Chapter 955 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 955: Light and Dark Salen was the last of the major influential leaders to arrive, even showing up half an hour later than the Academy's Chief Technology Officer, barely making it on time as he stepped into the meeting room. Chu Guang looked at his face and could see the smugness written all over it. He knew exactly why. If there was anyone who benefited the most from the disbandment of the Legion, it was undoubtedly this triumphant guy standing before him. As the firstborn of the Legion, almost half of Julius's legacy was now in the hands of the Eastern Empire, leaving Triumph City with nothing but the Verant Province. Having grandly bid farewell to Julius, he was now the undisputed emperor of tens of millions of square kilometers of land! At least the funeral in Norton City was over! "I am also very pleased to see you, Emperor of the Eastern Empire. It seems you're in a great mood." They met with a bear hug, with Salen patting Chu Guang's arm, grinning. "Thanks to you, the longstanding wishes of the previous commanders of the Eastern Legion are fulfilled with me." He indeed should thank the Alliance. General Klas died in the Great Rift, and Griffin crashed against the walls of Valley Province with the last of the Eastern Expansionist faction's momentum. The old military nobility possessing land became the greatest political power in the Eastern Legion. The later upheaval in Triumph City at its roots was actually influenced by the radical Verant faction exposure to the Alliance's ideas. Theodosius's death led to the collapse of the Roman Empire, yet also fostered the glory of Constantinople and later Byzantium. In a sense, the Eastern Legion—or now the Eastern Empire—stood in the same position, albeit with a slightly different intricate core. Watching the jubilant Salen, Chu Guang nodded slightly and spoke in a gentle tone. "I believe this is also the longstanding wish of every Verant in the Eastern Empire. The soldiers of the expeditionary army can now rest in peace." Understanding the deeper meaning behind his words, Salen laughed heartily and gave a thumbs up. "I like smart people because we can quickly reach a consensus, saving on riddles and time." After a pause, he continued. "Olette and his trusted faction are now officers in the Eastern Empire. According to our investigation, they were deceived by Tilmon." "Who is Olette?" Chu Guang genuinely didn't know the name. Perhaps it appeared in the intelligence of the Guards Corps, or on the official forum, but it wasn’t crucial for him. Just a frontline commander, at most a piece on the board, no matter how infamously he paled in comparison to Til. As for those notorious war criminals who shocked both Dawn City and Ideal City—like Ryan, who ordered the bombing of Lion City causing the deaths of over ten thousand civilians, and John, who executed the orders—the Eastern Empire naturally wouldn’t interfere with their trial, as the cost of shielding them outweighed the benefits. Yet, believing himself clever, Salen "understood" Chu Guang's implication, winking at him. "Noted! Of course, I won't let you suffer a loss. How about this: we'll hand over Guliang, the big fish, to you. By the way, give me an inside scoop on the Alliance's core interests in Borro Province—I’ll ponder how to best divvy up this pie." Dividing the fish is false; this guy wanted to discuss how to partition Borro Country with him... Chu Guang gave this self-satisfied emperor a sidelong glance and, with a teasing tone, replied. "What use do we have for so much land? The few acres in Valley Province suffice for us, with seeds left to spare for others. And you, with over ten million square kilometers still unsatisfied? Considering your core population size, aren’t you afraid another over-extension wouldn’t result in allied uprisings?" Though initially dismissive, Salen couldn't help but twitch his brow at the latter comment. A threat it may not plainly seem, but remembering what happened in the Xilan Empire sent a shiver down his spine. Maybe being greedy for another few hundred thousand square kilometers isn’t such a wise idea. Trying to smile, Salen dismissed the fleeting thought. "Enough, indeed enough... We just want a buffer zone, after all, many Verant refugees sought refuge in the southwest corner of the Zobarl Mountains." Chu Guang chuckled softly. "The two representatives from Borro Province are right here—why not discuss it with them?" Salen's expression gradually stiffened. He knew talks would be futile; neither Absec nor Rassi would ever agree to cede any of