Chapter 933 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 933: "Weapons for the Final Battle" Capturing Kondra required little effort. The Free State guards' hovercraft docked directly at the balcony of his 33rd-floor apartment, dragging him out of bed in under two minutes. The neighbors next door remained undisturbed. That guy dared not step a foot outside the Free State; even if the Alliance didn't trouble him, the survivors of the Valley Province wouldn't let him off the hook. Not to mention Master Sigma. Having been part of so many conspiracies, that big shot would never let him leave. To survive, he had to play the role of a compliant pig. As for seeking refuge with the Southern Legion, it was merely a means to save his neck, sanctioned by the Firestone Group's silent nod of approval. After all, Master Sigma's desire for the manager's demise wasn't a new thing. Why not use the Southern Legion's hand if possible? Kondra understood his fate the moment he was placed onto the hovercraft. It was time for the slaughter... … Detention Room at the Guard Bureau. Mayor Odo paid a visit to Kondra, who was awaiting extradition. Lately, this guy had been at the center of public controversy. Firestone Group was attempting to portray Kondra as a peace fighter against the Alliance through its media network, trying to convince Free State residents that the embarrassment of handing over this brave Vylantean to the arrogant Alliance was due to pressure from the Great Rift. At first, Odo doubted anyone would believe such nonsense, equating a weapons dealer to a peace fighter was an insult to intelligence. Yet, he found his voters surprisingly naive, and eventually, he was resigned to it. In retrospect, how else would a pig like him become mayor? To put on a facade, he spent the longest thirty minutes of his life accompanying this "tragic hero" in the detention room, feigning reluctance to leave at the end. To pass the time, he cleared his throat and initiated the conversation. "... Mr. Kondra, I am sorry about your case. Due to pressure from all sides, we have no choice but to hand you over to the Alliance." "This humiliating moment will be forever remembered by the residents of the Free State..." Before he could finish, Kondra suddenly burst into laughter. Odo's expression turned awkward, but without cameras around, he shrugged it off and ceased speaking. "Alright, if you don't want to listen... Is there anything you'd like to say? Or need me to pass a message?" Facing the impeccably dressed Odo, the pajama-clad Kondra grinned. "I have nothing to say... I served the Legion wholeheartedly in the first half of my life, then got used by you all in the latter half, and now I've been drained of every last bit of my value. Since I'll die with all my secrets on the road, what's there to say?" Odo squinted slightly, examining him with interest. "You know you'll die?" Kondra sneered, his lips curling into what seemed like a derisive smile. "Is that something that needs guessing? Everyone in this city: me, you, the guards outside, the citizens on the streets, and even the company employees... aren't we all just Sigma's pawns?" Odo's Adam's apple bobbed. "So?" Of course, he knew. But so what? The Firestone Group indeed committed many wrongdoings, yet what about the order and stability it brought? At least, the residents of the Free State could earn a decent living with hard work, unlike those scavenging among the refuse. Even the leftovers from their mouths fed plenty of useless sorts. In reality, he didn't see anything wrong with being a pawn. Seeing Odo's indifferent look, Kondra chuckled. "So I'm clear on my fate. I don't find it unacceptable... See, I haven't even begged you for anything." "I'm glad you think so." Odo took a sip from his teacup, masking his tension. Yet, Kondra didn't miss Odo’s subtle expressions. Watching Odo’s trembling index finger, Kondra’s lips twisted into a mocking grin. "You are glad too soon." Before Odo could respond, Kondra continued in a measured tone. "Remember your predecessor, the last head of the Free State? Have you heard any news of him recently? I guess you've never cared, and rightly so—who would care about a failed stray dog?" "However, I knew him pretty well. We both shared a love for collecting red wine, and we’d occasionally exchange tastes... Then, one day, he vanished, shortly after stepping out of the public eye." Listening to these old stories, Odo couldn’t help but swallow another gulp of saliva. "So? You must want to ask me that, right?" Delighting in Odo's conflicted expression, Kondra continued with great