I'm Your Granddaddy Pangolin!

The air in the church was as cold as the howling wind over the Wandering Marsh, yet West Sail Port, situated squarely in the tropics, had no winter. All of them were the price... Every single person in this settlement. With struggling eyes, Anwo was suddenly gripped by despair. Harboring no further hope for the rebel army, he raised his gun once more, though he did not flip off the safety. "...I don't care about any of that. Even if we're just being used, give me and my brothers here a way out! Then I'll give you a way out!" "...If you hadn't interrupted, that's exactly what I was about to say. Back to our earlier point: if you want to survive, you have to pretend you killed everyone while leaving them alive." Ishel cast a mocking glance at the cowardly wolf who feared death, then continued in an unhurried drawl. "Don't just stand there like an idiot. Go to the docks and round up some corpses, along with some corpse carts. Arrange the dead inside the church, fire off a few bursts into them, and haul them back out." Desecrating corpses crossed a moral line, but there was no time to care about that now. Staying alive was all that mattered. Anwo asked nervously, "And then?" Ishel's mind was racing, but his tone remained calm and completely unruffled. "Then we'll have to ask these survivors to endure lying among the corpses and riding the carts out of the city. Just invent an excuse—say anyone who dies in the Silver Moon Church must be laid to rest in the earth... The rebels have no quarrel with Mr. Melchior, so they shouldn't give him trouble. But this will require Mr. Melchior to accompany them, which does carry some risk—" "That doesn't matter. As long as we can save these poor people, a little risk is nothing," Melchior interrupted, looking at him with earnest conviction. "I'll accompany the convoy out of the city. With me chanting scriptures along the way, it will make the act far more convincing." "Thank you, Father. We appreciate it." Ishel nodded to the priest, then turned his gaze toward the elderly steward, Sahadu, who had remained silent the entire time. "How far is Count Sharma's manor from here? How big is it? Can it hold two hundred people?" Sahadu snapped back to reality and replied hurriedly, "It's not far! If we set out now, we'll reach it before dawn! We have an expansive plantation! Never mind two hundred people—two thousand wouldn't be an issue!" "Very good..." Ishel nodded. "Once you're out of the city, lead everyone to Count Sharma's estate and find a medium-sized manor to hide them in. Remember: the fewer people who know about this, the better!" The young man named Pavin couldn't help asking, "Shouldn't we split up to hide?" Ishel rolled his eyes. "Are you an idiot? What difference does it make whether one gets caught or ten? Keeping everyone together is the safest option! Furthermore, only one person can deliver food and water... Actually, no need to choose. It'll be you. You're in charge of these two hundred lives." As he spoke, he gripped Pavin's shoulder, staring directly into the young man's eyes until the fear in his pupils settled into resolve before letting go. "You're a clever lad... Since you know there's no future in running with this rabble, seize this last chance to live." Pavin mustered his courage, nodded, and accepted the duty. "Understood..." "Good." Hearing the youth's answer, Ishel pushed him over to Anwo. "This kid is yours now. Find a chance to promote him, at least to centurion. Once you take Count Sharma's estate, post him outside and put him in charge of watching the count's property and family." Anwo glanced at the boy and nodded. "That shouldn't be much of a problem... I heard Janusz promised Lion State to Absaik, my direct superior. When the time comes, they'll definitely leave some men behind to manage the surrounding land." Ishel felt a surge of relief. "Excellent." Steward Sahadu asked tremulously, "Since this place has already become a vortex of disaster... couldn't we simply flee?" "Flee?" As if he had just heard the funniest joke, Anwo gave the old steward an amused look. "Flee with rations, or empty-handed? And how much food do you plan to carry, and where do you think you're going? Once news of this spreads, the surrounding area will be crawling with people wanting your heads. You won't have time to run, and you won't get far! Take my advice: staying put is actually the safest option. The Wilante will also make a landing here eventually... I bet Janusz won't stick around to defend this place; he'll almost certainly leave some scapegoat behind." "B-but if I stay in Lion State, those Wilante will kill me..." Pavin stammered in terror. "As long as these people stay alive, you won't die. If they die, it won't matter where you run." Anwo looked at the young man with a conflicted expression, but said nothing more in the end. He then turned his gaze to Madame Margot and asked, "What about the children? Are they leaving the city too?" Margot fell silent for a moment. