Apprehending Kondra hadn't taken much effort at all.
The Free State guards' aerocar touched down directly on the balcony of his thirty-third-floor penthouse, and in less than two minutes, they dragged him right out of bed.
It hadn't even disturbed his next-door neighbors.
The man didn't dare step foot outside the Free State; even if the Alliance didn't come after him, the survivors of River Valley Province would never let him off.
To say nothing of Lord Sigma.
Having taken part in so many conspiracies, there was no way that big shot would ever let him walk away. If he wanted to live, he had to be an obedient pig who stayed in his pen.
As for defecting to the Southern Legion, that had merely been to save his own skin, done with the Flint Group's tacit approval as he went with the flow.
After all, Lord Sigma wanting the Administrator dead was hardly news.
If they could use the Southern Legion's hands to do it, why wouldn't they?
The moment he was hauled aboard the aerocar, Kondra already understood his fate.
The time had come to slaughter the pig...
...
In a holding cell at the Security Bureau.
Mayor Audo went to visit Kondra, who was awaiting extradition.
Lately, this man had been thrust into the very eye of the public storm.
The Flint Group was attempting to use its subsidiaries' media network to paint Kondra as a peace champion resisting the Alliance, trying to convince the Free State's citizens that the Free State was bowing to pressure from the Great Rift Valley, humiliatingly forced to violate its own laws and hand this brave Wilante over to the unreasonable Alliance.
At first, Audo doubted anyone would swallow such utter nonsense—hyping an arms dealer into a peace fighter seemed like an insult to basic intelligence. But when he realized the folks who had voted for him were even stupider than he'd imagined, he made peace with it.
It made sense, really.
Otherwise, how could a pig like him have become mayor in the first place?
For the sake of putting on a show, he had to accompany this "tragic hero" in the holding cell through the longest half-hour of the man's life, and make a show of reluctance when parting.
To pass the tedious time, he cleared his throat and took the initiative to strike up a conversation.
"...Mr. Kondra, I am truly sorry about your case. Under pressure from all sides, we have no choice but to hand you over to the Alliance."
"This humiliating moment is one the people of the Free State will remember forever..."
Halfway through his sentence, Kondra suddenly burst out laughing.
Audo looked a bit awkward, but there were no cameras here, so he didn't care much. He simply shrugged and dropped the act.
"Fine, if you don't want to hear it... Do you have anything else to say? Or do you need me to pass a message to anyone?"
Looking at the sharply dressed man before him, Kondra, clad in pajamas, grinned.
"I've got nothing to say... I gave my blood and sweat to the Legion in the first half of my life, and spent the latter half being used by you people. Now I've been squeezed dry of my last drop of value. I'm going to die on the road anyway, taking every secret I know with me to the grave. What is there for me to say?"
Audo narrowed his eyes slightly, studying him with a flicker of interest.
"You know you're going to die?"
Kondra curled his lip disdainfully, the curve of his mouth resembling a sneer.
"Is that something that needs guessing? Everyone in this city—me, you, the guards outside, the citizens in the streets, the company employees... Which of us isn't one of Sigma's chess pieces?"
Audo's Adam's apple bobbed.
"So what?"
He knew, of course.
But so what?
The Flint Group had indeed done plenty of vile things, but what about the order and stability it brought?
At least the residents of the Free State could earn a decent living through their own hard work, without having to fight scavengers over scraps of garbage.
Why, even the scraps falling from their mouths fed plenty of good-for-nothings.
Realistically speaking, he didn't see anything wrong with being a pawn.
Seeing Audo's nonchalance, Kondra chuckled dryly.
"So I know my fate full well, and I don't find it unacceptable at all... Look at me, I haven't even begged you for mercy."
"I'm glad you see it that way." Audo picked up the tea from the table and took a sip, masking his nervousness.
Yet his subtle twitch didn't escape Kondra's eyes.
Watching Audo's index finger tremble ever so slightly, Kondra's lips parted in a mocking smirk.
