Chapter 925 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 925: Crowds Gather at the Expedition Site "Long live Julius!!!" "Long live the Marshal!!" "Long live Julius!!!" ... Triumphal City. This is the place where the people of Willant laid their spirits and beliefs, and also the heart of the giant that dominated two-thirds of the world. At this moment, this sprawling city covering hundreds of square kilometers reverberates with the unified shouts of millions. People stand on the streets, torches raised high, pouring their emotions into the synchronized chanting. It is the name of their leader—also their faith. Under his name, they have waged countless wars and conquered tens of millions of square kilometers of land. And now, they only hope for him to awaken... The Glory Institute. The tallest building in all of Triumphal City, it is both the marshal's residence and the garrison for the elite guards. Thousands of steps elevate the arches dozens of meters into the air, with a century's worth of storms leaving marks on the grand marble reliefs. A century ago, to commemorate the completion of Triumphal City and the hard-won freedom, they leveled a marble mountain to construct this monumental marvel. It is both a gift to Marshal Julius and a monument marking the dawn of a great era. Now, countless sparks of torches at its base form a ceaseless river of light, like the pulse of the giant. In the confluence of those bright sparks and hopeful gazes, a tall man with piercing eyes stands with a straight back and a reasonably proud nose. Indeed, he is not a Willantian, just like the esteemed figure who vanished a century ago. Though neither is Willantian, their admirable qualities are what every Willantian aspires to emulate—such as courage, loyalty, and defiance against tyranny. It is precisely these harmoniously different attributes that allowed him, unburdened by the heavy yoke of history, to articulate what every Willantian dared not say but deeply desired. "...If you don’t know what to say, then just call his name!" "All survivors of suffering! All survivors not yielding to authority! Let the deity in your heart hear your earnest call! Let him open his eyes and see what's happening beneath his feet!" "And let us see who is afraid! Who trembles! Who most fears his awakening!" The ambiance once filled with combat fervor tightened into fists, sending thunderous shouts toward the teeming masses. Eyes filled with fervor watched him, these loud shouts serving as their response. The guard forces of the entire Triumphal City mobilized, including the city garrison troops. Yet even with them all, they couldn't encircle the surging crowd. Moreover, some guards and soldiers even joined the crowd. They did nothing wrong—they were merely calling Julius' name. In the legion, Julius is synonymous with the correct. No Willantian would question the loyalty they pledged their whole life in devotion to. In other words, even the most shameless scoundrels, who inwardly see the Marshal and loyalty as tools for personal gain, couldn't arrest someone for their genuine loyalty to Marshal Julius. Loyalty! It’s not merely something that Willantians view as a source of honor. It is also the essence of their legitimacy! When praise no longer feels like praise, and cheers are not merely cheers, this mighty sword of authority, like a boomerang, eventually strikes back. Not only is the faction represented by the Southern Corps rendered speechless, but the three other major legions and even the civilian administration seem helpless. After all, not one among them could confidently claim total innocence in manipulating the Willantian people and misrepresenting the Marshal's mission. It's no exaggeration to say that the person called "Pangolin" has managed to incur the ire of practically every interest group—even those in the civilian administration who sympathized with and aided him. Except for the people. Or rather, the ordinary folks living in the legions who have been overlooked for too long. That is the only collective he did not offend. Not only that, he unwaveringly stood with them, and they, in turn, never abandoned him. The Willantians could be suppressed, but never would they forsake their hero. No matter if he was not a Willantian. And herein lies the crucial difference between the Willantians and the Rat Tribe, Snake Tribe, or Horse Tribe. Standing at the edge of the crowd, Brockett held a cigarette between his lips, with many more littered at his feet. "...In twenty years of guard duty, it's the first time I've seen so many people shouting that great person's name simultaneously." Next to him stood his colleague, a centurion retired from the front lines. His weathered face bore