Light and Darkness

Salen was the last leader among all the factions to arrive, stepping into the conference hall almost at the stroke of the hour—even thirty minutes later than the Academy's Chief Technology Officer. Looking at his face, Chu Guang could clearly sense the triumphant smugness written across it, and he knew very well why. If anyone could be called the greatest beneficiary of the Legion's collapse, it was undoubtedly this gloating fellow standing right before him. As the eldest son of the Legion, nearly half the domain Julius had carved out was now held firmly in the hands of the Eastern Empire, whereas Triumph City was left with nothing more than Wilante Province. Having given Julius a grand and glorious send-off, Salen was now the undisputed emperor over ten million square kilometers of land! At the very least, the funeral in Norton City was over! "I am delighted to see you as well, Emperor of the Eastern Empire. It seems you are in very high spirits." Salen stepped forward and gave him a hearty bear hug, clapping Chu Guang on the arm with a broad grin. "Thanks to your good graces, the long-cherished dream of every Eastern Legion commander before me has finally been fulfilled in my hands." He truly did owe the Alliance his gratitude. General Klass had perished in the Great Rift Valley, and Griffin had dashed the final breath of the Eastern Expansion faction against the fortress walls of River Valley Province. The land-owning old military nobility had consequently become the dominant political force in the Eastern Legion. Even the subsequent upheaval in Triumph City had stemmed fundamentally from Wilante radicals being swayed by Alliance ideology. The death of Theodosius had led to the collapse of the Roman Empire, yet it had also paved the way for Constantinople and the eventual glory of Byzantium. In a sense, the Eastern Legion—or rather, today's Eastern Empire—stood in an identical position, differing only in the fine details of its core. Looking at the jubilant Salen, Chu Guang gave a faint nod and spoke in a gentle tone. "I believe this was also the earnest wish of every Wilante in the Eastern Empire. The soldiers of the Expeditionary Army may now rest in peace." Catching the unspoken meaning behind his words, Salen laughed heartily and gave him a thumbs-up. "I love dealing with smart men. We can reach an understanding in no time without wasting breath on riddles." Pausing briefly, he continued. "Olette and his core officers are now officially commissioned in the Eastern Empire. According to our review, they were deceived by Tyr." "Who is Olette?" Chu Guang genuinely did not recognize the name. Perhaps it had appeared in intelligence briefings from the Guards Corps, or popped up on the official forums, but it hardly mattered to him. Just a frontline commander—at best a pawn on the chessboard. Even if he were stained with heinous crimes, he paled in comparison to Tyr. As for the major war criminals whose names caused an uproar in Dawn City and Ideal City—such as Myriarch Ryan, who had ordered the bombing of Lion City that resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians, and John, who had carried out the order—the Eastern Empire would likely not interfere with their trials. After all, the cost of sheltering them was vastly disproportionate to any benefit. Salen, however, fancied himself clever enough to have "caught" Chu Guang's drift and winked at him conspiratorially. "Very generous! Naturally, we won't let you come away empty-handed either. How about this: we'll leave a big fish like Gulion entirely to you. By the way, give me a straight answer—which state holds the core of the Alliance's interests in Brahma Province? I need to figure out the best way to slice up this cake." Handing over the fish was merely a pretext; the fellow wanted to negotiate how to carve up the State of Brahma... Chu Guang looked at this self-satisfied emperor with a half-smile, speaking in a teasing tone. "What would we need so much land for? Our modest plot in River Valley Province is more than enough for us to farm, and we even have surplus seed to share with others. And what about you? Aren't you satisfied with over ten million square kilometers already? Just how large is your core population? If you swallow another ten million people, aren't you afraid they'll band together and revolt?" Though Salen dismissed the first remark with contempt, his brow twitched involuntarily at the second. It didn't quite sound like an outright threat. Yet the moment he recalled what had transpired in the Xilan Empire, a shiver ran down his spine. Perhaps greedily snatching another several hundred thousand square kilometers truly wasn't a wise move. The Wilante still cared about their reputation, after all. There was no need to end up like the Sun Tribe or the Ox Tribe, wallowing in the mud alongside a swarm of loaches. Forcing an unnatural smile, Salen banished the fleeting notion from his mind. "Enough, of course it's enough... We merely wanted a buffer zone. After all, quite a few displaced Wilante refugees have