Chapter 899 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 899: The Night Won't Be Too Long "...Last night, a riot broke out in the northwestern district. Two insurgents took over the radio station building during the shift change, attempting to incite rebellion and overthrow Marshal Julius's rule..." "The chaos is now mostly under control, and the insurgents have been eliminated." Arman spent the entire night by the radio, not closing his eyes until the next day's sun rose outside the window, only to be met with this cursory conclusion. The garrison in Eternal Night Harbor first used anti-aircraft guns and rain bombs to clear the clouds in the sky. After realizing they still couldn't control the situation, they immediately transferred command to the frontline combat units stationed at the harbor district. It's said that this order came directly from Governor Yahui, a move seen as a disgraceful betrayal by the Eternal Night Harbor authorities against the local residents. After arriving in the northwestern district, the 40th Mechanized Division and the 60th Armored Division, dispatched for support, immediately engaged in military suppression. While the command radio at the harbor district stated that they only fired warning shots above the crowd, some unofficial radio stations claimed the streets ran red with blood. The place was only ten kilometers from his home, a mere twenty-minute drive. Arman's heart was filled with mixed emotions, heavy as though weighed down by a stone. He wanted to say something but found himself unable to. The sun continued to rise as usual, yet the long night had already descended upon Eternal Night Harbor. And it wasn't only Eternal Night Harbor. Things that once required concealment no longer did, and those enraged by their compatriots' deaths showed no mercy when pulling the trigger on their own. Boundaries are crossed step by step. Looking back at the Westphalia incident, he suddenly realized it no longer seemed as atrocious. Even the twilight before that nightfall was gentle, not as ruthless as the present. Nevertheless, his heart wasn't entirely pessimistic. While everyone pursued bread, there were still those who firmly chose belief. A man named Conde stepped forward. And he wasn't alone; many others stood alongside him. Though the regime ultimately executed him, countless others survived, and his spirit lived on within them all. What he could do was preserve this force and let it exert influence at critical moments, rather than be consumed in futile uprisings. The Vernat people never abandoned their heroes, and he would not forget that name. In which case, at least their night wouldn't be longer than the Boroans'... At that moment, the study door creaked open slightly, and a small head peeked through the crack, peering at her father sitting by the radio. The expression on his face shifted constantly, at times worried, at times filled with hope. Little Ruby hesitated for a moment before gently calling out. "...Dad?" Hearing the voice from the doorway, Arman realized his daughter was standing there and turned off the long-winded radio, surprised to see her. "Ruby? You're up early." Seeing her father notice her, Ruby, clutching a pillow, pushed open the door with her little hand and sneaked into the study. With sleepy eyes, she let out a long yawn and skillfully climbed onto her father's lap. "Mom said you had something to talk to me about, but I was so tired I fell asleep waiting." Seeing his daughter’s grogginess, Arman gently smoothed the wild strands of hair on her forehead. "Sorry, I was planning to come to you, but something came up..." "It's okay," Ruby replied, smiling sweetly as if comforting her father instead, "I’ve been through that—getting caught up in a novel I liked, reading under the covers with a flashlight until morning..." Halfway through, realizing she might have said too much, Ruby clammed up. To think this little rascal had done such a thing, Arman chuckled sheepishly. "Well...just don't do it again. I won't tell your mother this time." "Hehe." Ruby shyly stuck her tongue out, trying to dodge any more scrutiny by looking elsewhere. Looking at his innocent and adorable daughter, Arman's lips involuntarily curled upwards, momentarily setting aside his heavy worries. However, setting aside his worries was only temporary. In the end, humans can't exist in a vacuum, relying on soil, water, air, and nutrients even more than plants do. "Ruby..." Seeing her father becoming serious, Ruby tilted her head slightly. "Yes?" Arman pondered for a long while, finally speaking in a serious tone. "I want to take you and Mom to a faraway place." Unexpectedly, instead of the fear or apprehension Arman worried