Loyalty!

Over a thousand stone steps. In the real world, Battlefield Guy would probably have had to stop and catch his breath twice halfway up. Yet in the game, when he reached the final step, he wasn't winded in the slightest. Looking at the old man clad in golden power armor standing before the grand hall waiting for him, Battlefield Guy glanced back down the long flight of stairs at the dense swarm of silhouettes and torches below, which had shrunk almost to a single point. He couldn't help letting out a soft click of his tongue in amazement. Just then, a calm, genial voice drifted over. "My name is Raizer." "I'm... Pangolin." Pulling his gaze away from the stairs behind him, Battlefield Guy looked back at the armored elder. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, "May I ask an impolite question?" "My age?" The old man fixed him with a wise gaze, seemingly seeing right through his thoughts. Battlefield Guy nodded and asked directly, "How old are you?" Raizer lifted his eyes slightly toward the towering archway. After pondering for a moment, he spoke. "In Year 42 of the Wasteland Era, we captured the Wilante Laboratory belonging to the Reconstruction Committee and obtained the complete genetic source code of the Wilante. That marked the moment we took complete control of our own destiny, achieving our long-sought independence and freedom. "It was also at that moment Marshal Julius severed my umbilical cord with his own hands and lifted me from the shattered incubation tank... You can do the math for me." Battlefield Atmosphere Group froze, completely dumbfounded. If he remembered correctly, the current year was Wasteland Era 214. Which meant... This old guy was already a hundred and seventy-two years old?! While an age like that wouldn't be anything special in a fantasy game, the problem was that this game was far too realistic—it was easy to slip into using reality as a reference point. "You are surprised?" "A bit, yeah..." Battlefield Guy reined in his shock and nodded, sighing in awe. "You're probably the oldest person I've ever met." The old man smiled faintly. "Living long is no great skill; there is nothing to boast about. Besides, I am not the one who lived the longest." "Do you mean the Marshal?" Battlefield Guy's spirits surged. "He really is still alive?" The respected Praetorian Legatus did not answer. Instead, he turned and strode toward the grand hall. Battlefield Guy quickened his pace, trailing behind that crimson cape as he followed the old man into the hall. Towering marble pillars connected the soaring dome to the floor, each column etched with majestic, magnificent reliefs. There were no scarlet carpets or crucifixes here. Nor were there any electric lights. The only decorations were milky-white marble and vessels wrought from pure gold. Praetorians in golden exoskeletons held kindling spears twice the height of a man, lighting the torches mounted along the walls. Their expressions were solemn and reverent, as if partaking in a sacred ritual. As torch after torch flared to life, the once pitch-black hall was illuminated by the slowly burning flames. It was only then that Battlefield Guy noticed with astonishment that the walls on both sides of the hall were covered in bas-relief carvings. Like murals, the reliefs formed a continuous, story-laden panorama extending all the way to the far end of the hall. He walked over and stopped by the wall closest to the entrance, examining the carvings etched into the stone. At the very top of the relief stood three blazing torches, their handles held aloft by three powerful arms. Those thick arms were like mountains, tall, unyielding, and standing firm. The flames burning from the torches were as blazing as the sun, banishing the shadows upon the earth. "...This was the period of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, Year 21 of the Wasteland Era—the beginning of the Wilante Project, the start of our suffering, and the day the Marshal was born..." Walking up beside Battlefield Guy, Raizer reached out to touch the mural. His eyes drifted as if sinking into memory, and his voice was soft yet solemn as he spoke. "Wastelanders have mixed opinions of them, but we refer to that time as the Era of the Three Titans." Sensing the immense weight of history, Battlefield Guy couldn't help swallowing hard. "...The Three Titans meaning the Technical Department, the Production Department, and the Defense Department?" "Yes." The old man nodded slowly. His gold-plated index finger traced the veins of the marble, sliding down the bulging vessels of those carved arms until it came to rest on tiny black dots, each as fine as grains of sand. At first, Battlefield Guy had assumed they were just decorative specks of pigment. Only when he leaned closer did he realize those black