Kill Them All!

The "offline meetup" was still underway. While Chu Guang was chatting merrily with his little players, a certain old man who had lived for over two centuries was not idle either. Strictly speaking, the juniors visiting this "humble abode" refused to let him remain idle. Seeing Absaik step away from the side of the Great Rift Valley's Chief, Shawa immediately hurried forward without missing a beat, intercepting the old man just as he was turning to leave. Putting on a friendly smile, he spoke in a profoundly respectful tone. "Honorable Chief, I am Shawa, Captain of the Mammoth State Assault Team. Please allow me to convey the warmest regards to you on behalf of Laxi and the survivors of Mammoth State! Our Commander originally intended to pay you a visit in person, but the Southern Legion is still putting up a dying struggle, and the front line remains locked in stalemate. He truly could not pull himself away, so he dispatched me in his stead." The old man looked at the young fellow before him, nodding with an amiable smile. "Hello there, Shawa. I am old now; whenever you youngsters come up with ideas, I usually have to guess just to grasp the gist of them. But this Assault Team... I truly cannot guess. What sort of organization is that? Would you care to explain it to this old man?" Shawa smiled and replied, "It is merely a designation. Back when we followed Laxi on the northern campaign, whenever fighting broke out, we charged at the very front, which earned us the name Assault Team. Later, when the fighting grew less intense and Mammoth State's young officers matured, we transitioned from the front line to the rear... yet that unit designation has remained to this day. You can understand it as the Legion's Praetorian Guards, or the Alliance's Guards Corps." The old man nodded in sudden understanding. "Oh, you mean that kid Rezer. Then I know who you are... Ah, that burden of yours is far too heavy. It pains me just to look at it. How about this: resign. I will guarantee your safety for a year, and once the storm has passed, how about going to the Alliance to be a head of security?" This turn was taken so abruptly that Shawa nearly lost his composure. He gave a dry cough and said, "Er, well... I've really never considered that..." The Alliance was obviously in no shortage of security chiefs like him, and his family had put down roots in Mammoth City; moving to the Alliance, where he knew no one and nothing, had never even crossed his mind. The old man said with a chuckle, "Consider it! I have this flaw: whenever I see a talented young person, I cannot help feeling a fondness for their ability, and then my hands get restless, itching to reach out and pull them out of harm's way. Ah, what a pity..." Shawa had no idea what he found so pitiful, but he still put on an appearance of humble trepidation and said modestly, "You flatter me, sir. People far more talented than I are everywhere... I amount to nothing." "Too modest, far too modest," the old man shook his head. Then, as if suddenly struck by a thought, he spoke up again. "How about this: earlier, when Absaik visited me, I tested him with a riddle. How about I test you now as well?" Shawa stared blankly at him, unsure what medicine the old man was selling in his gourd, but replied deferentially, "Please enlighten me, sir." The old man smiled, held up his withered fingers, and began counting his sheep once more. "I have four great generals: A, B, C, and D. General A says there are ten thousand sheep on the grassland. General B says there are one thousand. General C says neither of them is right, but he cannot remember how many there were either, having only seen a great flock crossing the river. And General D says that one among them is lying... Guess, what is right?" Shawa answered without hesitation, "D! Assuming A is right, then B must be right as well, and C, who claims both are wrong, must be false, which means D is right. Conversely, if both A and B are wrong—" "Stop, stop, stop. No need to analyze so much, you're making my head spin," the old man waved his hand, watching the young man breaking it down from every angle. "You are a clever man, and D is a clever man; there is no question about that. General A claimed there were ten thousand sheep. Who can prove he was right? B, C, and D didn't corroborate him, and if he miscounted by even one, and there were actually nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, he would be in deep trouble. "In comparison, General B is far cleverer. Someone saw ten thousand, yet he said one thousand, giving himself a margin of nine thousand to fall back on. If one absolutely had to pick between A and B to chop off their head, B would certainly be the one who survived." Pausing, the old man looked at the baffled Shawa and chuckled again. "Yet he still wasn't clever enough. When did I ever say I was only going to kill