Chapter 892 - This Game Is Too Realistic

**Chapter 892: Disillusionment** In the Governor's Office of Eternal Night Port, Governor Ya Hui was perusing documents as was his routine. Just then, a gentle knock echoed from the door. Upon hearing it, a slight sense of foreboding washed over Ya Hui. Barely two hours ago, he had expressly instructed his secretary to decline all unplanned meetings for the day, yet the knock had come regardless. Clearly, this person was one neither he nor his secretary could afford to dismiss... "Come in." As soon as the words left his mouth, the door opened, and a man stepped in. "It's been a while, Governor." Seeing the military uniform-clad man at the entrance, Ya Hui mustered a warm smile. "It's been some time, Mr. Peter. What brings you here?" Though Peter held only the rank of a centurion, as a ten-thousand-man commander (Wan-Fu-Chang), Ya Hui dared not take him lightly. The reason being simple. This man was the secretary to Dickens, the logistics head of the Southern Legion's Bora Provincial battle zone. A significant position, indeed. While Ya Hui himself was a ten-thousand-man commander, and a two-star one at that, the hierarchy in the Legion, which placed emphasis on military merit, naturally ranked administrative officials below their military counterparts, and within the military, there were further distinctions. Despite the logistics division not being a combat unit, being part of the military system, and a frontline zone nonetheless, it vastly outranked Ya Hui's position as a colonial governor. Moreover, Eternal Night Port lay crucially along the supply line to the frontline battle zone, obliging him as governor to facilitate all supply requisitions. Though they were not directly in a superior-subordinate relationship, Ya Hui felt compelled to lower his stance. A misstep leading to allegations of "hindering frontline logistics" might not end his career, but could certainly pose significant obstacles. Therefore, he felt a growing headache over the situation. With a slight smile, Peter looked at Ya Hui and spoke with a hint of insinuation. "I hear Eternal Night Port has been rather restless lately." Ya Hui inwardly sighed, sensing Peter's hostile intent, yet feigned ignorance. "Could you clarify what you mean?" Peter, cutting through any preamble, got straight to the point. "There was a factory explosion earlier today." Feigning realization, Ya Hui replied with a smile. "Indeed, there was an incident... I've heard it was due to gang conflicts. However, it was just an abandoned factory, and no innocent lives were harmed." A few gang members and stowaways had died—but they weren’t considered "people." In Eternal Night Port, only things concerning Velanites were significant; the rest were trivial. Peter seemed to tacitly accept this explanation, but appeared unsatisfied with Ya Hui's response. He squinted slightly, grinning as he pressed the issue. "Gang conflicts, you say. Then why is the intelligence division of the Garrison involved?" Under Peter's scrutinizing gaze, Ya Hui felt a tingling on his scalp, silently cursing the incompetence of Garrison Chief Willoughby. "There are indeed some underlying issues, however—" Before Ya Hui could finish, Peter raised a hand to interrupt him. "Governor, I'm merely conveying General Dickens' sentiment. He feels... you’re straying from your duties." "Furthermore, anti-aircraft guns meant for the frontline have been found in the slums of Eternal Night Port. We're compelled to suspect profit exchanges behind the scenes." After hearing Peter's words, Ya Hui internally cursed their audacity. Who was truly engaged in shady dealings? The thief calling out a thief scenario seemed all too accurate these days. Eyeing Peter's knowing smile, Ya Hui spoke in a steady tone. "I'll notify the Garrison." Peter nodded lightly. "No need. I spoke with Commander Willoughby before coming here." Leaving these words, he turned and headed for the door. This act of arrogance sparked a flicker of anger in Ya Hui's eyes. Yet recalling there was no need to engage with a mere centurion, he swallowed his ire. A secretary wouldn’t act so boldly without directives from his master. This was a reprimand from the logistics department and, likely, from Minister Dickens himself. "Opportunistic sycophant." Watching Peter's figure disappear through the door, Ya Hui muttered, lifted the phone on his desk, but subsequently slammed it down, uncertain who he should call. At that moment, his secretary timidly entered the room. "Governor... I wanted to stop him, but—" "This has nothing to do with you." Irritated, Ya Hui waved his fingers dismissively, throwing out a perfunctory response. The secretary hesitated, then spoke softly. "Commander Willoughby wishes to see you—" Impatiently, Ya Hui cut him off. "Tell him to get lost! Go back to whatever you were doing." ... Faith or bread—one must choose. This decision isn't confined to customs officials, but extends to the upper echelons as well. The latter simply has access to far more information than the former. Thus, while the former is still entangled in indecision, the latter often makes choices long beforehand. That afternoon, the otherwise