Disillusionment

Inside the Governor's Mansion of Evernight Port, Governor Ya Hui was reviewing documents as usual. Right then, a soft knock came from the door. Hearing the sound, Ya Hui's heart sank slightly. Just two hours ago, he had instructed his secretary to turn away all unscheduled meetings during his working hours today. Yet the knocking had come regardless. Evidently, it was eight or nine tenths likely someone neither he nor his secretary could refuse... "Come in." Almost the instant the words left his mouth, the person outside pushed the door open and stepped in. "Long time no see, Governor." Looking at the man in military uniform standing in the doorway, Ya Hui arranged his face into a genial smile. "Long time no see... Mister Peter, what wind blew you here?" Although the man before him named Peter held the rank of merely a millurion, Ya Hui, as a myriad commander, did not dare show the slightest neglect. For no other reason than this. This man was the secretary to Myriad Commander Dickens, head of the General Affairs Department of the Southern Legion's Brahma Province theater. That position was anything but minor. Although Ya Hui was himself a myriad commander—and a two-star myriad commander at that—in a system like the Legion that emphasized military merit, administrative officials were inherently ranked a tier lower than military officers, and further distinctions existed within the military apparatus itself. While theater general affairs was not a combat unit, it still belonged to the military system, and specifically to a front-line theater. In rank, it far outclassed a mere colonial governor. Crucially, Evernight Port happened to sit along the front-line theater's supply line. As the colonial governor, Ya Hui had an obligation to coordinate with them to meet every requisition need. Even though the two did not share a direct superior-subordinate relationship, he still had to lower his posture. After all, if someone slapped the label of "obstructing front-line logistics" on him, his political career might not be over, but he would certainly face no small amount of trouble. It was precisely for this reason that his head throbbed with such irritation. Observing Ya Hui's genial smile, Peter merely smiled faintly, then spoke with veiled meaning. "I hear Evernight Port hasn't been very peaceful lately." Ya Hui sighed inwardly, knowing trouble had indeed arrived, yet he feigned ignorance and asked, "Oh... in what regard do you mean?" With no intention of beating around the bush, Peter said bluntly, "The explosion at noon. I hear a factory was blown up." Ya Hui put on an expression of sudden realization and said with a smile, "That did happen... I heard it was gang infighting. But it was only an abandoned factory and didn't cause any collateral casualties among unrelated bystanders." Though several gang members and stowaways had died, such vermin could hardly be counted as human. In Evernight Port, only matters involving the Wilante were of any consequence; everything else was trivial. Peter evidently concurred with that sentiment as well, but he was far from satisfied with Ya Hui's response. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he asked with a half-smile, "Gang infighting? But why did I hear... that the Garrison's Intelligence Section was involved as well?" Pinned beneath that scrutinizing gaze, Ya Hui felt his scalp tingle faintly, silently cursing Willoughby, that idiot of a Garrison Commander, over and over in his heart. "There were indeed some hidden circumstances behind it, but—" Before he could finish, Peter raised a hand to cut him off. "Governor, I am only here to relay Myriad Commander Dickens's opinion. He feels... that you all have been straying somewhat from your proper duties." "Furthermore, anti-aircraft cannons that should have been sent to the front lines wound up in the slums of Evernight Port. We cannot help but suspect that some form of under-the-table transfer of interests lies behind this." Hearing those words, Ya Hui could not help but inwardly spit at the sheer shamelessness of it. Just who was the one conducting under-the-table transfers behind the scenes! These days, the thieves were the first to cry out for catching thieves. Looking at the smirking Peter, he said in a heavy voice, "...I will notify the Garrison." Peter gave a slight nod. "No need. I already spoke with Myriad Commander Willoughby before coming here." Leaving behind those words, he turned and walked toward the door. This arrogant conduct made a flash of fury spark in Ya Hui's eyes. Yet reminding himself that there was no need to lower himself to the level of a millurion, he ultimately swallowed his anger. A secretary could never act on his own initiative to do so much unless directed by the master behind him. This was a warning from the General Affairs Department—and quite possibly from Director Dickens himself. "...Sycophantic dog hiding behind his