Out in the wilderness beyond Tacheng, the shrill scream of fighter jets tore through the sky once again.
Then came the thunderous roar of bombardment.
The wasteland trembled and the mountains shook as houses, fortifications, and suspected targets alike shattered and collapsed amid roaring flames.
Soon, however, it all came to an abrupt halt. Following the routine, indiscriminate bombing run, the combat formation veered away and vanished into the distance.
A few minutes later, howling gales swept across the land, swallowing the entire world in churning grit and flying stones.
Across this vast, unforgiving expanse, canyons and weathered monoliths jutted out everywhere.
Here and there, the earth would swell, and monstrous insects crawled from beneath the crust to feed on lizards and hyenas, only to be hunted by other beasts in turn. Before their carcasses even had time to bleach beneath the sky, swarms of scavengers guided by the scent descended to tear them apart.
It was a vision of hell.
Stripped of everything save desolation.
A convoy of armored vehicles crawled to the designated rendezvous point and ground to a halt. In a brief lull between gale gusts, they launched reconnaissance drones. Once the perimeter was confirmed clear of lurking threats, heavily armed soldiers dismounted. The surveyors immediately began mapping the terrain, while the rest fanned out to set a perimeter.
They lit cigarettes, stomped the dust off their boots, and took leaks while keeping watch.
They had long grown used to it.
"Fucking hell, you really can't live this dogshit life for another second."
Liang Mo tipped his head back, chugging down the last drops from his canteen, and flicked the remaining dribbles over himself. Beneath the blistering sun, his lips parched dry again almost instantly.
With every breath, airborne grit scraped down his throat and lungs like tiny razor blades, leaving behind a dull, grating ache.
Behind him rose jagged, blade-like mountain ridges. Ahead lay a boundless sea of desert and rifts with no end in sight, and farther still, the dark haze was already gathering anew.
It heralded the return of the storm—and the end of their break.
"Everyone back in the vehicles! Move, move, move!"
Liang Mo shouted, hurrying them along.
Time was running short.
Moments later, an all-consuming tempest swallowed everything.
Sand and stone flew through the air.
Inside the armored hull, all that could be heard was a relentless clatter as the vehicles swayed violently in the howling wind, punctuated by the heavy, thudding jolts of sudden impacts.
In this wild frontier where the celestial order had broken down and catastrophes had run rampant for centuries, this was merely the most ordinary of days.
With erratic cataclysms and earthquakes as common as meals, the topography never held still, and roads were in constant flux. Without a local guide, taking even a single step forward was nearly impossible.
There were no resources, no value—nothing but trouble.
It was precisely thanks to this "advantage" that the Restoration Front had managed to survive to this day.
Mid-Continent was vast, absurdly so. Even the White Nation alone spanned a territory comparable to the Federation, yet places suitable for human habitation were pitifully scarce.
The grasp and influence of the Empire and the Federation were confined to the fringes of Mid-Continent and isolated, resource-rich pockets. It was like putting a gold rim on a chamber pot—impossible to cover the whole continent.
Nor was there any need to.
Why expend so much effort and invest vast resources to claim barren wastelands that possessed neither wealth nor value?
They didn't even need to seize the resources themselves.
Divide, check, co-opt, control...
This was the classic playbook the Federation and the Empire ran in Mid-Continent, and it worked every single time!
Fan the flames of ethnic or class conflicts, prop up a puppet regime, and secretly sponsor an anti-government militia on the side. Once both sides were tearing at each other's throats like rabid dogs, neither could do without the mediator who packed the biggest fist.
A bloodless way to hold sovereignty while keeping their hands clean of the mess.
Both sides knew full well that, from start to finish, the only true enemy was the other.
That was why they warily circled each other in an endless loop of probing and skirmishing. At the same time, they worked hand in glove to carve up everything else, crushing any party that threatened to overturn the board without a shred of hesitation.
Now, under a shared threat, after so many years apart, the Federation and the Empire had uncharacteristically pooled all their forces in the White Nation to launch an all-out purge!
Since persuasion hadn't worked, they would settle it with steel and fire.
In just a few days, both sides had committed the vast majority of their assets, plunging deep into the wilderness. The shadows of airships hung heavy over the earth, while armored vehicles roamed the desert plains.
Bombing runs operating on three continuous shifts hadn't stopped since the day before yesterday, obliterating every fortification and stronghold suspected of belonging to the White Nation Restoration Front at any cost.
A brand-new forward operating base sprang up from the ground, while countless warlord camps, local militia bases, and Restoration Front strongpoints were burned to ash.