peaceful Eternal Night Port was steeped in a serene and amicable unrest. That inconspicuous abandoned factory resembled a powder keg filled with timid dreams. Whether Velanites who have lost faith or those holding steadfastly onto their beliefs. At the entrance to the Cartelode Prison, around dusk. Ready to board the car waiting outside, Conte answered a call from Daniel, hand pausing on the newly grasped handle. Telling Taland to wait a moment, he stepped aside. Upon hearing the voice through the earpiece, his heart sank slightly. Several hours had passed since his superior instructed him to continue the plan, and now a change in directive had occurred. His greatest fear had become reality. "…The operation is canceled." Swallowing hard, he managed to push a redundant question from his throat. "Why?!" "Commander Willoughby contacted the intelligence department, canceling the Wasp Plan… Clearly, our 'cocoon' has encountered a far more formidable obstacle." Daniel's voice carried a hint of weariness, along with some self-mockery. Conte unraveled his unspoken sentiment; their prey had indeed taken the bait, yet they were now told to abandon it… Unwilling to let it go, he inquired. "And did you explain it to the section chief…?" Daniel sighed deeply. "I did, but to no avail. It seems the pressure comes from the war zone logistics department. The entire plan was personally orchestrated by Commander Willoughby. Any necessary explanations were likely already made, and filing a report would be superfluous." Logistics Department... Holding his breath, Conte considered it before he slowly spoke again. "And what about our ‘wasp’?" Daniel paused briefly. "The intelligence section chief talked it over with Commander Willoughby. They reviewed the files from Triumph City and reached a new conclusion… Perhaps Torch Plan was never completed, and this venture was stalled from the start." It seemed Daniel attempted to convince himself, adding. "…It actually makes sense. Neither Triumph City nor the Eastern Legion took much interest in the weapon discussed in the plans. Counting on intercepting a nonexistent secret weapon could be wishful thinking on our part… or possibly on Commander Willoughby’s part." Such scenarios weren’t first-time occurrences, as they had happened repeatedly before. Due to survivor bias, only the successful plans were remembered by the populace. In reality, those thwarted to failure for numerous reasons were the vast majority. The more meticulous the preparation, with complex processes, the more prone the results. Massaging his temples, Daniel continued over the phone. "As for the wasp… I placed a bomb in the car. Add a zero to the number I called you from and dial it to detonate. Do as you see fit." That person was likely either an alliance spy or an ordinary vault resident. At first, Daniel had only vague suspicions, but after so much probing, he was almost certain of it now. Only this explanation could justify why no gaps were visible in the individual’s façade. However, having been involved in so many operations, they couldn't just courteously let him leave the country. Once that person realized what was happening, they would become the laughingstock of everyone. For the sake of the Southern Legion's reputation, they had to keep him here. Konde remained silent for a while before he finally spoke in a low voice. "I understand." After hanging up the phone, he stood in place for a long time before returning to the side of the car. The "Alliance spy" was already seated inside… In truth, he couldn’t be called a spy anymore, just a person with some wires crossed. The lies of the "Survivor Daily" couldn't prove that "The Triumph Gazette" or the "Southern Legion Victory News" were pure and honest. Using one set of lies to prove someone else's honesty was foolishness in itself. Initially, Konde had thought it was a flimsy excuse made up by a spy, but now it seemed this person truly believed it. Konde couldn't describe his feelings, but risking one's life for such a naïve reason was astonishingly foolish. Like now. All it would take was a single call, and the person sitting in the car would be reduced to charred remains. Whether it was blamed on the Enlightenment Group, some gang members, or left unexplained, the matter would be resolved. Yet… Was ending it like this really the best option? A chilling thought suddenly crossed Konde's mind. Holding the "remote control," there was another choice he could make… Not a choice that would please everyone, but one that would certainly satisfy him. It was to make this destined-to-explode bomb explode even more violently, turning it into a firework right in the center of the trouble, fulfilling its potential in the final second of the countdown… rather than quietly disappearing into some hidden corner as everyone expected. Gazing at the car, Konde suddenly remembered that surreal dream. His field of vision seemed to tear, flashing like a slide carousel, blending with the 500th world he had conquered. But those weren’t the important parts. What truly mattered was— "I am the hero of Velanites…" He muttered to himself, a clarity burning in his eyes as though affirming what he