settled in the southwestern corner of the Zhopar Mountains." Chu Guang chuckled. "The two representatives from Brahma Province are right over here. Why don't you talk to them?" Salen's expression stiffened. He knew full well that talking would be an exercise in futility. Neither Absaik nor Laxi would ever agree to cede even a single one of Brahma Province's thirteen states. In the end, taking that land would cost lives! However— He wasn't entirely without leverage. Gradually coaxing a smile back onto his rigid face, Salen stared at Chu Guang and pressed on. "Don't make yourselves sound like pure, blameless saints either. What about the ten thousand square kilometers of Rowell State?" Chu Guang smiled faintly. "From start to finish, Golden Gallon Port has belonged to the locals. Their mayor and their representative council were elected by themselves. From the very beginning, not a single official or representative appointed by the Alliance has held any post there." After a brief pause, he added: "I hope the same will apply to West Sail Port. The Wilante may remain, but the city hall and the courts must be returned to the local people, no matter the arrangement. Otherwise, you had best prepare yourselves mentally to continue the war the Southern Legion left unfinished." This was an exceptionally hardline stance. It was no longer an implicit assertion of soft power, but a direct threat backed by hard military force. Reading the gravity in Chu Guang's words, Salen kept his calm smile firmly in place. Though he had failed to extract any tangible concessions from the Alliance, this probe had at least laid bare their bottom line. The administrative model of Triumph City's civil bureaucracy did not cross the Alliance's red line, whereas the Southern Legion's model had trampled all over it. That made things much simpler. "We will return West Sail Port to the locals, provided you no longer intervene in the internal affairs of Brahma Province." Watching Salen's beaming face, Chu Guang offered a mild, gentle smile. "That depends on the extent of your involvement—whether it is direct or indirect—and whether you honor that ancient covenant." So long as the Eastern Empire did not launch an armed invasion of Brahma Province, he truly had little intention of meddling in their cooperation. The same held true for the Falcon Kingdom. The Alliance had done everything it could there, yet the local survivors ultimately preferred closer ties with the Eastern Empire, and that remained their own choice. In just a few brief exchanges, the post-war order across four million square kilometers had been settled. Both the Eastern Empire and the Alliance had attained their desired outcomes, and Absaik and Sava could finally breathe a sigh of relief. At the very least, the Emperor of the Eastern Empire had pledged to withdraw his troops from West Sail Port. Even if these Wilante stripped every last bolt from the harbor and hauled it away, that was still infinitely better than fighting another bloody war of reclamation. Besides, no matter how much they loaded onto their ships, how much could they actually take? The rebar driven into the earth and the concrete encasing it could never be carried away. Nor could they take the knowledge lodged inside the minds of West Sail Port's people. Given enough time, rebuilding a prosperous West Sail Port was only a matter of when, not if. Absaik looked at Chu Guang with deep gratitude in his eyes, but Chu Guang merely smiled faintly without a word. He had not dispatched troops to aid the Brahma people against the invaders just to earn their thanks, nor to lord over them as a master. He had done it for every survivor across the eastern continent who might otherwise suffer under the Legion's cruelty. Naturally, that included the Alliance itself. Therefore, they had no need to thank him, nor did they need to treat him as some sort of savior. It was enough to carry these memories and keep moving forward. So long as they faced their own hearts and their own history with honesty, whether Wilante or Brahma, the future would be bright... Under the hopeful gaze of hundreds of millions of survivors, representatives from every faction filed into the grand conference hall situated deep in the heart of the Great Rift Valley. The vast assembly center was structured like a circular amphitheater, its tables and chairs carved from sharply angled granite, appearing as though they had been sliced whole from a massive bedrock vein by lasers or some forgotten technology! A crystalline chandelier hung roughly fifty meters above the floor, growing downward from the dome like an inverted pyramid, casting a soft, milky-white glow across the room. It was said that this doomsday facility had been completed before the war. Presumably, only that golden epoch of boundless prosperity could have erected such an awe-inspiring marvel. Stepping into the hall, Absaik felt like Granny Liu entering the Grand View Garden, wholly unable to contain the shock in his heart. More than two centuries ago, survivors of the Human Alliance era had sat right here, deliberating on how they should face their future destiny. Back then, the very concept of the Wasteland Era likely didn't even exist. Facing the bitter cold of minus fifty degrees and a sky through which not a sliver of light could pierce, no one knew if their apocalypse would ever end, or what they ought to do if it never did. Moved by the scene, Absaik could not help sighing inwardly. *So that's how it was... When the Wasteland Era truly began was probably only decided around Wasteland Era Year 50.