Borro Province's thirteen states. The inevitable result was, 'You want land? Exchange it for lives!' However— He wasn't entirely without opportunity either. As a strained smile surfaced, Salen spoke again. "Don’t pretend you're all pure as a lily. How do you justify the 10,000 square kilometers of Rowell State?" Chu Guang merely smiled mildly and replied, "From start to finish, Jingan Port has always belonged to the locals—their mayor, their representatives—all elected by them. There has never been an Alliance-appointed official or representative holding any position there." After a pause, he continued, "I hope Xifan Port follows suit. Verants can remain, but must return the city hall and court to the locals in any manner. Otherwise, you'd better be prepared to continue the war the Southern Legion left unfinished." This statement was quite firm. It wasn't a subtle threat but a step further—a hard-line one. Reading Chu Guang's deeper intention, Salen maintained his impassive smile. Though failing to coerce the Alliance into making substantial concessions, his probing managed to delineate their boundaries. The civilian model of Triumph City skirted the lower limits of the Alliance, while the Southern Legion's approach wholly breached it. That cleared things up. "We'll return Xifan Port to the locals, provided you no longer meddle in Borro Province's internal affairs." Seeing Salen’s broad smile, Chu Guang smiled faintly back, responding in a gentle tone. "That depends on the extent of your involvement—whether direct or indirect—and adherence to that ancient treaty." As long as the Eastern Empire refrains from armed aggression towards Borro Province, he would indeed refrain from interfering in their cooperation. The same applied to Falcon Kingdom. Everything the Alliance could do locally had already been done, yet the surviving locals remained inclined towards closer ties with the Eastern Empire, that being their choice. In a brief exchange, the post-war order concerning 4 million square kilometers had been concluded. Both the Eastern Empire and the Alliance achieved their desired outcomes, allowing both Absec and Shava to sigh in relief. At least the Eastern Empire's emperor promised to withdraw from Xifan Port. Even if the Verants dismantle every last bolt, it's better than waging another war to reclaim the territory. After all, how much could they actually take back loaded on ships? Those steel bars lodged in concrete and the knowledge contained in the minds of Xifan Port’s residents could never be moved. With ample time, a prosperous Xifan Port will inevitably rise again. Absec glanced at Chu Guang with a touch of gratitude, but Chu Guang merely smiled back without saying a word. He wasn’t assisting the Borros to counter invaders for their gratitude or to lord over them, but for the future of all survivors on the continent's eastern reaches who could potentially suffer from Legion malevolence. Of course, it included the Alliance too. So there was no necessity for thanks or seeing himself as some savior. Pressing forward with these memories was enough. As long as they truthfully faced their hearts and pasts, whether Verant or Borro, the future held endless light... Under the hope of billions of survivors, representatives from various forces gradually entered the conference hall located deep within the Great Rift. The spacious conference center resembled a circular theater, with tables and chairs made from sharp-edged granite seemingly cut out of an entire granite vein with lasers or some other means! Crystal chandeliers hung about fifty meters high, like inverted pyramids sprouting from the ceiling, cascading a gentle milky white glow. It was said that this doomsday facility was constructed before the war. Perhaps only that era, embodying boundless prosperity, could conceive such a magnificent marvel. As Abusak stepped into the conference room, he felt like Grandma Liu entering the Grand View Garden, unable to contain his awe. Over two hundred years ago, survivors of the human coalition era sat here to discuss how they should face the fate of their future. Back then, the concept of a Wasteland Era hadn't emerged yet. Facing the drastic drop to minus 50 degrees Celsius and a sky impervious to light, no one knew if their doomsday would ever end, or what to do if it didn’t. Moved by the scene, Abusak sighed. "So that's how it is... The decision to count from the Wasteland Era must have been made by the fiftieth year." If the cold hadn’t ended by the fiftieth year of the Wasteland Era, then those fifty years would have to be deemed the Doomsday Era. What