"...Last night, a riot broke out in the northwestern district. Two armed insurgents took advantage of the shift change to seize the broadcast station building in a futile attempt to incite rebellion and overthrow Marshal Julius's rule..."
"At present, the chaos has been brought largely under control, and the insurgents have been shot dead."
Arman had kept watch by the radio the entire night, not closing his eyes once until the next morning's sun rose outside the window, only to be met with such a perfunctory conclusion.
The garrison forces of Evernight Port had first used anti-aircraft guns and rainmaking shells to bring down the clouds in the sky. When they found the situation still beyond their control, they immediately handed command over to the frontline combat units stationed in the harbor district.
It was said that this order had been issued personally by Governor Yahui, and it was also a shameful betrayal of the local residents by the Evernight Port authorities.
The 40th Mechanized Infantry Myriad and the 60th Armored Myriad, rushing from the harbor district to reinforce them, immediately launched an armed crackdown upon arriving in the northwestern district.
Although the harbor district command radio station claimed they had merely fired warning shots over the crowds' heads, private underground radio stations claimed that blood was flowing like rivers in the streets.
That place was barely ten kilometers from his home—a drive of just twenty minutes.
A tangle of emotions churned in Arman's heart. A heavy weight seemed to press down upon his chest; he wanted to say something, yet could find no words.
The sun still rose as usual, yet the long night of Evernight Port had already fallen.
And not only for Evernight Port.
What once needed concealing now required no cover at all. Those men, furious over the deaths of their own countrymen, pulled the trigger on their fellow Wilante with equal ruthlessness.
Boundaries were breached step by step.
Looking back now at the tragedy of West Sail Port, he realized with a start that it could hardly be considered shocking anymore.
The dusk before nightfall back then had at least been subtle, unlike the unsparing cruelty of this very moment.
Yet his heart was not entirely consumed by despair.
While everyone was chasing after bread, there were still those who steadfastly chose their beliefs.
That man named Kant had stepped forward.
And not just him—many others had stepped forward as well.
Although the Legion had ultimately executed him, countless millions still lived on, and he lived on in the hearts of those millions.
What Arman could do was help preserve this spark of strength so that it might serve its purpose at the crucial hour, rather than be squandered in piecemeal uprisings.
The Wilante never abandoned their heroes. He, too, would never forget that name.
If so, then at least their night would not be longer than that of the Brahma people...
At that moment, the study door creaked open a crack. A little head poked out from behind it, peering at her father seated before the radio.
The expressions on his face shifted continuously, one moment sorrowful, the next filled with hope.
Little Ruby hesitated a moment, then called out softly in a tiny voice.
"...Daddy?"
Hearing the sound from the doorway, Arman finally noticed his daughter standing there. He switched off the radio, which was still droning on with drivel, and looked at her in surprise.
"Ruby? You're up early."
Seeing that her father had noticed her, Ruby, clutching a pillow in her arms, freed a little hand to push the door open and slipped inside the study.
Her sleepy-eyed appearance was utterly endearing. She gave a long yawn and climbed deftly onto her father's lap.
"Mommy said Daddy wanted to talk to Ruby about something, but Ruby was so sleepy that I fell asleep while waiting."
Looking at his daughter's drowsy face, Arman gently smoothed the stray wisps of hair sticking up on her forehead, his heart aching with affection.
"I'm sorry. Daddy intended to come see you, but something came up all of a sudden..."
"It's okay," Ruby said magnanimously with a slight upturn of her lips, even comforting her father in turn. "That happens to Ruby too. Whenever I find a novel I like, I hide under the blanket with a flashlight to read it secretly, and before I know it, the sun's up..."
Halfway through, she seemed to realize what she had let slip and quickly snapped her mouth shut.
Arman broke into a sweat, never suspecting the little girl had done such a thing.
"...Don't you go doing that again. I'll let it slide this time, and I won't tell Mommy."
"Hehe." Ruby stuck out her tongue with a bashful grin and looked aside, hoping to brush it off.
Watching his innocent, adorable daughter, Arman couldn't help the slight smile that touched his lips, setting aside the heavy troubles in his heart for the moment.
Yet setting them aside was only temporary.
After all, human beings could not live in a vacuum; they depended on soil, water, air, and nourishment even more than plants did.
"Ruby..."
Seeing her father's expression turn serious, Ruby tilted her head slightly.
"Hmm?"
Arman pondered for a long while before finally speaking in a serious tone.
"Daddy... wants to take you and Mommy somewhere far away."
To Arman's surprise, the fear and unease he had worried about did not appear in his daughter's eyes. Instead, there was a spark of curiosity for something new.
She blinked, asking with keen interest, "Where is 'somewhere far away'?"
