Bread or Faith

Bang! As a piercing gunshot shattered the silence, the battle inside the broadcast station officially began. A ten-man squad breached the building rapidly and engaged the armed personnel entrenched inside. The brief firefight lasted less than five minutes before the squad was blasted back out amidst swirling dust and deafening gunfire. Not only that, but the full-strength squad had suffered more than fifty percent casualties, with two severely wounded soldiers carried out horizontally on stretchers. Looking at his disheveled subordinates and the wounded men being dragged back, the centurion’s face registered utter shock, which instantly contorted into rage. “A bunch of useless trash! Ten men couldn't even bag two? What the hell are you bastards good for?!” Facing his commander’s berating, the decurion who had retreated from the building looked terrified, but he forced himself to explain. “It’s not two... It’s just one. But the guy is too fast—he might be an Awakened...” Hearing that, the centurion’s eyes narrowed. An Awakened... Looks like they had hooked a big fish after all. No longer badgering his subordinate, he unclipped the communicator hanging from his shoulder and barked in a deep voice, “Squads Two, Three, and Four, heads up. You’re on.” A unified response came through the comm channel. “Understood!” With the order given, three ten-man squads charged forward murderously. Gazing at the nearby building, a cruel sneer curved the centurion’s lips. Ten men couldn't breach it? Then thirty would! He refused to believe he couldn't crush this grasshopper! *** Meanwhile, hidden within the building, Talan calmly swapped magazines on the assault rifle he had scavenged. Credit where credit was due: these Wilantes were well equipped, clad in exoskeletons and body armor. If not for the decurion pistol’s decent penetration, he might not have been a match for them with just a PU-9. Yet when it came to combat discipline, they fell far short of the frontline troops in Brahma Province. Facing the latter would have been considerably trickier. Of course, despite his confidence in his own combat prowess, he knew that against such overwhelming numbers, his defeat was only a matter of time. Kant couldn't be counted on anymore. The man refused to fight his own kin and had a death wish. Talan couldn't talk him out of it, didn't know how to try, and even felt deep down that this might truly be the best outcome. To be honest, he didn't even know what he was struggling for. For a hero to die as a hero was a hero's honor. At least tonight, Kant had etched himself into the hearts of Evernight Port’s people, and he wouldn't be forgotten for a long time to come. Yet the moment he remembered that NPCs in this game couldn't respawn, Talan regretted thinking that way. He didn't want the guy to die just like that. In all his time playing this game, he had never encountered an NPC who suited his tastes so well. Watching the three squads advance toward the front and rear entrances, Talan drew a light breath and grinned. “...Turns out that armored vehicle was just for show.” Perhaps because they were in an urban district, the Wilantes couldn't act with total abandon. The armored vehicle sat idling outside without firing a shot, merely sending in infantry to push through. Kicking open a door, Talan grabbed a cabinet and hoisted it out like a scrawny chicken, slamming it down across the stairwell entrance. With a sharp click, he chambered a round. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for battle once more, pulling the trigger the very second dense footsteps rushed into the stairwell. Rat-tat-tat—! In the blink of an eye, the close-quarters melee erupted once again! Unlike the initial skirmish, the Wilantes pressed their assault far more cautiously this time, making the fight noticeably harder for Talan. Watching the flashes of gunfire push from the second floor up to the third, the centurion stationed outside the broadcast station finally curled his lips into a grim smile. Just as he had expected. A cornered beast was still just a cornered beast. *** Meanwhile, not far from him, Garrison Commander Willoughby was pacing like an ant on a hot pan, constantly mopping sweat from his forehead. Though he wished he could tear Kant to shreds with his bare hands for broadcasting that confession, he knew very well that the man’s life or death was no longer the issue. What mattered was damage control. By now, more than half of the Wilantes in Evernight Port knew what the soothing pills issued to veterans by the General Affairs Department's Logistics Section really were, and how the higher-ups skimmed money from wounded soldiers’ insurance policies through expensive, non-medicinal hallucinogens. As for why wounded veterans never received proper resettlement, the answer was now glaringly obvious. Their money had been squandered on absurd expenditures, ultimately flowing into the pockets of vested interests. Those little pills flooding the black market of Evernight Port had nothing to do with the Alliance’s “strategic dumping.” They came from the rampant surplus of “Sharon.” Gangsters bought up the excess soothing pills from veterans and sourced stock directly from Logistics, refining them into far more potent “snake oil” to squeeze the last drop of wealth from Evernight Port’s survivors. Whether Wilantes or the non-humans of Blackwater Lane, everyone was a victim of this systemic exploitation! Watching Governor Ya Hui’s expression grow increasingly sour, Willoughby’s despair deepened. He might not even keep his rank until tomorrow’s sunrise. Without anyone noticing, more and more bystanders unrelated to the commotion began gathering in the street. The vast majority were Wilantes—some stumbling drunks, others ordinary citizens emerging from their homes. At first, Willoughby thought they were merely rubbernecking and paid them no mind. It was only when the crowd swelled and the expressions on their faces turned increasingly hostile that Willoughby suddenly realized a far greater catastrophe was brewing. Catching the look Ya Hui shot him, Willoughby had no choice but to take a few guards, brace himself, and march toward the expanding mob, shouting, “What are you all standing around for?! This is no place for gawking! Get back to your homes at once!” His voice did not disperse the crowd. Instead, people pressed closer together. A retired veteran stepped forward, pointing his red, bulbous gin-blossom nose at Willoughby and demanding, “You’re Willoughby.” Under normal circumstances, Willoughby would never lower his head to a drunkard, but the dense crowd surrounding them forced him to soften his tone and adopt a conversational approach. “I am... What of it?” The veteran jabbed a finger toward his nose and asked bluntly, “Then let me ask you: were you telling the truth?” Willoughby froze, beads of cold sweat popping out along his temples, but he feigned composure and explained, “...I was forced by circumstance! That lunatic made me say it! If you were listening to the broadcast, you should have heard him threaten me with a bomb... He threatened his superior officer!” The veteran’s expression did not waver as he stared straight at him. “You didn't deny it. So it was the truth, wasn't it?” “I—” Before Willoughby could argue, a wine bottle sailed out of the crowd, nearly clipping his head. The guards behind him hastily stepped forward, forming a barrier against the increasingly agitated mob. At the same time, a shout erupted from the throng. “Traitor! You betrayed the Wilantes! You betrayed our Marshal!” “I didn't—” “Then release the men inside! Confront them in public again!” “That's right! Let them go!” The roaring voices crashed like ocean waves against the guards’ chests, surge after surge. Facing their indignant kin, the guards looked conflicted. They were Wilantes, too. Not only that, many of them—just like Kant—were veterans who had retired from the front lines. The questions Kant had raised over the radio were the very doubts they had harbored in their own hearts for years. Rather than lacking the courage to face the crowd, they were tormented by the thought of why they were standing against their own kin instead of beside them. Watching the crowd close in step by step, Willoughby had no way to defend himself, and sheer panic gripped him. He had no doubt that if these people got their hands on him, they would tear him to shreds! Just then, piercing sirens wailed in the distance. Five troop transport trucks, escorted by an armored vehicle clearing the way, barreled toward the edge of the crowd. They were reinforcements from the City Defense Army's 2nd Century. No one had anticipated that a modest broadcast station could hold out so fiercely. A full century of soldiers had gnawed at it for over ten minutes without managing to take the building. Pressured by the General Affairs Department, the City Defense commander had deployed an additional century, authorizing them to demolish the structure with explosives if necessary. A head poked out from the armored vehicle stuck at the edge of the mob, raising a bullhorn to yell, “People in front, make way! You're blocking the road!” The centurion inside the vehicle clearly failed to read the situation. His shout was the worst thing he could have done. The moment the words left his mouth, the crowd