It was a crushing, overwhelming rout, completely as expected.
Yet at the same time, their progress ground forward at a grueling, agonizing pace...
Which, truth be told, was also entirely anticipated.
Unless the leaders of the White Nation Restoration Front had lost their minds, why would they ever go toe-to-toe with Tianyuan's armored juggernaut?
The moment the first reports arrived, they dispersed into the winds, abandoning their previous strongholds without a second thought. Melting into the terrain, they made full use of the rugged mountains and barren desert to wage a relentless guerrilla campaign of harassment.
Sniping from the shadows, planting landmines, setting traps, and fashioning bombs.
Their drones harassed the coalition relentlessly, catching troops off guard to hit their supply lines and rearguards. Whatever was most obnoxious and disruptive, they did it, refusing under any circumstances to engage in a stand-up fight. It was infuriating beyond words.
Time and again, they struck in lightning raids during the brief lulls between natural disasters, pulling back into the storm before coalition main forces or fire support could even arrive.
At times, they even deliberately lured pursuing forces into seismic fault zones, swampy morasses, or the dens of massive disaster beasts.
Taking it a step further, they turned the cataclysms themselves into weapons.
As a result, after the initial high-value strikes and targeted eliminations were completed, the Federation and the Empire found themselves bogged down in a miserable slog the moment they attempted to push forward.
There was no helping it. No rapid response unit could outrun a cataclysm, and armored knights couldn't stay on twenty-four-hour standby. Besides, deploying a suit of power armor required maintenance before and after that took more than a couple of hours to wrap up.
Commanders on both sides spent half their time cursing a blue streak over it.
Yet what good did cursing do?
Before cursing, why didn't they stop to ask where this staggering, mind-boggling array of frequent and horrific disasters had come from in the first place?
Could all of it truly be native to Mid-Continent?
There were so many natural disasters that they acted like a shifting fog of war, rendering satellite reconnaissance utterly useless. Who else was to blame?
You couldn't expect a place to be your dumping ground and your backyard, your septic tank and your dining table all at once.
Having reaped what they sowed, they could only grit their teeth and endure, falling back on the clumsiest method available: advancing at a snail's pace, slowly tightening the blockade and encirclement from both flanks. They compressed the Restoration Front's operational space while relying on the mobility of armored knights and Celestial Chosen to hunt down priority targets.
Inefficient as it was, it didn't matter.
As long as it got results, that was enough!
Every day, the news trumpeted triumph after triumph—the White Nation Restoration Front had suffered a disastrous opening, blundered again and again, and was on the brink of total collapse... In short, victory, victory, and endless victory.
It was under these circumstances that Ji Jue arrived at the Federation's forward base.
As the special envoy of Haichao Armaments, the after-sales engineer for Haian Tech, a Golden Ribbon artisan of the Ring of Taiyi, a partner of the Wilderness Market, the foremost supplier of alchemical ammunition to the Federation's armored knights, and the base's biggest scavenger and second-hand dealer of alchemical goods...
Drawing six or seven salaries on his own, he descended leisurely from the skies aboard an airship. Flanked by subordinates and hired muscle, basking in the cool draft of the air conditioning, savoring a lavish lunch crafted by general-grade chefs, sipping champagne and red wine across from Tong the Vegetable, he was met with endless gratitude and the longing gazes of a welcoming throng.
Of course, Tong the Vegetable was simply along for the ride.
Otherwise, as a senior enforcer for the Security Bureau, he would have had to travel by truck or hike in on foot. How could he have ever enjoyed an escort of fighter jets?
Tong the Vegetable wore a deeply conflicted look. "Why do I feel like you've only been here for two months, yet you're already doing better than me?"
"Can't help it. That's the life of an arms dealer."
Ji Jue raised his glass, toasting their friendship. "The hotter the war burns, the more money rolls in."
*Spouting nonsense again.*
Tong Shan sighed, completely helpless.
Truth be told, Ji Jue was great in every single way—except that he was utterly hopeless in every other—
What other arms dealer could ever dream of treatment like this? The senior reps from Huanyu Heavy Industries and Grand Creation were still eating dust in their own trucks, hauling their own rations behind the vanguard.
Truly, choice mattered more than effort.
That little bastard always managed to pinpoint the exact threshold of everyone's patience, dancing along the edge and exploiting every loophole. By the time he cleaned out your pockets, you still had to thank him for it.
