If Wilante Province was the staging ground from which the Wilante set forth on their conquests, then Batoya Province, separated from it by a single sea, was the very first hurdle on their path of conquest.
By analogy to the map of the other world, Wilante Province was somewhat like a scaled-down fusion of the Iberian Peninsula and France, while Batoya Province roughly occupied the position of North Africa—though considerably broader and chunkier in area.
The two provinces were separated by a bay known as the Whirlpool Sea. This body of water was far smaller than the Mediterranean of the other world, spanning roughly half its size. In shape, it was entirely different as well: wide at the mouth and tapering narrower the further east it went, curving like a buffalo horn.
Avent City was situated in the northwest corner of Batoya Province, at a place called Dagger Cliff, gazing across the water toward Wilante Province.
At their closest point, the two provinces were separated by a mere two hundred kilometers. Swimming across would be a bit challenging, but taking a ferry took only five or six hours—and that was at a leisurely pace.
Ever since the news of Marshal Julius's death had spread, legions of Wilante from all over the world had been rushing to Triumph City, hoping to attend the Marshal's funeral.
Naturally, this included plenty of Wilante living in Batoya Province.
In their homeland, they would reunite with old friends they hadn't seen in years, sit together chatting about everything under the sun, blow foam off beers, or even tumble into bed together.
And after it was all over, some would stay behind, but most would return to their homes in the New World or the eastern parts of the Old World.
If someone wanted to sow the "Death Agent" across the entire globe, there was no better opportunity than Marshal Julius's funeral...
Standing on an offshore destroyer amid calm waters, Myriarch Malok looked down at the telegram in his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching involuntarily.
"...If this fucking thing is real, that's just too fucking ruthless."
Due to the recent turmoil within the Legion, Marshal Julius's Praetorian Guard had been affected as well, somehow misplacing the genetic source code—the Wilante's very lifeline.
He wasn't an expert in biology and didn't understand the technical side, but he knew full well how vital that thing was. Otherwise, their ancestors wouldn't have spared any cost to wrest it from the Post-War Reconstruction Committee and gone to such great lengths to keep it protected.
Supposedly, this was what the shelter residents who had once helped the Wilante had said:
Because the Wilante were a race engineered from a predesigned gene bank, anyone who obtained the source code used to build that bank could effortlessly design a genetic weapon tailored specifically against them.
Such a weapon could be a virus or something else, capable of striking simultaneously at both the microscopic and macroscopic levels, rendering this planet uninhabitable for the Wilante and ultimately wiping them from the world as though they had never existed.
In fact, the Reconstruction Committee's Defense Department had indeed planned precisely that. The very last folder on the Wilante Laboratory server was dedicated to "wrapping up" the Gene Warrior Project.
The purer the lineage, the easier it was to single them out from the population.
The only countermeasure was intermarriage with outsiders.
Only when the Wilante were no longer solely Wilante, but an integrated part of humanity, could this sword hanging over their heads finally be removed.
It was precisely for this reason that they had to keep the Wilante genetic source code strictly confidential for at least three hundred years—until other humans' blood flowed through their veins and their blood flowed through human veins—before they could ever be truly safe.
And now, the Praetorian Guard claimed they had screwed up in Year 172!
What kind of fucking joke was this?!
Yet what was done was done. He could only bite the bullet, accept it, and carry out his duties in coordination with Triumph City's orders.
Just then, a ferry roughly a hundred meters long emerged on the horizon.
Seeing the black speck on the distance, Myriarch Malok immediately waved his hand, signaling his crew and ship captains to steer the destroyer over while radioing the ferry captain to order the vessel to halt.
Upon receiving the order, the ferry complied readily, quickly shutting down its engines.
The passengers aboard, however, were not pleased. They gathered on deck, clamoring toward the approaching destroyer for an explanation.
A ferry over a hundred meters long was by no means small; there were at least three to four hundred people aboard.
Most were residents of Avent City, while some came from the surrounding regions of Batoya Province, along with a few adolescents and mothers holding infants.
Looking at the jostling crowd, Malok cleared his throat, raised a megaphone, and projected his voice.
"Quiet down, everyone, please be quiet for a moment! I am Myriarch Malok of the Triumph City Coastal Defense Fleet. Something unexpected has come up regarding your voyage, and I am here to explain the situation."
Hearing someone with authority step forward, the crowd on deck indeed quieted down somewhat.
Pausing briefly, Malok adjusted his cadence and continued, "Late yesterday, we received word that someone took advantage of the political instability in Triumph City to steal the Wilante genetic source code."
Just as he expected, no sooner had the words left his mouth than the deck erupted into an uproar.