erupted, packing tightly around the vehicle and refusing to budge. Watching garbage and wine bottles rain down, the centurion quickly slammed the turret hatch shut and ducked back inside. “Cease fire!” “Release them!!” The deafening roars penetrated the armored hull, making the steel plates vibrate. Seeing the sea of furious faces outside the vision slits, the crew exchanged stunned, bewildered glances. “Damn it...” “Are these people insane?!” Shock gripped not just the arriving reinforcements, but also the troops locked in a stalemate on the front lines inside. They knew for certain that their adversary was only one man. Yet that madman, armed with two scavenged assault rifles, had repelled their charges five whole times! If they had underestimated him at first and pulled their punches, their subsequent assaults had utilized everything they had—yet they still couldn't take the third floor. The battle was caught in an impasse. Looking at his demoralized, wounded soldiers, the commanding centurion was ready to explode with fury. He strode over to Myriad Commander Willoughby, disregarding rank entirely, and bellowed, “Order your guards to drive these meddlers away! Our reinforcements can't reach the scene!” Being yelled at to his face by a mere centurion ignited Willoughby’s temper, yet he was utterly helpless. What choice did he have? The man belonged to the regular military. Willoughby was merely with the Garrison, subordinated to a regional department, barely even qualifying as local militia. Swallowing his rage, he growled in a low voice, “I know! I already gave the damn order... But I don't have enough men! Do you have any idea how many people are packed in the street?!” The centurion snapped, “Then mobilize more!” Willoughby roared back, “I'm a myriad commander, not someone who actually commands ten thousand men! I’ve deployed every guard in the city, and they're stuck outside just like your troops! Instead of taking your anger out on me, why don't you ask your superiors for a solution?!” There were at least twenty to thirty thousand citizens gathered outside. Initially, they had only blocked one street, but now the overflow had spilled into adjacent blocks! With every guard in the city pulled into this district, his greatest fear was no longer the broadcast station, but public order across the rest of the city. There was no guaranteeing people wouldn't take advantage of the chaos to loot, and if things spiraled out of control, the blame would fall squarely on his shoulders. He had enough trouble already; he didn't need any more bizarre charges pinned on him. “Damn it!” Seeing his men’s mounting casualties, the centurion cursed, drew his sidearm, and strode toward the crowd. Willoughby gasped, instinctively lunging to stop him, but it was already too late. “No—!” “Disperse, all of you! If you don't want to die, clear out! Are you staging a mutiny?!” His eyes bloodshot, the centurion fired a shot into the air. That single gunshot completely pushed the crowd over the edge. They were Wilantes. The gene that defied death ran through their veins. Besides, how many bullets could a pistol magazine hold? The veterans in the front rank knew far more about combat than these rookies. The moment the shot echoed, they lunged forward, instantly shattering what had been a relatively steady cordon. Facing the enraged crowd, the guards ultimately chose to surrender. Since they had not opened fire from the start, the people did not give them a hard time, surging past them toward the centurion who had fired. Watching the human tide swell, Willoughby’s face was etched with total despair. Inside the reconnaissance vehicle, Governor Ya Hui—having never witnessed such a scene—was terrified out of his wits, urging the driver to hit the gas and plow through wherever the crowd was thinnest. *** Riddled with several gunshot wounds, Talan crouched on the fourth floor of the broadcast station and peered down at the boiling crowd outside. Shock flashed across his face, and he muttered under his breath, “Holy shit.” Kant had not called upon his kin to unite, yet when he spoke up on their behalf, his people did not stand by idly. They bravely stepped forward for him. Talan finally understood how these big-noses had managed to crush the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, which had inherited the full legacy of the Human Alliance... The genes running through their veins held more than just bloodshed; they held honor and dignity. Wilantes would never abandon their heroes. They could be saved... “This fight wasn't in vain... Ha, damn right, this life was worth it!” Glancing at his bullet wounds, Talan grinned, suddenly understanding