indistinguishable wrinkles and scars, carved like the rings of a tree. Though unlike Brockett, he appeared more insouciant, merely squinting with a smile. "By the Marshal above, I can't believe you’ve never heard this said. I say it all the time." Brockett glanced his way, then back at the crowd, muttering softly. "I meant at the same time." Moreover... Could such habitual phrases compare to the scene before him? Especially with so many people here. Watching the fervent crowd, he felt a wave of heat at his back, and a sudden whimsical thought arose—to join these madmen after his shift. Perhaps the Marshal really could be called back by them. It wasn't impossible. Most would not live long enough, but this world had technologies like "cryogenic sleep" and "DNA telomere repair" with various solutions. What ordinary people could not escape—aging, sickness, and death—were troubles that the great man had numerous means to overcome. The more Brockett thought, the more his heart swayed. Just then, a group of armed soldiers approached. His colleague nudged his shoulder. Startled back to awareness, Brockett turned to face the armed soldiers and the centurion leading them. The centurion stared at him impassively, his voice a cold rebuke. "Move aside!" Wherever the courage supporting his spine came from, Brockett didn't step back, instead squinting his eyes. "And who might you be?" Adjusting the brim of his officer's cap, the man gazed at him, subtly lifting his nose. "Gladstone, centurion of the City Defense Army's 11th Ten Thousand-Man Unit. And who are you?" "Brockett, Centurion of the Golden Gryphon Street Enforcement Unit of Triumphal City Guard," raising his chin just like Gladstone, Brockett met his gaze full of disdain, "What if I say no?" Stunned for a second by the refusal, Gladstone's eyes sharpened fiercely upon Brockett. "This is Commander Tyr's order! Are you looking to rebel?" Listening to his arrogant tone, Brockett remained unmoved, even scoffing slightly. "Commander Tyr? Ha, I don't recall swearing allegiance to him. If you wish to kiss his feet, don't drag me into it. But if you intend to defy the Marshal's decree, then you'll have to step over my corpse." "You—" a soldier angrily stepped forward, hand on his sidearm. Intending to discipline this heedless guard, he was halted by a nearby officer. Gladstone inched forward, squinting at Brockett who refused to budge. His gaze was like a wolf's front paw. After a pause, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Think about your family, especially your child... I assume he's a military cadet. Are you sure you want to jeopardize his future by opposing the Southern Corps over this?" "Ha, this again? Really?" Brockett mockingly glared, flicking his finished cigarette towards Gladstone's boot. "I don't need your worries for my family; they are valiant warriors and will only take pride in my choice today." Unbeknownst to Brockett, someone had uttered similar words in Boulder City, thousands of kilometers from Triumphal. The choices of heroes often aligned independently, even when not standing in the same place. Seeing the uncompromising guard, Gladstone's fury was mounting, his urge to tear him apart visible. But he couldn't act on it. Triumphal City was not under the sole dominion of the Southern Corps, necessitating consideration of the positions held by the other three major corps and the civilian administration. If he didn't want to become another casualty of factional strife. Amidst this predicament, suddenly his communication channel crackled to life. It was the voice of the Southern Corps' chief of staff. "...Withdraw." Gladstone hesitated. "But—" "The commander of the Guard has appeared." The Guard! Upon hearing this word, a flicker of apprehension passed over Gladstone's face. Instinctively, he looked toward the staircase at the edge of the crowd. A shadowy figure stood at the top of those steps, looking down on the bustling districts. Though the Guard rarely appeared in the political play of Triumphal City, everyone understood they were the eyes of His Excellency the Marshal and relayed his decrees. If the Guards were seen as priests serving a deity, then the leader of the Guard would be like the high priest. Few knew that the Guard's commander was actually equivalent in rank to a legion commander. Yet, due to the mysterious nature of this commander, much like the Marshal, he rarely appeared in public eye. Thus, in most contexts, people defaulted to there being only four legion commanders. In a split second, Gladstone realized the implications, casting a spiteful glance at the unyielding guard before signaling his confidants to retreat. Watching the hasty retreat of Gladstone, Brockett couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in triumph. What an esteemed centurion. Not much, really! However, having made his choice, there was no turning back. Turning back to the thousands of compatriots standing behind him, Brockett allowed a small smile to escape. Having drifted through his early life, it was at this moment he finally grasped his true mission. That which he was defending and loyal to should never be the authority of any one person or group. It was about order. And the dignity of all Willantians. It was then that he heard the voices of his colleagues. "By the Marshal above... the Guard commander!" "Reize..." The elder guard’s pupils contracted to a point, disbelief etched across his face, muttering incredulously, "He's still alive..." Hearing these cries of disbelief, Brockett snapped his head up, his gaze piercing through the crowd, spotting the elderly figure standing under the marble arch at the top of the thousand steps. Clad in a scarlet robe, his deeply lined face marked by age spots, the golden-hued power armor he donned looked vibrantly alive. The noise in the city came to an abrupt halt as all eyes turned toward him. Those multitudinous gazes carrying surprise and confusion, much like Brockett’s own, or anxiety and fear akin to Gladstone’s, filled the crowd's varied expressions with a blend of emotions impossible to articulate. Yet, the torches continued to burn. Everyone waited for his answer. Reize lowered his gaze slowly, his murky yet sharp eyes, like those of a vulture, scanned each head before resting upon the man standing at the base of the stairs. That man, known as Pangolin, met his eyes without flinching, waiting with everyone else. The world seemed to pause, as if a century had passed, breaking only when the press of battle tension made the situation feel frozen. Finally, the old man shattered the silence, his voice quiet but unwavering, akin to a kite hanging by a thread, yet clear and resolute in the night. "When I was a child, Marshal Julius told me... One day, a young man different from any of us would come from lands the Legion had yet to conquer, stand upon the steps of the Glory Institute, and reveal another dimension of loyalty to the Willantians..." "An understanding he never shared with us." The voice, though not loud, carried the weight of certainty that seized attention. The ambiance group held their breath, eyes affixed on the armored elder atop those thousand steps, attentively catching every word, anxious of missing a syllable. An uncanny intuition whispered that he was nearing a pivotal conclusion. What began as a mere jest, a drawn-out hidden quest, now reached its denouement at long last. However, midway through his words, the elder abruptly halted, clarity returning to his shadowed eyes. "...It seems you are the one the Marshal awaited." With these words, he turned, striding toward the grand arch behind him. "Come with me." "I'll introduce you to him." ... It had been a century since Marshal Julius had vanished from public view. To be precise, a century and fourteen more years had slipped by. No one told the Willantians where their revered Marshal had gone, or if he was still alive. The loyal Guard stood like statues before the Hall of Heroes, resolute through the decades guarding the institute. Now, someone stumbled upon the key to that door, ready to unveil the final answer for those in awe of it. "Let Julius still be alive..." An elderly man whispered in prayer, a torch burning in his hand, "Let him guide us, who are lost, forward." Others stayed silent, simply watching the figure ascend the steps. 114 years... If the great man really lived, he might be over 200. Rather than cling to the hope of him being alive, one could hope he left his wisdom locked away in a desk drawer. Penny stood among the crowd, fists clenched, silently praying. However, unlike those around her, she did not pray for the Marshal's well-being or some long-buried solution beneath his desk. For such things, whether they existed or not, were long-settled matters unaffected by her prayers. Yet, though she didn’t believe in the power of prayer, she believed in him—the one who gathered so many people. Miracles had happened countless times. Let one happen once more! As the ambiance group followed Guard Commander Reize's steps toward the towering arch, across the ocean in the Western Hemisphere, a secretive meeting was underway. Present were the high officials of the Western Legion. Unlike other Willantians. They were born adventurers and sailors daring enough to challenge torrential waves. Rather than waiting for others to decide their fate, they preferred making their own choices. At the meeting table. A man with an upward-tilting beard slammed