about, his daughter displayed curiosity for something new. She blinked her eyes and asked with interest. "A faraway place like?" Arman thought for a moment and spoke as objectively as he could. "To the eastern edge of the Central Continent, the southern coast of the Haiya Province. There's a place called Settlement One...though it’s a temporary name. The Alliance wants the locals to name their own home." The name wasn’t a big deal, but for some reason, beyond the mountains of containers, it left the deepest impression in him. Hearing her father's words, Ruby's eyes lit up, and she excitedly asked. "When we get there...can I give it a name too?" Surprised by his daughter's odd focus, Arman paused, then couldn't help but smile, affectionately ruffling her messy hair. "Of course...though everyone else will have their ideas too, and whose name is chosen will probably be decided by vote." Ruby's eyes sparkled as she asked. "Wow...that sounds fun! Then...can we campaign for votes?" "Probably, though everyone else will be campaigning too, so don't get your hopes too high." Arman cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "The main point isn't that. While the place is developing well, conditions aren’t as good as here... You're part of this family, and your opinion matters a lot since you’re the one I worry about most." "No need to worry about me. And I don't think those things are a big deal," Ruby vigorously shook her little head, her eyes brimming with excitement and anticipation, "When we first got to Westphalia, there was nothing, right? But then we got lots of beautiful houses… Everything will come." In the world of a child, houses seemed to sprout from the ground. Arman couldn’t help but smile wryly but happened to know another equally naïve fellow. The bootleg vodka brewer who struck gold on the Western Legion's "Golden Route." Months had passed, and he wondered whether that fellow's plans were on track. Seeing her father lost in thought, Ruby asked eagerly. "When are we leaving?" Looking at his supportive daughter, Arman's face broke into a warm smile as he said. "Probably in a few days." His captain should have rested enough, whether moving with him or leaving their family here to continue earning—it should be time to decide. ... In the northwestern district, barricades were set up on the major roads leading to the city center. Two wheeled armored vehicles were parked by the road, with their long, thick barrels leveled, glinting ominously in the morning light. Heavily armed soldiers stood alert around the checkpoint, vigilantly watching the approaching people. Konde had been shot at two in the morning yesterday. Who fired the shot was no longer known. By the time he was dragged out of the radio station, he was already a corpse, piled with others in the street. Unfortunately, the awakened one who exchanged fire with the centurion wasn't captured. Three people helped him escape. After one was shot dead, he slipped into Blackwater Alley amidst the chaos. Intelligence from the garrison suggested his name was Taran, suspected as an Alliance spy. Interestingly, after clearing Taran's name through the Wasp Plan, the garrison reclassified him as a spy at the military's demand. Maybe the garrison guessed right; after all, the guy was indeed skilled. But, really, it didn’t matter anymore. Now, the Eternal Night Harbor authorities and the Southern Legion faced a much bigger problem. There were far more bodies lying in the streets than the "twenty accidental injuries" the broadcast claimed. Even though communications between Eternal Night Harbor and the outside world had been urgently cut, it seemed nearly impossible to completely suppress the truth. Currently, the entire northwestern district was under temporary control, with two streets near the radio station completely sealed off. Everyone entering or exiting the district had to show proof of residence and workplace. In addition to necessary registration, entrants had to sign an agreement not to enter the sealed area and undergo a security check, handing over their weapons and any devices that could record the truth. Meanwhile, the 40th Mechanized Division dispatched logistics vehicles to relocate residents from within the lockdown zone and to collect the bodies scattered on the streets. The 607th Battalion of the 60th Armored Division was tasked with enforcing the blockade of the 12th street. Carver, clutching his rifle, felt a burning sensation at his back from the disgruntled and even hostile stares of his compatriots. He wished he could pull up his collar to hide his face. As he passed through the security checkpoint, an old man, after filling out a form, suddenly looked up at him. "Why did