"Then you've celebrated too early."
Without giving Audo a chance to reply, he continued in a deliberate, unhurried drawl.
"Look at your predecessor, the last chief of the Free State. Have you heard any news about him lately? I bet you never paid attention. Makes sense—who cares about a defeated stray dog?"
"I, however, knew the guy quite well. You know I like collecting red wine, and he did too. We'd occasionally get together to chat about our shared taste... Then one day, out of nowhere, he vanished into thin air. Not long after stepping out of the public eye, at that."
Listening to him recount these old tales, Audo swallowed hard once again.
"'So what?' That's what you want to ask me, isn't it?"
Savoring the complex expression on Audo's face, Kondra continued cheerfully, as though trying to say every word meant for his next life all at once.
"I bet you think I'm talking out of my ass, looking down on drowning dogs like us from the bottom of your heart... But allow me to offer you a kind piece of advice: don't celebrate too early. Your day will come too. What's happening to me will happen to you sooner or later."
Audo couldn't take it anymore and cut him off.
"What are you getting at with all this...? Expecting me to save you?"
"Hahahahaha!"
Kondra burst into laughter, staring mockingly at the tense mayor before suddenly snapping upright, lurching forward to close the distance between them.
Thinking the man was going to do something crazy, like bite his nose off, Audo jerked his head back. But the man, bound hand and foot in restraints, made no further move. He merely stared fixedly at him with bloodshot eyes.
"What do I want? You think I'm going to beg for mercy? Tell you the truth? Or give you dirt on Sigma? Let me tell you, none of that matters. I want to plant the seed of fear in your heart..."
And then?
Audo waited tensely for what came next, only to see Kondra suddenly slump back into his listless state, settling back into his chair.
The pajama-clad man wore that sleepy, heavy-lidded look once more, like a lamb that had accepted its slaughter.
Audo suddenly felt played, and the vast gulf in their current statuses made the indignity sting even worse.
Just then, a knock sounded outside the holding cell, and a guard in an exoskeleton pushed open the heavy iron door.
"Mr. Mayor, time's up."
Audo rose hurriedly, pushed back his chair, and strode to the door, shooting the man named Kondra a vicious glare before leaving.
"Take him away already."
The guard nodded.
"We'll proceed according to protocol."
The iron door swung shut again.
Audo took a deep breath, composing himself before stepping before the array of lenses waiting outside, projecting the image of a mayor bearing humiliation for the greater good.
Yet throughout the rest of the event, his head wasn't in it.
Those bloodshot eyes lingered in his mind, refusing to fade, as though they had truly burned a brand into his soul.
Everyone was his chess piece...
And chess pieces ultimately shared much the same fate...
Sitting in his aerocar, his heart was pounding violently. He extended an index finger to switch on the holographic television in the rear passenger cabin, trying to distract himself.
Yet the broadcast flashing onto the screen made his heart seize in an instant.
"...At midday today, the police transport convoy transferring Kondra to the Alliance came under attack by unidentified armed forces approximately fifty kilometers outside the Free State."
"The identity of the attackers and their motive remain unconfirmed. All five guards aboard the vehicle and the prisoner were killed."
...
Kondra's death shook the Free State, yet against the broader canvas of the wasteland, it weighed no more than a feather.
The Alliance's Minister of Justice expressed concern, requesting that the Free State's judiciary cooperate with the Alliance to uncover the truth.
Naturally, the Free State's judicial authorities made lavish promises in response. As to whether they would put in "honest effort without results" or "not even bother lifting a finger," that depended entirely on Lord Sigma's mood.
Everyone knew the Flint Group was the true master of the Free State.
Among the Free State's populace, opinion split into two camps, fiercely arguing over who had killed their "Wilante hero."
As for the Wilante themselves, they had no recollection of ever having had such a hero.
Aside from the Wilante living within the Alliance, the only person who might have even heard the name was Salen, Emperor of the Eastern Empire.
