realized with a bitter, terrifying clarity, his very life and death were merely at the whim of Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, a man who commanded such horrifying power.

What the sh*t is a boss, what the sh*t is the underworld? Kyle thought, a violent tremor passing through him. Under such terrifying war machines, such absolute power, he was not even as good as a stray dog on the roadside. If others wanted to, they could easily crush him, utterly obliterate him without a second thought!

Kyle had never in his life felt such profound, paralyzing powerlessness. He had struggled his entire life, clawing his way through the brutal underworld, to reach his current position, and he had originally thought he would soon be invincible, the king of his domain. But the horrifying truth was, he wasn't even qualified to be noticed by some people! He was a speck of dust.

The group of bosses and powerful figures in Jon City stood on the hilltop, shivering uncontrollably like startled ostriches, their heads lowered in submission. If they had been resentful about being forced to come earlier, forced to witness this horror, now they had absolutely no resentment left, only profound, gut-wrenching fear and dread, terrified that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde would crush them if he was displeased, if they made a single wrong move.

Under the terrified gazes and shattered mindsets of this group, four fast horses galloped purposefully from afar, their hooves kicking up dust.

"Mr. Van der Linde!" Before they even arrived, the three hundred gunmen guarding the powerful figures of Jon City suddenly snapped to rigid attention, their forms unmoving, saluting the approaching man with utmost respect, a display of perfect discipline.

"Hahaha, hello gentlemen, you've worked hard!" Dutch laughed heartily, his voice booming, a magnetic presence. He slowly reined in his horse, a picture of effortless command.

"It's no hardship, serving Mr. Van der Linde!"

The unified shouts, a roaring chorus of loyalty, were incredibly shocking, at least to the powerful figures of Jon City, who stared, dumbfounded. Because a team with such iron discipline, such unwavering devotion, was truly terrifying, and their execution must be top-notch, utterly flawless!

Mayor Mr. Martinez's heart tightened, startled by the sudden, synchronized shouts, and hearing their fervent declarations, he finally realized that the seemingly charming and gentlemanly man approaching, the magnetic figure on horseback, was the so-called Mr. Dutch Van der Linde! The Arch-Demon himself!

Oh, sh*t! Martinez thought, a fresh wave of terror. He had originally thought Mr. Dutch Van der Linde was an old man with a big belly, a doddering fool. Who knew he would be such a charismatic, imposing middle-aged man, radiating power!

I surrender! Martinez's mind screamed, his resolve crumbling.

Watching Mr. Dutch Van der Linde slowly approach on horseback, his presence utterly dominant, Mr. Martinez's heart tightened in his chest. Just as he was about to bravely step forward to express his immediate, abject submission, a figure, incredibly swift, suddenly ran past him, a blur of motion, and then with a pathetic thud, dramatically knelt beside Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's horse, bowing low.

The human pillar force, Jon City's former gang leader, Kyle Moss, had officially gone online! A spectacle of public humiliation.

Mr. Kyle knelt respectfully, almost theatrically, beside Mr. Van der Linde's horse, his face pressed to the dirt. He even constantly changed his kneeling position, subtly shifting his body, to meticulously match the horse's every movement, anticipating its steps, so that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde could step at the most suitable, most comfortable spot when dismounting, using him as a human stepping stool.

"Welcome, Mr. Van der Linde! Mr. Van der Linde, I am Kyle Moss, the humble leader of the Moss family in Jon City. I have admired you for a long, long time, Mr. Van der Linde, your genius, your power. From now on, the Moss family will serve you wholeheartedly, without question, in any capacity. Please, Mr. Van der Linde, I beg you, step on me to dismount!" Kyle's voice was a desperate, fawning plea, ringing with abject submission.

Mr. Kyle's utterly theatrical display stunned Mr. Martinez, who had been meticulously planning his own grand surrender, and also briefly stunned Dutch, who had simply ridden over to calmly discuss terms with these powerful figures of Jon City, expecting a negotiation, not a groveling spectacle.

Huh? Dutch thought, a flicker of bewildered amusement in his eyes. What in the blazes is this performance?

"Oh, sh*t! This gentleman, I never asked you to surrender, nor to kneel, you ridiculous fellow." Dutch said, a mock-confused expression on his face, shaking his head. He dismounted gracefully from the other side of the horse, deliberately avoiding stepping on Kyle, a subtle act of defiance against the man's theatricality. "My sole purpose in coming here, as Dutch Van der Linde, is to sell weapons! Not to accept theatrical displays of submission."

He gestured expansively, encompassing the smoking battlefield, then the assembled dignitaries. "Get up quickly, I think you all saw the battle just now, gentlemen. A grim, but necessary, demonstration."

Dutch's expression turned serious, his voice firm. "To be honest, the true purpose of inviting you here this time was simply to show you the weapons we produce, our formidable arsenal, and then, naturally, to sell these weapons to you. It's a business transaction, nothing more."

Mr. Dutch Van der Linde would never, ever truly trample on others' dignity, not when he sought to build a new order. This was Mr. Van der Linde's personal cultivation, his code of conduct, something to be meticulously recorded in his daily life, a key to his immense charisma.

Moreover, Mr. Van der Linde was never overtly arrogant, never boastful, which was also a necessary reason for his high prestige, his magnetic appeal.

If he were to step on this groveling fellow, Kyle, to dismount now, what would be the true difference between him and those arrogant, tyrannical powerful figures he sought to overthrow? He would be no better than Cornwall.

This, Dutch knew, was a typical act of giving others a weakness for public opinion, an Achilles' heel that could be exploited! He had to maintain his image as the people's liberator.

As expected, as Mr. Van der Linde calmly dismounted from the other side of his horse, deliberately avoiding the prostrate Kyle, the surrounding gunmen, witnessing the blatant act of flattery, immediately swarmed around and, with a few rough, scornful shoves, lifted Mr. Kyle back to his feet, pulling him away from Dutch's feet.

"Sh*t! Mr. Van der Linde is not like you damned bastards! He's a true gentleman, a man of honor!" one of the gunmen snarled, his voice thick with disdain for Kyle's groveling.