Chapter 894 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 894: The Unveiling of the Veil It was eight o'clock in the evening. The Evernight Harbor had been completely swallowed by the night, leaving only the vibrant lights floating above and below the water's surface. Standing by the window, Yarman had a slight furrow between his brows, letting out a gentle sigh. "It's getting more restless around here lately." Gang wars, addictive substances, power and money exchanges... Good people are either pushed to become bad or succumb to despair, be they Werlanters or of other races. He had been here for less than a week, yet almost every day he witnessed terrible things or heard grim news. Yet, when he flipped open the newspaper, all he could see were the proud Werlanters striding victoriously from one triumph to another, without a mention of the issues they were grappling with. The news and reality ran parallel, never meeting, and the more he saw, the more he felt the discord. Sometimes he couldn't help but wish the Marshal could command some order into this troubled enclave; however, the reality was that the esteemed Marshal might not even know of Evernight Harbor's existence beneath him. And where would one begin to govern? This was perhaps an unsolvable puzzle. Sensing the trouble weighing on her husband's mind, Margery, clad in her nightgown, walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek, and softly comforted him. "The whole world is like this, so why should this place be any different? Don't worry too much about us; we'll take care of ourselves... and you too, take care while you're out there." Gazing into Margery's eyes, Yarman was silent for a moment before voicing his thought. "…I want to take you all away from here." Margery met his gaze steadily, her voice soft as she asked. "And where would we go?" Yarman took a deep breath. "I used to think about going to Jingan Port, but then I found Port Fries not bad either, and then there's Settlement One... Honestly, there are quite a few places we could go." Pausing, he added. "What I'm currently doing in business isn't heavily reliant on the Legion's colonies anymore... The market here is large, but with high risks as well. There's better options out there. Plus, I want to be closer to you all, so I can promptly respond if unexpected things happen." Margery nodded at her husband's concerns but still bore a gentle worry in her brows. "But... we're at war with the Union; is it really safe there?" Placing his hands on her shoulders, Yarman gave her a reassuring look. "There are quite a few Werlanters living there too, and based on my interactions with the shelter residents, they treat us equally." He recalled a shelter resident who had once been on his ship telling him, "Wolves face hunters' rifles; friends are welcomed with fine wine." Their enemies weren't those whose noses were higher than others but those who wanted to ride on others and cause havoc. Even if that person had the same nose as them, it wouldn't happen. Margery hesitated in her heart; she trusted her husband, but her concerns extended beyond just herself. Moving wasn't novel to them, but all their previous moves were to Legion-controlled or supervised colonies. Leaving the Werlanters' domain entirely was something she had never considered. "And what about Ruby? She's just made new friends." Yarman fell silent. His wife's mention pinpointed his biggest concern. Ruby was still young. He couldn't expect her to drift like a sailor, moving from place to place just because of him. Perceptive to her husband's hesitation, Margery gently adjusted his collar. "You want me to talk to her, but I believe... she'd prefer if her father talked to her about this. She's no longer a child unaware of things; she's part of the family... If you'd speak with her, I believe she'd be happy." "You're right, I should talk to her myself, about my concerns, my thoughts... and hear hers." After listening to his wife, Yarman felt much of his worry dissipate, and a smile broke through his troubled expression. "And... thank you." Seeing her husband's shy demeanor, Margery chuckled. "When did you become so polite with me?" "I've always said, wherever you go, I'll be there with you." With a light peck on his lips as a goodnight kiss, she turned and left the study, gently closing the door behind her. Watching her graceful departure, Yarman felt a renewed vigor in his heart, akin to an old clock beginning to tick again. He shook his head with a smile, reaching for a bottle of red wine from the cabinet, but remembered he had a conversation with his daughter later. So, he opted for a packet of black tea instead. Evernight Harbor was becoming less peaceful, but at least tonight, the moonlight was as serene as a still lake. He placed a sugar cube into the steaming cup of tea, then pressed the button on the radio. This wasn't a decision to be made lightly. He needed to calm his mind and think it over thoroughly... However, as the radio crackled, the voice that came through stunned him. "Good evening, residents of Evernight Harbor." "I'm Agent Conde from the Garrison Intelligence Division, previously served in the 30th Brigade, an insignificant individual just like you." "But not entirely the same." Yarman instinctively stopped the finger paused near the teacup, his surprise evolving into contemplation, which soon turned into curiosity. A subtle but unusual glow seemed to appear on the dark sea horizon. The faint spark of hope