later generations took for granted wasn’t at all obvious to the people at that time. Though survivors from the Heavenly City now cursed him, labeling him more of an executioner than Anoush, robbing even the farmers with his grain consumption tax, perhaps one day they might reminisce about him as they did Rowell. After all, who could guarantee someone won’t eventually do what he dared not? Truth be told, more people died during Anoush's tenure than under his own leadership—a genuine fact. That guy looted the estates of nobles with the Heavenly King Army, allowed slaves to embrace the dreams they never dared pursue, while Duwata seized wives in abundance, and Saruk's home amassed gold and jewels... It was his single shot that shattered their uncompleted dream. Naturally, unfinished dreams must be carried on. Perhaps he ought to pen a confession of his errors. "Hahaha! How amusing, utterly amusing..." With these thoughts, Abusak laughed aloud, even with tears, and his usual gloom lifted, liberating him somewhat. The collapse of the Heavenly Palace released his fixation on the throne, dispelling aspirations for the impossible eternal. Converting to the Silvermoon Faith relieved him of his power obsession, no longer viewing everyone with suspicion. Now, he had finally attained his fulfillment—letting go of everything he held on to. He finally saw his very own dry well. His entrapment wasn't due to the thick walls on either side, nor the unattainable clouds above— It was all him, from the start. "I'll leave my deeds and faults for posterity to judge!" Like Odo, the Mayor of the Free State, he ultimately faced his inner self, reaching self-realization at the final moment of this game. And at that instant, his long-time nightmare finally saw brighter days... ... Conference attendees marveled at the grandeur of the hall, while some lamented how much better it might be if the funds were used to construct another shelter. Only a few reconcile with the past, and even fewer emerge from its splendor. Abusak's handling was fairly decent, still able to think clearly like any normal person. But for someone like the Lord of Dambury, they stood in shock, jaw agape, searching for confidants, rendered clueless without their lieutenants. As shown, pigs in the spotlight don’t necessarily grasp everything, nor do they necessarily handle every storm. True leaders, however, had long settled comfortably in their seats. Whether it was the Consul of Triumph City, the Alliance's Administrator, the Academy's CTO, members of the corporate board, the Eastern Empire’s Salen, the Northern Empire's bear-like Emperor, or the new Union’s diplomat sent by the President... All the talking points had already been covered, with untouched topics deemed insignificant. Their presence here merely an act. Nonetheless, the hosts ensured equality—even the leaders of insignificant factions received due respect, each finding their designated seats before the meeting commenced. Regardless of their backstory's absurdity, or who viewed one as a clown, sitting here represented the heartfelt choice of these wasteland survivors. At least, their choice for the present moment! And as everyone took their seats, an august and solemn voice resonated through the hall— "Thank you all for taking time from your busy schedules to be here..." "I am the chairman of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee." Most knew the elderly man's identity, with many fortunate enough to see his different faces. This time, he offered no riddles, nor wasted words. After a simple opening statement, he gave the floor to the young participants— "I now declare the formal commencement of this year's Human Summit!" Thunderous applause filled the venue, with Zhou Xianlin in a corner so excited that he stood, raising his hands overhead. The Red River League's leader side-eyed the enthusiast, scoffing, but nonetheless joined the crowd in applause. Even Salen, yawning in the front row, obligingly clapped. For him, the real negotiations were settled before this meeting even started. He had met not only Chu Guang but also representatives from the corporates, academies, and a few from the former Legion forces. Including the young man who inherited Julius's armor and gained the Imperial Guard's acknowledgment. As for other survivor forces, they were mere ants in his eyes, their thoughts unimportant. But seeing the earnest faces of the big shots beside him piqued his interest slightly, prompting him to sit up from the granite-carved chair. "Heh, let's see what these youngsters can come up with..." ... The applause, like New Year's