dots were miniature carvings of prostrate people. His eyes widened. No wonder he always heard Fang Chang say that these big-noses were born artists and engineers, and that making them fight wars was a waste of talent. Their stonework was truly nothing short of miraculous! "The successive sacrifices of tens of thousands of survivors forged the glory of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, just as tens of billions of Human Alliance citizens built the prosperity of the Human Alliance... "Yet their greatness was also the easiest to overlook. "Just like that, without realizing it, we created a monster. We fed it, obeyed it, and eventually came to fear it... until we were swept along by it down a path we had never envisioned. In the end, almost everyone forgot what we were supposed to do, and what we were actually doing." Watching the reminiscent old man, Battlefield Guy's throat moved. "I remember... the Post-War Reconstruction Committee saved quite a few people too." Raizer nodded gently, his tone mild. "You are not wrong. If it had saved no one, why would it be called the Post-War Reconstruction Committee and not something else? That fire burns is nothing to be grateful for. We must remember those who survived, but we must also remember those who burned to death... This mural records only the history of the Wilante. I believe there must be other murals elsewhere in this world, or something similar, recording the parts that differ from ours." Battlefield Guy nodded in agreement. He remembered that in the inner city of Boulder City, there had been a cinema that screened pieces of past history and simulations of future possibilities based on current events. However, that cinema had been destroyed when the skyscraper collapsed during the great upheaval of Boulder City. Unfortunately, he had never gone there himself, only hearing game NPCs mention it. Seeing that he didn't say anything further, Raizer turned his gaze back to the marble reliefs and continued. "After winning the final victory, the Wilante built this Court of Honor as a gift to the Marshal. But the Marshal instructed us... the Praetorian Guard, his most loyal servants, to carve the history of the Wilante onto these walls. "It wasn't that we lacked more advanced recording technologies. But Lord Julius... our respected Marshal, said that it is easy to tamper with phantom lights and shadows, whereas what is carved in stone cannot be easily or completely erased. "Even if those who come after us shave down the entire wall, the marks of the chisel will still linger deep within the base. "Unless whoever seeks to distort it completely destroys this monument, wiping it entirely from the face of the earth, only to build a higher, larger, and more magnificent counterfeit atop the ruins." Leading the young man behind him, Raizer walked forward in his golden power armor. Following in his wake, Battlefield Guy couldn't take his eyes off the reliefs on the wall. First, he witnessed the rise of Triumph City, the wars between the Wilante, mutants, and marauders... These legendary events felt oddly familiar, as if he had seen them somewhere before. Only then did it hit him in a sudden flash of clarity: these things hadn't just happened in the past—they were happening even now. Like the conquest of Arvent City. Those survivors who occupied the miracles of the Human Alliance era, possessing advanced technology and vast wealth, yet shutting out the wasteland beyond their gates, were practically cut from the same mold as the old nobility of Boulder City. Yet that was where the paths diverged. The Wilante who conquered Arvent City did not make the same choice the Alliance had. They executed the miserly nobles and confiscated the wealth of the rich, yet the destitute and wretched gained nothing in the end... The Wilante conquerors treated them as accomplices and lackeys of the nobility, reducing all other races to slaves. They purged the survivors of the entire city, yet bypassed the core problem itself. The casinos continued to operate. And over the decades of events that followed, the Wilante transformed from the persecuted into the persecutors. The scenes depicted on the reliefs grew increasingly horrifying. Though there was not a trace of red paint upon the milky-white marble, it felt soaked in blood. Further along, another group of people appeared in the carvings. They had no eyes, no mouths, and even their nose bridges had been shaved flat, leaving only ears. Battlefield Guy recognized them, and his face turned to one of shock. "That's..." Raizer said in an even voice, "Clone soldiers. Since you've been on the battlefield, they shouldn't be unfamiliar to you." Of course Battlefield Guy recognized them. Those beings engineered to grow at eight times the normal rate had a theoretical lifespan