Chapter 833 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 833: I Am Your Uncle Armor Anguilla! The chapel's air was as cold as the chilling winds sweeping over a desolate swamp, even though the tropical city of Seafra Port knew no winter. Everything comes at a price... This settlement, all its inhabitants. Anvor, eyes filled with struggle, suddenly felt despair. Abandoning all hope in the uprising army, he raised his gun again, though he did not disengage the safety. "I don't care about any of this. Even if we're being used, give me and my brothers a path to live, and you'll get yours in return!" "If you hadn't interrupted, I was about to say that. Back to our original topic: if you want to survive, you need to pretend to kill folks, but make sure they're not dead." Yisher glanced mockingly at the cowardly wolf, then resumed speaking at a leisurely pace. "Don't just stand there. Go to the port and get some bodies, then find some carts for transporting them. Arrange the bodies in the chapel, shoot a volley over them, and then drag them away." Though technically it was desecration, circumstances didn't allow for moral hesitation now. Survival is paramount. Anvor asked nervously, "And then?" Yishel's mind worked quickly, but his voice remained calm, without a trace of panic. "Then have the survivors lay with the bodies in the carts and sneak out of the city. Make up a reason—say those who died at the Silver Moon Chapel must be buried properly... The uprising army and Mr. Melgio have no issues with each other; they shouldn't cause him trouble. But Mr. Melgio needs to go; there's still some risk involved." "No matter, if it can save these poor souls, it's worth the risk," Melgio interrupted, looking earnestly at him. "I'll join the convoy out of the city, reciting prayers along the way. Maybe that'll make it more convincing." "Thank you, and sorry for the trouble." Yishel nodded at the priest, then turned his attention to old butler Sahado, who had been silent throughout. "How far is Earl Sharma's estate from here? Is it big enough for 200 people?" Sahado snapped back to attention, responding quickly. "Not far! If we leave now, we can arrive before dawn. We have a vast plantation! Not just 200; even 2000 wouldn't be a problem!" "Good..." Yishel nodded, "Once out of the city, lead everyone to Earl Sharma's estate. Find a decently hidden spot to keep everyone safe. Remember, the fewer people know, the better." A young man named Pavin couldn't resist asking, "Shouldn't we hide separately?" Yishel rolled his eyes. "Are you dumb? There's no difference between catching one or ten! It's safest to keep everyone together, and only one person should handle food and water... Actually, forget choosing, it's you. These 200 lives are your responsibility." He grabbed Pavin's shoulder, staring into his eyes until the fear there transformed into resolve, then released his grip. "You're a smart guy... if you know there's no future sticking with this lot, grab this last chance to survive." Pavin gathered his courage and nodded in agreement. "Yes..." "Good." Hearing the young man's response, Yishel pushed him next to Anvor. "The kid's yours now. Find a chance to promote him, at least make him a centurion. Once you're at Earl Sharma’s estate, release him to oversee the holdings and family." Anvor glanced at the young man, nodded, and said, "Should be doable... I heard Anush promised the Lion State to Abasek, my direct superior. Surely, some will remain to manage the surrounding lands." Yishel felt a glimmer of hope. "Excellent." The jittery butler Sahado questioned cautiously, "Since this is already chaos, can't we just flee directly?" "Flee?" It was as if he'd heard an amusing joke. Anvor grinned at the old butler. "With or without provisions? Where will you go with them? By the time news spreads, there'll be folks from all around hunting you down. There's no time to flee, nor can you get far! Trust me, staying put is safest. Eventually, the Verants will land here... I bet Anush won't stick around. He'll likely leave a patsy in his place." "But if I stay in Lion State, the Verants will kill me..." Pavin said fearfully. "As long as these people live, you won't die. If they perish, it won't matter where you flee." Anvor gave Pavin a complex look but ultimately said nothing. He then turned to Mrs. Margery. "What about the children? Should they go too?" Margery hesitated, her gaze wavering before she resolved. "It's too dangerous... We can't put all our eggs in one basket. Someone must survive to tell the world what happened tonight." Anvor nodded. "I felt the same. Children pose too high a risk. A single cry could mean death for everyone... Do you wish to say goodbye to them?" "No need." Margery shook her head gently, then approached the elderly nun, clasping her hands. Looking into her eyes, she spoke earnestly. "Our children are in your hands. In a few days, the Verants will certainly come... But unless you think news of our survival could lessen the suffering