shimmered. He decided to watch and listen more. Or rather, to hear what this person named Conde planned to say. Not just him, but also the people in the harbor district tavern put down their drinks, silencing their murmured conversations. Tonight, Evernight Harbor's radio seemed different from the usual. And precisely because of this, intrigued gazes turned to the radios perched on bar counters, eager to hear what distinguished the person named Conde. Including Kruan, the limping customs officer, sitting at the bar. Unlike everyone else present. His eyes, reflected in the glass, held a subtle cloudiness. "…The difference lies in that between faith and bread, I choose faith." … Broadcast Station Studio. Centurion Willoughby slowly roused from an extended slumber. He had drifted into a long, long dream. Not just long. The dream was so enchanting that he wished he could linger in it forever, never awakening. "You're awake?" The soft voice pulled Willoughby back to consciousness as abruptly as a cold splash of water. He instinctively took stock of his surroundings, realizing he was in a stark, empty room with a single bright beam of light shining directly at him. Beneath the light's source was a chair, and someone occupied it. The setup resembled an interrogation room. But not exactly. Squinting to shield from the blinding glare, he tried to move but found his limbs firmly bound to the chair, rendering him immobile. Swallowing hard, accepting his reality, Willoughby resignedly asked in a low voice. "…Where is this?" The man seated before him didn't conceal anything, candidly responding to his question. "This is somewhere within Evernight Harbor." Relief washed over Willoughby, knowing he was still in Evernight Harbor. As long as he remained there, a missing Centurion would soon be noticed, likely sending the entire garrison into turmoil… including the Governor who slammed the door in his face earlier. That fool should regret not granting him an audience then. Willoughby's heart swelled with vindication. But his satisfaction was short-lived as his predicament sank in, dampening his spirits once more. "…You're Conde?" Conde nodded calmly. "Yes." Receiving confirmation, a flicker of courage reignited within Willoughby, sharpening his once weary eyes. "Conde… have you lost your mind? Do you know what you're doing?" "I know," Conde nodded, his self-awareness almost redundant, "I've kidnapped the Garrison Commander, Centurion Willoughby." Willoughby frowned slightly. Something about the way this guy spoke sent a subtle but distinct sense of unease coursing through him. At this critical juncture, though, his main concern wasn't a small fry's act of defiance. "...What is it that you want? Money? Or something else?" At this moment, he desperately wished the word "money" would come from the other man's mouth. Because money was the simplest issue for him to address, being the one thing he never lacked. Unfortunately, the man sitting across from him, Conde, didn't oblige him, instead uttering a word that was entirely unexpected. "The truth." "...The truth?" "That's right, that's all I want," Conde said, a non-negotiable tone in his voice as he looked at the astonished face of Centurion Willoughby. "Why was the 'Wasp' project canceled? Tell me the reason." "Why... what do you mean why?" Willoughby began sweating, glaring furiously at the unfazed man before him. "It's none of your business! Knowing too much won't do you any good!" Conde quietly listened to his outbursts, not interrupting until Willoughby had worn himself out and paused for breath. That was when Conde took an alarm clock from his pocket and placed it on the floor. Willoughby's eyes contracted sharply as he looked at the countdown display. "...What's that?" "A bomb," Conde replied with a faint smile, speaking softly as he continued, "Whether it's beneficial is for me to decide. All you need to do is answer my questions while there's still time, understand?" Willoughby's eyes widened to the size of saucers, incredulity painting his face as he looked at the subordinate threatening him with a bomb. This guy is insane! Eyeing the indifferent expression on Conde's face, Willoughby swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Because... pressure from above. I have my difficulties too. Listen, I may be a Centurion, but the garrison isn't the army. I don't even have as many men under my command as that brat Ahui." Conde frowned. "Pressure from whom? Governor Ahui?" Willoughby shook his head. "I can't say. If I dare to reveal it... I'm finished." Conde shrugged slightly, dimming the light behind him to reveal his unconcerned face. "...That's fine. You've got nine minutes left. You can ponder as long as you want, as long as you answer the remaining questions quickly." He had staked everything on this trial, and nothing but the truth mattered to him any longer. Watching Conde's nonchalant face, Willoughby's expression twisted, giving way to an inner frenzy amidst his struggle. Eight minutes! The ticking seconds of the countdown mirrored his dwindling heartbeats. Finally, unable to withstand the pressure of death, he opened his mouth in a hysterical howl. "It's the Ministry of General Affairs! The Ministry of General Affairs in the Borran Province War Zone! Are you satisfied now!" Conde replied in a soft voice. "Not enough. That's too broad an answer. I need the specifics — who exactly?" This madman! The restraints bit into Willoughby's clothes, his eyes bloodshot. Determined to survive, he laid everything bare. "Minister Dickens... His secretary contacted me. He came to my office, demanding we cease the investigation!" Conde lit a cigarette, glanced at the timer on the floor, and asked leisurely. "There must be a reason, right?" Having laid his cards on the table, Willoughby released a sardonic chuckle. "A reason? You think they'd tell us that... But you can probably guess." Conde: "Snake oil?" Willoughby sneered, looking at him as if he were a fool. "What else could it be? 