The sea, silent for barely two seconds, was instantly swallowed by shouts again.
"What does the genetic source code being stolen have to do with us?!"
"Yeah! Shouldn't you be checking outbound ships?! Is a thief going to turn around and come back?!"
"Damn it, the Praetorian Guard gets worse by the day. How do you lose the genetic source code?!"
"Those Triumph City bastards are completely fucking useless!"
The vast majority failed to realize the gravity of the situation; they were merely furious about the delay.
This was entirely normal.
Malok had been the same way.
Although the more he thought about it afterward, the more terrified he became, his initial reaction upon hearing the news had simply been an "Ah," followed by the thought, *So it's lost, so what?*
Compared to the Legion disintegrating, losing an object hardly seemed like a big deal.
They had lost plenty of things already.
Only when the Praetorian Guard explained that the code was the Wilante's lifeblood did a belated wave of dread wash over him.
Looking down at his clamoring compatriots, Malok drew a deep breath, raised his voice, and shouted through the megaphone:
"You'd better open your ears and hear me out! The genetic source code was stolen a month ago. Our latest intel indicates that a bunch of vile blue mole-rats hiding in the Great Desert used our source code to design a virus tailored specifically against the Wilante! It's called the 'Death Agent'—from the name alone, you ought to know what it does!"
"And let me tell you, it's far worse than that! This virus has an extraordinarily long incubation period of over a month, and it's extremely contagious throughout that incubation period!"
"It starts with a low-grade fever, then a full-body fever, until your immune system is thoroughly compromised. In the end, your organs fail one by one, and you die in agony... The whole ordeal lasts a full year or even longer, tormenting you until it has had its fill and its progeny have infected countless others!"
"So don't think this has nothing to do with you! Batoya Province sits right at the northwest corner of the Great Desert—you are the closest to this bomb! In fact, you might already be infected with the damned thing!"
Before his voice even faded, an uproar swept across the ship, the boiling clamor threatening to tear through the swaying deck.
Faces wore every shade of emotion: fury, terror, panic, and suspicion.
Some mothers instinctively shielded the noses and mouths of the infants in their arms or retreated toward emptier spaces.
Someone coughed involuntarily, and seeing the startled looks cast from all around, he couldn't help but begin doubting himself.
"Are you out of your mind?! A virus engineered specifically against the Wilante... H-how is that possible?!"
"Who would do such a thing... Damn it, the fucking Praetorian Guard! How could they lose something so important?!"
"So our ship is carrying the virus?! That... bioweapon targeting the Wilante?!"
They screamed and shouted in dread and confusion, as if driven mad.
Instinct told them this sounded absurd—if outsiders possessed such a formidable weapon, they wouldn't have waited until now to unleash it.
Yet they soon recalled that the Wilante genetic source code had previously been under strict lock and key, whereas now it had been stolen.
Suddenly, everything seemed plausible.
Just like Malok the previous night, their skepticism gave way to unshakeable conviction.
After all, standing before them was a myriarch—and one from Triumph City at that.
These men, fiercely loyal to Marshal Julius, would never joke about the Praetorian Guard, nor would the Guard ever fabricate a lie about such a matter.
Seeing his compatriots still shouting, Malok raised his voice to address one of their questions.
"We cannot rule out that possibility. Therefore, with great regret, we must ask you to turn back."
A brawny man pushed his way to the front of the crowd, glaring furiously at Malok.
"Possibility?! Just because of some 'possibility,' you're stopping us from attending Marshal Julius's funeral?!"
His shoulders were broad and his hands calloused, clearly a soldier who had seen combat.
Many Wilante had seen combat, so that was hardly a distinguishing feature.
Yet at a time when the front lines were in dire straits, an experienced veteran in his prime would normally have found it difficult to secure passage on a ship bound for Wilante Province.
However, Malok had no knowledge of the real truth behind the Death Agent.
The version given to him by the Praetorian Guard was that someone intended to use the Wilante genetic source code to design a bioweapon targeted specifically at them.
Looking at the glaring man, Malok said with a faint smile, "You needn't worry. The funeral has been postponed."
Everyone on deck froze.
"P-postponed?!"
Malok nodded. "Correct. Our honorable Archon has declared that the Wilante Alliance is entering a state of emergency. Until the emergency ends, we are temporarily blockading the Whirlpool Sea."
Hearing this, panic swept through the crowd, and everyone started talking over one another.
"Then what about us?!"
"Are you going to leave us stranded at sea forever?!"
Malok raised a hand, signaling for calm, before continuing:
"You may turn back the way you came, or you may come ashore and accept our resettlement... We have designated a buffer zone along the coast of Wilante Province and pitched tents there. We will quarantine you based on your arrival time and arrange medical personnel to conduct physical examinations."