the phrase veteran players always repeated: Don't obsess over sequence levels, or you'll miss out on too much. Perhaps that wasn't humblebragging after all, but a genuine realization forged through countless deaths. They had left indelible marks on this world, and that mattered far more than a few pale digits. Propping himself up with the rifle butt, Talan figured the rest of the affair was none of his business anymore. He ought to find a quiet corner to dispose of his corpse. Just then, familiar shouts rose from below. “...Regiment Commander! Are you up there?!” “Some guy named Xiaochuan Chun'yilang said you were in trouble and told us to back you up!” “Squeak if you're alive!” Hearing that, Talan froze before breaking into a wild grin. “Fuck! I’m already done with the fight, and you bastards finally show up?!” *** Blackwater Lane, “The Last Hand” Casino. Normally, as soon as night fell, the largest casino in Evernight Port would be packed to the brim. Tonight, however, a rare “Closed” sign hung on the door. Gamblers with pockets full of gold coins paced back and forth out front, but seeing no sign of the doors opening, they departed in disappointment. Meanwhile, in the VIP lounge on the top floor, a man with a prominent nose sat on a sofa with his legs crossed. He held a communicator in his hand, his face shrouded in gloom. A moment later, he cursed under his breath and tossed the device onto the table. “Damn it, what a bunch of useless trash... They can't even handle a simple chore!” Watching the furious man, Tony stood nearby, hardly daring to breathe, let alone chime in. He kept an ingratiating smile plastered on his face and waited quietly. This man’s name was Peter, and his status was extraordinary. Although merely a millurion in rank, he served as secretary to the director of the Brahma Province Theater's General Affairs Department. Even the governor of Evernight Port had to give him some leeway, let alone a street gangster like Tony. In front of such a prominent figure, Tony did not even have the privilege to sit down. It was worth mentioning that the man before him was not his true backer. The grand figure protecting him had never once shown his face. He always relayed messages through subordinates to settle troubles outside business hours and collect the profits. Peter was the highest-ranking official Tony had ever met. Tony could only guess who his real patron was, and even if he deduced the identity, he would never dare voice it aloud, let alone ask that backer to do him favors. Those people merely set their sights on his enterprise, hoping to use his hands to accomplish certain tasks, providing him with convenient avenues in return. If he made too many demands or proved troublesome, they wouldn't hesitate to switch to a cleaner glove. In truth, had an unexpected hiccup not occurred in their business, Peter would never have visited in person. What Peter hadn't anticipated was that within hours of leaving the Governor’s Mansion, a massive disaster would break out within the Garrison. Kidnapped by his own subordinate... He might as well take a gun and shoot himself! To make matters worse, that radio broadcast had ignited public fury across Evernight Port, causing reinforcement units to get bogged down in the streets. The troops already on the scene weren't any brighter—an entire century couldn't even capture a single broadcast station, leaving the situation to spiral out of control. Peter drew a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and turned his gaze to Tony. “How did the snake grass matter go?” Seeing Peter address him, Tony quickly offered a flattering smile and said eagerly, “Rest assured, my lord, everything is settled! The warlords in Snake State will open a dedicated shipping route for us, and Evernight Port customs has already been bribed! From now on, we can process snake oil directly from snake grass without needing to refine it from those pills... Although our processing facility suffered some damage, the impact on us is negligible.” Pausing, Tony lowered his voice further. “Also, per your instructions... we extracted those Brahma laborers from Katnode Prison, took them out to the suburbs, and disposed of them.” That facility belonged neither to the Logistics Section nor to the General Affairs Department, but to certain individuals along this profit chain. By optimizing production processes and techniques, they had bypassed Logistics, but they had not cut out a single person along the chain of interests. The only thing that had changed was the raw material. They could produce far more addictive “snake oil” with greater efficiency, without needing to buy back prescribed