master's clout." Watching the figure vanish through the doorway, Ya Hui cursed under his breath. He snatched up the telephone on his desk, but not knowing whom to call, slammed the receiver back down furiously. Just then, his secretary walked in from outside, trembling with trepidation. "Governor... I tried to stop him, but—" "It wasn't your fault. This has nothing to do with you." Ya Hui waved an index finger in irritation, tossing out a dismissive remark. The secretary hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a hushed voice. "Myriad Commander Willoughby wants to see you—" Ya Hui cut off the rambling with utter impatience. "Tell him to get lost! Tell him to go do whatever he's supposed to be doing!" ... A choice had to be made between bread and faith, and the need to choose fell not only upon some nameless nonentity working in customs, but also upon the great figures above. It was only that the information the latter could see was far greater than what the former could ever access. For that very reason, while the former were often still wrestling with their dilemma, the latter had long since made their choice. Throughout the entire afternoon, beneath its calm surface, Evernight Port remained steeped in quiet, peaceful turbulence. That nondescript abandoned factory was like a packed powder keg, stuffed with every cowering dream—whether of Wilante who had already lost their faith, or of Wilante whose hearts still harbored conviction. At dusk, before the gates of Katnode Prison. Kant, just about to step into the sedan parked by the entrance, suddenly received a phone call from Daniel. His hand froze on the handle he had just pulled open. Telling Talan, who followed behind him, to wait a moment, he made an excuse to step aside. Right then, the voice coming through his earpiece caused his heart to sink slightly. The superior who had instructed him only hours earlier to proceed with the plan had suddenly reversed course. The thing he feared most had still come to pass. "...The operation is canceled." His Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to force a superfluous question from his throat. "Why?!" "Myriad Commander Willoughby's call came straight to the Intelligence Section, canceling Project Wasp... Clearly, our 'cocoon' has slammed into a wall far harder than ourselves." Daniel's voice carried a hint of exhaustion, along with a trace of faint self-mockery. Kant knew the words his superior had left unsaid. The prey they were watching had already taken the hook, yet now they were told to abandon it... Truly unwilling to give up like this, he could not help asking, "Did you explain things to the section chief...?" Daniel sighed heavily. "I did, but it was useless. I heard the pressure came directly from the theater's General Affairs Department. The entire plan was personally deployed by Myriad Commander Willoughby. Whatever could be explained, he likely already explained. Any further reports from us would just be superfluous." The General Affairs Department... Kant held his breath for a moment, waiting a long while before slowly asking, "Then what about our Wasp?" Daniel was silent for a beat. "The section chief and Myriad Commander Willoughby discussed this matter. They re-examined the documents provided by Triumph City and reached a new conclusion... Perhaps Project Torch was never completed at all. From the very beginning, this project was an abandoned white elephant." As if trying to convince himself, he added, "...It actually makes sense. After all, neither Triumph City nor the Eastern Legion ever paid sufficient attention to the weapon mentioned in the plan. Counting on intercepting a non-existent secret weapon was probably just our own wishful thinking from the start... or rather, Commander Willoughby's wishful thinking." Similar things had happened before—more than once, in fact. It was only due to survivorship bias that people only remembered successful operations. In truth, operations that collapsed for all manner of reasons made up the overwhelming majority. The more meticulously prepared and complex the procedure, the truer that was. Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose and continued over the line, "As for Wasp... I planted a bomb in the car. Add a zero to the number I called from and dial it to detonate. Use your own discretion." That fellow probably was not an Alliance spy, just an ordinary vault dweller. If Daniel had only held faint suspicions at first, after so many people had tested him, he was now practically certain of it. Only that explanation could account for why the man had not shown a single flaw. However, having been drawn into so many operations, they could hardly escort him out of the territory with polite bows. Once the fellow came to his senses, they would become the laughingstock of everyone. Even if only to preserve the honor of the Southern Legion, they had to leave him right here. Kant was silent