To put it simply, no matter how hard or bitter your road was, he could always find an even harsher, more agonizing alternative, and then "kindly" offer to save you from it—*either let me sit at the table, or we all eat shit together. Your call!*
As a consequence, plenty of people ground their teeth in fury, yet none of them could do a damn thing about him.
The moment the airship touched down, a low, sprawling drone rose from the base, and a sparse cloud of grayish-black silhouettes swept into the sky, fanning out in all directions.
Drones—countless drones—instantly swept across the post-storm wilderness.
Immediately after, gunfire erupted.
Muzzle flashes strobed along the base's parapets as the sentry machine guns opened up. Following a series of loud bangs, an expanse of bizarre, scaled mega-birds tumbled from the clouds like rain.
A ceaseless downpour of carcasses.
In just the past two days, the drone identification and anti-drone systems had been custom-upgraded to match the local conditions of the White Nation.
Under the upgraded suite, the identification network across both sides had been seamlessly unified. The system was no longer merely scanning for hostile drones; it now actively flagged the myriad wild beasts, giant insects, venomous serpents, and various aberrant mutations roaming the wasteland.
The moment a target was detected, it was instantly locked onto, and the automated defenses engaged to neutralize the threat.
Against the wilderness's most prevalent hazards—army maneater ants, mimetic monitor lizards, and subterranean burrowing worms—the system's recognition accuracy surpassed ninety percent.
On the very first day of deployment, it garnered a ninety-nine percent approval rating. Aside from one idiot who went shirtless and strutted around showing off a 3D tattoo of a red-scaled maneating python—and promptly pissed his pants on the spot—there were no casualties.
Thanks to this system, the entire forward base had shaved off at least sixty percent of its patrol personnel.
Furthermore, convoys equipped with the suite saw their survival rates rise by more than sixty percent. Within their patrol radius, even the most deeply concealed snipers and explosive devices were spotted and neutralized immediately. As for the remaining forty percent of incidents, they were either drivers steering straight into chasms, convoys buried by earthquakes or sandstorms, or unlucky encounters with the White Nation Restoration Front's elite forces...
Consequently, the moment the airship's cargo doors swung open, the chief of the forward base's ordnance department hurried over with an obsequious grin, radiating enthusiasm. "Master Ji, is that you? Right this way, Master Ji! Your workshop and quarters have already been mapped out. Per your request, they're located along the outer perimeter. Rest assured, the security, water, and power are top-tier. Everything's ready, absolutely ready!"
"You flatter me, Director. I hardly deserve the title." Ji Jue smiled and shook his hand. Behind him, massive mechanical beasts resembling oxen and draft horses emerged in single file, laden with crates of various sizes.
The mechanical pack train marched in an orderly, brazen procession right through the center of the base, heading toward the newly assembled modular barracks. All along the way, crowds lined the path, cheering and shouting in welcome.
The sharper ones were already waiting by the door, queuing up to take numbers from the Riot Cat.
Every single one was a client.
To be precise, clients with deep pockets and a burning desire to spend!
A sea of lush green, ripe for the harvesting like leeks.
The sight of people lining up to hand over money was truly refreshing.
As the saying went: hefty bounties always breed plenty of subcontractors.
At present, the forward base lacked many things, but Celestial Chosen were as common as stray dogs along the roadside—everywhere you looked.
After all, the rigid military structure clashed naturally with Celestial Chosen who operated outside the Swarm. In this kind of decentralized theater where large-scale concentrated operations were impossible, wild Celestial Chosen offered far better value for money.
What was not to like about disposable tools who didn't require a salary, food, or lodging, and who charged off to butcher the Restoration Front the moment you tossed them a few coins?
Since antiquity, there had never been a shortage of people willing to trade others' severed heads for cash. With the Wilderness Market stoking the flames behind the scenes, countless freelances were rushing toward the White Nation as fast as their legs could carry them, terrified of missing the limited-time event and its rare prize pool.
Under these conditions, Ji Jue was in scorching demand. Not only did he hold a total monopoly over the forward base's alchemical ammunition supply as a Golden Ribbon artisan, but he was also the sole official contractor operating in direct partnership with the base under the military's banner.
In video game terms, he was the golden benefactor sitting comfortably in the home base, waiting for players to shower him with cash. The moment word got out, the queue stretched almost from his doorstep to the command headquarters.
Dripping with sweat, Yan Fei stood at the front trying to maintain order, shouting repeatedly through a megaphone, "Don't push, everyone! Don't push! We'll be open for business shortly!"
In the blink of an eye, right before everyone's eyes, a stream of silver light washed over the crude modular barracks. A brand-new workshop rose from the ground, and the mechanical oxen and horses filing inside crouched down, shifting and clicking into place to form display counters...