one person? At that point, C was far cleverer: not only did he draw a clear line between himself and A and B, but he also proactively took a stance. Heh... If I don't go back on my word, he gets to live. But if one day I regret having killed the wrong people, then he will be in miserable shape. "Looked at this way, D is vastly cleverer. Saying one person is lying neither specifies who is lying nor who is telling the truth. That liar could be anyone—even himself. In the future, no matter whom I wish to kill, he can point at the corpse and say, 'It was him!' and stand firmly on my side. And even if I kill A, B, and C and then come to regret it, he can still plead with me, smearing himself a bit and voluntarily putting on the hat of 'I lied.' "I am old and soft-hearted; perhaps I would just laugh it off and let him go. You see, when it is time to play dumb, one must play dumb." Shawa looked at the old man, caught between tears and laughter. *Old man, when you posed the riddle, you never mentioned killing anyone!* Though, to be fair, he had indeed guessed correctly. Yet the old man saw right through his thoughts, offering a deeply meaningful smile. "You are still too young. I didn't say anything about killing people, did I? When did I ever say I was going to kill them? This killing business... isn't that what you are doing in my stead?" Shawa froze slightly. Suddenly, a prickling chill crawled up the back of his scalp. He was clearly the one solving the riddle, yet as the riddle unfolded, how had he ended up becoming General E, right behind A, B, C, and D? It felt as though a blade had been laid against his neck. He swallowed involuntarily and squeezed out a stiff smile. "Elder... you joke. We—" "I know, I know. Every family has its own scripture that is hard to read. Rest assured, you haven't reached that point yet," the old man chuckled, raising a hand to spare the young man further distress. "Besides, you lot aren't entirely the same as the Praetorian Guards, let alone the Alliance. As for that fellow Laxi... I don't know him, but having seen you, I know him now. "Others always tell me he is a proxy chosen by the Alliance, but I have never thought so. You Brahma people simply love choosing clever men. That Absaik, for instance, is extremely clever; the moment I dropped a hint, he understood everything. "Your Laxi isn't half bad either. If it really came down to one person, one vote, he would be the one who came out on top in the end. Don't be offended by what I say: your mouths may be stubborn, but your bodies are remarkably honest. Just look at yourself." "..." Shawa was rendered speechless for a moment, having not yet recovered from the chill of his earlier realization, still less understanding what the old man was driving at. Perhaps these words were never meant for him in the first place, but for Laxi behind him. The old man looked at him with profound meaning. "You are all clever men. But sometimes, clever men aren't as good as straightforward fools, because the latter won't attribute their failures to something as superficial as 'not being clever enough,' whereas the former are always doing things they deem clever. Ponder my words again: did I ask you 'who is the good guy and who is the bad guy'? What I asked you was—what is right. "To me, whether A, B, C, or D was telling the truth or lying doesn't matter in the slightest. 'There are sheep' is the answer you should have given me. Yet instead, you went searching for the cleverest person in the riddle for me... Look at you. Forget about me being unable to help you—even if the Professor came back, it wouldn't do any good." Shawa stared at the old man in dazed bewilderment, nodding without fully understanding, memorizing every single word he had spoken so he could convey the message back to Laxi. This old man had lived for far too long and had seen every kind of bird under the sun; it was impossible not to take him seriously. Perhaps what he could not comprehend, Laxi would. Just then, however, the old man abruptly changed the subject and cut off what he was saying halfway through. He turned around, no longer looking at Shawa, and merely sighed softly to himself: "...Still, words can melt metal. The trouble you have to face is far more difficult than Absaik's. "Some sheep eat meat, some sheep eat grass, and some sheep can even eat dirt, yet they all know how to bleat... Hard. Truly far too hard. Even an old relic like me wouldn't know how to solve it." Leaving behind this riddle-like utterance, he ambled away, shaking his head, under Shawa's stunned gaze. ... Winter arrived early in the Great Rift Valley, and Mammoth State at the foot of Mount Zhuobar gradually began to feel the chill of winter as well. Even the subtropics had winter. The monsoon sweeping past Petra Fortress was like a chilling air conditioner, sapping the warmth from Mammoth City and making people involuntarily