Arman thought for a moment and spoke as objectively as he could.
"East of the Mid-Continent, along the southern coast of Haiya Province. There's a place called Settlement No. 1... Of course, that's just a temporary name. The Alliance's Administrator said he wants the local residents to name their own home."
In truth, a name was no big deal, but for some reason, aside from the mountains of shipping containers, that detail had left the deepest impression on him.
Having heard her father out, Ruby's eyes lit up, and she asked excitedly, "Then after we go there... can Ruby help name it too?"
Not expecting his daughter to focus on such a quirky detail, Arman paused for a moment before breaking into an amused smile, affectionately rubbing her mussed hair.
"Of course you can... but other people will have their own ideas too. Whose idea gets picked will probably be decided by a vote."
Ruby's eyes shone brightly. "Whoa... that sounds so fun! Then... can I campaign for votes?"
"I suppose so, but others will campaign too, so don't get your hopes up too high."
Arman cleared his throat softly, attempting to steer the derailed conversation back on track.
"None of that is the main point. The point is, even though it's developing well there, conditions certainly won't compare to here... You're a member of this family too, and Daddy worries about you most of all, so Daddy wants to hear your thoughts."
"Don't worry about Ruby! And Ruby doesn't think any of that is a big deal," she said, shaking her little head vigorously, excitement and anticipation gleaming in her bright eyes. "Didn't we have nothing when we first arrived in West Sail Port either? Then little by little, lots of pretty houses were built... We'll have everything in time."
In a child's worldview, houses seemed to sprout from the earth.
Arman could not help but laugh ruefully. Yet, coincidentally, he knew someone just as naive—that liquor merchant who made his start brewing fake vodka and lost his first bucket of gold on the Western Legion's "Golden Route," the unlucky bastard.
Months had passed; he wondered if that fellow's plans had gotten on track yet.
Seeing her father remain quiet for a long while, Ruby asked in an expectant tone, "When do we leave?"
Looking at his daughter, who supported him so readily, Arman smiled with relief.
"Probably in the next few days."
His captain should have rested enough by now. Whether moving along with him or leaving his family here to keep earning money, that fellow should have made up his mind by now.
...
In the northwestern district, barricades had been erected along the main thoroughfare leading toward the central district.
Two wheeled armored vehicles were parked by the roadside, their thick, long cannon barrels leveled forward, gleaming with a chilling glint under the morning light.
Soldiers armed to the teeth stood around the checkpoint, scanning the approaching crowd in full battle readiness.
Kant had been killed yesterday at two in the morning.
As for who fired the shot, there was no way of knowing. In any case, by the time he was dragged out of the broadcast station, he was already a corpse, piled together with the other bodies in the street.
Regrettably, however, the Awakened who had traded fire with the garrison century had not been captured.
Three people had come to extract him. After one of them was killed, the fellow had slipped into Blackwater Lane amidst the chaos.
According to intel provided by the Garrison, the man was named Talan, suspected of being an Alliance spy.
It was worth noting that after clearing Talan of suspicion through Project Wasp, the Garrison had redesignated him as a spy to suit the military's needs.
In truth, the Garrison might have guessed right for all anyone knew; that fellow was indeed remarkably skilled.
None of that really mattered anymore, however.
The Evernight Port authorities and the Southern Legion were now facing far greater trouble.
The bodies lying in the street far exceeded the twenty "accidental casualties" they had claimed over the radio.
Even though they had urgently severed Evernight Port's communication channels with the outside world, it was difficult to suppress the incident completely.
At present, temporary controls had been placed over the entire northwestern district, and the two streets nearest the broadcast station were completely cordoned off.
Anyone entering or leaving the district had to present proof of residence and employment.
In addition to mandatory registration, passersby were required to sign a pledge promising not to enter the cordoned-off zone and undergo a security screening to surrender weapons, cameras, and anything else capable of documenting the truth.
Meanwhile, the 40th Mechanized Infantry Myriad deployed logistics vehicles to relocate residents within the cordoned-off area and haul away the corpses scattered across the streets.
The unit tasked with enforcing the blockade on Block 12 was the 607th Millennium of the 60th Armored Myriad.
Looking at the dissatisfied, even hateful gazes of his fellow countrymen, Carver held his rifle tightly, feeling a prickling heat across his back. He wished he could pull his collar high enough to hide his face.
While passing through the security checkpoint, an old man finished filling out his form and suddenly looked up at him.
"Why did you open fire on them? They were speaking up for you! Or do you think you can fight forever, that you'll never grow old and retire?"
Meeting that hateful gaze, Carver felt his breath freeze in his chest.
The stifling air seemed lodged in his throat, rendering him speechless.