his fist on the table, staring irately at the holographic display. "Fools... Don’t they realize this is the scenario His Excellency the Marshal least wishes to see?" His name was Enoch, a three-star centurion of the Western Legion. As an academically inclined officer almost inducted into the Guard, he held the confidence that he knew Julius better than anyone. Though Willantians frequently mentioned that great man's name, he knew the Marshal didn't wish for his children to do so. In the Marshal's own words, "They’re like children who never grow up." Still, apprehension gripped his heart over another matter. What if this rabble did indeed awaken the Marshal? Even though the odds were slim, it wasn't impossible. He’d heard tales claiming when all survivors in Triumphal City called for Julius, the Marshal would emerge armored from the Hall of Heroes to free the Willantians from oppression. If such a legendary tale became reality, he could not fathom the scene that would unfold. At the very least, neither "Valley People," "Ribbon River Folk," nor "Sea's Edge Dwellers" had enslaved Willantians—at least not since archived times of the War Construction Committee. Anxiously, Enoch turned to the legion commander seated at the table's head, hoping for words or actions. The commander stayed silent, however, it was Cliff, another two-star centurion, who spoke up. "But it’s happening now." Unlike Enoch, Cliff was only a two-star centurion. Despite their differences, one thing was the same: both Enoch and Cliff hailed from Triumphal City and graduated from its military academy. Enoch cast a bewildered glance at him, his eyes narrowing into slits. "What do you mean..." Cliff met his gaze with an unyielding tone. "What I mean is that we all share the blame for how things have developed. Search your heart—does it hold anything besides the pursuit of power?" Enraged, Enoch leapt to his feet. "Cliff, are you betraying us? Betraying everyone sitting here?" Cliff also stood, removed the medal from his chest, and slapped it onto the conference table. "From the beginning, my loyalty has belonged only to one person and to all Willantians." In truth, there was no difference between the two. Standing weren't only Cliff, but three other centurions as well. They left behind every medal earned from the New Continent, retaining only those from Triumphal City, and strode out of the meeting room with heads held high. Enoch gritted his teeth, glaring at the retreating figures and clenching his fists until the door clicked shut before angrily sitting back down. "These cowards..." Now, only the faction of the Western Corps remained in the room, having now completely severed ties with the officers from Triumphal City. It was clear that they would likely set sail back to Triumphal City to welcome this so-called Marshal. As for sabotaging their ships, that decision was the prerogative of the legion commander, not something a mere three-star centurion like him could decide. Another centurion sitting nearby scoffed, speaking in a leisurely voice. "Perhaps just a clever opportunist... It's now the 214th year of the Wasteland Era. Does anyone actually believe His Excellency the Marshal is still alive?" Someone across the table murmured quietly. "What if he isn’t?" "I don't know," the chief of staff from the General Staff Department shook his head, uttering his first words since the meeting began with an intriguing tone, "Until the box is opened, no one knows what color the mouse inside is." One thing that was foreseeable, however, was the impending great migration of the Willantians. Those loyal to the Marshal would return to Triumphal City, whereas those loyal to power might head South. Of course, this wasn't their only choice. Traditionalists could go to the Eastern or Northern Corps. And for those weary of endless choices and traditional rules, there was always the New Continent. For the Western Corps, this might not necessarily be a bad thing. They have civil protectors, a citizen assembly, and many things the Old World lacks. This reshuffling, regardless of the outcome, wouldn’t result in a loss for them; at worst, it just means less gain. Whispers filled the hidden chamber as everyone exchanged views, contemplating the Western Corps' options in this changing landscape and the many possibilities for the future. Yet, at the table's head, the legion commander sat with eyes reflecting secrets unknown to others. No one knew what he was thinking. Not even his closest confidants. But everyone understood that this esteemed individual had made his decision. Not only him, but the other legion commanders had as well. The Willantians stood at a crossroads of destiny. It was time to choose... To be continued.