Guan Qiliang left home to rejoin his unit.
Strictly speaking, he was only in his fifties, and having once been nourished by source energy, calling him an old man was somewhat of a stretch. But in recent years, with a change of mind, he had genuinely wanted from the bottom of his heart to be an old peasant farmer doting on his grandchild. Thus, he had come to look the part, both in appearance and bearing.
Then suddenly one day, the weathered battle standard was raised anew, the battle hymn of bygone days rang out once more, and the long blade called. The old peasant rose to his feet, straightened his back, and was once again that veteran who had shed blood on the battlefield without ever flinching.
This was an earth-shaking matter for the Guan family.
Yet for this world, identical or similar stories were playing out in countless places on this very day. Once the muster was complete, the name Guan Qiliang would vanish, reduced ultimately to a single collective title: veteran.
He didn't care about that. If the legion commander and the chief of staff remembered him, he would be glad to know it, but even that could only rank second.
What Guan Qiliang cared about most at the bottom of his heart was that this world and humankind could continue to survive, and that his little Douguan could grow up well and remember that his grandfather had once been an Azure squad leader, and later one of the first human source energy warriors to battle among the stars...
"Oh, right—back in the day, your grandpa even got drunk and had a shouting match with a fellow named Chen Buer, throwing chicken bones at each other. You have to remember to tell that to your girlfriends, and then to your children and grandchildren. Hahahaha."
...
[Bound for the stars, perhaps never to return; no homework shall be assigned. Humankind's future—your teacher goes to retrieve it, and shall henceforth place it into your hands.]
At Jincheng No. 37 Middle School's junior high division, for the first class of "General Knowledge of the Source Energy World" this afternoon, the students sat waiting in the classroom as usual, but their subject teacher, Lu Zhengtang, did not show up.
The line of characters on the blackboard had presumably been written during lunchtime.
Teacher Lu had left. Alone, he walked all the way down to the riverside, stopping not far behind an old man sitting on the ground fishing. Without calling out to him, he simply lit a cigarette, taking slow puffs as he waited.
After about three minutes—*splash!*—the water's surface stirred at last. With a flick of the old fisherman's wrist, a river carp weighing at least three jin flew through the air, landing in his hand.
"Impressive, eh?" Zhang Dashun turned his head to boast. "I've been fishing for three years now."
"Heh!" Looking down at the big carp opening and closing its mouth repeatedly, he remarked, "Well look at that, it breathes... Looks like I'll have to go protect you after all."
Zhang Dashun unhooked the fish, tossed it back into the water, crouched to rinse his hands, then stood up, turned around, and said, "Let's go."
Before long, the departing figures of the two old comrades-in-arms vanished from view, leaving behind only that solitary fishing rod—hookless and baitless—still stuck by the riverbank, its line swaying in the wind.
Bergen, Germany. Red fire trucks were parked along the street with sirens wailing continuously, yet the watching crowd did not move away, children included.
The fire was in a building along the street. It had started on the sixth floor; raging infernos engulfed the entire floor and were burning upward.
Suddenly—*whoosh!* A figure appeared in midair. Müller, a young firefighter clad in protective gear, was hurled out of a window, landing squarely on the rescue cushion.
"You little punk! Sooner or later I'm going to beat you half to death!" A furious shout roared from within the flames.
Before the voice faded—*boom!* A muffled sound echoed, as if smothered by something, and all visible flames across the entire sixth floor were extinguished in a single instant.
Then billowing smoke and dust burst outward.
At this, the watching crowd seemed neither surprised nor frightened. "Whoo!" they cheered loudly, raising their arms high and applauding toward the upper story.
There, amidst the billowing smoke and dust, a tall and burly figure stepped out with steady strides, one by one, like a warrior from the future in those harsh, extreme conditions.
"The best way to deal with a fire has never been putting it out, but preventing it. In the future, please do your best to protect our home. Mankind already has it hard enough."
Schmidt's thick, curly beard was tinged with white. Because his facial hair was so lush, the motion of his lips could not be seen when he spoke, but his habitually raspy voice sounded exceptionally deep and resonant today, filling his words with majesty and even a trace of anger.
Then Schmidt suddenly smiled—though others likely couldn't see it—and leapt directly down from the sixth floor with outstretched arms, like Superman.
This was a parting gift to the children of this city from an Azure veteran who was stern and unsmiling most of the time, seemingly in a perpetual bad mood.
Bergen's God of Firefighting was leaving; today was his final day on the job.
"Hah!" Landing steadily on bent knees, Schmidt spoke as his massive hand seized Müller by the back collar, yanking him over. He growled fiercely, "There won't be a next time, understand? You idiot! If you rush blindly and foolishly into the fire like that again, you will die in there!"
"Yes, I understand, Captain Schmidt... I'll wait until you get back to do it again." Müller put on a mischievous look, offered a forced grin, wriggled out of Schmidt's grip, and jogged a few steps into the ranks of vehicles and personnel up ahead.