pleasure as if to use up his words for this life and the next. "I suppose you think I’m talking nonsense, and deep down, you despise us fallen dogs... But let me kindly warn you, don't get too cocky—you’ll have your day too, what happened to me will happen to you eventually." Finally, unable to bear it, Odo interrupted him. "What do you expect from saying all this... hoping I'd save you?" "Hahahahaha." Kondra suddenly laughed out loud, mocking the tense Odo. Abruptly leaning forward, he closed the distance between them. Thinking Kondra was about to do something drastic, like bite off his nose, Odo quickly leaned back. However, the chained man made no further moves, only fixating Odo with his bloodshot eyes. "What do I want? You think I'm pleading? Seeking the truth from you? Or Sigma's Achilles' heel? I’m planting a seed of fear in your heart..." And then? Odo waited tensely, but Kondra suddenly slumped back down in his chair, resumed his languid, resigned demeanor, looking like a sheep resigned to fate. Odo felt he had been played, the stark disparity in their statuses making him feel humiliated. But just then, a knock sounded at the detention room door. A guard in an exoskeleton opened the heavy metal door. "Mayor Odo, time is up." Quickly getting up, Odo pushed back his chair, walked to the door, and shot Kondra a hard glare. "Take him away already." The guard nodded. "We will follow protocol." The metal door closed again. Odo took a deep breath, composed himself, and stepped out into the waiting cameras, presenting to the public a mayor enduring humiliation for the greater good. However, throughout the latter half of his activities, he remained out of sorts. Those bloodshot eyes wouldn’t leave his mind, as if they really had left a brand on him. Everyone is his pawn... And pawns ultimately share a similar fate... In the hovercraft, his heart pounded fiercely. Stretching out his finger, he switched on the holographic TV in the back to distract himself. Yet, the news on the screen caused his heart to clench instantly. "... At midday today, a police transportation carrying Kondra for transfer to the Alliance was attacked by unidentified armed forces about fifty kilometers from the Free State." "The attackers' identities and motives remain unknown. All five guards and the detainee on board perished." ... Kondra's death shook the entire Free State, yet it was but a trifling matter amidst the wasteland’s broader state of affairs. The Minister of Justice from the Alliance expressed concern, hoping the Free State’s judicial department would assist in uncovering the truth. Of course, the Free State’s judicial department agreed wholeheartedly. Whether it's "earning merit with hard work" or "utterly idling," that rested upon Master Sigma's mood. Everyone knew that the Firestone Group truly held sway over the Free State. Among the Free State citizens, opinion was sharply divided, embroiled in fierce debates over who killed their "Vylantean hero." As for the Vylanteans themselves, they hardly recalled ever having such a hero. Other than perhaps those living within the Alliance or the Emperor of the Eastern Empire, Salen, none might have even heard of the name. Meanwhile, he was occupied with inheriting the Southern Legion's "legacy" and had no interest in dealing with the remnants of an Eastern Expansion faction. General Kras's political legacy amounted to nothing more than the Falcon Kingdom, which he had already dispatched a governor to take over. At the same time, the news of Evernight Harbor's fall continued to stir unrest. The impact was not limited to the major survivor factions on the Wasteland; the Southern Legion, being the most directly affected, felt it acutely. Despite heavy obstructions, the news quickly reached Avent City. The unexpected defeat shattered the illusions of victory held by millions of Vylanteans in the city, adding a layer of panic to those still mourning the loss of Marshal Julius. Only now did they realize that the battle reports published under Commander Tyr's name in the Southern Legion Victory Report were nothing but fabrications. In retrospect, it made sense... They'd reportedly killed more enemies on the newspapers than there were survivors in the Eastern World. Where on the Wasteland could there be so many cannon fodder to kill? They weren't moving from one victory to the next but instead were marching step by step into the heart of a quagmire! At that moment, even the most delusional Vylanteans snapped to reality, finally understanding that their situation might be more precarious than imagined. Like most lies, they merely