Throngs in the Land of Departure

"Long live Julius!" "Long live the Marshal!" "Long live Julius!" "..." Triumph City. This was the land of departure where countless Wilante anchored their spirit and faith, the heart of a colossus holding two-thirds of the world. And at this moment, across this metropolis sprawling over a hundred square kilometers, the cries of millions echoed. People stood in the streets, holding torches aloft, pouring all their emotion into that unified roar. It was the name of their leader. And it was their faith! In his name, they had campaigned across countless worlds and conquered tens of millions of square kilometers of land. And now, they only wished for him to awaken... The Court of Honor. This was the tallest building in all of Triumph City, the Marshal's official residence, and the headquarters of the Praetorian Guard. Over a thousand stone steps elevated an archway over a dozen meters high from the ground, where a century of wind and rain had etched tracks of time upon its grand marble reliefs. A century ago, to commemorate the founding of Triumph City and their hard-won freedom, the Wilante had leveled a marble mountain to build this magnificent wonder. It was both a gift dedicated to Marshal Julius and a monument raised to honor the opening of a great era. Now, countless burning sparks coalesced at its base into flowing rivers of light, pulsing like the heartbeat of a giant. At the crossroads of those sparks and countless gazes stood a tall man with piercing eyes, his spine straight—and his nose distinctly not high-bridged. Indeed. He was not a Wilante, just like the exalted figure who had vanished a century ago. Though neither was Wilante by blood, the virtues they possessed were everything the Wilante aspired to: Bravery. Loyalty. Fearlessness before power. It was precisely because of these harmonious differences, unburdened by heavy historical baggage, that he could say what was in the Wilante's hearts but what they could never bring themselves to speak aloud. "...Since you don't want to speak, since you don't know what to say, then call his name!" "All you survivors who suffer! All you survivors who refuse to bow to authority! Let the god in your hearts hear your devout cries! Let him open his eyes and see what has happened at his feet!" "And let us see who is truly afraid! Who is trembling! Who is shaking with terror, and who least wants him to awaken!" Clenching his fists, Battlefield Atmosphere Group roared with deafening fervor toward the surging crowd. Countless passionate gazes locked onto him, and thunderous shouts answered his call. The entire Triumph City guard team had mobilized, along with the City Defense Army garrisoned within the walls. Yet even if all of them combined forces, they could not contain this torrential sea of people. More than that. Some guards and soldiers even joined the crowd. They had done nothing wrong; they were only crying out Julius's name. Within the Legion, "Julius" was the very definition of righteousness. No Wilante would question the loyalty they spent their entire lives upholding. In other words, no matter how shameless the villain, no matter how foul the parasite who secretly treated the Marshal and loyalty as mere tools for personal gain, none dared order the arrest of a Wilante for demonstrating heartfelt loyalty to Marshal Julius. Loyalty! It was not merely something the Wilante regarded as their honor. It was the very source of their legitimacy! When praise was no longer mere praise and cheers were no longer mere cheers, this invincible sword of authority turned like a boomerang and struck back. The faction represented by the Southern Legion was not the only one struck dumb. The other three Legions and even the civilian faction were entirely helpless now. After all, none of them had the moral confidence to claim they were utterly blameless—that they had never coerced the Wilante in the Marshal's name or distorted their mission. It was no exaggeration to say that this fellow called "Pangolin" had thoroughly offended every interest group he could possibly offend... even the civilian faction that had sympathized with and helped him. Except for the people. Or rather, the ordinary people living in the Legion who had been ignored for so long. They were the only group he had not alienated. More than that, he stood resolutely beside them. And they had never abandoned him. The Wilante could be suppressed, but they would never abandon their heroes. Whether he was of Wilante blood or not. And that was the greatest difference between the Wilante and the Rat Clan, the Snake Clan, the Horse Clan, and the rest. Standing at the edge of the crowd, Brockett had a cigarette butt dangling from his mouth, with several more scattered at his feet. "...In my twenty years as a guard, this is the first time I've ever seen so many people shout that lord's name all at once." Beside him stood his colleague, a centurion retired from the front lines. The furrows on that weathered old face blurred the line between wrinkles and scars, the passing years carved into it like rings in a tree trunk. Yet compared to Brockett, the veteran was far more open-minded. He merely squinted and chuckled. "By the Marshal above, I