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, but she ultimately made up her mind. "It's too dangerous... We cannot put all our eggs in one basket. Someone must survive to tell the outside world what happened tonight." Anwo nodded. "I agree. Children are too great a liability. If one of them cries out along the way, everyone dies... Do you want to say goodbye to them?" "No, there's no need." Margot shook her head gently, then walked up to the elderly nun and clasped her hands. Looking into her eyes, she said with utmost sincerity, "Our children are in your care. In a few days, the Wilante will surely arrive... But unless you believe the news of our survival will spare the people here from suffering, please do not tell the Wilante that we're alive for now. Tell them we were taken outside and executed." Those orchestrating this would never allow them to live. Perhaps a rescue would be staged. Yet it would inevitably arrive a minute or two late, showing up only after everything had ended. That was self-evident. A locomotive already in motion would not halt for an ant on the tracks. Would sparing two hundred lives bring back the more than three thousand who had already died? War would still be unleashed. And to prevent any trouble from befalling the puppet the mastermind controlled within the rebel army—to ensure no unexpected personnel changes disrupted subsequent plans—the puppet manipulated by the mastermind would certainly receive word before any rescue force could arrive. Why? Because their deaths were already part of the budget. Margot took a deep breath and continued, "It probably won't just be the Legion... People from the Alliance will likely come here as well. But the Alliance cannot be fully trusted either. They cooperate closely with the Legion in the Mutual Aid Community, so we cannot rule out the possibility of them taking an appeasement approach. Far too much is happening in secret behind the scenes that we do not understand. Please watch those people carefully and see if they are worthy..." In truth, even if they were not worthy, it hardly mattered. If even the Alliance sided with the Legion to support an invasion of the empire, with two bandits joining hands to ravage this land, then no matter how brilliantly the truth shone, it would inevitably be smothered. When that time came... Perhaps only people from the Enterprise or the Academy would come to collect their corpses and record what had once transpired here. Margot squeezed the old nun's hands tightly, an unconscious trace of pleading creeping into her earnest voice. "Please... you must look after them. If misfortune befalls us, please tell the children the truth once everything is over." The old nun nodded solemnly. "I will! And you, Madame... please take care of yourself as well. Children cannot be without their mothers. Even if only to keep those wicked men from filling their heads with vile falsehoods, you must survive." Melchior walked up beside them and murmured softly, "The brave do not perish so easily... Time is running short. Let us make preparations quickly." "I've already sent men to fetch corpses from the harbor," Anwo said, glancing out the door before looking over the two hundred-odd Wilante in the hall. "You should prepare as well. See if you need to change your clothes. As for luggage, forget about it. Leave it here." Anwo turned to Ishel, who stood nearby with arms folded, and then glanced at the dozen or so fellow believers behind him. "What about you? Going home? Or heading to Count Sharma's manor with these Wilante?" "They don't need me along. In fact, you're more crucial than they are, and I'm more worried about your safety... If you mess up, we're all dead." Ishel looked left and right, tore off a long strip of cloth from his sleeve, and tied it around his arm under the stunned gazes of the crowd. He actually looked the part. After all, the armbands worn by the rebels weren't standardized uniforms anyway. Seeing Anwo's dumbfounded stare, Ishel raised an eyebrow. "I've rebelled too." "I'm your subordinate now." ... Everything proceeded according to plan. Anwo had his trusted men retrieve over three hundred corpses from the harbor. Most of the people at the harbor were dead drunk, and no one cared in the slightest, assuming some meddlesome chieftain had sent men to clear away the dead. The rebel army had yet to establish a coherent organization; their command structure was entirely chaotic, lacking any unified directives. Even the Gray Wolf Army veterans gathered around Janusz hadn't sorted out their pecking order, let alone the smaller factions. However, if an invisible hand was truly pulling the strings as Madame Margot suspected, this chaos among the rebels would not last long. At the very least, it certainly wouldn't drag on until reinforcements from Evernight Port arrived. All they needed to do was push someone