hunch their necks and thrust their hands into their pockets. Yet compared to the winters two centuries ago, this bit of chill was nothing. Besides, it was cold only when the wind blew; whenever the sun came out, warmth returned. People walked the streets with their cotton jackets unbuttoned, their faces radiant with a ruddy glow. At this time last year, many were still shivering violently in the freezing wind, but now their lives had grown comfortable enough that they didn't even need to fasten their buttons. Not only that, concrete buildings in Mammoth City had multiplied. Drafty thatched shanties were nowhere to be seen on either side of the streets, replaced by rows of concrete houses painted in red and white. Mammoth State produced far too much anti-rust paint, and whatever could not be sold was simply brushed onto the walls. The liveliest spot on the street was no longer the recruitment station, but supermarket shelves piled high with goods. The South Sea Alliance possessed a thriving retail industry, even slightly more developed than that of the Alliance. Just as local laborers poured into the Southern Sea, some of the lifestyle habits of the latter were brought back by them. It was only natural that the conservatives in the Alliance felt a twinge of jealousy. Their pace of development was indeed too rapid... even if they, too, had benefited more or less from Mammoth State's booming economic dividends. In fact, many houses in Settlement No. 1 had been built by construction workers from Mammoth State. The bustling streets were only a corner of this prosperity; the docks of Mammoth City were far livelier still. The quayside was packed with people waiting with bated breath, as well as overseas migrant workers returning aboard steamships. They had toiled abroad in a foreign land for a whole year, and now their hard labor had finally borne fruit. The broken bricks and rubble of the Southern Sea had been cleared away, and the islanders' gratitude went far beyond mere words of thanks. Capital flowing from the Southern Sea not only helped them rebuild their homes, but also helped them establish industries of their own. Starting next year, perhaps they would no longer need to cross the ocean for work; they could find a job with decent pay right at their doorsteps. Of course, Mammoth City's industries were still in the process of upgrading, and jobs at home were certainly not as lucrative as those abroad. Thinking of his child about to enter university, an aging father with a still-sturdy frame gritted his teeth and resolved to venture out to the Southern Seas one more time. There were also young men unwilling to let their long-waiting childhood sweethearts down, deciding to marry and father a child before heading out into the world. Objectively speaking, Laxi had done some good deeds—or rather, he had acted like a human being. He gave choices to those who previously had none. By contrast, the Moon Clan resistance factions, riddled with rival cliques, were utterly feckless. They either ran around pleading and whining to the Alliance, or flaunted seniority and ranked pecking orders to see who was closer to the Alliance, calculating who was worthy and who was not. No wonder Laxi looked down on them, even keeping them around him like clowns. As long as these feckless rabble existed, even if he wanted to declare himself emperor, the survivors of Mammoth State would still rally around him and willingly place the crown upon his head. After all, having a man serve as emperor was infinitely better than letting a bunch of monkeys occupy the high temple. Not to mention that he had already taken a step back, preserving the substance of the "conservatives" while paying ample lip service to the "progressives," wearing only the title of Grand Marshal atop his head. It was precisely for this reason that although Niyang cursed him every few days, he still spared him with his pen. Writing *Red Soil* up to this point, he had made frequent use of the old dynasty's "medical charts" to skewer the new regime's "genealogy," yet he refrained from targeting Laxi's personal faults. And although Laxi had frequently had his nose put out of joint by Niyang, he had nonetheless kept his original promise: he had not sent the Assault Team to kick down his door and riddle him with bullets, nor had he shut down *Survivor Daily* or Mammoth University. Nowadays, Mammoth University was running with great vitality. On occasion, they could even invite guest lecturers from Camp 101, and had even exported outstanding teaching talent to Golden Gallon Port in turn. In this, Laxi truly deserved some credit. Yet this alone was not enough. Niyang had always harbored a dream. The descendants of General Rowell had erected a thousand pillars, so he would use the money "stolen" from Duke Garava to establish a thousand universities across this land! Only in this way could the power