firecrackers, bade farewell to Wasteland Era 214. Whether a new era arrived afterward would unfold in the lengthy aftermath of the meeting. Presently, in a remote corner of the wasteland, blocked en route to the front line, Niyan and his most trusted student and assistant, Feodo, shared a simple New Year in their car. Watching "Mr. Mouse" hesitate indefinitely, unable to pen his manifesto, Feodo's face filled with confusion. This wasn’t the mentor he remembered. Even as a servant under Duke Galaava, this gentleman stood upright. But why now? Before Rassi, this proud scholar had lowered his head. Was it simply because the man killed without mercy, even targeting his allies? Feodo, vexed, complained softly. "...If you can't write, I'll do it for you. If you're afraid, I’ll die in your stead." He reached to grab the pen and paper from Niyan, but the older man snatched them back. "Stay out of this mess!" Niyan admonished before staring again at the blank paper. Discontent, Feodo locked eyes with him. "You're their teacher. You told us to live upright lives, yet why don't you support them?" Niyan set the pen and paper aside, laboriously moved, facing his student. "Just one question: you wish to overthrow Rassi, but have you considered what comes after?" Without hesitation, Feodo replied. "Of course! We'll establish a representative council and lay down fundamental laws, just like the survivors in City of Boulders." Watching the young man puff out his chest, Niyan laughed, followed by a cough. "You, and your kind? Needing allowances from parents to pay tuition, imagine issuing salaries for expatriate workers!" Feodo blushed, baffled why the mention of expatriate workers, understanding mainly that his eyes belied belief in their resolve. "Don't underestimate us!" Niyan shook his head, exhaling softly. "I'm not belittling you. I love each of you dearly. Which is why I opposed politics meddling in classrooms. We should impart closer-to-core truths to children, which was my major disagreement with Sir Kabaha... He espouses strong medicine, an overreaction to right wrongs. But I say, if carried out as he proposes, a thousand more universities would become a thousand pillars, nailing us all atop them." One who relies solely on books for knowledge risks judging objective issues through the lens of ideology. Such folly would surely fall into the trap akin to blind men feeling an elephant. Abusak was merely a dock worker. He might not understand grand theories, but his street smarts were rich. He could navigate different circles of people and knew what they desired. Only someone like him could manage to balance the lustful Duwata, the avaricious Saruk, and Nigri, who had a penchant for art and befriending literary figures... As a result, when the Legion made its advance, it was only Saruk who fled, rather than all three fools deserting, leaving behind a gang of opportunists waiting to be picked off. Had that been the case, even relocating the capital to the Heavenly City would be pointless; the likes of "The Butcher," "Jungle Rat," or "Iron General” would merely flee, with only the smartest making their escapes. Ironically, such "mindless" mediocrity was precisely what intellectuals like Sir Kabaha despised the most. Even if Abusak dragged him from Anoush's blade, deep down they thought these mindlack brigands winning was mere luck. Sir Kabaha never verbalized this, but Niyan knew his thoughts well. They self-proclaimed radicals believed that by following them, everyone would prosper, only to turn into idealists of their own imagination and madmen to most. They surely mused, "Just let the Alliance attack their imagined enemies," "As soon as the enemy errs, everything would be fine," "The enemy’s failure is inevitable since they’re wrong." However, this childish notion differs fundamentally from true idealists. Just like how pragmatists, though resembling nihilists, are never truly nihilists themselves. Such madmen face two fates—either become pawns to a true Machiavellian or, by a stroke of lucky success, burn out themselves and followers, achieving a self-congratulatory martyrdom. In a dazed moment, the words he needed to write came to him, and he reached for the pen resting on the paper—only to drop it on the floor, alongside a few clotted blood clumps. "Teacher!" Feodo exclaimed, rushing to support the collapsing Niyan against the car, blood spilling freely. “What’s happening?” The driver turned back, horror-stricken at Niyan’s condition, "Sir! What’s wrong—” “Stop talking! Drive!” Feodo yelled, his brain blanking in panic at the sight of blood, grabbing the driver’s