* If the bitter winter had not ended by Year 50, then the fifty years that had already elapsed would simply have been reckoned as the Doomsday Era. Things that later generations took for granted were by no means obvious to the people of that time. Though the survivors in Tiandu now cursed him to the bone, calling him a butcher who had killed more Brahma people than Janusz, reviling his consumption tax on grain as the robbery of a bandit plundering the peasantry, who was to say that one day they wouldn't look back on him with the same nostalgia they felt for Rowell? After all, who could guarantee that someone in the future wouldn't actually carry out the very deeds that he had contemplated, but lacked the shamelessness or courage to execute? Fewer people had died during Janusz's reign than during his own tenure as Grand Marshal—that was an undeniable truth. That madman had led his Heavenly King Army to plunder the aristocrats' estates down to the bone, allowing slaves to sleep with the highborn ladies and gentlewomen they had only dared dream of touching their entire lives. He had let Duwata amass a harem of wives and concubines, and piled Shahrukh's home with heaps of gold, silver, and jewels... It was his own gunshot that had shattered their unfinished reverie. And who wouldn't want an unfinished dream to go on? Perhaps he really ought to draft an edict of self-reproach. "Hahaha! Fascinating... bloody fascinating..." At that thought, Absaik chuckled aloud until tears welled in his eyes. His lingering gloom vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden sense of liberation. The collapse of the Heavenly Palace had freed him from his obsession with the throne, curing him of his futile yearning for an impossible eternity. His conversion to the Silver Moon Church had freed him from his lust for power, purging the paranoia that made him suspect everyone around him. And now, he had finally attained his own spiritual completion—letting go of everything he had once refused to release. He had finally seen the dried-up well that held him. What had trapped him was never the thick walls on either side, nor the unreachable clouds overhead— From beginning to end, it had been himself. "Merit or sin, let future generations debate it as they will!" Much like Mayor Audo of the Free State, he had ultimately looked deep into his own soul, achieving true self-awareness in the final second before the curtain fell on the game. And at that very instant, the nightmare that had haunted him for so long finally broke into clear skies... ... The assembled delegates were all marveling at the grandeur of the conference hall, though some lamented that the wealth would have been better spent building another shelter. Only a precious few could make peace with the past, and fewer still could step out from the shadow of bygone glory. Absaik's composure was among the better examples; at least he was still capable of rational thought. Others, like the castellan of Dam City, stood agape in stunned bewilderment, glancing frantically around for their aides. Deprived of their right-hand men, they were entirely at a loss. It proved once and for all that pigs caught in an updraft didn't necessarily understand the winds, nor could they necessarily weather the towering waves. As for the true titans, they were already seated calmly and serenely in their places. Triumph City's Archon, the Alliance's Manager, the Academy's Chief Technology Officer, the Enterprise's Council delegates, the Eastern Empire's Salen, the bear-like Emperor of the Northern Empire, and the sharply suited Foreign Minister sent by the President of the New Federation... Everything that needed to be discussed had already been settled. Anything left unsaid was simply beneath notice. Their presence here was merely to walk through the formalities. Yet the hosts of the conference treated all equally. Even the leaders of insignificant minor factions were granted due respect, ensuring that everyone had their designated seat before the proceedings began. No matter how ridiculous their backstories might be, and regardless of who viewed whom as a clown, every figure seated here was the genuine choice of a group of wastelanders. At the very least, they were the choice of this present moment! And the instant everyone had taken their seats, a solemn and dignified voice resonated throughout the hall— "I thank you all for taking the time from your demanding duties to gather here..." "I am the Chief of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee." Many in the room were already well