He, however, was currently busy taking over the Southern Legion's "inheritance," with zero interest in bothering with a leftover remnant of the eastward expansion faction.
General Klaas's political legacy amounted to nothing more than the Falcon Kingdom, and Salen had long since dispatched a governor to take control of it.
Meanwhile, news of Evernight Port's fall continued to brew and spread.
The shock rippled not only through the major survivor factions of the wasteland; naturally, it struck hardest at the victim itself: the Southern Legion.
Despite heavy suppression and numerous obstacles, the news swiftly reached Avent City.
The sudden defeat shattered the illusions of victory harbored by over a million Wilante in the city in an instant, adding a jolt of panic to those still grieving the loss of Marshal Julius.
Only now did they wake with a start to realize that the battle reports their beloved Legion Commander Tyr had continually published in the Southern Legion Victory Gazette were nothing but lies!
In hindsight, it was only natural...
The number of enemies they had killed in the newspapers was practically greater than all the survivors of the eastern world combined—where on the wasteland would they even find that much cannon fodder?
They hadn't been marching from victory to victory at all; they had been stepping deeper and deeper into the heart of a quagmire!
At this moment, even the most stubbornly obstinate Wilante snapped out of their stupor, finally realizing that the predicament facing them was vastly more perilous than they had imagined.
Like most lies.
The sole purpose of a lie was to borrow time from the future that one lacked in the present, in exchange for promises that might be fulfilled later.
And for that very reason, it was destined to be exposed one day.
The fall of Evernight Port was the turning point of it all.
Losing Evernight Port meant the Southern Legion had completely lost its key to the eastern world, and the entire Brahma Province theater—along with the nearly one million troops stranded there—would be cut off from logistics entirely!
This time, not even Mr. House's silver tongue could spin defeat into victory.
The Alliance no longer needed to do anything on the Brahma Province front. They could even withdraw their troops from there, turn the defensive sectors over to the now-mature State of Brahma Army, and pivot to strike the Southern Legion's homeland...
If that happened, the entire Southern Legion would be plunged into mortal peril.
They had poured too many chips into Brahma Province; pulling together another army of a million men in short order was practically impossible.
Especially having lost Triumph City and the support of both the Eastern and Western Legions...
Due to the disastrous news from the front, all of Avent City was gripped by turmoil. Ticket prices for ships and airships heading to Triumph City had doubled before anyone even realized.
Beyond ship and airship fares, prices for all manner of daily essentials were climbing relentlessly.
Partly from genuine shortages, partly from hoarding, but mostly from bleak expectations surrounding the dinar itself.
The New World issuing its own currency was already set in stone; they had long wanted to sweep cumbersome precious metal currency that couldn't easily be mass-issued into the dustbin of history.
The Eastern Empire and Northern Empire likely harbored the same intentions.
No one could say for sure whether the dinar, stripped of its monetary function, would appreciate or depreciate—historical precedent existed for both.
Anxiety gripped Avent City, and the Southern Legion's General Headquarters was no different.
The familiar long conference table was lined with standing myriarchs, their gleaming golden medals forming a glittering wall that looked impenetrable.
Yet the expressions on those faces were far from relaxed. Sallow lips were pressed tightly shut; not a single person spoke.
Apparently unwilling to waste any more time in silence, Tyr, standing at the head of the conference table, uncharacteristically did not leave it to the Chief of General Staff to open the floor. He spoke in a measured tone.
"I want to hear your opinions."
A wave of murmurs rippled across the conference table. The officers exchanged glances, but after lengthy discussion, not a single workable idea emerged.
Some wiped sweat from their foreheads, some held their breath and glanced around as if searching for something, while others ventured proposals to stave off collapse—such as mobilizing another million reservists or ramping up production at the clone pastures... But everyone knew these weren't real solutions.
Setting regional skirmishes aside, total war was a clash of systems, and the balance of power between the two systems had broken.