here, please hold off telling them for now. Say we've been taken for execution." They wouldn't let them live. They might rescue. But they'd intentionally arrive "a minute or two late," only showing up when it was all over. That was obvious. A moving train doesn't stop for an ant on the tracks. Saving 200 would not bring back the 3000 already lost. The war would proceed regardless. To avoid disrupting plans controlled by hidden puppeteers, the puppets would definitely beat "the rescuers" to the news. Why, you ask... Because they were already in the "budget." With a deep breath, Margery continued. "It's not just the legion... the Alliance might also come. But don't fully trust the Alliance; they closely collaborate with the legion on Acumen, and might resort to appeasement. There are too many things happening behind the scenes beyond our knowledge. Please watch them closely, see if they're trustworthy..." Whether they were or not didn't matter. If even the Alliance sided with the legion, supporting its invasion into the empire, two thieves pairing up to ravage this land, the blight of truth would be hidden no matter how bright its light. And then. Maybe only the corporations or academies might come to record the history that unfolded here. Margery clutched the nun's hands tightly, a subtle plea in her earnest voice. "Please... take good care of them. If we meet misfortune, tell the children the truth when it's over." The old nun nodded solemnly. "I'll do so! And madam... please take care of yourself. The children need their mother; even if only to prevent ugly lies from being fed to them, please survive." Melgio joined them, speaking gently. "Brave people don’t die easily... Time is short, let’s begin preparations." "I’ve arranged people to fetch the bodies from the port," Anvor glanced outside the door, then at the two hundred Verants in the hall, "Prepare yourselves, perhaps change clothes. Don’t worry about luggage, leave it behind." He turned to Yishel, standing with arms crossed, and glanced at the dozen church members with him. "What about you? Returning home or going with these Verants to Earl Sharma's?" "They don’t need me with them, you’re actually more crucial. I worry more about your safety… If you mess this up, we’re all dead." Yishel glanced around, tore a large strip of cloth from his sleeve, and wrapped it around his arm, to the bewilderment of everyone present. He looked convincingly the part now. After all, the arm bands worn by the uprising soldiers weren't exactly uniform. Seeing Anvor's dumbfounded expression, Yishel raised his eyebrows. "I'm rebelling too." "I'm your subordinate now." ... Everything proceeded as planned. Anvor dispatched trusted men to the port and brought back over three hundred bodies. Most people at the port were drunkenly unaware, assuming it was just another pointless initiative to clear the corpses. The uprising army lacked proper organization and was in disarray without a clear directive. Even those retired veteran "Grey Wolf" soldiers rallied around Janusz were still dealing with internal hierarchy issues, let alone the smaller factions. However, if Lady Margery's suspicions were correct, and an invisible hand was orchestrating events, the chaos among the uprisers would not last long. They wouldn't wait until reinforcements from Perpetual Night Port arrived, at least. They just needed to appoint a figurehead, raise a banner for the cause, decide who would remain to die, and then march toward the capital. If things went as expected, those left behind would likely be the city defense troops. They were the least favored, weak in combat, and perfect for the Verants to vent their anger—a group of big-nosed targets. Of course, this wouldn't be stated openly; it would probably be couched as a "loyalty offering," much like those sent to slaughter at the Silver Moon Chapel. Unlike them, however, their loyalty offering involved risking their entire family's lives—something they couldn't afford. Watching his trusted men arrange the bodies in the chapel, Anvor's expression remained icy. The young man named Pavin approached, trembling. "We're ready..." Though he hadn't killed anyone, he was covered in blood, as if he'd climbed out of a pile of corpses. Anvor nodded and signaled for the twenty or so loyal men beside him to aim at the crooked bodies seated on the pews, decisively swinging his hand down. "Fire!" The instant his word fell, gunfire echoed throughout the chapel. People winced and closed their eyes, while muffled sobs came from the children hidden in the basement. The cart loaded with bodies was wheeled in and came out fuller than before. The pastor, disheartened, walked beside the cart, clutching a silver crescent on his chest with one hand and gripping the bloodstained cart with the other. Seeing the procession, several "bandage-wrapped" patrols nearby cast envious glances. "Those guys must have had a blast." "Damn... There were more bodies than meat at the port; I didn't even get a taste." Suddenly, one among