for a moment, then murmured, "Understood." After hanging up, he stood where he was for a long time before finally returning to the side of the sedan. That "Alliance spy" was already sitting in the car... In truth, he could no longer even be called a spy, only a fellow whose head was not quite right. No matter how many lies filled the pages of the Survivor Daily, that did not prove the Triumph Gazette or the Southern Legion Victory Gazette were innocent white rabbits incapable of lying. Using one party's lies to argue for another's honesty was imbecility in itself. At first he had thought it was merely a clumsy excuse cooked up on the fly by a spy, but now it seemed the guy might genuinely believe it. Kant did not know how to describe the feeling in his heart. But to cross vast oceans and throw away one's life for such a foolish reason was simply too moronic. Take right now, for instance. All he had to do was dial a number, and the fellow sitting in the car would be reduced to a charred corpse. Afterward, whether they pinned the blame on the Enlightenment Society, on gang members, or offered no explanation at all, the matter would be considered closed. And yet... Was it really right to end it like this? A dreadful notion suddenly sprouted in Kant's mind. Holding the "remote detonator," he actually had another choice... A choice that could hardly be called a happy outcome for all, but for him, would be immensely gratifying. And that was to make this bomb, destined to explode, detonate with even greater fury. To make it burst into fireworks right at the epicenter of the trouble with a resounding "boom," using the final second of its countdown to unleash the value it ought to have... rather than fading quietly into a hidden corner, exactly as everyone expected. Staring at the sedan, Kant abruptly recalled that bizarre, kaleidoscopic dream. The scene before his eyes seemed to tear, then flickered like lantern slides, gradually overlapping with the five-hundredth world he had conquered. Yet none of that was the point. The real point was— "I am a hero of the Wilante..." He murmured under his breath, his clouded eyes turning increasingly resolute, as though cementing what he was about to do next. Just like a true, severe addict, a fellow irredeemably drowned in hallucinations. He silently recited his own name, did not dial the number that would end everything, but instead activated a signal jammer, stepped forward to pull open the sedan door, and sat down in the driver's seat. A choice had to be made between bread and faith. And he had made his... Seeing Kant finally "rally his spirits," Talan broke into a radiant smile. "...You ready, pal?" Glancing at the face in the rearview mirror, Kant let a rare smile tug at the corner of his lips. This madman was just as he had always been. Yet at this moment, was he himself any different? Within that flickering hallucination, the narrow road transformed into an endless red carpet, and he, draped in medals, was walking upon that road of pilgrimage. And what he was doing was precisely what he yearned to do. "I am a veteran of the 30th Myriad. From the moment I enlisted, I was ready to offer my life to the Marshal... That's a question I should be asking you. Are you ready?" "Haha, does that even need asking?" Talan froze for an instant upon hearing this, then burst into unrestrained laughter, saying breezily, "Let's roll. Quit dawdling." "Very well." Kant lit a cigarette for himself and expertly started the car's engine. Talan asked eagerly, "Are we going to find that Tony now?" Kant grinned, then curled his lip in contempt. "Small fry like that aren't worth mentioning, and besides, that's Morse's job. Trouble in Blackwater Lane is for Blackwater Lane to settle. Tonight is the best opportunity—no one will disturb them." "Likewise, trouble among the Wilante ought to be settled by the Wilante themselves... While there's still a little time left, I'm taking you to pull off something big." With that, as if suddenly remembering something, he added, "Right... this is an order from the Enlightenment Society. Our mission isn't over yet. We have to dig out the parasite clinging to our backs, sucking our blood." Talan had no interest in asking too many questions, merely raising an eyebrow slightly. "Something big? How big?" "Myriad Commander Willoughby, head of the Evernight Port Garrison... Reliable intelligence indicates he is the traitor hidden among our ranks. Even if he isn't, he can help us find the man." Kant, biting on the cigarette butt, narrowed his eyes and squeezed out words through his teeth. "...It's five-thirty in the afternoon. In fifteen minutes, he gets off duty. In a moment, I'll park the car by his office entrance. You'll be responsible for inviting him inside." ... As the surveillance signal vanished, Daniel paid no further heed to that stray wasp wandering outside. Kant would arrange everything in his stead, then return to