averaging eight years, while their average lifespan on the battlefield was a mere three. During the Battle of Sunset, the Alliance had taken the surrendering clone soldiers as prisoners of war, and many were still alive today. They possessed no reproductive capabilities and lacked complete minds, making it nearly impossible for them to integrate into civilized society. How to treat them more humanely, and whether to classify them as human beings at all, had always been a thorny dilemma for the Alliance Biological Research Institute and the Academy of Social Sciences. Seeing that the young man behind him seemed keenly interested in them, Raizer paused before the mural of the clones. After a moment of recollection, he spoke. "Using our own genetic source code, we created a branch of Wilante distinct from ourselves, hoping they could charge the lines in our stead... But as it turned out, it was a failed endeavor. Sacrifice is not something that can be outsourced. A civilization moves forward only after it has paid a sufficient price." *A failed endeavor?* A complex expression appeared on Battlefield Guy's face. Honestly, if he had to evaluate them, those clone cannon fodder had been quite a headache to deal with. Even now, he still remembered how the *Pioneer* had been pushed to the brink by an army of two thousand clones; even firing a tactical nuke hadn't fundamentally turned the tide of battle. It wasn't until Alliance reinforcements arrived that the engagement was finally brought to an end. Of course, back then they hadn't yet taken the name of the Alliance; much of that came later. "Actually, there's something I don't understand... Why would someone like the Marshal approve of a technology like clone cannon fodder?" Not to mention the slaughter of Arvent City... The Marshal should have still been alive back then, right? Looking at the confusion written across the young man's face, Raizer merely smiled faintly. "Standing in the position of those who came after, reflecting on the dilemmas of those who came before, such perplexities naturally arise... Then let me ask you: why would someone as honorable and forthright as your Administrator use clones as vessels?" Battlefield Guy opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly froze, staring in shock at the old man in golden power armor. *Your Administrator...* *This guy saw right through my identity?!* Raizer gave him a meaningful look, those clouded eyes seeming to gaze right through his soul. "You are too young. You might fool others, but you cannot fool me... Roughly a century ago, when Marshal Julius was still with us, the ones I dealt with most often for a time were you scurrying 'blue gophers.' Pangolin? There is nothing wrong with calling yourself that; to me, it makes no difference either way." Seeing that the old man had long seen through his act, Battlefield Guy remained silent for a moment before offering a wry smile. "When did you figure it out?" Had he slipped up in Dawn City? There seemed to be Praetorians there too—Quake, was it? Yet he had been exceedingly careful when dealing with that guy, and he didn't think he had left any obvious openings. "...No need to guess. From the moment you entered Triumph City, I knew who you were and where you came from." Pausing briefly, Raizer continued, "You need not be nervous. Whether you are a vault dweller, a traveler from five light-years away, or an alien with no relation to humanity whatsoever, none of it matters to me... You are the one the Marshal has been waiting for. Now that I have brought you here, my mission is complete." With that, he turned his gaze back to the reliefs along the wall, speaking in an ordinary, conversational tone. "Mr. Julius was no flawless saint. Like your respected Administrator, he had his own emotions, his own desires, and his own ideas... "He felt fury when betrayed, and sorrow when he watched companions fall around him. Arvent City betrayed us, but its citizens were truly innocent. He regretted it afterward, yet what was done could not be undone. Water spilt cannot be gathered back into the cup, and many things will not reverse simply because of an individual's will. "Between a bad decision and a worse one, he chose the moment he believed would cause the lesser harm, leaving time to resolve the rift between the Wilante and the old humans, thereby preventing the Wilante from tearing each other apart. That was the origin of Triumph City's protections for slaves; before then, for anyone other than a Wilante, let alone becoming a Centurion, merely surviving was an impossible dream. "The same went for the clone soldiers later on. He hoped that by doing so, the Wilante would bleed less. Yet when he came to his senses, he realized with a shock that he had merely created a new group of Wilante without