Chapter 700: Heavy Pressure
The news reached the clan before they did.
When Tsu'tey's battered and bruised party appeared at the edge of the settlement, they were not met with consolation and aid, but with complex stares—sympathy, sorrow, but mostly an "I told you so" silence and a barely perceptible distancing.
Sutai hurried over with healers. Seeing Tsu'tey's miserable state, a flash of heartache passed through her eyes, but her voice remained steady: "Treat the wounds first. We will discuss the rest later."
Tsu'tey raised his head, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Sutai. His lips moved a few times as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately, it only resulted in a heavy sigh as he allowed the healers to carry him to the treatment area.
The crushing defeat of the radical faction's final large-scale independent operation served as the final straw, utterly breaking the faction's influence and prestige among the Na'vi. The loss of personnel was secondary; more importantly, this operation proved just how powerless traditional Na'vi martial prowess and hunting skills were against such a bizarre and highly efficient invisible enemy.
An increasing number of Na'vi began to seriously consider the path Sutai had been advocating—seeking reliable external aid, even if it meant cooperating with a faction of the Sky People.
Meanwhile, atop a towering spiral plant on the outskirts of the Land of Chants, two silhouettes stood silently, observing everything unfolding within the clan.
"Target individual Tsu'tey severely wounded; his core followers have suffered over sixty percent casualties. Morale has completely collapsed," the Shadow Lord reported through a psychic link, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Expected results achieved," the Warlock replied, a faint, dissipating psychic afterglow lingering on her fingertips. "I implanted a minor suggestion in the consciousness of the three survivors, reinforcing the perception that fighting alone guarantees defeat. The balance of power within the Na'vi is tilting precisely in our desired direction."
"Received. As per the plan, temporarily suspend direct pressure on this clan and shift to the next RDA target," Ryo's calm order came through the comm channel.
The two silhouettes nodded slightly before vanishing, seemingly melting into the night.
Hell's Gate Base, Central Command Tower.
Colonel Quaritch stood before the panoramic observation window. Looking out at the jungle—illuminated bright as day by searchlights yet remaining fraught with peril—his face was dark enough to drip water.
On the tactical holotable before him, the green markers representing RDA controlled zones and assets had dimmed by another seven over the past week.
All were automated mining stations or resource exploration outposts located within a fifty-to-one-hundred-and-twenty-kilometer radius of the base perimeter.
The loss reports were cold and glaring:
"Automated Extraction Station, Iridium Sector 7. Lost contact at 0300 hours standard time yesterday. Recovery team found the primary structural integrity intact, but all refining modules, core control system components, and stored semi-processed ore were looted. Perimeter defense turrets show signs of destruction by precise energy weapons. High-temperature cutting residue matching 'Predator' profiles found on site. Zero casualties (station operates fully automated)."
"Tritium Isotope Enrichment Outpost 12. Attacked at 1900 hours yesterday. All four skeleton crew technicians are missing; personal effects and small amounts of blood remain on site. Primary extraction equipment destroyed; stored enriched tritium fuel rods taken. Surveillance system's final feed showed brief optical distortion anomalies before failing."
"Transport Hub, South Wing 3. A supply convoy consisting of three transport rigs and two Scorpion escorts was ambushed. Both escorts were blown out of the sky. One transport driver dead, two injured. Cargo loss approximately seventy percent. Attackers did not take human skulls but stripped several precision instruments from the vehicles. Survivors stated they 'saw nothing; the attacks came from everywhere'."
Every attack was like a precise scalpel, carving away at the RDA's economic lifeline and logistical network on Pandora.
What they were losing were not soldiers—Quaritch could endure a certain level of casualties—but expensive equipment, rare resource yields, and precious time.
The inquiries from the board of directors grew increasingly severe in wording. Though that slick General Manager, Parker Selfridge, was still trying to maneuver, his tone increasingly revealed mounting dissatisfaction and pressure.
The RDA came to Pandora to make money, to acquire the "superconducting ore" that drove the human world crazy, not to fight a vastly expensive, utterly unprofitable war against an invisible ghost.
Quaritch had tried everything he could think of.
He increased patrol frequency and troop numbers, doubling the deployment rate of the AMP suits.
The result was a proportional increase in the probability of patrols being ambushed, costing him another three AMP suits and more soldiers.
He attempted to set traps at several critical stations, lying in wait with heavy forces. But the "Predators" seemed to possess precognition; they either completely ignored the bait or bypassed the ambushes in unexpected ways to strike other entirely defenseless targets.
He even utilized the base's limited orbital surveillance resources for wide-area scanning, but the enemy's cloaking technology was clearly capable of effectively evading conventional detection. The occasionally captured energy anomalies vanished in a flash, making them impossible to lock onto.
Powerlessness—a rare emotion for him—coiled around Quaritch like a poisonous vine.
He excelled at commanding large-scale conventional warfare, at crushing enemies with superior firepower. But this guerrilla warfare—where the enemy hid in the dark while he was in the light, where they moved while he remained stationary, and where they exclusively targeted his soft underbelly—left him with immense power but nowhere to vent it.
"Colonel, Dr. Ryo of the Seekers is requesting a comm link again," his adjutant's voice broke Quaritch's train of thought.
Quaritch's brow furrowed tightly. This was the mysterious Dr. Ryo's third unsolicited contact this week.
The first two times, Quaritch had politely but firmly rejected the proposal for "limited tactical support," citing that "the RDA is fully capable of handling its own security."
He instinctively distrusted these individuals of unknown origin with their bizarre technology, especially given their ambiguous relationship with the Na'vi.
But this time...
Quaritch looked at the freshly updated damage assessment report on the holotable, the fluctuating red numbers shocking his eyes.
He knew that if he couldn't stem this continuous bleeding, not only would the board of directors completely lose their patience, but the base's basic operations and mining activities could grind to a halt.
"Put it through," Quaritch finally said deeply, his voice somewhat hoarse.
Ryo's image appeared on the comm screen. The background seemed to be the Trailblazer's concise and efficient command center. He appeared as tranquil as ever, even somewhat detached.
"Colonel Quaritch, apologies for the intrusion once again," Ryo went straight to the point. "We have detected another spike in anomalous energy activity in your southern mining sector. Based on behavioral pattern analysis, the cloaked units that have been frequently attacking your facilities recently are likely massing."
"The target may be your primary refinery in the South Wing Canyon or the core gas pipeline leading to it."