aware of the old man's identity, and some had even had the fortune of seeing him under different guises. This time, however, he spoke in no riddles, nor did he waste a single superfluous word. After reciting a brief opening statement, he yielded the floor to the young people present— "I declare the present Humanity Conference officially open!" Thunderous applause shook the hall. Sitting in a corner of the venue, Zhou Xianlin was so excited that he leaped to his feet, raising his hands high above his head. Not far away, the Alliance Leader of the Red River Alliance glanced at the madman with a scornful sneer, but ultimately joined in the clapping like everyone else. Even Salen, seated in the front row stifling a yawn, politely gave a few claps. To him personally, the matters of real consequence had already been decided before the conference even started. He had met not only Chu Guang, but also the delegates from the Enterprise and the Academy, as well as several representatives of the former Legion factions—including the young fellow who had inherited Julius's armor and won the recognition of the Imperial Guard. As for the other survivor factions, they were no more than ants in his eyes; he couldn't care less about what they thought. Yet seeing the serious demeanor of the heavyweights seated beside him, his curiosity was piqued just enough that he straightened up from his carved granite chair. "Heh, let's see what kind of tricks these youngsters can come up with..." ... The booming applause was like the firecrackers of New Year's Eve, seeing off the departed Wasteland Era Year 214. As for when the new era would truly arrive, that would only become clear long after the conference had concluded. At this moment, in a remote corner of the wasteland, Niyang was trapped in a car stuck on the road leading to the front line, spending a modest New Year with Feodor, his most trusted student and assistant. Watching "Mr. Mouse" ponder for hours without being able to put pen to paper on the call to arms, Feodor's face was filled with bafflement. This was not the master he remembered. Even when serving as a servant under Duke Garawa, this gentleman had always kept his back straight. Why then? Why did this proud, unyielding scholar bow his head when it came to Laxi? Was it merely because that man slaughtered without mercy, turning on his own people when his madness took hold? A surge of resentment rose within him, and he muttered in a low voice: "...If you can't write it, I can write it for you. If you are afraid, I can die in your place." With that, he reached out to snatch the pen and paper from Niyang's hands, only for the elder man to pull them away. "Stay out of these muddy waters!" Niyang scolded sharply, then turned his gaze back to the blank sheet of paper, lost in thought once more. Feodor remained defiant, staring directly into his eyes. "Those are your students. You taught us to be upright men, so why won't you support them?" Niyang set down the pen and paper, painfully shifting his body to face his student. "I will ask you only one question. You want to bring down Laxi—have you thought about what comes after?" Feodor answered without hesitation. "Of course we have. We will establish a representative council, and then, like the survivors of Boulder City, we will draft our fundamental law." Looking at the youth standing with his chest puffed out, Niyang let out a laugh, which quickly devolved into a fit of coughing. "Rely on you? On children who still have to hold out your hands to your parents for tuition, to pay the wages of the laborers returning from overseas?" Feodor's face flushed hot crimson. He didn't understand why his teacher had brought up the overseas laborers; he only saw the disbelief in those eyes, a conviction that they were doomed to fail. "Don't you look down on us!" Niyang shook his head, breathing softly. "I do not look down on you. I love every single one of you dearly, which is precisely why I have always opposed bringing politics into the classroom. We ought to impart truth that lies closer to the essence of things to our children, and that was my greatest rift with Sir Kabaha... *Cough, cough*... He argued that curing an ailment requires potent medicine and that to right a wrong, one must overcorrect. But I told him that if he did it his way, even if another thousand universities were built, they would merely become a thousand stakes upon which every last one of us would be impaled." If a person acquired knowledge solely from books, they would inevitably view objective problems through an ideological lens. And that would invariably lead them into the parable of the blind men and the elephant. Absaik was merely a dockworker who understood little of grand theories, yet he possessed vast practical wisdom. He could maintain smooth relations with people from every walk of life and knew what they truly desired. Only a man like him could keep the lecherous Duwata, the covetous Shahrukh, and the cultured Nigeli—who loved art and hobnobbed with the literati—in delicate balance... It was for that very