you fire at them? They were speaking for you. Or do you think you'll never grow old and retire from the battlefield?" Meeting the man's hateful gaze, Carver's breath momentarily froze, as if the very air around him had solidified in his throat, rendering him speechless. "I...it wasn't me who fired," he feebly explained. That night, he indeed hadn't pointed his gun at anyone—he had been drunk in the port district until his teammates woke him to work past midnight. The old man was unsatisfied, staring intently at Carver's eyes and his prominent nose. "I was once a soldier too, serving in the 37th Division, defending the borders for the Marshal...and to think I was protecting such a swarm of pests. I'm ashamed of you." Before he could finish speaking, a nearby soldier with a cigarette in his mouth pulled him aside. "Alright, old man, enough out of you. Fill out the form and get inside. If you've got problems, take it up with the 40th Division, don’t force us to detain you." "You think I'm scared? I wasn't afraid of mutants, and I'm certainly not afraid of you cowards who fire on civilians. A hundred men can't capture one radio station, neither daring to face justice." Dragged away, the old man simply laughed and lifted his pant leg to reveal a scarred portion of his calf. "See this, rookie? They cut this meat off in front of me, and I didn’t flinch." The soldier's brow furrowed, his stomach churning, but he refrained from arguing further with the old man, instead roughly ejecting him from the checkpoint before others noticed the commotion. There were too many people here—those living in the northwestern district who worked in the central city, and those coming home from night shifts at the port district. Without considering the local garrison, Eternal Night Harbor held tens of thousands. Both in the Southern Legion and the wasteland, that number wasn't insignificant. The soldier with the cigarette was Carver’s vehicle commander, though their vehicle hadn’t entered the settlement. Looking at his superior, Carver couldn’t help but ask. "Doesn't Eternal Night Harbor have its garrison? Why are we combat units being assigned to this lousy task?" He enlisted with the Southern Legion to expand territories, not to become enemies with his own people. "You can’t figure it out, can you?" Seeing Carver's "clueless" expression, the cigarette-smoking commander chuckled. "Because you're about to head to the frontline. If I were the commander, I’d toss this dirty job at you, too. First, you won’t blab; second, soon you'll be too battle-hardened to care. By the time you return, if you survive, it’ll seem like no big deal—a bunch of old soldiers and small-towners fussing. You might even fall in love with Shalun, love snake oil... Turn it around, it’s a placebo to escape reality." The gunner, who had been silent, muttered. "Do you think what Condel did was right?" "Of course not—it was too extreme," the commander shook his head, smirking. "But honestly, in his situation, I can't think of a gentler approach." The gunner argued back. "Why not? Work your way to centurion—" The commander interrupted. "And become like that scumbag Willoughby, the one shamelessly lying on the broadcast. I bet that guy, when he was a decurion, didn’t think any differently from you—compromise first, and remain untainted in the filth... Use your head; how’s that ever possible?" The gunner lapsed into silence, unconvinced but unable to retort. Carver, too, took a deep breath, pulling up his collar. This morning dragged on endlessly. He had stood there for ages, yet the sun barely rose an inch. Though he had always found the days in the rear difficult to endure, never had the torment been as intense and painful as now... ... While Eternal Night Harbor grappled with the morning, in Westphalia, it was nearing noon. Hours earlier, an urgent telegram from Eternal Night Harbor had arrived at the Boro Province Warzone Command. As of this moment, Chancellor Dickens stood nervously at the entrance of General Gurion's office, having waited for about half an hour. Finally, the door opened. Watching the warzone staff officer and the head of the security team exit, Dickens began to sweat slightly at his brow. Though the warzone logistics department he managed was not under the warzone command's jurisdiction, instead answering directly to the supreme command, and he wasn’t Gurion’s direct subordinate, as the warzone's highest commander, Gurion had the right to hold him accountable for logistics failures. He had already explained to the supreme command, but he wasn’t sure how to handle Gurion's side. As Dickens fretted, the office secretary who followed them out spoke. "Chancellor Dickens, General Gurion will see you now." The conciliatory tone hinted at the signal Gurion was sending, allowing Dickens to breathe a little easier as he followed the secretary inside. Behind the desk, General Gurion reviewed documents carefully. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and met Dickens’ gaze. "Please have a seat, Chancellor Dickens." Forcing a stiff smile, Dickens settled into a sofa in the office. "…Thank you." Gurion nodded, his eyes growing serious. "You've heard about the situation in Eternal Night Harbor, I assume." Dickens' breath hitched, his expression turning awkward. "I have..." Seeing the embarrassed logistics chancellor, Gurion wasn’t letting up, pressing on insistently. "Aren't you going to offer an explanation?" Caught off guard by Gurion's seriousness, Dickens felt a headache building but replied bravely. "…The incident was as you read in the telegram. The Eternal Night Harbor garrison had a mutiny, taking over the radio station, and that caused all this chaos. Thankfully, the local troops handled it quickly and controlled the chaos... That’s what happened." General Gurion laughed coldly. "The command accepted your account?" Facing Gurion’s persistent questioning, Dickens grew frustrated. "They did... I reported to the command first thing, only deploying the local frontline troops after receiving the order. Otherwise, how could I direct them? It was a blunder, really. If the garrison hadn’t pulled a stunt with their Wasp Plan, leading to a few intelligence officers high on power, it wouldn’t have blown up like this." "A blunder?" Gurion regarded him shrewdly, suddenly sneering. "…It seems to me like getting what you deserve." Dickens’ expression tightened. "Sorry... I don’t get your meaning." "Shalun—do I need to spell it out?" Gurion's piercing gaze made Dickens stiffen once more. "…Are you referring to the medication for treating mental trauma? What's wrong with that?" Gurion squinted as he continued. "What’s wrong? Wasn’t the broadcast clear enough? Do you need me to play the backup files for you?" "I really don’t know about this! The drug development was handled by the technical staff under me. As for the hallucinogens, I wasn’t involved—Peter took it upon himself. I just found out he was in cahoots with local gangs. He’s a disgrace to the Vernat people! If I knew sooner, I’d have dealt with him myself!" As he spoke, Dickens wore a look of righteous indignation, as if he truly held a weapon in his hand. However, across from him, General Gurion internally scoffed. Just found out? Sure. He wasn't naive enough to believe that Dickens had only just heard about this. Shifting all blame onto the deceased was merely damage control. What truly angered Gurion wasn’t just the logistics crew’s scheming, but their dealings with the enemy! This was something Gurion could not tolerate. Even if the Serpent State warlords preferred skirmishing to engaging, posing no major threat to the Southern Legion’s frontlines, their growing military power remained a lurking danger. Every coin flowing from the Southern Legion to Boro Province would eventually become a bullet aimed at Vernat troops. However, Gurion was a man who understood the bigger picture. Seeing Dickens stifled and unable to breathe, Gurion ultimately let this parasite off gently. Firstly, he lacked sufficient evidence, and secondly, the frontline couldn't afford risk from a failing logistics department, not to mention Dickens's connections within the supreme command. It wasn’t quite time to deal with him. Once the war was won and he, with additional stars on his shoulders, headed to Triumphal City for honors, that would be the time to settle scores with these betraying parasites. "I have two demands. First, remove any drugs containing serpent grass—from Shalun or anything else—from the logistics inventory immediately. Second...I won’t spell it out, but you know what I’m referring to." General Gurion gave Dickens a meaningful look. Dickens understood that the general was hinting at their dealings with the Serpent State warlords and nodded nervously. "Understood..." Whatever happened, he needed to get through this hurdle first. Assured by Dickens’s promise, Gurion nodded and picked up the pen on his desk again, signaling dismissal. "You can go now." The Air Force's bombing plan on Tiandu hadn’t gone well, only demolishing some worthless, dilapidated buildings. He needed to draft a new strategy and focus on winning the current war, having no time to waste on these parasites. Relieved, Dickens left, unaware his back was soaked in cold sweat. As he approached the stairs, he cursed inwardly. Just bluster. Scaring me with a broadcast? Just you wait. I’ll make you pay eventually! To be continued.