'Salon' for treating post-war trauma is the raw material for making 'snake oil.' Both derive their active ingredients from snake grass. We can't exactly tell the veterans their sedatives are mixed with hallucinogens, that the lovely dreams they have each night aren't given by the 'Southern Legion's Victory Gazette,' but by the meds from the Logistics Department." Conde clenched his fists, then abruptly released them, regarding Willoughby with a saddened look. "Why?" "Yet with the whys again. And what's it worth knowing for you?" Willoughby asked impatiently, eyeing the countdown. But Conde, as if deaf to him, carried on speaking to himself. "Our soldiers fight for the honor and living space of the Werlanters, while you... you'd rather dole out drugs that cure nothing, to chemically numb their pain, allow them to rot where we cannot see, rather than address the real problems they face." While speaking, Conde stood, glaring at the bound Centurion Willoughby, grabbing his collar. "Parasites! Scum! Do any of you regard them, regard us, as your own people!" Willoughby stared at him defiantly, showing not the slightest trace of fear. "You're spouting nonsense. If I'm not a Werlanter, what am I, an alien? These are decisions made by the Ministry of General Affairs! Moreover, it's the most economical approach. We at least freely provide them the drugs; if they don't want them, they can sell them!" "And the hooligans of Blackwater Alley buy them back to make even stronger stuff, harming more people... isn't that right?" Conde chuckled coldly. Fixing his fish-like eyes on Willoughby, he spoke deliberately. "And you all skim off large sums from the taxes contributed by all Werlanters." Nothing in this world was free; at most, the paying hand was cleverly hidden. Taxes from Werlanters should be used to enhance their lives, not squandered on someone's unexplained ambitions. Like launching a senseless war, then patching the resultant riddled holes with countless lies. Snake oil was but the surface scum, underlying which lay a more insidious infection. As long as these insects remained, Werlanters could never attain their distant dream. Willoughby laughed, looking at Conde in a patronizing manner. "Heh, I don't deny it, but that's just your conjecture. You have no evidence, neither do I, and even if there were, nothing would change. Why? Because the Legion is what it is; can you expect a chicken to lay a duck's egg?" "...If you have more questions, ask them quickly. Kidnapping your superior for such banalities is truly dull." Noticing the timer with only three minutes remaining, unease flickered across his face once more. He wasn't truly fearless of death. His confession had been a plea for survival. Looking disappointed, Conde released Willoughby's collar, stepped back, and returned to his chair. "One final question — you answer it, and I'll let you go." After a pause, he continued softly. "...That dream you had earlier, what was it about?" The unexpected question left Willoughby momentarily stunned, suspecting a jest. But with time running short, he set aside his doubts about whether Conde was joking, forced to share the unspeakable dream. "...I became the Legionnaire." "And after that?" "And after that?" Willoughby paused, bewilderment settling in, "The grand officer appointed me governor of a thousand worlds, and then... it ended. Is there something wrong with that?" If he could, he would have wished that dream had lasted longer, allowing him to see its continuation. It was truly an era of greatness. After countless sacrifices, the Legion's borders finally reached the galaxy's edge. Conde gave him a final look of pity. "Nothing… I've got what I needed; untie him." Tarlan, standing behind Willoughby, drew a knife, slicing through the ropes binding the chair. Willoughby jumped in fright. He hadn't even realized there was a third person in the room. Of course, he remained unaware of many things, like the fact that the studio was currently broadcasting live. His "passionate and fervent" speech laid bare the secrets of the Southern Legion. Now, half of the settlement knew the true composition of "Salon" and what "snake oil" really was. And beyond that, there was the dirt on the Ministry of General Affairs, involving Minister Dickens. The details of the Wasp Plan, and the Enlightenment Society unmentioned during this interrogation, seemed trivial right now. Too much cluttered information detracts from the focus on genuine issues. Conde's sole intent from beginning to end was to awaken his still-slumbering compatriots. The issues facing the Werlanters were theirs to face and resolve. It had nothing to do with the Union, the Enlightenment Society, or their current adversaries—the Borr people. But he was merely an intelligence officer, limited in his actions to only this. "Just let him go like that?" Tarlan asked, looking at Conde and tugging Willoughby by the collar. Suddenly, there was a touch of admiration for this man. Having