slumbering deep in the souls of the Brahma people truly be awakened. Every book eventually reached its conclusion. Holding his pen, he deliberated for a long time before writing down a few scant lines on the final page, tying back into the "prologue" by L at the very beginning: "...That year of ice and snow, when sun and moon shed no light, General Rowell achieved monumental merit. Whether worthy of praise or lament can only be left for posterity to judge. Perhaps his subordinates truly had their heads turned by the 'Great Victory,' bewitched by demonic delusion, forsaking a joyous and comfortable life to drag him down with them in mutual destruction; or perhaps amid that frozen wasteland there were simply that many unavoidable bitternesses. "I had the privilege of visiting Camp Rowell, yet the gatekeeper there informed me that although the wall was indeed the wall of old, the buildings, stone pavements, and iron cages within were all relics from the era of the 'Moon King.' Relics from Rowell's era would perhaps have to be sought in the Governor's Mansion of Duke Nihak. "Regrettably, there were none there either. "I combed through every ancient record available, yet concerning that passage of history, only fragmented scraps remain. The elders of the Moon Clan might know something; they say only that the Moon King was a good man, yet they remain deeply secretive about the origins of the red soil, adding afterward that the Moon King suffered a momentary lapse in judgment, and that a plantation owner brought suffering upon them all. "I know not whether they spoke the truth, nor do I even know that plantation owner's name. I can only lament my ephemerality, standing on the lower reaches of the Everflowing River, gazing up at the vanished sights of old that have long been buried upon the summit of Mount Zhuobar. "Later, I returned to White Elephant City, and for reasons unknown, my thoughts drifted to L—that young man likewise buried in the red soil. I did not understand why he lingered so indelibly in my memory, until I looked down at my own feet. Was it merely those who sowed the red soil and those who consumed it that were buried—" Niyang suddenly coughed, instinctively raising his arm to cover his mouth. When he moved his arm away, he saw a streak of red on his sleeve. "The weather is getting drier and drier..." He muttered to himself, yet a sudden flash of inspiration struck him. Concentrating intensely, he penned the words "Red Soil" onto the paper. "How terrifyingly similar is fate! Beneath my feet lies that very handful of soil; I tread upon his bones, upon the bones of Rowell. It feels as if he reaches out, seeking to seize my ankles, to throttle my throat. I am startled to realize that I have pursued him for half my life, searching through dazed stupor for history's exit, never realizing he has never left me— "He is every one of me." Scribbling the final stroke, Niyang rose, breathing heavily, and walked over to the table to pour himself a cup of tea from the kettle. These past days, he had been exhausting himself over joint schooling initiatives, getting only four or five hours of sleep each night, relying entirely on tea to keep himself going. Especially back in Tiandu, he had fallen gravely ill; fortunately, it wasn't the "Death Agent," and he had managed to survive in the end. Yet from that time onward, his health had never been what it once was. Sipping the hot tea to soothe his throat, Niyang felt a light sweat break out, and his thoughts cleared somewhat. Upon careful reflection, this ending was still somewhat rushed, lacking the breathtaking impact of the opening prologue. Such a plain conclusion failed to do justice to this magnificent, turbulent journey, and Mr. Rat's readers would likely not buy it the way they used to. In truth, not just the readers—even he felt something was missing. Then again, it made sense: the prologue was L's story, whereas this conclusion reached all the way to Rowell. After all, he had truly met L, and met him many times; but between him and Rowell lay a chasm of two centuries. He had never seen Rowell in the flesh. No matter how he wrote, it was like looking at flowers through fog, tracing outlines through a windowpane. "'He is every one of me' might be a bit obscure. Would changing it to 'He is every Brahma' make it more direct? But putting it that way is too absolute... Regardless, this can still be considered a clue." Thinking this, Niyang set down the teacup, yet felt an itch in his throat again. He picked up a tissue from the tray and coughed his heart out. Yet when he pulled the tissue away from his mouth, his heart gave a violent jolt. Blood... The crimson color made him dizzy for a moment. Perhaps he truly couldn't delay any longer; he needed to find time to see a doctor. Right at that moment, the office door was pushed open, and a professor clutching a newspaper hurried