solving the fundamental problem. "The sacrifices demanded of the Wilante did not decrease; instead, because of the increased potential for war, they found themselves fighting more wars and shedding even more blood. "And that was what brought him the greatest agony. He considered himself a sinner against the Wilante, against all of humanity. He cursed his decisions as utterly foolish, making him no better than that self-styled clever man, Rowell, far to the east. "He sought to end the Wasteland Era, yet he and his children ended up becoming part of it. Even so, his subordinates continued to revere him, their worship only growing until they regarded him as a deity... including myself." The old man's eyes lowered slightly, then opened again. "I saw all of it with my own eyes, both his joy and his pain. After all, he always kept me by his side. "He once asked me if I regretted it, but to this day, my answer remains unchanged... I will never regret my loyalty to him. "Just as he himself said, no one walks through life without making mistakes, and there has never been a flawless saint in this world. He could foresee many things and resolve many problems, yet there would always be unforeseen quagmires lying in wait before us all... "Still, there is nothing to fear in that. We do not even fear death; why should we fear taking a stumble? "As he once said, so long as we record history honestly and face it uprightly, without concealment, the Wilante remain a people of hope. Sooner or later, we will climb out of our own mire." As he said this, Raizer's face held a serene composure. Battlefield Atmosphere Group's throat bobbed as he swallowed quietly. Though spoken in a casual, matter-of-fact tone, it felt as if a weighty epic was unfolding before him. It was impossible not to feel moved... As for where the Marshal was, he already had an answer in his heart. "So... Marshal Julius has actually been gone for a long time, hasn't he?" In truth, he had sensed it long ago. "The omnipotent Marshal in the hearts of the Wilante was merely an ordinary man born in Year 21 of the Wasteland Era. He wasn't even an Awakened. Decades of warfare left him with countless incurable ailments, to the point where he ultimately had to wear power armor equipped with life-support systems just to stay alive, waking in agony nearly every night... "I remember the last time I had dinner with him was in Year 100 of the Wasteland Era, at a banquet celebrating a victory. He likely wished to wait until nightfall to leave, but by dusk he could no longer hold on. Hurriedly leaving his final words, he walked alone into the deepest reaches of the Court of Honor. "At the time, we did not know those were his last words, though I had an inkling... After all, long before that, he had been relinquishing his authority bit by bit, making preparations for what would happen after his departure." This time, Raizer finally answered his question directly. He turned his eyes toward the end of the marble reliefs—toward the blank expanse where no carvings had yet been etched. "The history that follows will be written by those who come after. In accordance with his wishes, we carved the events that followed his passing one by one onto the walls, and obeyed his testament by waiting for 'that person' to arrive." "...There's still one thing I don't understand," Battlefield Atmosphere Group took a step forward, unable to hold back his question. "Why did he conceal his death?" Raizer did not answer. Instead, he looked toward the door at the far end of the marble reliefs. "He is just beyond there. You may ask him yourself." Battlefield Guy stood dazed for several seconds, but seeing the key and flashlight offered by the old man, he reached out and took them. Approaching the heavy iron door, he inserted the key and turned the lock. Accompanied by an ear-grating squeal, the rust-streaked iron door swung open at last. To his surprise, what met his eyes was no magnificent palace, but a spartan room. The furnishings were plain. Had there not been a bed, he would never have imagined this was the living quarters of the venerated Marshal Julius; it looked more like a storage loft. A puff of dust billowed out, making Battlefield Guy frown instinctively. There was no electricity here, so naturally there couldn't be anything like a hibernation pod. As for Julius's remains, the loyal Praetorians certainly wouldn't have left him to rot here; he had likely been cremated or placed in an incorruptible coffin. It wasn't as though no one had set foot here since; at the very least, Legatus Raizer, who kept the key and guarded the secret, must have entered. Battlefield Guy switched on the flashlight and swept it around. To his sudden delight, he spotted a set of golden power armor standing in the gap between the third and fourth rows of bookshelves. *Holy crap... The real quest reward was hidden here all along?!