collar in desperation. The driver, though a bit seasoned from driving rebel leaders of the Moon tribe, maintained his composure, about to accelerate but then facing a mass of vehicles and people ahead. Carts, wagons, cattle mixed on the road... All were refugees migrating eastward from the front lines. Borro’s 30,000-man army was advancing towards the west bank of the Tasang River, led by the legendary “Jungle Rat,” the undisputed military god of the war! And now, this figure had his guns aimed at them... Civil war was coming! "Think of something! How about bypassing through the dirt path!" Feodo shouted, despair written on his face. Yet the dirt path was still the path—with the vehicle already off-road, it might break down within a mere two kilometers. This was the only road they had; no alternatives lay ahead. Thankfully, the driver swiftly opened the door, heading to the back seat to lift Niyan out of the vehicle. “You hold him! I’ll find help!” Without hesitation, the driver sprinted off, quickly intercepting a convoy belonging to a wealthy family, offering his service pistol and car keys for two horses, promising rewards regardless of saving his owner. The observing family, harshly aware that the offering of a pistol signaled importance, declined the items entirely, sending three strong young men on horseback to assist instead, volunteering to watch over their vehicle. In these times, possessing firearms signified stature—wielding one as collateral promised innumerable arms! This owed favor was a worthy investment! While they relished their perceived profit, three steeds galloped across the plains, rushing the unconscious Niyan to the nearest town. There lay Rassi’s stationed troops, and where the soldiers were, there were medics and phones! Galloping twenty miles under stars and moon, the party reached the nearest township. Upon learning of Niyan's situation, the in-place company commander quickly reported upward for support and arranged for the medic to render emergency aid. Standing bedside, Feodo’s heart brimmed with regret and responsibility, silently praying for his unconscious teacher. Suddenly, Niyan coughed, his eyes opening, a fleeting clarity surfacing. "Teacher!" Feodo exclaimed joyfully, darting to the bedside. Yet Niyan appeared deaf to him, extending a limb as thin as kindling to firmly grasp his arm. “Run…” Feodo blinked, baffled by the statement. “…What?” Niyan inhaled deeply, staring grimly at the ceiling, uttering laboriously. “Run, as far as you can… you… are no match for him.” Feodo clutched his teacher’s hand tightly, bending closer in astonishment. “Who?! You mean Rassi?!” The driver, hearing this, cleared his throat, signaling the youth they were in Rassi’s military camp. The commander, standing aside, pretended ignorance, averting his gaze. He knew what had unfolded in Mammoth City, and seeing Niyan, he understood all. The higher-ups were likely on their way. However, he chose to feign deafness, heading outdoors for a smoke. Sadness flickered in Niyan’s eyes, names he hoped to utter remained unspoken. He didn’t mention the living—nor did he mention a living name. “Ro…well…” Anoush once played the role of Rowell, dying halfway into his crusade with a bullet to the throne. All sighed in relief, seemingly forgetting the King’s Army entirely, oblivious to their origins. A new Rowell emerged, aiming his butcher's blade, leaving heads rolling. As for civil war— When everyone expected it, perhaps, it won’t come after all. Whether it comes doesn’t even matter anymore... Let posterity imagine what could have been if the civil war had truly erupted. It’s essentially the same. Feodo stared blankly, doubting his ears, rendered dumbfounded. Mumbling under his breath. "Rowell… wasn't he dead…” He knew his teacher cursed General Rowell for a year, his book "Red Earth" entirely centered around him, yet he hadn’t realized his teacher’s hatred reached such marrow-deep levels. He felt it shouldn’t be so. The dregs left by the Coalition officer were contemptible, yet not grave enough to insult his ancestors. After all, "no credit, no hard work," as they say, and who could deny people survived on soil? Besides, his teacher had mentioned, Sir Kabaha was flawed, and overcorrection was flawed. As he pondered further inquiry, Niyan drew his last breath. The despicable Duke Galava, post-embrace of Vurtu, procrastinated a heart transplant, and meanwhile, the least deserving succumbed at the night’s edge. Feodo bawled, eyes turning red as if mourning lost kin. The driver's eyes also watered, covering his nose with a hand. No soldier, yet once