inside. Seeing the tissue in Niyang's hand, he froze for an instant and asked with concern, "Sir, what's wrong with you..." "I'm fine," Niyang wiped his mouth, composedly tossed the tissue into the wastebasket, and turned his gaze toward the professor. "What on earth is so urgent that you didn't even knock before coming in?" This man taught history at Mammoth University and was also an editor for the Mammoth City edition of *Survivor Daily*. The professor glanced at the wastebasket, then at the newspaper in his hand. Finally, gritting his teeth, he shoved the newspaper into Niyang's hands. "Look at this paper!" Niyang took the paper and looked down, his brows furrowing slightly. The newspaper was called *Homeland and World*. It had a grand name, but was completely obscure; at least, he had never seen it before. It was likely put out by some small tabloid press. Owing to Laxi's three-point agreement with him to allow private newspapers, after *Survivor Daily* entered Mammoth City, newspapers of all sizes had sprouted like bamboo shoots after a spring rain, each carving out a share of the market. Not allowing *Survivor Daily* to hold a monopoly was a tacit understanding on Laxi's part. Niyang had never intended to monopolize the media industry anyway; his core focus remained on education. Seeing Mammoth City's survivors actively founding newspapers was something he welcomed with open arms. It was equivalent to everyone uniting to finish the work he had left undone. What he had not anticipated, however, was that these people were so capable that they had actually dug up a scoop that even *Survivor Daily* had missed— [EXPLOSIVE NEWS! FIRSTHAND ACCOUNT! THE TRUTH BURIED IN THE TASANG RIVER DAM!] He hurriedly read the news from start to finish, his eyes widening in shock, the hands holding the newspaper trembling uncontrollably. Citing an informed source, the article claimed that the one who blew up the Tasang River Dam was not the imperial governor of the time, Bammut, but had been orchestrated from the start by Laxi himself! This was allegedly done not only to crush the imperial city defense force that vastly outnumbered the Moon Clan resistance, but also to lay the groundwork for entering the city to provide disaster relief, and for sending landless refugees abroad for labor! If one reasoned backward from outcome to cause, what the report claimed didn't seem entirely implausible. The flood of the Tasang River had indeed done Laxi a tremendous favor, resolving issues of land consolidation, labor dispatch, and even humanitarian aid from the Alliance and the Enterprise... virtually every problem had been resolved with the arrival of that great deluge. Yet to say that Laxi, standing by the riverbank back then, could have looked so far ahead was far from certain. At that time, Mammoth City and the Moon Clan resistance hadn't even begun to take shape; Bammut's gathering of hundreds of thousands of troops collapsing at the first blow was something that happened much later... Niyang took a deep breath, calming himself down. "The entire article cites only the oral accounts of an anonymous source, without a single shred of conclusive evidence. Regardless of whether the report is accurate, this is utterly irresponsible journalism!" "A new dam has already been built—what evidence could possibly be left?" the professor sighed, pleading earnestly. "And let's set aside truth versus falsehood for a moment! It's not just this newspaper, but several others... Soon every paper in the city will be running this story! If we don't take a stand, we'll lose all credibility! Do you know what people outside are saying? They say we're Laxi's dogs!" Whether to offend the Laxi regime or offend the survivors of Mammoth City—they had reached a point where they were forced to make a choice. Yet Niyang's eyes flashed with fury as he barked in reprimand: "What do you mean, set it aside?! Tell me, if a newspaper doesn't concern itself with the truth, what should it concern itself with? Reporting news requires seeking truth from facts, not spouting baseless nonsense! How did I instruct you before?! If Laxi truly gave that order, I will personally pen an article condemning him! But what if he didn't? You and I will have been used as someone else's weapons!" If the State of Brahma wanted to wage a civil war, it would inevitably launch a propaganda campaign! And this *Homeland and World* might very well be the handiwork of the Union in Tiandu! He had noticed earlier that someone was playing dirty tricks right under his nose. Yet because they weren't operating under the name of *Survivor Daily*, he had had no way to stop them. Perhaps they should have followed the Alliance's example and set up an industry commission to evaluate media credibility, but doing so now was too late. These ambitious schemers intended to weaponize the Tasang River Dam to manufacture a pretext for