"I... I wasn't the one... who shot."
He tried to offer a feeble explanation. In truth, he hadn't aimed his rifle at anyone that night; he had been dead drunk in the harbor district, only awakened by his squadmates in the late hours of the night to be dragged out on duty.
The old man had no intention of letting him off easy. He glared fixedly into Carver's eyes and at his high-bridged nose.
"I was a soldier once, too. Served in the 37th Myriad, guarding the frontiers for the Marshal... To think I protected such a pack of vermin. I'm truly ashamed of you."
Before the old man could finish, a soldier with a cigarette dangling from his lips pulled him aside.
"Alright, old man, shut your trap. If you've filled out the form, get inside. If you've got complaints, go whine to the guys in the 40th Myriad. Don't force my hand into locking you up."
"You think I'm afraid? I wasn't even afraid of mutants! Why would I be afraid of cowards like you who turn your guns on civilians? A hundred men couldn't even take down a single broadcast station, and you don't dare face us in court!"
Though dragged roughly aside, the old man chuckled upon hearing this. He reached down and hitched up his trouser leg, revealing a scar on his calf where a chunk of flesh was missing. "See this, rookie? They sliced off this piece of my meat and roasted it right in front of me, and I didn't even bat an eye."
The soldier's brow twitched along with his stomach, but he didn't stoop to bickering with the old fellow. Before anyone else could notice the commotion, he roughly shoved him out of the checkpoint.
There were too many people here.
Some lived in the northwestern district and had to work in the main district, while others were returning home from night shifts in the harbor district.
Not counting the locally stationed troops, Evernight Port was home to several hundred thousand people.
Whether within the Southern Legion or across the wasteland, that population was no small number.
The soldier dangling the cigarette was Carver's vehicle commander, though their vehicle hadn't been driven into the settlement itself.
Looking at his superior, Carver couldn't help asking, "...Doesn't Evernight Port have its own garrison? Why make combat troops like us carry out this damn mission?"
He had enlisted to expand territory for the Southern Legion, not to become the enemy of his own people.
"You can't even figure that out?"
Seeing the blank look in Carver's eyes, the commander grinned around his cigarette.
"Because you're heading to the front line soon. If I were the commander, I'd dump this dirty work on you too. First, you won't blab; second, you'll soon be seeing red on the front line. Even if you make it back alive, you won't think this was any big deal—just a bunch of whining veterans and petty townspeople. Who knows, you might even fall in love with Sharon or snake oil... Look at it another way, and it really is a placebo to help you escape reality's troubles."
The gunner, who had remained silent all along, murmured, "...Do you think Kant was right?"
"Of course not. Far too extreme," the commander said, shaking his head and curling his lips. "Though to be honest, facing what he faced, I can't think of any milder way."
The gunner countered, "How could there not be? Wait until you make it to myriarch—"
The commander cut in casually, "And then turn into that bastard Willoughby? The guy lying through his teeth on the radio? I bet when he was still a decurion, his thoughts weren't any different from yours: go along with the filth first, then emerge unstained from the mud... Use your head. How could something like that ever happen?"
The gunner fell silent. Though he didn't agree, he couldn't think of a counterargument either.
Carver was the same. He took a deep breath and pulled his collar up a bit higher.
This morning was dragging on far too long.
He had stood here for what felt like ages, yet the sun had crept up only a sliver.
Though he had always found rear-echelon days agonizingly dull, the torment in his heart had never been as sharp or painful as it was right now...
...
While morning had only just begun in Evernight Port, the skies over West Sail Port were already nearing midday.
Hours earlier, an urgent telegram from Evernight Port had reached the Brahma Province Theater Command.
At this moment, Myriarch Dickens, head of the General Affairs Department, stood awkwardly outside General Gulion's office, having waited for about half an hour.
At last, the door opened.
Watching the theater staff officer and the guard captain emerge, Dickens felt cold sweat bead involuntarily on his forehead.
Although the theater's General Affairs Department, which oversaw logistics, was not under the Theater Command's jurisdiction—reporting directly to General Headquarters—and Dickens was not Gulion's direct subordinate, Gulion, as the supreme commander of the theater, held the right to hold people accountable when such a massive logistics problem occurred.
He had already explained things to General Headquarters, but he still had no idea where he stood with Gulion.
As Dickens fretted nervously, the office secretary who followed them out looked at him and said, "Myriarch Dickens, General Gulion invites you in."
Hearing the tempered tone, Dickens read the signal Gulion was putting out and let out a quiet sigh of relief, following the secretary into the room.
Seated behind the desk, General Gulion was carefully reviewing the documents in his hands.
Hearing footsteps at the door, he looked up and locked eyes with Dickens.