don't believe you haven't heard that phrase. I have it on my lips every single day." Brockett gave him a sideways glance, then looked back at the crowd in the distance and muttered under his breath, "I said all at once." And besides... Could a casual catchphrase tossed around in passing compare to the scene unfolding before them? Not to mention there were so many people here. Watching the impassioned crowd, he felt an itch of heat spread across his back. A sudden impulse arose in his mind to join these madmen once his shift was over. Maybe they really could wake the Marshal with their shouts? It wasn't impossible. Most people couldn't live that long, but this world still possessed technologies like cryogenic stasis and DNA telomere repair. The cycle of aging, sickness, and death that ordinary people could never escape offered plenty of workarounds for that lord. The more Brockett thought about it, the more his heart stirred. Yet right at that moment, a squad of fully armed soldiers approached. His colleague nudged his shoulder. Brockett jolted back to awareness and looked at the heavily armed troops, as well as the myriarch standing at their head. The myriarch stared at him expressionlessly, barking in a cold voice, "Out of the way!" From somewhere, a surge of courage stiffened Brockett's spine. Instead of stepping back, he narrowed his eyes. "And who might you be?" Adjusting the brim of his officer's cap, the man stared at him, tilting his nose up slightly. "Gladstone, Myriarch of the 11th Myriad of the City Defense Army. And who are you?" "Brockett, Centurion of the Golden Gryphon Street Law Enforcement Detachment, Triumph City Guard." Watching Myriarch Gladstone's disdainful gaze, Brockett raised his own chin in kind. "And what if I say no?" Hearing that refusal, Myriarch Gladstone froze in shock for two seconds before glaring at him with vicious eyes. "This is an order from Legion Commander Tyr! Are you trying to rebel?" Hearing the arrogance in his voice, Brockett remained unmoved, letting out a sneer. "Legion Commander Tyr? Ha, I don't recall taking my oath of allegiance to him. If you want to kiss his ass, leave me out of it. But if you wish to defy His Excellency the Marshal's will, you'll have to walk over my corpse." "You bastard—" An enraged soldier stepped forward, his hand dropping to his waist. He moved to teach this insolent guard a lesson, but an outstretched arm from his commanding officer stopped him. Myriarch Gladstone stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he fixed them on the unyielding Brockett. His gaze prowled like a wolf's claws. After a tense moment of scrutiny, he spoke in a low voice. "Think of your family, especially your son... I assume he's a military cadet. Are you certain you want to make an enemy of the Southern Legion? Throwing away his future over something like this?" "Haha, bringing that out at last?" Brockett gave him a mocking look, flicking his spent cigarette butt right in front of the officer's boots. "My family doesn't need dogs like you to worry about them. They are valiant warriors, and they will only be proud of the choice I make today." Brockett had no way of knowing that, ten thousand kilometers away in Boulder City, someone had once spoken those exact words. The choices of heroes always converged, even when they stood in vastly different places. Looking at this stubborn, immovable guard, Gladstone burned with fury, itching to tear the man to pieces. Yet he could not. Triumph City did not belong to the Southern Legion, and he had to consider the positions of the other three Legions as well as the civilian faction. Not if he wished to avoid becoming cannon fodder in factional strife. Just as he stood caught between advance and retreat, a voice suddenly sounded over the comms channel. It was the Chief of General Staff of the Southern Legion. "...Fall back." Gladstone froze. "But—" "The commander of the Praetorian Guard has come out." The Praetorian Guard! At that word, apprehension flickered across Gladstone's face at last. He subconsciously turned his gaze toward the grand staircase at the far end of the crowd. A faint, shadowy silhouette stood at the summit of those steps, looking down upon the crowded city districts below. Though the Praetorian Guard rarely involved itself in Triumph City's politics, everyone knew they were His Excellency the Marshal's eyes and ears, tasked with conveying his will. If the guards were priests serving a deity, then the leader of the Praetorian Guard was the high priest. Few people knew that the commander of the Praetorian Guard held the rank of Legatus as well. Yet because this Legatus was as enigmatic as the Marshal and virtually never appeared in the public eye, people generally presumed there were only four Legati in total. It took Gladstone only an instant to weigh the consequences. Glaring resentfully at the stubborn guard before him, he waved his hand and led his confidants in retreat. Watching Gladstone slink away in defeat, Brockett raised his eyebrows in triumph. A myriarch? Nothing to write home about after all! Still, now that he had made his choice, there was no turning back. Turning to look back at the thousands of compatriots behind him, Brockett's