forward as their leader, hoist a banner as their battle flag, fabricate a pretext for the uprising, and decide who would stay behind to die. Then they could march out of the city in grand fashion toward Tiandu. Barring any surprises, the ones left behind would be the city defense guards. They were the least liked and possessed minimal combat capability, making them the perfect targets for the Wilante to vent their fury on—the big-nosed soldiers could treat them as target practice. Naturally, this would never be stated openly. It would likely be framed under the guise of an initiation pledge, just like sending Anwo to slaughter everyone in the Silver Moon Church. The only difference was that unlike him, the pledge those guards had to pay was a price they couldn't afford even by wagering the lives of their entire families... Watching his confidants arrange the corpses inside the church, Anwo wore a stony expression. The young man named Pavin walked up beside him, trembling as he said, "Everything is ready..." Though he hadn't killed a single soul, he was currently covered in blood, looking as if he had crawled straight out of a heap of dead bodies. Anwo nodded, signaled to the twenty or so trusted soldiers beside him to aim at the corpses slumped haphazardly across the church pews, and decisively chopped his hand down. "Fire!" The instant the order left his lips, a deafening crackle of gunfire echoed through the church. The onlookers couldn't bear to watch and shut their eyes, while muffled weeping broke out among the children in the cellar. The corpse carts were pushed inside, emerging even more heavily laden. The despondent priest followed close behind the carts, one hand clutching the silver crescent on his chest and the other resting on the bloodstained pushcart. Not far away, several patrolling rebels wearing cloth armbands spotted the scene, envious expressions spreading across their faces. "Damn, looks like those bastards had a blast." "Shit... There were too many men and too little meat at the harbor. I didn't even get a sip of broth." One of them suddenly let out a lewd chuckle. "Say, isn't there still a nun inside the church? How about we head in and take a look?" Before he could finish, the decurion beside him smacked him upside the head. "Are you fucking crazy? Even Janusz didn't dare lay a finger on those scripture-chanters. You think you're tougher than the boss?" He had seen with his own eyes that Melchior was not only alive, but brazenly walking beside that Wolf Clan soldier, chanting prayers for the deceased. What that implied went without saying. Another soldier nearby, who had likely visited the church before, shot the leering fellow a contemptuous glance. "That nun is at least fifty or sixty years old... You're interested in an old hag like that?" The leering soldier finally fell silent, scratching the back of his head. "How the fuck was I supposed to know..." The banter and curses drifted into the distance down the street, serving as a parting send-off for the convoy of corpse carts. Inside the church, the elderly nun kept her head bowed in silence, clutching a mop as she futilely attempted to clean the blood-drenched nave. More people came by the church afterward. Yet they merely glanced at her, looked at the blood on the floor, and hurried off without uttering a single word. The church was practically forgotten, lingering in tranquil isolation amid that hell of corpses and blood for three full days. It was not until a deafening roar shook the earth and Wilante combat boots stepped onto the harbor that the nightmare finally drew to a close... ... The candle flame on the silver candelabrum flickered gently. A sudden trance snapped the distant memories back to the present. Having recounted the entire story from beginning to end, the elderly nun spoke slowly once more. "If all went well, your wife and the other survivors should be hiding in one of Count Sharma's estates or plantations, looked after by a decurion—perhaps now a centurion—named Pavin. Father Melchior should be there as well. "As for Anwo, he should be alongside his superior, Absaik, which was also Mr. Ishel's suggestion. The most dangerous place is often the safest. If those people suspect you, whatever you do will only lead to death. "...However, if he can win their trust, there is hope he might be brought into their inner circle and uncover evidence of the Legion's complicity in this conspiracy." The basement fell remarkably quiet. The players were reading the translated subtitles on their VMs, while Yarman held his breath. Young Ruby was the first to break the silence. A faint mist of tears, like sweet spring water welling from a parched well, moistened her dust-clouded eyes. A spark of hope reignited in her gaze, and her lips parted softly. "Mom... is alive..." "Margot... Oh, Silver Moon Goddess above!" Yarman was incoherent with joy, pressing his lips and the tip of his nose against his clasped