intended to do next. Like a true addict, someone hopelessly lost in delusion. He silently uttered his own name, choosing not to dial the number that would end everything. Instead, he activated a signal jammer and stepped forward to open the car door, seating himself in the driver’s seat. Faith or bread—one has to choose. And he had made his choice… Seeing Konde rouse himself to action again, Taland’s face broke into a bright smile. "...Are you ready, buddy?" Glancing at the face in the rearview mirror, Konde's lips curled into a rare smile. This madman never changes. And wasn't he just the same right now? In that flashing vision, the narrow road morphed into an endless red carpet, and his medal-adorned self was marching along that path of pilgrimage. He was doing exactly what he longed to do. "I’m a veteran of the 300,000-man army. From the moment I enlisted, I was ready to lay down my life for the Marshal… So really, the question is, are you prepared?" "Haha, is that even a question?" Taland paused, then laughed audaciously and responded with enthusiasm, "Let’s go, stop dawdling." "Great." Konde lit a cigarette, expertly starting the car’s engine. Taland asked eagerly. "Are we after that Tony guy now?" Konde chuckled dismissively, curling his lips in disdain. "Small fry like that isn’t significant, besides that's Morse's business. The trouble in Blackwater Alley should be handled by Blackwater Alley itself. Tonight's the best time for it; no one will interfere." "Similarly, Velanite problems should be resolved by Velanites… Since there's still a bit of time, I'm taking you on a big hit." Suddenly recalling something, he added. "Oh… this is the Enlightenment Group’s directive, our mission isn't over yet. We must unearth the leech clinging to our backs." Taland hardly cared to ask further, merely raising an eyebrow. "A big hit? How big?" "Willoughby, the head of the garrison in Eternal Night Port… Reliable intel suggests he's the traitor within our ranks. At the very least, he'll lead us to that bastard." Biting on his cigarette, Konde squinted and squeezed out through clenched teeth. "…It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. In fifteen minutes, his shift ends. I'll park at his building entrance in a while, and you make sure he gets in the car." ... As the surveillance signal faded, Daniel ceased worrying about the loose "wasp." Konde would handle everything, then return with the final files. As for him, his task now was to clean up the "battlefield" and conclude the hastily ended operation. Elsewhere, the Harlequin, stationed near the "Marshal's Armory," yawned. This time, he hadn’t dared to let his mind wander, keeping vigilant watch without a moment’s rest. He suddenly noticed a dense group of people leaving the "Enlightenment Group's base" he had been monitoring. About thirty individuals were in the crowd, hurrying and carrying large bags of documents. Within mere minutes, the hotel displayed a "closed" sign at the entrance. The absurdity of the scene made his eyes widen, baffled at what was unfolding. Without hesitation, he went offline, relaying the situation to his rested teammates. Meanwhile, at the gates of Cartelode Prison. Just after Konde had driven away, Morse regained his freedom amidst a cluster of followers. The adoring gazes of his companions intoxicated Morse, making him feel like the emperor of Eternal Night Port's underworld. Leaving the notorious Cartelode Prison unscathed was a remarkable feat to the non-natives in Blackwater Alley. The last figure of such renown was Tony. Now, it was a feather in Morse's cap. A burly man approached Morse and York, bowing respectfully. "Congratulations, boss." Ignoring the prison guards behind, Morse grinned, patting his lackey on the back of his head before leaning closer to whisper. "…Have the bros get ready. We’ve a score to settle with the Iron Hands." "Yes!" The burly man's expression turned solemn, bowing in deference, then spun around, rallying the lackeys behind him with a shout. The ruffians, with high spirits, were akin to hyenas poised for battle! The sky was overcast, concealing the dim horizon, while an impending storm loomed silently. If Velanites had the choice between faith and bread, the scoundrels of Blackwater Alley had none. Blackwater Alley was not a mere lane; it was the collective term for every street in Eternal Night Port lacking an address or drainage system. It wasn’t a planned district, but rather decay birthed beneath the city’s "sewers." People residing there either assimilated into the stench or desperately grew wings. Even if their wings made them no more than flies, it was preferable to rotting with the other garbage. Standing before Cartelode Prison, Morse delivered a pre-battle speech to his cohorts. His frantic voice and spittle made him look like a genuine menace. Yet, unknowingly, the "Enlightenment Group" he pledged loyalty to had vanished without a trace, due to a certain influential individual’s words. The "disciple" status he gambled his and his neighbors' lives for became a complete joke. If that car exploded at the prison’s gate, he might sober up and retreat to await the storm to pass while shivering in