the unit with the final dossiers. As for himself, all that remained to do was sweep the "battlefield" and wrap up this haphazardly concluded operation. On the other side, Xiao Jiang, crouching not far from the Marshal's Armory, yawned. This time he had been too ashamed to let his attention drift, keeping up his stakeout without a moment's lapse. Yet right then, he suddenly noticed a dense crowd pouring out of the "Enlightenment Society safehouse" he was watching. There were roughly thirty people, all hurrying with urgent steps, clutching bags and parcels of documents in their hands. Within a matter of minutes, a "Closed" sign was hung on the tavern's front door. This absurd sight made his eyes widen uncontrollably, unable to fathom what had just occurred. Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately logged off to inform his resting teammates of the situation in-game. At the very same time, before the gates of Katnode Prison. Shortly after Kant started the car and drove off, Morse regained his freedom, surrounded by a throng of his lackeys. Those worshipful gazes made Morse feel intoxicated, as if he had truly become the emperor of Evernight Port's underworld. To emerge unscathed from the notorious Katnode Prison was, in the eyes of the foreign races in Blackwater Lane, a legendary feat in itself. The previous legend had been Tony. And now, it was Morse's trophy. A burly man strode up to Morse and York, bowing his head respectfully. "Congratulations, Boss." Ignoring the prison guards behind him, Morse grinned, slapped the back of his lackey's head, then pulled his head closer and whispered into his ear. "...Have the boys get ready. We have a score to settle with those bastards from the Iron Hand Gang." "Yes!" The burly man's expression turned solemn as he nodded with respect, then wheeled around to bellow at the gathered rabble. The thugs looked flushed with excitement, their morale soaring like a pack of true hyenas preparing to march into battle! Dark clouds cloaked the sky, blotting out the twilight horizon. A violent downpour was silently brewing. If the Wilante still had bread and faith to choose between, the wretches living in Blackwater Lane lacked even the luxury of a choice. Blackwater Lane was not a single alleyway, but a collective term for all the streets in Evernight Port that "lacked both house numbers and drainage systems." It was not a planned district, but the rot naturally spawned beneath Evernight Port's "sewage outlet." Those who lived here either became assimilated into the foul stench or had to strain with everything they had to grow wings. Even if the wings they grew made them nothing more than flies, that was still better than rotting away alongside the rest of the garbage. Standing right before the gates of Katnode Prison, Morse completed his pre-battle rally for his lackeys. His howling voice and flying spit made his vicious, rabid demeanor resemble that of a true vicious dog. Yet at this very moment, he did not know that the "Enlightenment Society" to which he had pledged loyalty had vanished without a single hair remaining, all because of a single sentence from some great figure. And the "disciple" status he had earned by staking his own life and those of his neighbors had become a total, unmitigated joke. Had that sedan exploded before the prison gates, he might have abruptly come to his senses and cowered with his tail tucked, waiting for the storm to blow over. Yet fate had played a cruel joke on him: the very hand that had propelled him to his current heights had gone mad one step ahead of him... Their target was Blackwater Lane's greatest den of vice, the "Last Round"—the largest gambling house in all of Evernight Port, and the stronghold of the Iron Hand Gang. Without even thinking, it was obvious that after such a massive incident, Tony would be in there pulling his hair out in anxiety. Pulling it out strand by strand was too tedious; he could make an exception and help the fellow free of charge. Having completed the battle rally, the lackeys gathered before Katnode Prison's gates dispersed in a clamor. The guards standing on high alert by the prison entrance let out a sigh of relief, lowering the batons in their hands. For the cockroaches of Blackwater Lane to dare make a scene outside Katnode Prison's gates was a spectacle they had never witnessed before. Who knew what had given them the nerve... The men whispered among themselves, exchanging murmurs, while only the grim-faced warden said nothing at all. He, at least, knew who had given these bastards the nerve to disregard Katnode Prison. Precisely because he knew, he had merely led his men to stand at the entrance rather than calling for Garrison reinforcements or leading a charge. After all, who could guarantee that these hopping cockroaches were not part of the plan? Since the big shots in the Garrison said they had a use for them, he would simply treat it as such. At