hands. He wished he could kowtow to the Silver Moon Goddess right then and there! Praise the moon! Regardless of whether the Silver Moon Goddess actually dwelt there! If this wasn't a miracle, what on earth could be called one?! "Where is she now? No... what must I do to bring her back?" As Yarman gradually calmed down, he began to realize that the situation was far from as simple as it appeared on the surface. First, he had no way of leaving West Sail Port. The soldiers outside would definitely detain him under the pretext of safety and question his reasons for leaving. That was a completely rational procedure. And if he revealed that Margot was alive alongside the people who had taken shelter in the church that night, the Heavenly King Army would find them long before any Wilante rescue force could reach them. When that happened, not only would Margot die, but everyone with her would perish as well! Even the good soul who had spared her that night—Mr. Anwo, who had embedded himself within the Heavenly King Army—would be doomed! They would die in silence, taking every secret to their graves. "Your wife didn't know either, but she believed you would surely find a way—that you would surely save everyone! Not just her and the two hundred survivors, but all the people about to be swept into this war..." The elderly nun sighed softly, turning her eyes to the Alliance members. Following her gaze, Yarman looked pleadingly at the players beside him, particularly toward Farsighted Eagle, who appeared to be the only dependable one. The latter hadn't spoken, resting his chin in his hand in deep contemplation. Only when Yarman looked over did he speak slowly. "This won't be easy to handle... If we leave West Sail Port, the Wilante will definitely trail us out of suspicion. Besides, relying on just us is pointless. The Heavenly King Army in Lion State has at least a hundred thousand men, right? Forget escorting two hundred people during an evacuation—without heavy equipment or backup, even two ten-man squads would be more than enough to give us a beating." Shit-Stirring Stick scratched his head, his face likewise marked by frustration. "True. And if the rescue fails, the Legion might pin the blame on us: 'You clearly knew it was dangerous, so why didn't you report it to the authorities?!'... Tsk, what a headache. If those bastards turn around and bite us, we won't even have a place to plead our case." "What if we request an airborne squad?" Battle-Hardened Wolf asked, looking at him in confusion. "Since we know the Legion is behind this, shouldn't we just deploy our own troops?" Stick rolled his eyes. "Are you joking? Those are Legion citizens; it's hardly the Alliance's place to rescue them. Besides, do you think troops can be mobilized just because you say so? If we acted on your reckless ideas, the Alliance wouldn't be able to get anything else done—we'd spend all our time spinning our wheels around this tiny patch of land." Wolf grew anxious. "But..." Eagle cut him off, speaking after careful reflection. "Brother Stick is right. Calm down. Even if we have respawn coins, that doesn't mean we can mess around recklessly. "And to be realistic, from the Alliance's perspective, simply saving those two hundred people isn't enough. That fellow named Anwo is even more important to us than those two hundred lives. He might have already uncovered leads showing collusion between high-ranking rebel leaders and figures within the Legion... That might be the only leverage capable of making the Legion pump the brakes, though even that is merely a possibility." In other words, before rescuing the survivors, they had to find Anwo. At this point, a frown settled onto Eagle's brow. "The trouble is, we have no way of contacting the guy, and we don't even know where he is." Shit-Stirring Stick spoke up suddenly. "Actually, that's easy." Three pairs of eyes fixed on him simultaneously, including the troubled Eagle. Stick cleared his throat and switched to his accented Human Alliance language. "Hasn't Janusz already laid siege to Tiandu? The trusted inner circle that hoisted him into power would naturally stay by his side, right? Take Absaik, for example. Find him, and you find Anwo... We just need to go straight to Tiandu." "Go to Tiandu?! Are you insane?" Battle-Hardened Wolf stared at him in disbelief. "Let's rephrase it then: how about a diplomatic mission to Tiandu?" Shit-Stirring Stick chuckled smugly, glancing at his three dumbfounded comrades and shaking the VM mounted on his arm. "Since they've been shouting slogans about abolition and equality, we, as the 'big brother,' ought to at least drop by and take a look, shouldn't we? Just to make sure they haven't gotten the terms wrong." "Holy crap?!" "Are you trying to get your account deleted?!" "I need to ask the boss first! Dammit, I'm not going crazy with you!" Just as Eagle, Wolf, and Guan were reeling in shock at this hare-brained scheme, a yacht