"Please sit, Myriarch Dickens."
Myriarch Dickens forced a stiff smile and sat down on the sofa in the office.
"...Thank you."
Gulion nodded, his eyes fixed on Dickens, his expression growing stern.
"You've heard about the matter in Evernight Port, I presume."
Dickens caught his breath, an embarrassed expression flashing across his face.
"I've heard..."
Looking at the discomfited head of the theater General Affairs Department, Gulion showed no inclination to let him off easy, pressing on aggressively.
"Do you not intend to explain it to me?"
Not expecting the man to press him so hard out of nowhere, Dickens felt a headache coming on, but bit the bullet nonetheless.
"...The course of events is just as you saw in the telegram. Internal strife broke out within the Evernight Port Garrison, and they seized the radio station, and that's how all the trouble started. Fortunately, the local garrison handled it promptly, and the disorder has been brought under control... That is all there is to it."
General Gulion sneered.
"And Headquarters bought your story?"
Faced with General Gulion's mounting pressure, Dickens said with some irritation, "They accepted it... I reported to Headquarters immediately and only mobilized the frontline troops stationed there after receiving the authorization document. Otherwise, how could I have commanded them? In truth, the whole thing was an absurd blunder. If the Garrison hadn't taken it upon themselves to concoct that Project Wasp, and an agent in the intelligence section hadn't gotten high out of his mind, it never would have come to this."
"An absurd blunder?" Gulion looked at him meaningfully and let out a cold laugh. "...Why do I see it as reaping what one sows?"
Myriarch Dickens's expression stiffened slightly.
"Pardon me... I don't follow your meaning."
"Sharon. Do I need to say more?"
Gulion stared into his eyes, his unfathomable gaze causing Myriarch Dickens, who had just breathed a sigh of relief, to tense up all over again.
"...You mean the drug for treating psychological trauma symptoms? Is there a problem with that?"
Gulion narrowed his eyes. "A problem? Was the broadcast not clear enough? Do you need me to play the recorded file for you again?"
"I truly knew nothing about this! The drug was developed by technicians down below. As for the hallucinogens, I had no hand in it whatsoever. It was all Peter acting on his own authority... I only just found out that he was in league with local gangs. A man like that is an absolute disgrace to the Wilante! If I had known earlier, I'd have shot him myself!"
As he said this, Myriarch Dickens wore an expression of righteous indignation, as if the gun were truly in his hand.
Yet General Gulion, seated across from him, merely sneered internally.
'Only just found out,' my foot.
He was not naive enough to believe this fellow had only just heard about it.
Dumping all the blame onto a dead man now was nothing more than damage control.
However, what infuriated him wasn't entirely that these logistics scoundrels were pulling underhanded tricks; it was that they were actually doing business with their enemies!
That was what Gulion could least tolerate.
Even though the Snake State warlords preferred skirmishing without engaging decisively and posed little real threat to the Southern Legion's front lines, that burgeoning armed force remained an ever-present hazard.
Every gold coin that flowed from the Southern Legion into Brahma Province would ultimately become a bullet fired at a Wilante.
Still, Gulion was ultimately a man who saw the bigger picture.
Looking at Myriarch Dickens, who was cowed into barely daring to breathe, he decided to let this parasite off lightly for now.
For one thing, he lacked sufficiently ironclad evidence; for another, the frontline forces could not afford the risk of the logistics department sabotaging their duties, and he had to be mindful of this fellow's connections at General Headquarters.
Now was not the time to clean him out.
Once this war was won and he went to Triumph City with two more stars on his shoulders to receive his honors, he would naturally settle all scores with these treacherous parasites.
"I have two demands. First, every medication containing snake grass, whether it's Sharon or whatever else, get it off the logistics roster for me."
"Second... I won't state it outright. You know it well enough in your heart."
General Gulion shot Myriarch Dickens a meaningful glance.
Dickens knew he was hinting at the illicit trade with the Snake State warlords. He nodded nervously.
"Understood..."
Whatever happened, he had to get past this hurdle first.
Having secured Dickens's pledge, Gulion nodded, picked up his pen from the desk, and waved his hand dismissively.
"That's all. You may leave."
The air force's bombing run on Tiandu hadn't gone smoothly, destroying nothing more than some useless rundown shacks.
He needed to draft a new plan and figure out how to win the battle at hand; he had no precious time to waste on vermin like this.
Dickens let out a sigh of immense relief, oblivious to the fact that his back was drenched in cold sweat.
Heading toward the stairs, he cursed bitterly under his breath.
Bluffing piece of trash. You think a radio broadcast is enough to scare me?
Just you wait.
Sooner or later, I'll make you pay!
Chapter 898