reason that when the Legion invaded, only Shahrukh had fled, rather than all three fools running at once and leaving behind a fractured rabble waiting to be picked off one by one. Had that happened, even if the Alliance had relocated its capital to Tiandu, it wouldn't have mattered. The "Butcher," the "Jungle Rat," and the "Iron General" would have been left scurrying like rats with their heads in their hands—the clever ones merely fleeing a little faster. Yet on the other hand, such a "thoughtless" mediocrity was precisely the kind of figure that intellectuals like Sir Kabaha despised the most. Even if Absaik had dragged him out from beneath Janusz's blade, they would still believe in their heart of hearts that a band of bandits without a guiding doctrine had won purely by blind luck. Sir Kabaha had never said as much to him, but Niyang knew full well that this was what he thought. They styled themselves radicals, believing that everything would improve if only people listened to them. In the end, they became idealists trapped in their own delusions, viewed as madmen by the vast majority. They would undoubtedly think: *At worst, we'll get the Alliance to attack our imagined foes; the moment the enemy blunders, everything will turn out fine; the enemy's blunders are inevitable, because they are fundamentally wrong.* Such naive notions were inherently different from true idealism. Just as pragmatists, no matter how closely they might resemble nihilists, were never nihilists at heart. Such madmen were destined for only two fates: either to be used as tools by an absolute Machiavellian, or, following some stroke of fluke success, to consume themselves and all their followers in an act of self-glorifying martyrdom. In a daze, Niyang realized what he needed to write. He reached for the pen resting on the paper, but his fingers slipped, and the pen clattered to the floor, accompanied by several clots of blood that were red like clay. "Teacher!" Feodor cried out in horror, pulling up the slumped Niyang, only to find the blood flowing uncontrollably from his mouth. "What happened?" Hearing the commotion in the back, the driver whipped his head around, his face turning instantly pale at the sight. "Sir! What's wrong with you—" "Forget that! Drive! Drive!" Driven to panic by the sight of that crimson tide, Feodor's mind went completely blank. Recklessly freeing a hand, he grabbed the driver by the collar and screamed at the top of his lungs. The driver wasn't terrified by blood—having once driven for leaders of the Moon Tribe resistance, he was half a soldier himself. But just as he moved to step on the gas, he looked ahead at the dense sea of traffic clogging the road. Horse carts and ox carts were tangled together... All of them were refugees fleeing eastward from the front lines. The State of Brahma's 3rd Myriarchy was advancing toward the west bank of the Tasang River. That was the legendary, elusive "Jungle Rat"—the undisputed god of war throughout this entire conflict! And now, that man had turned his guns on them... Civil war was coming! "Think of something! What about driving off this dirt road?!" Feodor shrieked, despair etched across his face, forgetting that this dirt road was at least a road. If they tried driving off-road, their vehicle wouldn't last two kilometers before rattling to pieces. The road they were on was the only path there was; there was no second route. Fortunately, the driver reacted swiftly. Hurling the door open, he climbed into the back seat and lifted Niyang out of the car. "Hold him! I'll find help!" Without hesitation, the driver sprinted off, quickly intercepting the carriage convoy of a wealthy family amid the migrating column. He offered his old service pistol and the car keys in exchange for two horses, swearing that whether their master survived or not, the family would be richly rewarded. The head of the household was a shrewd man of the world; the moment he saw the service pistol, he knew the stricken man was no ordinary figure. He refused the gun and the keys outright, dispatching three sturdy young men on horseback to assist instead, and volunteered to stay behind and guard their vehicle. In these times, anyone with a firearm was someone to be reckoned with. A man who could casually offer a gun as collateral surely possessed more weapons than one could count! No matter how one looked at it, earning this favor was an incredible bargain! While the wealthy merchant celebrated his fortune, three fine steeds galloped across the wilderness, carrying the unconscious Niyang toward the nearest town. Laxi's troops were stationed there, and where there were troops, there were doctors and radios! Galloping hard for twenty li under the stars, the party finally reached the nearest town. Upon learning of Niyang's identity, the local company commander immediately reported up the chain of command to request reinforcements, while assigning the military medic to administer emergency treatment. Standing beside the sickbed, Feodor was consumed by remorse and self-blame, praying silently in his heart