them snickered lasciviously. "Speaking of which, isn't there a nun still in the chapel? Why don't we check it out?" Before he could finish, a ten-man leader smacked him on the head. "Are you out of your mind? Janusz didn't dare touch the ones praying, and you think you're bolder than the boss?" He had seen Melgio alive, daring to pray alongside those wolfmen for the dead. That clearly meant something. Another soldier who had been to the chapel before also shot the man a contemptuous look. "That nun's at least fifty or sixty... you're into old folks now?" The one who had been laughing crudely finally fell silent, scratching his head sheepishly. "How was I supposed to know..." Their jests and curses drifted along the street, almost like they were bidding farewell to the departing corpse convoy. Meanwhile, inside the chapel, the elderly nun silently kept her head down, uselessly cleaning the blood-stained hall with a mop. Others came to the chapel, but upon seeing the blood and the silent nun, they left quickly without a word. The chapel was forgotten, an island amidst hellish carnage, for three entire days. Until the shattering roar commenced, signaling the arrival of Verant boots on the port... ... The candles on the silver candelabrum flickered softly, momentarily displacing in time to the present. After recounting the events, the elderly nun continued. "If all went well, your wife and the other survivors should be hiding in one of Earl Sharma’s houses or plantations, looked after by a centurion named Pavin… or perhaps he’s a captain now, and Mr. Melgio should be there too." "As for Anvor, he should be by his superior Abasek’s side, as advised by Mr. Yishel. The most dangerous place is often the safest; if suspected, they'd be killed no matter their actions." "...But if they can gain trust, there’s a chance to be drawn into their circle and find evidence of the Legion’s involvement in the conspiracy." An eerie silence hung in the basement. The players watched the translated subtitles by VM, while Arman held his breath. The first to break the silence was young Ruby. Mist like spring water from an old well glistened in her once dusty eyes, bringing back hope. Her lips moved faintly. "Mom... is alive..." "Margery... Oh, goddess of the silver moon!" Arman babbled incoherently, pressing his lips and nose to his clasped hands. He felt like thanking the goddess right there! Praise the moon! Goddess knows if she even resides there! If this isn't a miracle, what is? "Where is she now? No... How can I bring her back?" Calming down, Arman realized this wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. First, he couldn't leave Seafra Port. Those soldiers outside would surely detain him for safety reasons if he tried to leave, and would question his motives. It would be a rational operation. If he claimed Margery was alive and with the chapel survivors, the royal army would surely reach them before any Verant rescue force could. Not only Margery but everyone with her would perish! Even the well-meaning Anvor—the undercover within the royal army—would meet his end! They’d die in silence, taking all secrets to their grave. "Your wife didn’t know, but she believed you’d find a way—a way to save everyone! Not just her and the two hundred survivors, but all those about to plunge into war..." The old nun sighed softly, looking towards the Alliance members. Arman, following her gaze, sought help from those beside him, especially one who appeared somewhat reliable—the "Hawk of Foresight." The latter, having remained silent, thoughtfully stroked his chin before Arman’s gaze urged him to speak. "This isn't going to be easy... Leaving Seafra Port would alert the Verants to tail us. Besides, it's not like we can handle the royal army of the Lion State, right? There are at least hundreds of thousands of them. Forget escorting two hundred out; without heavy armament and support, even two ten-man squads are beyond us." The one known as "Stirring Stick" scratched his head, a troubled expression on his face. "Indeed, and if the rescue fails, the Legion might pin the blame on us. 'Why didn’t you go to the authorities knowing the danger?'... Damn, it’s tricky. If they bite back, we’ve got no comeback." "Deploy a paratrooper unit?" The battle-wise wolf looked puzzled, "Since we know it’s the Legion’s doing, can’t we just send troops in directly?" Old Stick rolled his eyes. "Are you joking? Those are Legion citizens; it’s not up to the Alliance to rescue them. Besides, you think deploying troops is just like that? If we did go by your method, the Alliance might as well idle around this tiny spot forever." The old wolf was anxious. "But..." The hawk interrupted him, speaking thoughtfully. "Stick’s right, calm down. Just because we have revives doesn’t mean we can act recklessly." "And to be realistic, from the Alliance's perspective, saving just two hundred people isn't enough. That guy Anvor might be even more crucial to us than those lives. It's possible he's uncovered