"Triumph City has already reached out through the Slime Mold Consortium to request aid from the Academy, the Alliance, and Enterprise. Their response has been quite positive; they will airlift medical personnel and supplies to Wilante Province to face this crisis alongside us... just as we once stood shoulder to shoulder with them against the crisis of the Church of the Torch."
A murmur rippled across the deck.
At the mention of Enterprise and the Alliance, hesitation flashed across almost every face.
The Southern Legion was currently engaged in war with Enterprise and the Alliance; no one could guarantee those factions wouldn't exploit the situation.
At that moment, an emaciated old man walked to the bow, staring unblinkingly at Myriarch Malok, and asked in a raspy voice, "That virus... are you serious about it?"
Myriarch Malok nodded. "At least the Praetorian Guard is deadly serious. The Wilante Alliance, including Triumph City, has restricted non-Wilante from entering our borders... After all, any of them could be an asymptomatic or mild carrier. Even if harming us is not their intention, they could still harm us indirectly."
*Not their intention...*
A bitter smile touched the old man's face.
That was far too generous. Countless people wanted the Wilante dead—at least one out of every three wastelanders.
Malok clearly shared the sentiment, offering a helpless shrug. "So you understand how dangerous it is to wander around right now... We're not singling you out. Every border—north, south, east, and west—is closed."
The old man sighed, and only after a long pause did he manage to mutter, "I just hope there are no outsiders in the buffer zone..."
Triumph City had sealed its borders.
Looked at that way, Wilante Province was probably far safer than Batoya Province.
After all, the Southern Legion held vast colonial territories, populated primarily by outsiders from the Great Desert.
If something truly broke out, the Southern Legion, which had taken zero preventive measures so far, was undoubtedly the most perilous place to be...
Looking at the anxious elder, Malok smiled and called out, "Rest assured on that front. Even if there are outsiders, they'll only be researchers sent by the Academy to assist us."
"If anything goes wrong, we won't let them off the hook."
...
News of the Wilante genetic source code's disappearance caused an enormous uproar throughout Triumph City.
As custodians of the code, the Praetorian Guard saw its prestige utterly shattered, coming under fierce condemnation from factions across the city.
Faced with the barrage of denunciations, Commander Raizer remained remarkably calm.
Having lived for 172 years, he had long grown accustomed to the shifting winds and storms of this city. He certainly wasn't going to lose face or throw a tantrum over a few scoldings from the younger generation.
Yet while Raizer appeared completely unruffled, Battlefield Atmosphere Group felt deeply guilty.
The old man was practically one foot in the grave, yet in the twilight of his life, he had staked his lifetime of honor for him.
After concluding their meeting with the ministers, he turned to the elder and said apologetically, "I'm sorry... Once this is over, I will clear your name and tell everyone that this was all my idea."
Looking at the contrite Archon, Raizer, clad in golden armor, offered a faint smile and murmured softly, "You needn't worry about my feelings. Doing what you must do right now is enough."
Pausing, the old man adopted the tone of an elder, speaking with deep significance:
"Still, I must give you one piece of advice: a truly masterful lie tells half the truth while withholding the half that works against you. Marshal Julius was exceptionally skilled at this, and so is that Administrator of yours. You, on the other hand, fall a bit short—you left yourself no room for retreat."
Battlefield Atmosphere Group looked rather embarrassed, rubbing his nose and coughing dryly. "I'm far from their level..."
Raizer smiled faintly. "Naturally. Look at how much they have accomplished, and how little you have done."
"Still, it doesn't matter. Everyone starts unpracticed before mastering their craft—whether it was the esteemed Marshal Julius, or that Administrator of yours."
"I still have high hopes for you."
That final remark gave Battlefield Guy a boost of confidence, warming his heart.
What he had done was indeed far from clever, but it was the best plan he could devise.
Faced with Legion Commander Tyr's "ingenious plot," he had chosen to beat him at his own game.
Since Tyr claimed to have stolen the genetic source code to convince the Southern Legion's top brass to join his mad scheme, Battlefield Guy simply announced that the source code was indeed gone—only, it had been stolen by the Enlightenment Society in the Great Desert to manufacture a virus called the "Death Agent," specifically engineered to eradicate the Wilante.
On that pretext, he could smoothly declare a state of emergency for the Wilante Alliance and impose a lockdown on Triumph City and Wilante Province, denying the Southern Legion any opportunity to exploit Triumph City and Marshal Julius's funeral as a springboard to disseminate the pathogen.