was nearly so, never thought he'd run himself ragged, only for this end. Why? Why do good men die young?! What divine justice! Upon hearing disturbance, the commander rushed inside, followed by Rassi returning from the front and the local division head. The burly six-foot figure, unyielding in defeat, stoic in injury, this time broke down red-eyed. “No!!” “For cripes’ sake, I’m back! Your fight isn’t done! I forbid you to go!” “He’s dead already!” Seeing Rassi grab at Niyan on the bed, the division head behind him restrained the enraged man. “Think first about the next steps!” Having finally composed himself, Rassi stumbled back to the doorway, spotting a red-eyed, terrified young student. He grabbed the student's shoulder tightly. "Your teacher's dead—no, before he passed, did he say anything?" Although earlier that night he had boasted about being fearless, standing before this formidable man, Feodo's legs turned to jelly. This guy truly looked like he crawled out from a pile of corpses. Every word seemed to drip with blood, as if even the grim reaper might shiver at his presence. His teacher might have been right... All he had were harsh words, but internally, he was feeble. Yet Rassi didn't ridicule his cowardice, nor did he push him as he had the teacher, merely waiting patiently. Finally, like a frightened girl, Feodo mumbled out a sentence from his trembling lips— "Rowell... my teacher said we... are no match for him." "He told us to run fast." Rassi’s face froze, seemingly taken aback by the final words. Releasing the young man's slender shoulder, he stormed out of the room with purposeful strides. In that moment, he was like a mad bull, bellowing angrily at the clouded sky and morning mist. "Rowell—" "Damn you!!!" Elsewhere, tasked with holding Ros and other Verant prisoners, Commander Yocaller of the 110,000-strong unit rushed towards the outskirts of Xifan Port with his men. The positions once seemingly impregnable now seemed nonexistent. They traveled by the Legion’s train to Sulak County, warmly welcomed by local villagers as they had previously greeted the Verants, offering them stewed lamb and hot tea. Displeased with the sycophantic county head, Yocaller gave the long-yearned delicacies to his subordinates instead. Ros, aside from handing over his service pistol, refused to speak a word to him. Yocaller understood why; deep down, Ros didn't believe he’d truly lost to him, and Yocaller felt little desire to boast about winning a fight hardly fought on any hills. As morning crept in, they heard the distant rumble of iron beasts—Conquerors advancing. The thunderous tracks startled the dozing soldiers, forcing them to scramble for cover, only to spot their own flags in the distance. Oh, it turned out they were allied forces! Having spent a sleepless night, Yocaller was stunned for several seconds until his soldiers calmed him. They advanced south of Sulak County, where an ostentatious off-road vehicle awaited. Two officers disembarked, one with polished boots saluting Yocaller while laughing. "I'm a captain from the 101st 10,000-man unit of Borro Nation! This here is our commander, General 'Iron General' Grove!" Yocaller blinked, muttering, "Who the hell is ‘Iron General’? I’m not impressed even if it’s a Silver, Gold, or Painted General..." Grove, a rough fellow, took no offense and slapped Yocaller's shoulder amicably. "I’ve heard much about you, brother! I’m from the southline—do you know Gibson? He’s my defeated opponent!" "Oh, I think I heard..." Yocaller nodded cluelessly, having acquired a few cannons from Gibson, though the Alliance's skeleton corps helped seize them, and his men played their part. It seems Gibson was sent south—it took him a while to realize why he didn’t hear from him anymore. Seeing Yocaller acknowledge Gibson's infamy, Grove laughed heartily. "Yeah, facing that scoundrel was tough! Initially, he dared engage us upfront, but later hid entrenched, making it easy to uproot his base. But he couldn’t admit defeat—acted like a stubborn duck! By the way, where’s Ishel? I’ve longed to meet him. Why isn’t he here?" Grove looked intensely eager—he’d been a fan even before Northwind Operation, but hadn't ever met him. Baffled, Yocaller eyed Grove, bewildered by the inquiry. Weren’t you all the ones arranging this meeting? Seems this supposed commander was small-time too. "He’s guarding against Rassi..." Grove’s face dropped in disappointment, nodding wistfully. "Alright... Anyways, brother, how do you find our gear?" In the distance, the dust billowed like a raging storm on the plains—a steel tempest. Yocaller stared, eager