Schmidt's final shift as fire captain had ended. The send-off formation was already quietly in place: on one side stood the fire engines of the Bergen Fire Department, and on the other, the firefighters.
They began to applaud.
Amidst the applause, Captain Schmidt walked silently past them, marching straight ahead. Only when his back was about to disappear into the distance did the crowd see him raise an arm, waving three times in the air.
As a firefighter, Schmidt was one of the few retired veterans permitted to bring back a decommissioned source energy apparatus and receive a small supply of source energy.
Sharing this privilege were another group of veterans who had chosen to join the police force after retiring—due to the loss of source energy blocks and apparatuses during several wars, and the existence of certain anti-human organizations, a small number of source energy crimes now occurred in the world.
Novoseli, Xiongzhanli.
The bald Chief Fyodor had not returned to the station for three days and three nights, whereas he normally treated it as home. He had no family.
This had been Fyodor's one-man dragnet. For three days and three nights, like the Grim Reaper and a demon incarnate, he had rampaged through the city, relentlessly hunting down and exterminating source energy criminals.
Using the most ruthless extrajudicial torture, he interrogated the criminals from anti-human organizations who fell into his hands, then raided their strongholds alone, killing everyone inside.
*Tap, tap!* That was the sound of combat boots embedded with dead iron plates striking the pavement.
Basking in the first rays of morning light, the fifty-five-year-old, short-tempered Chief Fyodor finally returned. For the past three years, he had continued to wear his Azure military uniform, which was now soaked with blood.
"You ought to stay, Fyodor. Look, those source energy crimes aren't something we can handle at all. We need you. Truly, please stay with us."
His colleagues, who had waited here through the entire night, rose as one.
"Leave police matters to the police. Don't worry, Azure has already worked with national governments to establish special task forces. But me—I'm a soldier." Fyodor pointed to the Azure insignia on his chest, as if he had never been nudged into retirement due to age and disciplinary infractions.
Then he walked over, reaching out to take a bottle of vodka straight off the desk. That was the farewell drink those hypocritical fellows had prepared for him—they had lined up an entire table of it.
"I don't have that much time." Twisting off the cap with bloodstained hands, Fyodor held his bottle and tapped it against the bottles in front of each of them. "Don't lecture any anti-human criminal on the law. Whenever you get a chance, kill them outright, understand? If you don't... just hide."
*Gulp, gulp... Thud!* Finishing his words, Fyodor tilted his head back, draining the liquor in one breath before slamming the empty bottle heavily onto the desk.
"No more goodbyes," he said.
With that, he turned and walked out of the police station.
...Such stories were playing out ceaselessly across the globe...
The headquarters base of the Huaxia Sole Witness Legion.
Xu Xiaohong had just stepped out and come back.
"The guard post at the base's west gate has changed hands." Glancing sideways at the figure enshrined on the altar table, then turning back, Xu Xiaohong lowered his head and said calmly, "I mean, Old Zhu has left too."
Unlike the vast majority of veterans returning this time, Old Zhu wasn't among those discharged three years ago. This old gatekeeper, who had watched over the base's west gate for more than a decade, had only one leg.
"Not many young officers here recognize him now. Probably few know that he was once a member of your personal guard and a top combat power."
"I remember you saying that he originally had a shot at reaching super combat power."
Old Zhu had left. After retiring due to severe crippling injuries and spending more than a decade guarding the base's gates, he had finally been unable to hold back, deciding to head to the battlefield once more.
He was fifty-seven, yet between the physical pain and suppressed sorrow, he looked far older than his actual age, as if he were seventy.
He had only one leg left.
Yet Xu Xiaohong could not hold him back for any of this. Not only could he not stop him, but if the recruiters rejected him on those two accounts, Xu Xiaohong would even have to put in a good word and pull strings for him.
Incense smoke rose from the tabletop. On the altar, Chen Buer did not speak, nor did he open his eyes.
"There's one more person. They called me over just now specifically to ask what to do about him." Xu Xiaohong paused, then said, "Shen Fengting registered."
To Huaxia's military circles, Shen Fengting was undoubtedly an illustrious name: he was the former commander of the Sole Witness Legion's Ninth Army, as well as the grandfather of Second Lieutenant Shen Yixiu, later known as the Living Armor.
"I had them send a telegram to pass the matter over to Stream Vanguard for a decision."
As Xu Xiaohong spoke, he did not look at Chen Buer again. Lowering his head, he swept away the telegrams covering the small table with his arm, then set down a wine cup, sat down, and poured a drink.
Right then, *tick*. The clock pointed to four in the afternoon.
This was the registration deadline for the mobilization order.
Since no extension to the registration period had been announced, it meant that the number of veterans answering the mobilization order had already met or exceeded the requirements of the expedition plan. It was enough.
That number was... one hundred thousand.
"A hundred thousand iron-willed veterans!" Xu Xiaohong murmured softly. Tipping his head back, he drained the cup in one gulp, then lowered his head, feigning nonchalance as his sleeve brushed across his bloodshot eyes.
Chapter 890