for his unconscious teacher. Right then, Niyang coughed and opened his eyes, a faint glimmer of clarity returning to his unfocused pupils. "Teacher!" Feodor cried out in joyful surprise, rushing to the bedside. Niyang seemed not to hear him. Suddenly, he reached out a bony hand that resembled a bundle of kindling and gripped Feodor's arm with astonishing strength. "Run..." Feodor froze, looking at him in utter confusion. "...What?" Niyang took a deep, ragged breath, a look of despair in his eyes as he gazed at the ceiling. Expending every ounce of his remaining strength, he forced out each word one by one: "Run... run as far as you can... None of you... are any match for him." Feodor clutched his teacher's hand tightly, leaning down to bring his face close. "Who?! Do you mean Laxi?!" Hearing this, the driver let out a pointed cough, reminding the youth that they were standing in Laxi's barracks. The company commander nearby acted as though he had heard nothing, looking away into the distance. He naturally knew what had happened in Mammoth City, and the moment he saw Niyang here, he understood the whole picture. If nothing went awry, his superiors were already on their way. Deciding to hear no more, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. A look of profound sorrow welled in Niyang's eyes. He uttered none of the names Feodor anticipated. In fact, he didn't even speak the name of a living soul. "Row... ell..." Janusz had once been Rowell, but his slaughter had only reached the halfway mark before a bullet ended his life upon the throne. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief, casting the Heavenly King Army entirely from their minds, yet forgetting how they had come to exist in the first place. And so, a new Rowell had arrived, ready to bare his butcher's cleaver and send heads rolling across the land. As for the civil war. When everyone believed it was inevitable, it might very well never come. Whether it came or not hardly mattered anymore... It was better left for future generations to imagine what would have happened if that averted war had truly erupted. In the end, it was all the same. Feodor stared at him blankly, thinking his ears were playing tricks on him. He stood frozen on the spot, his lips trembling as he murmured to himself: "Rowell... isn't he dead..." He knew his teacher had cursed General Rowell for an entire year, and that the entirety of *Red Soil* had been written around him. Yet he had never imagined his teacher's hatred ran so deep into the marrow of his bones. He had always felt it shouldn't be so. The evils left behind by that Human Alliance officer were indeed detestable, but surely they didn't warrant having his ancestral grave dug up like this. People often said that even if there was no merit, there was still the credit of hard toil. Besides, who could deny that people had survived by eating the soil? Furthermore, his teacher had said so himself: Sir Kabaha was flawed, and overcorrecting was a mistake. Yet before he could ask further, Niyang drew his final breath. The despicable Duke Garawa had received a transplanted heart after the Shaman's death, surviving on borrowed time, while the one man who least deserved to die had departed in the final second before dawn broke across the night... Feodor wept inconsolably, his eyes burning red like a child who had lost his kin. The driver's eyes reddened as well, and he raised a hand to cover the bridge of his nose. He wasn't a soldier, though he had once been half of one. Yet he had run himself to exhaustion, only to meet this tragic end. Why? Why did the good die young! How could Heaven be so cruel to him! Hearing the wailing from inside, the company commander rushed back into the room. Barging in alongside him were Laxi, who had rushed back from the front, and the local division commander. This burly man, nearly 1.8 meters tall, had never wept when suffering defeat, nor shed a tear when wounded. He did not cry now either, but his bloodshot eyes burned with frenzy. "No—!" "Get your ass back here! Your battle isn't fucking over yet! I don't give you permission to die!" "Commander! He's already dead!" Seeing Laxi lunge toward the bed as if to drag Niyang back to his feet, the division commander behind him grabbed his grieving superior with tearful eyes. "We have to figure out what to do next!" Finally managing to compose himself, Laxi stumbled back to the doorway. Spotting the terrified, red-eyed student, he stepped forward and seized him by the shoulders. "Did your teacher... did the Master say anything before he departed?!" Though he had boldly proclaimed earlier that night that he was "not afraid to die," standing face-to-face with this god of slaughter made Feodor's knees turn to water. This man had truly crawled out from mountains of corpses. Every word he spoke dripped with blood, exuding an aura of slaughter that would make even the King of Hell shudder. Perhaps his teacher had been right all along... Except for his stubborn mouth, everything else about him was soft. Yet Laxi did not mock his cowardice, nor