drugs from veterans. Due to shifts in supply and demand, they actually preferred that the veterans consume the excess “Sharon” cluttering their shelves, paving the way for the more potent “snake oil” and milking another fortune from their pensions. After all, the vast majority of the Southern Legion’s wealth was concentrated in Wilante hands. Squeezing dinars from non-humans was far too inefficient. Furthermore, they no longer needed those Brahma laborers. They knew too much. Besides, their faces were known; landing back in prison for the same offense would cause unnecessary complications. Rather than giving them a boat ticket home, it was better to pay a settlement to the warlords backing them and have the latter send a fresh batch of laborers. In any case, Brahma Province lacked many things, but never people. They could simply be shipped alongside the next cargo of snake grass. Hearing that matters were settled, Peter breathed a slight sigh of relief and nodded impassively. “Good.” Tony chuckled. “When I handle things, you can rest easy!” Looking favorably upon this obedient dog, Peter smirked. A sudden thought crossed his mind, and he continued, “Is that so? Then I have another task for you.” Tony’s expression turned solemn as he replied respectfully, “Rest assured, my lord. Whatever you order, I will do everything in my power to carry it out!” Peter offered a faint smile and instructed, “In the northwest district, near the broadcast station, some trouble has cropped up. A mob of drunken fools is blocking the streets. Take some men with weapons and cause enough chaos to scatter them so our troops can get through.” Tony blinked. “Just that?” “Just that,” Peter said softly, taking a sip of black tea from the table. “A few people can die, but not too many. And don't do it in front of the Garrison or the military... Otherwise, prepare a few scapegoats yourself. You know how to handle it.” Wilantes were unwilling to fire on their own kind, so sending non-humans would do the trick. He had no such sentimental scruples. Those who needed killing had to be killed; one couldn't go soft simply because the opposing party was unarmed civilians. Reading Peter’s gaze, Tony nodded in understanding and chuckled. “Understood!” Such a task was ridiculously easy for him. Stationing a few shooters in the distance to spray bullets would suffice, or rushing in with Molotov cocktails if necessary. Still, this man was ruthless. The northwest district was Wilante territory. Normally, his henchmen avoided the area, not daring to cause trouble there or even loiter. Just as Tony prepared to coordinate the job, a thunderous explosion echoed outside the window. Hearing the blast, everyone in the room froze, their expressions locking up. At the same time, wild laughter drifted from afar, laced with arrogant taunts. “Tony—! Hahaha! Your grandpa’s here for your funeral!” Hearing that mad-dog shriek, Tony’s face drained of color, and he rushed to the window. Just as he feared, the lunatics of the Hyena Gang were standing right across the street. His old rival Morse was holding a brand-new “Ripper” light machine gun. Seeing the barrel swing toward him, Tony scrambled away from the window in terror, grabbing the walkie-talkie at his waist and shouting at the casino’s muscle, “Damn it, stop that lunatic! Don't let him get close!!” At that moment, a spray of bullets raked across the window, shattering the glass in a chorus of cracks and stitching a line of holes across the ceiling. Ducking into the corner of the room, Peter stared dumbfoundedly at Tony crouching on the floor, both shocked and furious. “What’s going on out there?!” “Morse,” Tony said, his lips pale as he gritted his teeth. “It’s the Hyena Gang... Those idiots connected with the Garrison and went completely off the rails! By the way, they were the ones who blew up our suburban factory!” Peter’s eyes widened in utter disbelief. The Garrison? How could those spineless cowards dare— Before the thought finished forming, fiendish laughter rang out from outside the window. “...Didn't expect this, did you?! I'm an initiate of the Enlightenment Society now! I have a backer too! Hahahaha!” “Do you have the guts to come out and fight me like a man?!” ...The Enlightenment Society? What the hell was that?! Peter’s mind went blank for several seconds. Yet he was a millurion after all, hardly one to be terrified by a gang of thugs. Shooing Tony out of the room, he locked the door behind him, calmly picked up the communicator from the table, and pressed a sequence of buttons. Holding the device to his ear, he issued a concise order. “...I’ve run into a bit of trouble here. Send a purge squad over.”