Players Invade Cyberpunk

Chapter 1357: Chapter 441: It’s Simple, I’ll Just Eat It!

In terms of radar, the tech in this cyberpunk world is slightly ahead of the US‑West in 2025, mainly because they never really needed more.

All the high-altitude combat jets are still obsessed with dogfighting, and once you’re up in space you’re talking ten thousand, even hundreds of thousands of kilometers—no radar is worth a damn at that point, eyeballing might even be faster.

So they just never had the demand to develop more advanced radar; whatever works is good enough.

Except there’s this one bunch that refuses to play by the usual rules, leaning on their cutting‑edge development experience, the cyber world’s more advanced manufacturing tech, and the Gold that the drug dealers gifted them for free as their primitive capital.

They literally scraped together several gallium‑oxide radar units by scavenging rare earth parts out of trash mountains; the massive waste caused by Western industrialization’s lack of end‑of‑life recycling concepts ended up creating the current industry of Lin Miao and the huge crowd of players under him.

As for ultra‑thin lithium niobate photonic millimeter‑wave radar, boron carbide, and other even more advanced radar tech, those are already in the pipeline.

Primitive tribe shares nuclear fusion tech with you.JPG

As long as you’ve got longer eyes and a longer spear, nobody cares whether the thing carrying the missiles is a Northern Song bed‑crossbow or a Balkan supergun.

Active scanning out to five hundred kilometers, instantly generating a 3D holographic map—if they can refit it into a phased array and slap it onto a ship, the range and resolution will climb even higher.

The homegrown air defense system’s interception window against hypersonic missiles will stretch from 30 seconds to two full minutes.

You’ve got your stats, I’ve got my mechanics, and we all have a bright future.

This is insanely workable!

A large AEW electronic warning platform, cobbled together from two Plunderer drones, is the first to take off, escorted by several wingman Plunderer UAVs.

Granted, it looks like someone welded a random steel frame, slapped four fans on it, and hung a big round ball in the middle—rough, zero sense of aesthetics—but for tech freaks, as long as it works, appearance isn’t a problem.

As the aircraft climbs, the holo‑map in the command room instantly iterates and upgrades; no longer the previous dead layout with just two cursors, the whole thing comes alive.

Every enemy and friendly aircraft within a five‑hundred‑kilometer air/space envelope pops into radar view, flight altitudes precisely tagged; dozens of yellow squares strobe and dart across the sky. They haven’t switched scan modes to lock targets yet, so all either side hears is their aircraft systems screaming alerts:

[Enemy scan]

[Enemy scan]

But who exactly is doing the scanning? No clue. Their own radar isn’t reacting at all.

So they all panic, break off, and bolt, terrified they’ll get hard‑locked by someone’s missiles and swatted out of the sky.

But those planes aren’t the players’ targets.

On the beach, the Mechanic controlling the drones frowns and reports to Wildman beside him:

"Still haven’t picked up any signals from enemy ships, and those fighters show no sign of regrouping."

Wildman glances at the crowd in the distance, just about to finish boarding, and mutters:

"They’ve already fired missiles and still haven’t made a move—what the hell are they waiting for?"

He’s still puzzling over it when—

The channel suddenly pings with a comm request. Once connected, David’s anxious voice comes through:

"Wildman Command, we found some unmarked liquid warheads in their gear! Mann says it’s very likely some kind of programmed nano gene virus concentrate, can spread and infect at insane speed over a short period. Once they remotely activate the virus, every infected person will die in an extremely short time."

"Huh?"

Hearing this, Wildman’s expression is pure ’are you kidding me’; first nukes, now they’re pulling out bio‑weapons.

Every time you think you’ve finally hit their moral floor, someone pipes up: ’You think that’s all? I’ve still got my ultimate trick.’

Anything to make the Emperor crack a smile!

Plus this so‑called gene virus is something players have only heard of, never seen; they’ve no idea how to defend against it.

"Mann, spell it out."

David tosses the handset to Mann, who’s already strapped to a stretcher.

Mann’s legs were both blown clean off by that gunner, one arm’s gone too; only his right hand can still barely move. He catches the handset—if the nearby players hadn’t rushed to support them in time, they might’ve been completely wiped.

"Military Technology used something similar in Latin America before..."

Mann’s voice is very weak, but he forces himself to stay focused.

"Once the warhead cracks, the viral fluid usually spreads over a radius of ten‑plus kilometers in a short time... When coverage’s complete, the lab triggers the virus, kills the hosts fast, then it self‑splits and degrades..."

"But you know how it is... the crap they cook up is always buggy... some viruses that don’t fully die off will occasionally kill a few of our own people..."

At that, Wildman actually remembers: in the Fourth Corporate War, Huang Ban detonated similar bioweapon bombs in Chicago and Busan—Busan especially is still shrouded in a toxic cloud to this day.

"Is there any way to prevent this stuff?"

"No. Once it leaks, it’s already too late..."

Mann struggles to describe the horrific deaths of a few comrades he lost.

"Once that stuff touches your skin, it enters your body... it gets absorbed into every corner. As long as you have any biological tissue left, you can’t escape. And it turns you into a walking infection node—skin, breath, even waste; wherever you go, it spreads."

"..."

Wildman actually feels a bit relieved that the Cubans went scorched earth before; otherwise, who knows how many would’ve died.

The enemy’s whole attitude is clearly: turn Cuba into a dead zone or bust.

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