did he press him as he would have pressed his master; he merely waited with grim patience. At last, like a terrified girl, Feodor forced a trembling whisper past his lips: "Rowell... My teacher said... we... we are no match for him." "He told us to run." The expression on Laxi's face froze. He had clearly never expected these to be the dying words. Releasing the youth's frail shoulders, he strode out through the doorway. Like an enraged bull, he hurled a furious roar toward the cloud-choked sky and morning mist: "Rowell—" "I'll fuck your mother to death—!" ... Elsewhere, having taken custody of Ross and the rest of the Wilante prisoners, Yokale of the 11th Myriarchy drove his men day and night toward the outskirts of West Sail Port. The defensive positions they had once chipped their teeth trying to breach now seemed as though they had never existed. They rode the Legion's trains to Sulak County, where the local villagers welcomed them with the same warmth they had shown the Wilante, offering stewed mutton and hot tea. Looking at the fawning county magistrate, Yokale felt an irritable surge and bestowed the long-untasted delicacies upon his subordinates instead. Aside from handing over his sidearm, that fellow named Ross refused to speak a single word to him. Yokale knew why. In his heart of hearts, Ross did not believe he had lost to him, and Yokale indeed lacked the shamelessness to mock him about why he hadn't put up a fiercer fight on this hill or that ridge. Just before dawn, the formidable iron forms of Conqueror tanks appeared across the wilderness. The thunderous roar of their tracks startled his dozing soldiers, who scrambled frantically for cover, only to spot their own banners flying among the distant ranks. Good grief, they were their own men! Yokale, who hadn't slept a wink all night, stood frozen for several seconds until his subordinates urged him to remain calm. The group headed south of Sulak County, where a stylish off-road vehicle pulled up before them. Two officers stepped out. One of them, a myriarch with mirror-shined combat boots, snapped a salute with a grin. "I am the Myriarch of the State of Brahma's 101st Myriarchy! And this is our commander, General Grove—the 'Iron General'!" Yokale's eyes widened, muttering under his breath: "What kind of bird is an Iron General? Next thing you know I'm a Silver General, a Gold General, a Painted General..." Grove was a rough-hewn soldier himself and took no offense. Finding the remark to his liking, he slapped Yokale on the shoulder with a booming laugh. "I've heard a great deal about you, brother! I operated on the southern front. You know that fellow Gibson? He was beaten by me!" "Oh, right, I think I've heard of him..." Yokale nodded dumbly. A few of the artillery pieces he possessed had been scavenged from Gibson's forces—though the Alliance's Skeleton Corps had seized them for him, his men had contributed a bit of effort. So that was where the fellow had vanished to; turns out he'd been chased all the way south. Seeing that he knew Gibson's reputation, Grove laughed heartily. "Right? Going toe-to-toe with that bastard wasn't easy! At first, he dared to trade blows with us, but later he curled up in his positions and wouldn't come out. When I smashed his headquarters in one blow, he still couldn't stomach the loss, his mouth stubborn as a boiled duck! By the way, where's Isher? I've been dying to meet him! Why isn't that brother here?" Grove spoke with eager enthusiasm. Long before Operation North Wind, he had been a great admirer of Isher, yet had never had the chance to meet him in person. Yokale looked at Grove with a bewildered expression, unable to comprehend why he would ask such a question. *Weren't you bastards the ones who told me to come rendezvous?* *Turns out you, the supreme commander, are just a small fry too.* "He has to keep watch on Laxi..." A look of disappointment washed over Grove's face, and he nodded with a sense of loss. "Fair enough... By the way, brother, what do you think of my gear?" In the distance, clouds of dust billowed as an iron torrent surged across the plains like a rolling tempest. Yokale stared with wide eyes for a long time, wishing he could burn the sight into his retinas, before finally managing to squeeze a few words through his teeth: "Holy fuck... magnificent..." ... Meanwhile, along the misty west bank of the Tasang River. Isher sat motionless in his fortifications until dawn, gazing across at the lights along the riverbank, lost in thought the entire night. A new year. Another new year... Watching the migrating crowds, his mind drifted back in an instant to that fateful night that had decided his destiny. Back then, trapped in a desperate corner, he had finally seen his fate clearly, giving up on becoming Boulder City's Paul, giving up on his fantasies of the Silver Moon Goddess, and no longer attempting to chase those unrealistic ideals... It was precisely because of this that he had relied on the wit of a Brahma to deceive everyone, not only saving Little Ruby and all the people in the church, but