Not only that, but upon receiving the news, the Northern Empire, the Eastern Empire, and the Federation of the New World would also seal their borders one after another, keeping a vigilant watch on all entrants.
Whether or not they believed in the existence of the Death Agent, the disappearance of the genetic source code was, in their eyes, an indisputable fact.
As for what the Death Agent actually was, that was no longer important.
Whoever went public first owned the right of narrative.
The Southern Legion couldn't very well jump out and argue that they were the ones who had stolen the code, or that the Death Agent posed little threat to the Wilante and was primarily aimed at outsiders.
To begin with, Tyr didn't possess the Wilante genetic source code at all, nor could he prove the agent caused little harm to the Wilante—because from the very start, it was an indiscriminate weapon.
Never mind offering an explanation; they wouldn't even dare let the other factions discover that the substance had leaked from their own labs.
Otherwise, before Enterprise and the Alliance could even lift a finger, their fellow Wilante factions would step up and beat them to a pulp themselves.
Yet discovery was only a matter of time.
If the Death Agent project had already launched, and the various former Legion factions—including Triumph City—had sequentially sealed their borders to halt the movement of Wilante to other regions, the pathogen would remain confined within Avent City.
Moreover, with Evernight Port now under Alliance control, the Southern Legion's path to the eastern world was severed. Aside from the original virus deployed on the battlefields of Brahma Province—which boasted high lethality but low transmissibility—virtually no strains would leak out.
When that time came, Tyr would realize he had shot himself in the foot.
And the Wilante of Avent City would gradually awaken to who their true enemy was.
Beyond the macroscopic deployments, Battlefield Atmosphere Group mobilized the civilian faction to establish quarantine zones along the coastal border of Wilante Province.
This was merely step one.
Once the Death Agent was contained, he would promptly initiate the second step of his plan: fulfilling his duty as Archon of Triumph City by providing relief to an Avent City plunged into plague.
That phase would require assistance from survivor factions across the wasteland, including the Academy, the Alliance, and Enterprise.
That, however, would hardly be an issue for him.
He knew the Administrator's stance inside and out.
Ever since the game launched, that guy's entire goal had been to bring an end to the Wasteland Era; there was no way he would abandon the Wilante.
Even as those thoughts crossed his mind, hurried footsteps echoed outside the council chamber of the Hall of Glory.
Brushing past the guards at the door, a man in extravagant attire barged into the hall, glaring at the Archon seated in the center and snapping:
"Mr. Archon, I demand an explanation!"
This was the Southern Legion's envoy.
He was also the representative sent in Tyr's stead to attend Marshal Julius's funeral.
Battlefield Guy recalled his name was Harrogan, with the rank of Two-Star Myriarch—one star higher than Korwei.
Now that he was Archon, however, he had no reason to be intimidated by military ranks.
Looking at the fuming Myriarch Harrogan, Battlefield Atmosphere Group asked with interest, "What kind of explanation are you looking for?"
Harrogan demanded furiously, "Postponing Marshal Julius's funeral and sealing the borders just as Wilante from everywhere are rushing to Triumph City to pay homage to the Marshal's legacy! Do you have any idea what you're doing?!"
The man was panicking.
Yet Battlefield Atmosphere Group doubted a mere two-star myriarch was privy to the secrets of the Death Agent.
Most likely, Legion Commander Tyr was using him to test Triumph City's waters or put pressure on him.
Just as he was about to speak, Raizer, seated not far away, beat him to it.
"Marshal Julius has waited nearly two centuries. I believe his Excellency will not mind waiting a little longer to watch his children finish their final performance."
A piercing gleam flashed from those cloudy eyes, causing Harrogan's accusatory bluster to deflate in an instant.
The Legion had only just completed its transformation into the Wilante Alliance; Harrogan did not yet understand what the title of Archon signified.
He understood, however, what a legion commander meant.
Especially a legion commander who had once fought alongside Marshal Julius himself.
"Fin... What are you talking about? What performance..." Swallowing hard, Harrogan unconsciously took a step back, his voice trembling.
Raizer watched him calmly, his gaze like that of someone observing a noisy toddler.
"...Ask yourself, or ask your legion commander. I believe he knows best."
Harrogan held his breath involuntarily.
His political instinct warned him that the waters ran far deeper than he had ever imagined.
Without uttering another word, he let the guards escort him out, then hurried away from the council chamber doors.
Watching the retreating figure, Raizer gave a faint smile and called out in an even tone:
"Pass a message along to that child for me—"
"The candle of Triumph City has not gone out. The spirit of Lord Marshal Julius remains here."
"His Excellency the Marshal is watching you."
Chapter 935