* Battlefield Guy muttered in astonished disbelief. Treading across the thick dust on the floor, he walked up to the suit of power armor. This had to be the set Julius had worn, and the plating coating it was likely genuine gold. Even after a full century of time, there was not the slightest trace of rust. He reached out and touched the armor. Unexpectedly, the helmet's visors lit up on their own, and the power components inside hummed to life with a reboot sequence. Right then, a deep voice drifted out from within the helmet... "You have arrived?" "Holy shit!" Startled by the sudden voice, Battlefield Guy instinctively leaped back a step. Soon, however, he realized it was a prerecorded message. "I instructed Raizer that if we used up the very last wall and the things I feared still hadn't come to pass, it would prove that everything we did was right. At that point, all they needed to do was find a place to bury me. "Yet since you are here... it seems the outcome I least wished for, yet was utterly certain would occur, has finally come to pass. "In truth, pretending to still be alive was not a wise decision, but under the circumstances of that time, I had no better choice. "The mission shouldered by the Legion was never merely to save the Wilante; we also bore the duty of cleaning up the remnants left by the Human Alliance. I attempted to guide the Legion into normalcy before my departure, yet regrettably, my time was running out... The moment I died, the Legion would inevitably fracture, and chaos would swallow everything we left behind in this world. "I knew the Legion was a beast, yet it was still better than man-eating marauders, mutant tribes, or the mutant slime mold that cannot even be termed a civilization. Perhaps one day we would be slain by other survivors banding together, or replaced by more advanced, civilized modes of production and relations, just like the overthrown Reconstruction Committee... but that day was certainly not then. "The winter had ended, but the chaos and barbarism had not... Had we died prematurely, a better era would not have dawned. We would have plunged into a future worse and more barbaric than the Stone Age amidst mutual slaughter, degenerating into true beasts. "I attempted to prolong my life through technological means, gaining twenty more years, yet the problem remained unsolved; my children only grew more reliant upon me. Meanwhile, restless powers and the ambitions that accompanied them swelled in silence. "I considered a hibernation pod as well, but that was equally a poor choice, for my death was necessary for the Wilante people. An immortal leader brings no brighter future to his children; he only turns them into cold, hard stone as they look up in endless yearning. "Moreover, in hibernation I could do nothing, much less deter those harboring dark ambitions. And when I awoke, returning from the dead would only spawn fresh troubles. "Such being the case, I could only resign myself to playing the role of a 'living corpse.' "In the name of loyalty, the Wilante would remain steadfastly united until the final winter passed. Against forces more barbaric than ourselves, we would be invincible. And the only ones capable of defeating us would surely be an existence more civilized, more progressive, and historically inevitable. "There would inevitably come someone from lands we never conquered, arriving here to liberate us from a mission that has become a burden and a loyalty that has swept us along, leading us and all other suffering survivors into a new era. "I imagine that when that moment comes, our territory will not have expanded so vastly that five hundred habitable star systems cannot contain it. If so, taking a stumble before learning to walk is no great tragedy... Besides, that is also a debt we owe to other survivors. "The Wilante should become part of the world, not its enemy. I believe that since you stand here, you surely understand what I mean. "Do you see this power armor? It is yours now. "Put it on, walk out of here, and tell those loyal lads of mine that the Legion has brought them through the long night to the dawn, and its historical mission is complete! Today, they themselves are the sun, and the torches in their hands are the morning light on the horizon! "And tell them on my behalf that their beloved Marshal Julius lived to the age of seventy-nine, dying at dusk before the night fell. He went to sleep with a smile—perhaps with regrets, but without remorse. There is no need to mourn him; he is everywhere, has never left, and has long since become every single person living upon this land! "Be true to your own conscience, be true to all Wilante, and be true to all suffering survivors— "That is true loyalty to me!"