keeping them alive to the very end. From then on, his path had been smooth sailing. He had orchestrated the escape of his old superior Anwo from the whirlpool of Tiandu, and earned the respect of numerous heavyweights, including Absaik, rising all the way to the post of Supreme Commander of the Northern Field Army. Even the Wilante had admired him enough to print his portrait on their playing cards. Everything was moving in a positive direction. Both for the Brahma and for the Wilante. With communications partially restored recently, he had gradually received word of those he had once helped, learning of the outside world through their letters. Mrs. Margli's family, for instance, was reportedly living very happily at Settlement No. 1. The residents of Evernight Port had not been broken by hardship; they had built a new home on the wasteland. Her husband was still erecting churches to fulfill his vow to the Silver Moon Goddess, though Isher himself found little time for prayer these days. Tucked inside the couple's letter was a postcard sent by Little Ruby, drawn with an adorable mammoth. Thinking of that little mammoth brought a warm sensation to Isher's heart, and he suddenly felt a longing for a child of his own. Perhaps he should start by finding a partner. He was in the prime of his youth; courting an educated female student shouldn't be a problem. Everyone had reached a happy ending, yet for some reason, an abrupt sense of panic gripped him—just like the dread he had felt when trembling in a hidden corner beyond Janusz's sight. Only this time was different. This time, the feeling was as though the one pushing open the church doors back then hadn't been Anwo, but that demon Janusz, glaring at him, Little Ruby, and everyone else with shifty, leering eyes, mentally planning how to torment every single one of them. A cold sweat broke out over Isher, and as if hallucinating, he heard a faint whisper— *'I have returned.'* *Woooo—!* Right at that moment, an air raid siren wailed from across the Tasang River, sounding three full times. Yet for some reason, no explosions followed, nor was there the roar of aircraft skimming low overhead. It didn't sound like an alarm at all, but rather a mournful dirge. Isher knitted his brows. In an instant, countless possibilities flashed through his mind, his thoughts racing across the river. And right then, his face drained of all color, and he snapped his head up. "It's a trap!" ... Elsewhere, on the platform of West Sail Port's railway station, Ross stepped down from the train carrying a suitcase, flanked by several of his officers. There, he saw Myriarch Gibson flanked on either side by State of Brahma soldiers. The two soldiers held submachine guns—PU-9s—their impassive expressions making them look like guards escorting a prisoner. It appeared the State of Brahma had already taken control of this settlement. Even so, the Brahma soldiers had not treated Gibson roughly, granting him all the dignity due a defeated foe... a courtesy Ross had not anticipated. On the station platform stood not only Brahma people, but also Wilante. Judging by their spirited demeanor and upright posture, they had clearly arrived from the Eastern Empire. They were hauling crates, packing away everything that could be carried off. From the calm reactions of the soldiers, it was obvious this had been granted the tacit approval of the Brahma leadership, and perhaps even Absaik himself. Spotting Ross descending from the carriage, Gibson offered a haggard smile and extended his right hand. "Good to see you, Myriarch Ross." A string of crushing defeats had completely shattered the man's confidence, leaving Ross to wonder whether he would ever stand tall again. Yet what right did he have to mock him? "The same flight?" Gibson nodded with a weak smile. "Yes. Salen promised I could reunite with my family in New West Sail Port. He said capable Wilante like us are needed there... though I don't know what use I'll be once the war is over." Truth be told, he had never imagined the Brahma would spare his life. The southern front had been primarily counter-insurgency warfare, and in such operations, the line between civilians and soldiers was inevitably blurred. Ross remained silent for a moment, then sighed softly. "Let's go home first. There will always be a place where we are needed." The vehicle transporting them to the harbor would arrive shortly. Before boarding, Gibson cast a complicated glance back at the port behind him. He had no deep attachment to this place; after all, he hadn't been here when the port was first constructed. "What do you think will become of this place?" "I don't know, and I don't care to know," Ross said, shaking his head. "They have so many people, and they've just fought their way through all these wars. No matter what, it can't turn out any worse than before we came." Perhaps the same applied to the Wilante. An Evernight Port without the Southern Legion... at least Black Water Alley would become history. At that thought, Ross suddenly felt far less despair about what lay ahead.