war, letting a disaster that had struck once engulf even more innocent people... No matter who was behind this sinister plot, he had to stop them! Clenching his fists, he folded the newspaper, shoved it into his pocket, and hurriedly took down the overcoat hanging beside the door. Watching his movements, the professor asked anxiously, "What are you doing?" Niyang replied without hesitation: "Going to the front line to demand answers from Laxi!" The professor stared at him dumbfounded, caught between tears and laughter. "My good ancestor... You're rushing to the front lines at a time like this?! If you ask me, you ought to hurry to Dawn City for medical treatment! How long has your lung condition been dragging on? It really can't wait any longer!" Niyang shook his head, declining his good intentions, draped the coat over himself, and buttoned it up. "This illness comes and goes; delaying a bit won't kill me. But the affairs of the Brahma people cannot wait! I must go to the front line first to get to the bottom of this and find out what really happened back then! If he truly blew it up, did he act fully knowing the consequences, or was there more to the story..." That had been a battle of few against many, with Laxi at an overwhelming numerical disadvantage. From the perspective of the governor at the time, there had indeed seemed to be no necessity to blow up the dam. Yet this was merely conjecture after all. Just like the chapter concerning Rowell in *Red Soil*, from beginning to end it was nothing more than his own deduction; even the Alliance had not uncovered a truth guaranteed to be one hundred percent authentic. However, one point in that newspaper had struck a deep chord with him. Niyang had previously harbored doubts about Governor Bammut's confession, and reading this report only made his suspicions flare up anew. Just as fungi could only freeze into blocks of ice at thirty degrees below zero, remaining dormant no matter how tenacious their vitality, red soil was ultimately not a complex, intelligent organism like mutant slime mold; it was merely a decomposer in nature, incapable of conjuring nonexistent nutrients out of thin air. Fixing carbon and nitrogen, then converting solar energy and organic matter into the nutrients needed by living organisms... this required the collective labor of all flora, fauna, and microorganisms across the entire Brahma Province. What kind of miracle would it take to turn permafrost into nutrition during those dark, sunless years? Calling red soil a redundant, useless alternative to nutrient paste might be inappropriate, but he had indeed thought so in his heart. At present, the biggest controversy in the Alliance's academic circles regarding this period of history lay precisely here. A group of scholars led by Ms. Han Mingyue believed that the development and promotion of red soil occurred in two stages: the former completed by General Rowell, and the latter credited to the "Moon King" who unified Brahma Province. Yet this hypothesis was obviously unfavorable to the tragic Moon Clan—or rather, politically incorrect. It seemed to justify the Xilan Empire's persecution of the Moon Clan—even if Ms. Han Mingyue herself harbored no such intent, and the Alliance's research institutions had no need to heed public opinion. Yet her research did not represent the ultimate authority. Another group of scholars argued that the spread of red soil was an organic development born of a "slave economy," and that the landowning class's natural drive to "drive down the living costs of slaves" was the true catalyst behind its diffusion. This approach ignored the human factor, approaching the issue entirely from a macroeconomic perspective. Either conjecture was possible. Those who had lived through that era were long dead, and the Moon King had long since ground that history into dust, even if the Moon King himself was gone in the end. From deep within, a sudden intuition welled up in Niyang's heart— Perhaps it was precisely because of their disrespect for history that disaster after disaster had been spawned. And it was precisely this inexplicable intuition that strengthened his conviction to find Laxi. They had to have an honest conversation! And that was the only way to allow everyone to survive! Seeing Niyang adamantly refusing to stop for medical treatment, the professor pleaded desperately, "How about I find you some local doctors? I hear they know some folk remedies; maybe they can cure your illness." Niyang shook his head, refusing him once more. "Those people are either intentional or unwitting charlatans. If you want to believe them, believe them yourself, but don't bother trying to persuade me." Hearing this, the professor smiled wryly and ceased his urging, only praying silently in his heart. They had so much unfinished work, and it had reached the most critical juncture. May he stay safe and sound!