played this game for two years and learned Human Union Language, he'd never had such deep interaction with an NPC before, let alone become friends. Though they'd known each other for just a few days. "...Let him go. He's just a pitiable fool choosing silence over truth, not some monster of villainy. Besides, the survivors in Evernight Harbor have seen through these guys' facades. What they choose next is their dilemma when daylight comes. We've done all we can tonight." Conde's voice had a hint of fatigue, but also a sense of relief. Then he remembered something and turned to Tarlan, saying, "Also, don't just throw him out. Use him as a shield to get a fuel-filled vehicle from the guards outside, and drive north into the desert. Just drop him outside the settlement. Whatever you do beyond that is up to you." Whatever this guy was—whether a Union military officer or a not-so-bright fool—he'd done plenty of good for the Werlanters. He didn’t need to die with them. Tarlan frowned. "And what about you?" Conde joked lightly, "My mission's over. A planet named after me is waiting for my arrival." Tarlan paused, then laughed heartily. "You're quite the character." Conde smiled slightly. "Ha, is that your verdict on me? Honestly, you took that stuff too, didn't you? So, what exactly did you see? A grand era of noble lineage? Maybe that fools others, but people in your shelter talk naught of lineage." Tarlan was silent for a moment, then answered truthfully. "A world of equality, where true equality among people is realized. No one tries to step over others, and there aren't endless machinations. My fellow shelter-dwellers and I live abundantly, though we are far from a utopia. I'm satisfied enough." A subtle envy glinted in Conde's eyes, and he sighed softly. "Is that so… How wonderful." "You two done chatting yet?" Willoughby interjected, eyes fixed on the ticking timer, as he struggled to break free from Tarlan's hold. Watching Willoughby wriggle like an earthworm, Tarlan laughed and tossed him out the door. "Scram." Stumbling before he found his footing, Willoughby scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the stairs, not daring to linger a second longer. Conde stared at Tarlan, a curious expression on his face. "...You just let him run off?" "What else? What's the point in keeping him?" Tarlan shrugged, grinning. "Besides, escape isn’t my style; us Five-Star Good Citizens prefer to fight our way through." Conde didn't quite grasp the meaning of "Five-Star Good Citizens," and Tarlan didn't bother to explain. Meanwhile, Willoughby, having fled downstairs, was startled by a timer tossed in front of him, causing him to dive to the ground in terror. "Bomb! Get down!" Nearby people were startled by his exclamation. However, at that moment, the untimely sound of an alarm bell rang out. "Ding-ling—!" The piercing sound left everyone, including Willoughby sprawled hastily on the ground, stunned. His face gradually turned beet red with embarrassment and anger as he stood, brushing dust from his clothes and trousers. The maniac had made a fool of him! Thinking of how he'd reacted, Centurion Willoughby was furious, grabbing a young man's collar and shouting at him. "Why are you all standing around? Go in there and take out those bandits!" The young man looked tense, eyeing Willoughby with a strange expression as spit flew from the Centurion's mouth. He wasn't the only one; everyone around had the same look... except for the irate Governor Ahui. Watching Willoughby scream, Ahui marched forward, delivering a slap to his head. "You foolish swine, do you know what you've said?" Willoughby was stunned. "What... said what…" Ahui fiercely tugged at his collar. "Don't you realize where you are! This is a broadcasting station! Not just these people, but the whole settlement heard the bilge you spouted!" Willoughby's face turned ghostly pale, akin to a freshly whitewashed wall. His lips quivered, rendering him mute. The studio's soundproofing was so effective he hadn’t heard the radio outside, let alone the broadcasts. He thought Conde might have been holding a hidden recorder, but didn't expect he’d been live-streamed... Frustrated with this buffoon, Ahui released his collar, barking orders to a few nearby guards. "Are you here to watch a show? Go in and shoot those two!" The guards exchanged glances, all bearing a look of hesitation. Seeing no one moving, Ahui was livid, extending a trembling finger. Just then, five "Greyhound" recon cars enveloped an "Beast" infantry fighting vehicle as they arrived. Seeing the mounted cannons and soldiers armed to the teeth, Ahui felt a surge of joy. Reinforcements! Leading them was a centurion, clad in "Rhino" exoskeleton armor, hefting a light machine gun draped with belts of ammunition. Saluting briskly before Governor Ahui with a stern face, he said coldly. "I heard there's an attempted rebellion." Ahui nodded quickly, pointing at the broadcasting station ahead. "Over there! A traitor and a spy seized our broadcasting room!" Just two people? The centurion arched a brow, casting a disdainful glance at the array of guards holding submachine guns. These guys didn’t need to face the front lines, but they couldn’t manage a building held by two? Without a word, he motioned with a wave, leading a dozen armored soldiers forward. Meanwhile, inside the building, Tarlan's eyes sparked with excitement. "Wow… they brought out the infantry vehicle!" Now he finally had enough stars! To be continued...