Having failed to strap the entire Legion—or indeed the entire Wilante race—onto their war chariot, they had, in truth, already lost.
Yet no one dared utter that truth aloud.
Admitting defeat often took far more courage than facing death. After all, the latter took only one's life, whereas the former would not only destroy their flesh, but thoroughly obliterate the very meaning of their existence.
That was something they could never accept.
If they couldn't drag all Wilante onto the war chariot, then at the very least, let the "chips" of Avent City fight to the bitter end!
Even if it meant selling their souls—
Almost every officer present harbored such thoughts in their heart, including Tyr, who had already sold his soul to the devil.
Looking at the helpless "mortals" before him, Tyr let out a slow, soft sigh.
It was as though he saw Salen.
Many Salens.
Mortals were ever shackled by immediate gains, forgetting broader horizons, higher ideals, and the sacred mission of being Wilante.
That man could have joined hands with him to build a world belonging solely to Wilante, yet he had cowardly chosen to become a laughable emperor.
These men were the same.
Not one of them could come up with an idea that impressed him. In the end, he still had to make the call himself.
"...I obtained the genetic source code from Triumph City."
At the sound of that commanding voice, the officers at the table fell dead silent, every pair of eyes turning toward him in surprise.
The genetic source code.
They knew what it was, of course, but what puzzled them was why Legion Commander Tyr was bringing it up now.
Even if they enhanced the Wilante genetic code now to breed super-soldiers stronger than ordinary Wilante, or sped up clone growth from eightfold to tenfold, it was far too late. Besides, their researchers were unlikely to surpass those of a century and a half ago.
Yet judging by the Chief of General Staff's expression, he seemed to know something.
The officers exchanged looks until finally, a three-star myriarch swallowed hard and spoke up.
"...May I ask what purpose that serves?"
Tyr didn't answer. Instead, he clapped his hands.
The door of the conference room swung open, and an unremarkable-looking man wearing plain glass spectacles walked in.
Noticing the flat bridge of the man's nose, the three-star myriarch's brows furrowed slightly.
"And who might this be?"
Stopping beside Commander Tyr, Martin bowed his head in a polite nod.
"My humble name is Martin. I come from Vault 68 in the Great Desert, and I am a biologist."
At the word "vault," a trace of disdain immediately surfaced in the three-star myriarch's eyes.
"A vault dweller... What are you doing here?"
Faced with that sharp, haughty gaze, Martin smiled calmly.
"To save you, naturally."
"Save us?" The myriarch burst out laughing, eyeing the man mockingly as if looking at a clown. "Since when do we need a blue mole rat to save us?"
Martin shrugged helplessly and glanced at Legion Commander Tyr.
"Respected Mr. Tyr, I'm not much for bickering. Could I trouble you to ask your subordinate to keep quiet for a moment?"
Tyr nodded and looked at the three-star myriarch.
"Sit down."
The cold tone carried an unquestionable authority.
So intense was it that, for a split second, the myriarch felt the chilling sensation of being stalked by a wild beast.
A drop of cold sweat rolled down his forehead, and he gritted his teeth, sinking back into his chair.
"It seems I may begin,"
Martin remarked cheerfully, glancing at the subdued officer before pulling a holographic stylus from his pocket and placing it on the conference table.
Pale blue motes of light rose from the table, coalescing into a three-dimensional holographic projection.
Under the sea of bewildered stares, Martin spoke concisely.
"Project 'Death Agent.' You may be hearing of it for the first time, but in truth... we have been preparing this decisive weapon for a very long time."
"To efficiently cleanse the surface of the Earth of all nuisance lifeforms, there is no tool more reliable than a virus, save perhaps for physical annihilation through neutron bombardment."
"To achieve our goal, we have been conducting active experiments since the war began. To that end, we did not hesitate to dispatch our research teams to the very front lines."
"As it turns out, Brahma Province proved the ideal testing ground. The survivors there originated from the world centers of the Old Era; they possess genetic samples far richer than those in any other wasteland region. Thanks to that abundant diversity, our experiments proceeded smoothly, and we have essentially developed the completed form of the Death Agent—possessing both extreme contagion and lethality..."