to etch the sight into memory, struggling before muttering, “Damn, impressive...” ... Elsewhere, amid the morning mist on the west bank of the Tasang River. Ishel sat at the outpost till dawn, contemplating the riverbank’s lights all night. It was New Year. Another New Year... Gazing at the migrating masses, he recollected the night when fate sealed itself. Then, cornered as he was, he surrendered to his destiny, forsaking dreams of being Borre in Boulder City, relinquishing Silvermoon Goddess fantasies, and stopping his pursuit of unrealistic ideals... Thus, deceiving everyone with Borro's wisdom, saving Rubi and everyone in the church, keeping them alive till now. Since then, his life unfolded seamlessly. Aiding former superior Anwo escape Heavenly City’s vortex, winning admiration from leaders like Abusak, eventually become Northern Field Army Commander. Even the Verants printed his portrait on playing cards in admiration. Everything progressed favorably for Borro and Verants alike. Communication slightly restored, he heard updates from those he once helped, learning through letters about the outside world. For example, Lady Margaret’s family, reportedly living happily in Settlement One. Evernight Harbor residents didn’t succumb; they rebuilt new homes in the wilderness. Her husband remained devoted, building churches to repay Silvermoon Goddess—yet he himself found little time for prayer. Among the couple’s letters was a postcard from Little Rubi, depicting a cute mammoth. Thinking of the little mammoth warmed Ishel’s heart, sparking a desire for a child of his own. Perhaps he ought to start by finding a partner. He was in his prime—courting a female student seemed not an issue. Everyone found happy endings, yet he suddenly felt a creeping unease, recalling the terror of hiding from Anoush's sight. But this was different. This time, it felt as though opening the church door revealed not Anwo, but Anoush, leering predatorily at him, Little Rubi, and everyone else, devising ways to torment each. Ishel broke into a cold sweat, seeming to imagine whispers— ‘I‘m back.’ “Woo—!” Then, across the Tasang, air raid alarms blared thrice. Strangely, it didn’t signal explosions or low-flying planes. It felt more like mourning than a warning. Ishel knitted his brows, myriad possibilities flashing through his mind, even letting thoughts drift across the river. His face paled, abruptly raising his head. "We've been tricked!" Meanwhile, at the Xifan Port train station platform, Ros, luggage in tow, descended the train with his officers, meeting the Borro guards flanking Commandant Gibson. The two soldiers wielded SMGs, PU-9 models, expressions indifferent as if escorting a prisoner. Clearly, Borro had taken over the settlement. But the Borro treated Gibson without disrespect, granting him grace befitting a defeated foe... a gesture Ros hadn’t anticipated. The platform housed not just Borros but a few Verants; judging by their vitality and posture, they seemed from the Eastern Empire. They diligently loaded what they could carry. Judging by their demeanor, the Borro's upper echelon or even Abusak had approved it. Seeing Ros alight, Gibson greeted him weakly, extending a hand. "Glad to see you’re well, Commandant Ros." The series of failures had completely shattered this man's confidence, and Ros couldn't help but wonder if he could ever stand firm again. But then, who was he to mock him? "Same flight?" Gibson nodded, managing a weak smile. "Yes, Salen promised I'd reunite with my family in New Xifan Port. He said they need capable Verants like us... though I hardly know what I'll be able to do after the war ends." Honestly, he hadn’t expected the Borro to spare him. After all, the southern forces primarily handled security operations, inevitably blurring lines between civilians and soldiers. Ros was silent for a moment before sighing. "Let’s just get home first. There will surely be a place where we’re needed." Their ride to the port was just about to arrive. Before getting into the vehicle, Gibson took a long, complicated look at the port behind him. He felt no attachment here, as he wasn't present when the port was first built. "What do you think this place will become?" "I don’t know, and I don’t want to know," Ros shook his head. "With all these people and the wars finally over, it can't be worse than before we came." Perhaps the same could be said for the Verants. An Evernight Harbor without the Southern Legion... at least Black Water Alley would become history. With that thought, Ros suddenly found himself less hopeless about the future. To be continued...