Just like that, a dazzling array of merchandise appeared before the crowd.
Alchemical ammunition of various calibers, armor plates treated with Three-Phase Alchemy, standard-issue blades, spears, swords, and halberds from the Guild's catalog, as well as firearms and suits of armor.
The vast majority were basic alchemical creations devoid of blessings.
As always, they were aimed squarely at the penniless rank-and-file who prioritized cost-effectiveness. After all, novice Celestial Chosen might not be able to afford a peerless divine blade, but they could certainly scrape together five gold pieces for a silver-scale chestplate.
From off-the-shelf alchemical sales to bespoke blessed gear, all the way to appraisal, cracking, and salvaging of battlefield spoils, a makeshift, full-service operation was up and running.
The bulk of the work was dumped on the Yan brothers; very little actually required Ji Jue's personal intervention.
He glanced left and right, surveying the bustling workshop. It felt like something was missing until his eyes landed on the vacant spot by the entrance. Sudden realization dawned on him.
He slapped his forehead.
"Wait, where's my doorman?!"
With a quick phone call, the sour-faced Swarm bouncer was hauled out of the Federation base's mess hall and officially put to work.
Amid the clamor and commotion, the workshop—which didn't even have a registered name yet—appeared to be thriving.
Once the workshop's retail operations were rolling, Ji Jue led the team from Haian Tech to set up the maintenance garage.
From that point on, he withdrew from the public eye.
Like a proper craftsman, he kept entirely to himself. Aside from emerging at regular intervals to handle the orders Yan Fei couldn't resolve, he didn't even spare a thought for the wolf.
At present, the White Nation Restoration Front was holed up deep in the mountains and desert, while the Federation and Empire pushed forward at a crawl. For the immediate future, both sides were merely feeling each other out, with neither able to achieve a decisive breakthrough.
A relentlessly driven workaholic like Ji Jue would never sit idly around the base wasting time. He had to seize every second to convert his gains into raw personal power!
For an entire week, he holed up in the workshop of the Doomsday Express, tinkering with "himself."
Beyond converting the massive windfall he had harvested from the Security Bureau and the Wilderness Market into raw materials to thoroughly reinforce his mechanical body in its Regeneration form, he poured the rest of his efforts into Zhanlu.
If he wanted to upgrade Pan Ying any further, he would need to gather several more inheritance sacrifices of the Former Phantoms of the Six Heavens to unlock its upper limit. Chunjun needed no intervention; as his own tier advanced, it would naturally rise with the tide.
The component that would yield the most immediate, dramatic returns from an upgrade was naturally Zhanlu, which had just undergone its transformation of form and essence.
After countless rounds of theoretical deduction, testing, and refinement, Ji Jue finally succeeded in imbuing his aberrant heart with its very first blessing chain.
Furthermore, among all the blessing chains compatible with Zhanlu, it was the most troublesome, difficult, and demanding sequence an artisan could ever attempt.
[Shock Comes]!
Back during the simulated worm extermination in the Tower of Myriad Transformations, Ji Jue had practiced handling this blessing sequence until it was second nature. Spending so much effort now was solely to minimize the strain on himself as much as possible, while recalibrating and adapting it for Zhanlu, which now served as his heart.
Even so, the process remained perilously fraught.
Just as Ye Xian had once said: it was pure, unadulterated suicide.
A few times along the way, if not for the absolute precision and control of Non-Offensive, he likely would have blown himself sky-high.
Though in a sense, self-detonation was technically a trump card in its own right, it was still best if that particular move never had to see the light of day...
And so, the final preparations were complete.
A week later, Ji Jue suddenly materialized in front of Tong Shan, issuing a spirited invitation:
"Brother Vegetable, let's go catch jelly—*cough, cough*—let's go catch some natural disasters!"
[!]
Inside the temporary quarters, Tong Shan had been reviewing reports. Looking up, he saw a bizarre figure standing there, venting black smoke, crackling with lightning, and showering sparks, grinning idiotically and cackling with teeth bared.
It was only because it was Tong Shan that he managed to hold his composure. Anyone else caught off guard like that would have instinctively hurled a telekinetic blast at the intruder's face.
Even so, he stared blankly for a long while.
"You..."
Tong Shan hesitated for several seconds, completely at a loss. "Did you take the wrong meds again?"
Ji Jue fell silent, his lips parting and closing without a word.
His eyes filled with silent reproach.
*Brother Shan, after how well I treat you, why on earth must you say "again"?*
Chapter 618