The light inside the bridge was dim, making the dying Red Shoulder's source energy excitation cast a vivid, piercing glow of red and blue straight through its body. To Pegmont, however, the glare was an eyesore—almost like a provocation.
"Source energy excitation? Holy shit!"
The genius from Mitli blurted out fluent Huaxian. That was hardly surprising; in the era of the source energy war, nearly everyone across the globe knew a few Huaxian curses and colloquialisms.
"You're pretty stubborn, aren't you, bastard? If I didn't want to waste source energy blocks, I'd have slashed you with one strike..."
As the number one expert on Mars, Pegmont was starting to get annoyed.
Yet right in the middle of his threats—*hum!* Another pulse of source energy surged.
The Red Shoulder's dying conviction drove it onward: *For the race, for the sacred Yanxiu civilization, I must send this idiot human away. Send him home.*
Only then could their army descend safely according to plan. *We cannot give humanity any more time. Soon, everything will end beneath the blades of Puta'er and Miwang.*
"Again?! Tired of living, are you?"
Pegmont had not actually wanted to cut it down. With the Red Shoulder still capable of source energy excitation, striking with mere physical strength alone wouldn't pierce the armor over its vitals... Wanting to conserve source energy, Pegmont had intended to wait for it to die slowly on its own.
Yet this damn thing actually wanted to fight back?!
*Hum!* That was the third time.
The ripples of source energy dispersed through the air once more like water rings.
"Sigh!" Mottled red and blue light played across his face as Pegmont let out a slow sigh.
He hated this melodrama. "In this war, aren't we humans the ones who'd rather die than surrender? Who the hell do you think you're performing for, your grandma?!"
Besides, that was three times.
In the ancient civilization of Huaxia on Blue Star, there was an old saying: *Trouble should not cross three.* In their logic, "three" seemed to be the hard limit against errors and provocations.
For instance, staying silent until three meant defiance, and counting to three meant beating the crap out of someone...
However, Great Spike civilization clearly possessed no such ancient adage; otherwise, they would not have set the number of source energy pulses required to link to the ship's propulsion system to four.
*The final time. It's about to succeed.*
On this fourth pulse, the Red Shoulder channeled its last dregs of life force, struggling to initiate the sequence while fighting to turn its head toward Pegmont.
*Did you learn?* the Red Shoulder thought. If communication were possible, it was even prepared to display benevolence and friendliness: *Human, you may now... @#$%&*
*Whoosh!* A sharp, curt gust broke through the air.
A flash of blue light reflected off the bulkhead behind the human. A blade gleamed darkly in his hand, leaving an afterimage as it tore through the air, cleaving straight toward the alien's gaze.
In that instant, the red-and-blue glow had barely begun surging from its ribs—
*Slash!*
Extinguished.
Cleaved clean in two.
It was over.
...Why did it have to be four? An awkward, in-between number. If it had been three, the ship would have already engaged its drives just now, and no matter how ignorant Pegmont was, he couldn't have failed to notice and ponder it.
Yet it came down to this difference of one.
"Even if it wastes a source energy block, I'm still hacking you down!" Pegmont sheathed his blade and turned off his apparatus, feeling both aggrieved and exasperated even as his anger cooled.
"I kindly tried treating you like an intelligent being, but you just had to act like food."
"All I wanted was to leave! Won't let me, huh? Fine, then I'm not leaving. I'll stay right here and butcher every single one of you first."
Once I slaughter every last one of you... how will Azure history record this battle? Something like *The Great Martian Triumph*, *Pegmont's Star Wars*... Wait, did the ship just shudder a bit?
His muscle memory supplied the information first. Pegmont concentrated on recalling the sensation. It seemed that just now, when he had engaged his source energy to strike, the entire T-class mothership had indeed experienced a faint tremor.
Enemy attack?
Pegmont hurried over to the bulkhead, peering through the slit to observe for a moment... but there was no activity outside.
Probably just loose sand underneath that shifted from the strike.
Thinking this, he relaxed, turned back to the Red Shoulder's corpse, and crouched down, peeling away the dead iron armor from its body like someone picking apart a crab...
"How the hell does that bastard from Stream Vanguard stomach this stuff?"
"Once it's dead, it's just a heap of foul flesh. Out of the whole thing, there are barely two pieces that are even remotely swallowable."
Grumbling with disgust, Pegmont nonetheless sliced off a small piece of tough meat, squeezed his eyes shut, and shoved it into his mouth.
As a human being, he felt he needed to eat. Even as one of the top four fighters in all of humanity, he couldn't go without food indefinitely.
"Gagghh!"
Nausea overcame him, and Pegmont retched the meat right back out, crouching on the ground until dry heaves racked his empty stomach.
This was not the first time...
*It feels like it's been ages since I actually ate anything... I feel like I'm growing weaker and weaker.* Pegmont leaned wearily against the bulkhead, filled with melancholy and worry.
Because he believed that a lack of food would make him weak...
Pegmont's body genuinely began to grow weak.
Of course, he didn't believe he would weaken to the point of dying just yet. He merely felt, with unprecedented clarity and certainty, utterly lonely and helpless for the first time in his life.
Through the tiny crack in the bulkhead, Pegmont looked up at the vast expanse of the starry sky. He guessed that somewhere out there was Blue Star.
Humanity's home. His home.
"Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
"This is Pegmont."
"Please respond if you hear this..."
Could this communicator... be broken?
***
Blue Star. Azure. Huaxia. Headquarters of the Huaxia Sole Witness Legion.
Over these past few years, Shen Fengting had grown visibly older. Formerly the commander of the Ninth Army of the Huaxia Front, the old man was now better known to the world by a more prominent title: the grandfather of Stream Vanguard Second Lieutenant Shen Yixiu—the Living Iron Armor.
As a soldier, Shen Fengting had retired many years ago, whereas the fellow he was visiting today was even older than him, yet had never retired.
It was just that the world was currently rife with rumors that he might already be dead.
Naturally, Shen Fengting didn't believe for a second that the man would die just like that; otherwise, he wouldn't have come.
*Tap, tap... tap.* The rhythmic click of combat boots on bluestone abruptly stopped.
A young captain stood outside a rustic farmhouse courtyard. Gesturing toward a picket gate overgrown with pumpkin vines, he said, "My clearance ends here. Old Commander, please go in on your own. The Legion Commander is inside."
"Understood," Shen Fengting nodded, pushing the gate open.
Behind him, the captain turned and walked away.
Crossing the courtyard, Shen Fengting stopped before a pair of wooden doors... When knocking yielded no response, he hesitated, then pressed both hands against them.
*Creak!* The unlatched wooden doors swung open.
"Holy shit, what the hell are you doing?!" At his very first glance inside, Shen Fengting couldn't help but blurt out.
Chapter 872