roughly ten meters wide slowly pulled up alongside the dock at West Sail Port. A haggard-looking man supported himself against the gangway as he walked down. Before taking more than two steps, he propped his hands on his knees and began dry-heaving violently. "Motherfucker! This godforsaken place is ridiculously far!" Though his Awakened constitution prevented actual seasickness, it was no match for the endless transfers between vehicles and the unrelenting diet of seafood along the way. There were no scheduled flights from Golden Gallon Port to West Sail Port. This yacht had been rented on short notice at Golden Gallon Port, and the provisions on board had consisted entirely of whatever fish they caught along the voyage. After catching his breath, he finally felt slightly better. By this point, the soldiers on the docks had long since noticed this uninvited guest and were converging on him, weapons in hand. "West Sail Port is under lockdown! No docking permitted except for local residents! Who are you!" Decurion Pete, who was on duty, stepped forward, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized the yacht and the man standing beside it. A small craft like this didn't look built for the open sea. Could this guy have sailed all the way from Golden Gallon Port?! Realizing the man might be from the Alliance, Pete's expression turned frigid, his gaze growing increasingly hostile. "Are you with the Alliance—" "Pah! You're the one with the damn Alliance!" The man rolled his eyes, cutting him off without the slightest courtesy. Looking at the stunned little decurion, Battlefield Atmosphere Group cursed bluntly, "I'm your granddaddy Pangolin! Rank of millennium commander! When I was slaughtering Blue Gophers, you were still playing house in a sandbox somewhere!" His Human Alliance language was no longer halting like it used to be, and he wielded modal particles with practiced ease. "Which damn century are you from? Call your commander over!" Pete: "???" Barely had Battlefield Guy finished speaking when a sudden stir rippled through the soldiers surrounding the dock, parting them to both sides. An officer wearing a peaked cap walked toward the two men confronting each other on the pier. Looking at this acquaintance he hadn't seen in ages, MacLaren seemed to slip into a distant memory, a nostalgic smile softening the cold, stern corners of his mouth. "Long time no see. You seem to have gotten a lot more talkative." Hearing that familiar voice, Pete whipped his head around, astonishment written across his face. "G-General MacLaren?! You... haven't turned in at this hour?" Hearing the familiar name, Battlefield Atmosphere Group—who had been acting all high and mighty—froze on the spot. Finally getting a clear look at the man silhouetted against the streetlamp, his expression turned instantly awkward. Careless. This guy outranked him by a mile. "...Greetings, General." Battlefield Guy braced himself and snapped a salute. Motherfucker! What was a myriad commander doing out here poking his nose into this?! Damn it all! MacLaren smiled, returned the salute, and said in a conversational tone, "I recall you were serving under Korwei?" Battlefield Guy gave an awkward nod. "Uh, yes! But I was merely seconded over... In truth, I don't command troops directly; I only handle matters involving relations between locals and the Wilante. After all, a myriad is stationed there." MacLaren remarked casually, "The 37th Myriad, wasn't it? I remember that's Korwei's designation." "Yes!" Battlefield Guy nodded, thinking to himself that despite being thousands of kilometers away, this guy was surprisingly well-informed about the troop deployments in Haiya Province. MacLaren continued, "Did Bannote send you?" "Yes..." Looking at the man nodding meekly, MacLaren smiled and asked, "What did he send you to do?" Battlefield Guy hesitated, wondering whether he should disclose it. But seeing that MacLaren already seemed to know everything, he decided to test the waters and answered bluntly, "A diplomatic mission to Tiandu, to negotiate with the Heavenly King Army." A murmur went through the surrounding soldiers. Pete, among others, clutched his fists unconsciously, rage burning visibly in his eyes. Negotiate? To hell with negotiations! All he wanted was to butcher everyone in this settlement, and then march off to slaughter the so-called Heavenly King Army in Tiandu! Glancing imperceptibly at the nearby decurion, MacLaren looked back at Pangolin beside the yacht and gave a slight nod. "This is no place to talk. Come ashore first." "Understood..." You damn well know this isn't the place to talk! Battlefield Atmosphere Group swallowed his retort, meekly falling in behind MacLaren as they walked through the murderous glares of the surrounding soldiers. Feeling like needles were stabbing into his back, Battlefield Guy couldn't help grumbling inwardly. That sly dog Old Mac! He's learned how to play mind games!