least until he received new orders, he had no reason to take the initiative to arrest anyone. As the lackeys around him departed one after another, Morse, having basked in his glory, prepared to head back and retrieve his gear. Right then, he suddenly spotted a familiar face among the line of prison guards. A flash of pleasant surprise showed in his eyes. He walked forward with a grin and clapped a hand on the fellow's shoulder. "Hey, brother, I'm a disciple now too." Looking at this vicious dog that had locked onto him, Andrew's brain stalled instantly. His face went pale, and he even forgot that he was a superior Wilante. Only a single thought remained in his mind— Why did a hound kept by the Garrison recognize him?! Morse did not linger, offering a casual greeting before strolling off with swagger, leaving only a dumbstruck Andrew frozen on the spot, surrounded by stares. The warden frowned. Like the other guards, he cast a scrutinizing gaze upon this oldest veteran employee of Katnode Prison. "You know that guy?" Andrew shook his head in terror, stammering, "N-No, I don't..." The warden knitted his brows but said nothing further; after all, this fellow had always carried himself with that timid, pitiful demeanor. Yet unlike him, the others in guard uniforms began whispering to one another. Disciple? What was a disciple? ... On the other side, Morse, in high spirits, had already returned to the Hyena Gang's stronghold, hoisting the "Ripper" light machine gun that had not seen use during the midday battle. He swore. He would use this piece of work to leave a profound impression on that bastard who had claimed he would attend his funeral. The mere thought of that face twisted in terror sparked an uncontrollable excitement in his chest, making him itch to fire a few bursts into the ceiling just to get a feel for it. Right then, he suddenly felt a twitch between his eyebrows. An electric, stinging sensation crawled toward his left eye, causing his vision to waver in a trance. "Ah..." Dropping the machine gun from his grip, Morse let out a pained groan, pressing a hand over his eye. Seeing this, York hurried over and asked, "Boss, what's wrong?" Shaking his woozy head, Morse frowned and said, "...Nothing." York still looked at him with some worry, but did not dare chatter further. Just then, as if suddenly recalling something, Morse looked at York and asked, "By the way, York... this afternoon, what did you see in that dream?" York paused, the ugly face packed with rolls of flesh suddenly showing a bashful expression. The bald man with a scar slashed across his chest scratched the back of his head, chuckling in embarrassment. "Don't laugh at me if I tell you... I... I dreamed of my old mother." Morse was struck dumb for a moment, staring blankly before abruptly snorting with laughter. "Hahahaha! You motherfucker... you're really something." Watching his boss mock him, York wore a helpless expression. After a long pause, he suddenly seemed to think of something else and chuckled slyly, saying, "Right, Boss... when we take over Tony's business in the future, can we get our hands on some of that stuff?" That big brother from the Enlightenment Society had only warned them not to sell to the Wilante; he had never forbidden them from running the business itself. The name snake oil was too casual. If they changed it to "Dream" or "Aurora," they could probably make even more than Tony had. "Can't you have a shred of fucking ambition?" Morse slapped him upside the head in exasperation. "Once we have money, what can't we get? What do you need that garbage for?" Having taken a smack, York looked thoroughly aggrieved. He knew why the boss was rebuking him. He had seen with his own eyes the final fate of those ruined addicts; he had even snapped quite a few of their necks himself. But the problem was... that wasn't something money alone could solve. In truth, he had not thought about all that much; he only wanted to finish eating the meal he had dreamed about. The bastards in Blackwater Lane did not always have meat to eat, especially when he was still a little punk. His mother had used money earned at night to stew a pot of oxtail soup for him. The aroma had made him drool, his eyes sparkling. Standing by the kitchen doorway, he had talked with her for a long time, talking about so very many things—about the present, about the future... And ever since he had buried her, it was the very first time he had felt so relaxed. Just as the pot was about to finish cooking, the dream had ended midway. If only he could have had just one more second... Just one second. "Boss, speaking of which, what did you see?" York suddenly grew curious. He always felt the boss had far more ambition than himself, so he must have dreamed of something far more interesting. Yet Morse, chambering a round into the machine gun, showed only impatience, offering a dismissive reply. "None of your damn business."