evidence of higher-ups in the Royal Army colluding with Legion insiders... This evidence might be the only thing that could halt the Legion, although that's only a possibility." In other words, before rescuing the survivors, they needed to find Anvor. Hearing this, a frown appeared on the Hawk's face. "The problem is, we have no way to contact that guy or even know where he is." Suddenly, Stirring Stick spoke up. "That's actually simple." Three pairs of eyes turned to him, including the troubled Hawk. Clearing his throat, Old Stick switched to imperfect Human League language. "Hasn't Janusz already surrounded the capital? Those loyalists who backed him must be with him, like that Abasek. Find him, and you've found Anvor... We just need to head to the capital." "To the capital?! Are you mad?" Battle Wolf stared at him in disbelief. "Or put differently, a diplomatic mission?" Stirring Stick chuckled, shaking his VM hanging from his arm at his dumbfounded comrades. "They’re all about abolition and equality now. As the 'big brother,' we should check it out—make sure they spell it right." "What the—?!" "Are you out of your mind?!" "I gotta check with BOSS! No way am I joining this insanity!" While Hawk, Wolf, and Pipe were left speechless by this harebrained idea, a yacht about ten meters wide approached Seafra Port's dock. A weary-looking man clutched the gangway as he disembarked, barely taking two steps before doubling over and dry-heaving. “Dammit! This place is far off!” Though his awakened physique hadn’t yielded to seasickness, the constant switching of transport modes and the incessant seafood had been too much. There were no regular flights from Gold Galleon Port to Seafra Port, so the yacht was rented on the fly, and they’d fished for provisions along the way. Breathing deeply, he finally felt a bit better. Meanwhile, the port's soldiers had noticed the unexpected visitor and were closing in, weapons at the ready. "Seafra Port is under lockdown—no landing for outsiders! Who are you?!" Ten-man leader Pete stepped forward, eyeing the yacht and its passenger suspiciously. Such a small boat wasn’t fit for open seas. This guy must've come from Gold Galleon Port! Realizing he might be Alliance, Pete's expression hardened, growing hostile. "You’re with the Alliance—" “Spit! You’re the Alliance one!” The man rolled his eyes, cutting him off without any courtesy. Faced with the bewildered young leader, the Battlefield Atmosphere Group didn’t hold back. “I’m your uncle, Armor Anguilla! Rank: Thousand-man leader! When I was wiping out Blue Gophers, you were still playing in sand piles!” The man’s League tongue was no longer hesitant, his use of particles smooth and confident. “Which hundred-man squad are you with? Get your leader over here!” Pete: "???" No sooner had the words left Battlefield Atmosphere's mouth, the grouped soldiers suddenly stirred, parting to make a path. A man in an officer's cap approached the two by the dock. Seeing the long-missed familiar face, McLaren seemed to sink into nostalgia, a reminiscent smile softening his stern lips. "Long time no see; it seems you have much to say now." At the familiar voice, Pete whipped around, shock plastered across his face. "General McLaren?! You… still awake at this hour?" Recognizing the name, Battlefield Atmosphere, in his pretentious act, froze, finally realizing who the man silhouetted against the streetlight was, embarrassment washing over him. Too impulsive. His rank was higher. "…Hello, General." The battlefield operative managed a stiff salute. Damn! Why is a Grand Marshal getting involved here? Darn! McLaren chuckled, returning the salute, then casually said, “I remember you worked under Corvey?” The operative nodded awkwardly. "Uh, yeah! But I was on loan there… I didn’t directly command troops, just handled relations between locals and Verants, since a ten-thousand strong team is stationed there." McLaren mentioned offhandedly, “Team 37, right? That’s Corvey’s division number, if I recall.” “Mhm!” He nodded, internally noting how well McLaren knew the deployment in Horizon Province despite the vast distance. McLaren casually continued, asking, “Bennot sent you?” “Yes…” Seeing the man nod, knowing already, he decided to probe, “Diplomatic mission to the capital, to negotiate with the Royal Army.” The soldiers nearby stirred, Pete among them, fists clenching against visible, burning anger. Negotiate? To hell with that! He wanted to slaughter everyone in the settlement, then butcher those in the capital and the Royal Army! With a discreet glance at the ten-man leader beside him, McLaren redirected his focus to the man by the yacht, nodding slightly. "This isn’t the place to talk, let’s move ashore." "Yes, sir…” You know this isn’t the place to talk! Battlefield Atmosphere swallowed his words, donning an ‘obedient’ guise, following McLaren through soldiers’ murderous glares. Enduring the spine-prickling stares, he internally grumbled. Damn that Old Mac! He’d gotten crafty! To be continued.