lips pulled into a grin. He had drifted aimlessly through the first half of his life, but at this moment, he finally understood his calling. What he defended and swore loyalty to should never have been the authority of an individual or a faction. It was order. And the dignity of all Wilante. At that moment, his colleagues' voices reached his ears. "Marshal above... it's the commander of the Praetorian Guard!" "Raizer..." The elderly guard's pupils contracted to pinpricks, disbelief painted across his face as he mumbled under his breath, "He's still alive..." Hearing the incredulous gasps, Brockett jerked his head up. His vision cut across the sea of people, fixing upon the old man standing atop the thousand steps beneath the marble archway. A crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, and age spots marked his deeply furrowed face, yet the gold-painted power armor he wore gleamed vibrantly. The clamor enveloping the city subsided into silence. Every eye turned toward him. Among those tens of thousands of gazes were looks filled with shock and bewilderment like Brockett's, as well as dread and trepidation like Gladstone's. Excitement, awe, joy, anger, and countless expressions beyond words played across the myriad faces in the crowd. The only constants were the burning torches. Everyone was waiting for his answer. Raizer slowly lowered his head, his turbid yet piercing pupils resembling those of a vulture. His gaze swept over the heads of the crowd, finally coming to rest on the man standing at the base of the stone steps. The man named Pangolin met his gaze squarely, waiting just like everyone else. It was as though the entire world had been paused, or as if an entire century had drifted by. Just as Battlefield Atmosphere Group felt his heart pounding—wondering if the game server had lagged—the old man finally broke the silence, speaking in a slow, deliberate voice. "When I was still a boy, Marshal Julius told me... that one day in the future, a young man who looked different from all of us would come from lands the Legion had yet to conquer. He would stand on the steps of the Court of Honor and teach the Wilante another meaning of loyalty..." "A meaning he had never told us." His voice was not loud, even frail, like a kite whose string might snap at any moment. Yet in the stillness of the night, it rang out unmistakably clear and resolute. Battlefield Atmosphere Group held his breath, gazing at the old man in power armor high atop the thousand steps, listening intently to every word for fear of missing a single syllable. An uncanny intuition told him that he already had one foot across the finish line of his mission. This hidden quest—which had begun as a mere joke and dragged on so long that he had nearly forgotten his own player ID—was finally about to reach its completion! Yet halfway through, the old man abruptly stopped speaking, the clarity returning to pupils that had drifted into reminiscence. "...It seems you are the one the Marshal was waiting for." With those words, he turned and walked toward the archway, over a dozen meters high, behind him. "Follow me." "I will take you to see him." ... A century had passed since Marshal Julius vanished from the public eye. Or to be more precise, one century and fourteen years. No one had ever told the Wilante where their revered Marshal had gone, or whether he was still alive. Like statues before a pantheon of heroes, the loyal Praetorian Guard had kept watch over the Court of Honor day after day, year after year, for an entire century. Now, someone had finally found the key to open those doors, poised to unveil the ultimate answer to those looking up in reverence. "May Lord Julius still be alive..." an elderly man murmured, parched lips moving in silent prayer as he held his torch high. "May he guide us forward through the darkness of our lost way." Others stood in silence, merely watching the figure ascending the steps one by one. A hundred and fourteen years... If that lord were truly still alive, he might well be over two hundred years old. Rather than hoping he was alive, it was better to hope he had left his wisdom tucked inside some desk drawer. Standing in the crowd, Penny unconsciously clenched her fists, praying silently in her heart. Yet unlike those around her, she prayed neither for the Marshal's well-being nor for some cure-all solution left behind in a desk drawer. After all, whether such a thing existed had been decided long ago. Her prayers would not change a thing. Yet though she placed no faith in prayer itself, she believed in the man who had brought so many people together. Miracles had occurred countless times before. Let there be one more! Just as Battlefield Atmosphere Group followed in the footsteps of Praetorian Legatus Raizer toward the archway atop the staircase, a secret meeting was underway in a secluded chamber across the Western Sea on the New Continent. Gathered here were the high-ranking officers of the Western Legion. Unlike other Wilante, they were born adventurers and sailors daring enough to wrestle with tempestuous seas. Rather than waiting for others to decide the fate of the Wilante, they preferred to forge their own choices. At the conference table, a man