fear. However, fate played a cruel joke on him first—the hand that had propelled him to his current position lost its sanity even before he did... Their target was "The Final Bet," the largest den of vice in Blackwater Alley and the main base of the Iron Hands gang. There was no doubt that Tony was pulling his hair out over the chaos erupting there. Plucking his hair was too much trouble; Morse could do him the courtesy of helping for free. Having rallied his forces for battle, the gang dispersed from the gates of Cartelode Prison. The guards stationed at the entrance lowered their batons, visibly relieved. The sight of Blackwater Alley's cockroaches causing a scene outside Cartelode Prison was unprecedented. Who had given them such audacity, they wondered? Conversations buzzed in hushed tones among the guards, while only the warden kept silent, face taut. He knew exactly who had emboldened these criminals to disrespect Cartelode Prison—hence why he merely stood guard rather than calling for Garrison support or charging at them. After all, who could guarantee that these flitting cockroaches weren't part of a bigger scheme? Since the big shots in the Garrison claimed to have use for them, he would play along. Until further notice, he had no reason to act on his own accord. With the entourage dissipating, a glorified Morse readied himself to head home and gather his gear. It was then he spotted a familiar face among the prison guards. Surprise flickered in his eyes as he approached with a smile, clapping the fellow on the shoulder. "Hey, brother, I’m a disciple now too." Faced with this menacing gaze, Andrew’s mind froze, his face turning pale. He forgot all about his stature as a superior Velanite. Only one thought echoed in his mind— Why did a watchdog of the Garrison recognize him?! Morse simply nodded his greeting and left, leaving Andrew frozen and surrounded by watching eyes. The warden furrowed his brows. Like the other guards, he directed a scrutinizing look at the longest-serving employee of Cartelode Prison. "You know that guy?" Andrew shook his head fearfully, stammering. "No, I don't know him..." The warden frowned but said nothing further, as this man was always a timid shell of a person. Unlike him, however, the other guards whispered among themselves. A disciple? What exactly was a disciple? ... Elsewhere, in high spirits, Morse returned to the Hyena Gang's hideout, cradling the "Tearer" light machine gun he'd failed to use earlier that day. He swore to himself that he would leave an unforgettable impression on the man who swore he'd attend his funeral. The image of that fear-twisted face filled him with a thrill he could barely contain, itching to fire a few rounds into the roof just to test the gun’s feel. At that moment, a sharp pain pierced Morse’s brow, as an electric stab climbed into his left eye, blurring his vision. "Ah…" Dropping the machine gun, Morse clutched his eye in pain, grounding out a low moan. York rushed over to him, concerned. "Boss, what’s wrong?" Shaking his dazed head, Morse frowned, speaking shortly. "...Nothing." York watched him, still worried, but dared not utter a word of nonsense. Then, as if struck by a thought, Morse asked York. "By the way, York… What did you see in that dream this afternoon?" York froze for a moment, the coarse features of his face turning bashful. Scratching his scarred bald head, he chuckled awkwardly. "Don’t laugh, but… I dreamed of my mother." Morse was silent for a beat, and then burst into laughter. "Hahaha! You sure are something." York gave him a helpless look. After a pause, he then chuckled, as an idea occurred to him. "Boss… Once we take over Tony’s business, could we get our hands on more of that stuff?" The big brother from the Enlightenment Group had only forbidden them from trading with Velanites, never against this business. The name "snake oil" was too generic. If renamed "Dream" or "Aurora," profits could far exceed what Tony used to make. "Have some ambition, for crying out loud," Morse scolded, slapping him on the head. "With money, you can get anything. Why waste it on that?" York wore an innocent expression, knowing why the boss reprimanded him. He'd personally seen the fates of those wretches and had even snapped a few necks himself. Yet, it wasn’t just money that resolved these cravings. He wasn't overthinking it—it was simply about finishing the dream-meal he’d never had. In Blackwater Alley, scumbags rarely ate meat, especially when he was just a petty punk. His mother had saved enough from her night work to cook an oxtail soup, the aroma making his mouth water and eyes twinkle. Standing at the kitchen door, he had chatted with her for so long about everything—past, present, and future… The most relaxed he'd been since burying her. As the pot neared readiness, he awoke halfway through the dream. Just one more second, if only… A single second. "Speaking of which, what did you see, boss?" York asked, suddenly curious. He always thought the boss had far greater aspirations, dreaming of more interesting things. Yet Morse, while loading the machine gun, grew impatient, replying dismissively. "None of your business." To be continued...