"Wait." Before Martin could finish, an officer suddenly rose to cut him off. "I think I get what you're saying. You plan to destroy the Alliance with a viral weapon."
"Precisely," Martin replied with a smile and a nod. "As I said, it is the simplest and most efficient method."
The officer glared at him and pressed on.
"Then how do you guarantee this virus won't harm the Wilante?"
"That brings us to the genetic source code we just obtained."
Martin tapped lightly on the holographic interface, and the pale blue light particles swiftly reshaped into several DNA double helices.
"We need only make minor modifications to the Death Agent to turn the Wilante into asymptomatic carriers. While I would love to explain the academic feasibility behind it, I doubt you would understand. Simply put... the purer the Wilante bloodline, the less affected they are by the Death Agent."
At these words, an uproar swept through the conference table. The officers exchanged looks filled with a flurry of conflicting emotions.
Astonishment, excitement, unease.
Soon, another officer stood, swallowing nervously.
"Is this... reliable?"
Martin nodded slightly.
"I can stake my life on it."
"I have another question." The officer who had challenged him earlier still held him in a piercing glare, speaking each word deliberately. "You're not a Wilante... What benefit do you get from developing such a virus? Or rather, what is your motive for doing this?"
Martin smiled and said,
"I have explained this to Legion Commander Tyr many times, but since you are curious, I don't mind repeating it once more."
Pausing, his face took on a look of faint revulsion as he continued:
"The benefit to me is cleansing away some troublesome cockroaches. The reason this world ended up in such a state is precisely because those hideous creatures kept breeding, constantly propagating their filthy thoughts and bloodlines... That is the root cause of the Wasteland Era. If you are willing to slaughter those feeble-minded mutants down to the last, I naturally support you."
"As for myself, you need not worry. Since I can create this virus, I can devise a vaccine."
"At worst, I'll modify myself into a Wilante."
The Wilante project was itself merely an intermediate product of the gestalt lifeform program. Even if the Wilante took over the world, it made no difference.
At least in his eyes, it didn't matter.
In truth, let alone the Wilante, he could even accept mutants conquering the world.
They were all intermediate stepping stones of the gestalt lifeform project.
As long as the gestalt lifeform project was completed and a higher lifeform subsequently overwrote the old, human civilization could achieve its ultimate "ascension."
Of course, none of this mattered to the insects sitting in this room, nor did these big-noses have any need to know.
Including Legion Commander Tyr.
These fellows might possess sufficiently advanced genes, but their vision had failed to keep pace. At best, their sights reached only as far as conquering the world—never rising to the level of civilization itself.
Case in point: right now, they were still fuming with rage over his remark about "at worst modifying myself into a Wilante."
Yet rage was all they had.
So long as Legion Commander Tyr remained "sensible," his plan would proceed.
And just as he expected, Tyr thought for barely two seconds before asking a practical question.
"When can this decisive weapon be put into action? The Alliance's Institute of Biological Research is formidable; is there a chance they could develop a vaccine providing immunity to the virus?"
"With the genetic source code in hand, I need at most one month to place the final brick upon this edifice," Martin said, a delighted smile gracing his face. After a brief pause, he continued, "As for your second concern, I can assure you with absolute certainty."
"When designing the Death Agent, I utilized biotechnology unique to Vault 68—something absent from their technological reserves."
"Unless they can find a researcher from Vault 68, they could rack their brains until their skulls crack and still never discover a countermeasure."
In fact, it wasn't just Vault 68—there was also the technology brought by the Celestials, remnants of the Church of the Torch!
Not even the Academy could crack it!
The officer standing at the conference table stared unblinkingly at him.
"And what if they do find one?"
Martin gave a scornful chuckle.
"Find one?"
"My home was razed to the ground by those stupid wastelanders long ago!"
Chapter 932