with an upturned mustache rested his right fist on the table, glaring irritably at the feed on the holographic display. "These fools... Don't they know this is the last thing His Excellency the Marshal would want to see?" His name was Enoch, a three-star myriarch belonging to the Western Legion. As an academic-track officer who had narrowly missed joining the Praetorian Guard, he was confident he understood Lord Julius better than anyone. Though the Wilante frequently kept that lord's name on their lips, he knew very well that the Marshal had never wanted his children to behave like this. In the Marshal's own words, it made them look like children who refused to grow up. Of course, while that was what he said aloud, what he truly feared was something else entirely. What if these bastards actually woke His Excellency the Marshal up? Even if the chances were minuscule, they weren't zero. He had once heard a legend: when all the survivors of Triumph City cried out Julius's name together, Marshal Julius would don his armor and step out from the Court of Honor, leading the Wilante to annihilate everyone who enslaved them. If that legendary tale truly came to pass, he could scarcely imagine the scene that would unfold. At the very least, the River Valley folk, the Jinchuan folk, and the Haiya folk had never enslaved the Wilante—or if they had, it was ancient history from the days of the Reconstruction Committee... Enoch glanced nervously toward the Legion Commander seated at the head of the table, hoping he would say or do something. Yet the Legatus sitting there uttered not a word. Instead, Myriarch Cliff, seated across from him, chimed in. "And yet, it is happening right now." Unlike Myriarch Enoch, he was merely a two-star myriarch. However, they shared one thing in common: both were Wilante hailing from Triumph City and graduates of its military academy. Enoch threw him a startled look, his eyes narrowing into slits. "What do you mean by that...?" Meeting his gaze without arrogance or servility, Cliff replied in an unyielding tone, "I mean that we all share the blame for things turning out this way. Put your hand over your heart. Is there truly anything left inside besides power?" Enoch shot up in fury. "Cliff, are you trying to betray us? Betray everyone seated in this room?" Cliff stood as well, unpinning the medals from his chest and slamming them onto the conference table. "From beginning to end, only one man has ever been worthy of my loyalty—and the Wilante people as a whole." In truth, there was no difference between the two. Cliff was not the only one who stood. Three other myriarchs rose with him. Leaving behind every medal they had earned in the New Continent, retaining only those awarded by Triumph City, they strode out of the conference room with heads held high. Enoch gritted his teeth, glaring at the backs of their retreating figures, his fists clenched tight until the door swung shut. Only then did he sit down in indignation. "Cowards, every last one of them..." Now, only the Western Legion's own faction remained in the room; the officers loyal to Triumph City had broken with them completely. Without a doubt, those men would likely board ships back to Triumph City to welcome their so-called Marshal. As for whether to tamper with their vessels, that was a decision only the Legatus could make, not something a three-star myriarch had the authority to settle. Another myriarch sitting nearby gave a cold snort, speaking at an unhurried pace. "Or maybe he's just a clever opportunist... It's already Year 214 of the Wasteland Era. Surely no one truly believes His Excellency the Marshal is still alive." Across the table, another man asked in a low voice, "What happens if he isn't?" "Who knows?" The chief of staff from the general staff shook his head, speaking for the first time since the meeting began in a thought-provoking tone. "Before the box is opened, no one knows the color of the rat that will scurry out." Yet one thing was foreseeable: the great migration of the Wilante was about to begin. Wilante loyal to the Marshal would return to Triumph City, while those loyal to power would head south. Of course, those were not their only choices. Those devoted to tradition could also make for the Eastern Legion or the Northern Legion. And if they grew weary of endless choices and traditional strictures, they could head to the New Continent. For the Western Legion, this might not be a bad thing. They had tribunes, a citizen assembly, and many things the old world lacked. No matter how the deck was shuffled, they would come out ahead in the end—at worst, making slightly less profit. Whispers hummed continuously through the chamber. The officers exchanged thoughts, contemplating the Western Legion's choices amidst this upheaval and the various possibilities of the future. Only the Legatus seated at the head of the table watched in silence, an unreadable light flickering in his eyes. No one knew what he was thinking. Not even his closest confidants. Yet everyone understood that this exalted figure had already made his decision. And not just him—the other Legion commanders had as well. The Wilante stood at the crossroads of destiny. The time had come to choose...