borrowed non-existent time from the future, hoping it would redeem future promises. And so, there would inevitably come a day when it would all fall apart. The fall of Evernight Harbor was that turning point. Losing Evernight Harbor meant the Southern Legion completely lost the key to the Eastern World, and the entire Borro Province war zone, along with nearly a million troops stranded there, would be severed from logistics support! Not even Mr. House could spin this failure into a victory. The Alliance now needed to do nothing on the Borro Province front; they could even withdraw their troops and entrust the zone to the matured Borro National Army, turning their focus on the Southern Legion's homeland instead... If it indeed came to that, the entire Southern Legion would be at great risk. Investing heavily in the Borro Province, they couldn't possibly muster another million-strong army quickly. Especially not after losing Triumph City and support from the Eastern and Western Legions... With the bad news from the frontlines, Avent City found itself in turmoil, and the tickets to Triumph City by ship and airship had inadvertently doubled in price. Besides transportation tickets, the prices of all basic living supplies kept escalating. Partly due to genuine shortages, partly because some were stockpiling, but mostly due to pessimistic views on the Dinars themselves. It's virtually certain that the New Continent would issue its own currency; they had long intended to toss their heavy and scarce mintable precious metal currency into the history bin. The Eastern and Northern Empires likely harbored similar intentions. No one could predict whether the Dinars, once stripped of monetary value, would appreciate or depreciate; history had examples in both directions. A sense of panic pervaded Avent City, and the Southern Legion's Headquarters was no exception. The familiar conference table was filled with centurions, their gleaming medals forming a seemingly indestructible wall. However, the expressions on their faces were far from relaxed, their pale lips tightly sealed—no one spoke. Perhaps unwilling to waste more time in silence, Commander Tyr unusually didn't defer to the Chief of Staff to start the meeting, but instead began to speak himself. “I’d like to hear your thoughts.” A murmur spread around the table, officers exchanging uncertain glances, yet after much muted discussion, no solutions emerged. Some wiped sweat from their foreheads, some held their breath looking around for hints, while others suggested futile solutions to salvage the situation, like mobilizing another million reserves or boosting clone soldier production… But everyone knew these weren't real solutions. Local skirmishes aside, a full-scale war was a clash between systems, and now, the balance of power had tilted. Failing to harness the entire Legion, and indeed all Vylanteans, onto their war chariot, meant they had already lost. Yet, no one dared to verbalize this truth. Admitting defeat often required more courage than facing death; the latter merely took one's life, while the former obliterated their very reason for existence. That was something they simply could not accept. If they couldn't drag every Vylantean into the fray, at the very least, the "chips" of Avent City should fight to the bitter end! Even if it meant selling their very souls— Such was the thought in nearly every officer's mind at the table, including Tyr who had already struck a deal with the devil. Watching the helpless "mortals," Tyr sighed softly. It was as if he saw Salen. Many Salens. Mortals always found their steps bound by immediate interests, forgetting the long-term gains and ideals, as well as their Vylantean mission. Given the chance to join forces with Tyr to create a world solely for Vylanteans, he had instead chosen to be a laughable emperor. These folks were no different. Not one could propose a solution that caught his eye, proving once more that it would fall upon him to decide. "...I've acquired the genetic codec from Triumph City." At the commanding voice, the officers around the table fell silent, turning their surprised gazes towards him in unison. The genetic codec. They knew exactly what that entailed, yet were baffled as to why Commander Tyr brought it up now. Even if they enhanced the Vylanteans' genetic code, producing stronger super-soldiers, or increased clone soldier growth speed from eight to ten times faster, it was too late. Their researchers might not perform better than those from a century and a half ago. However, judging by the Chief of Staff’s demeanor, he seemed aware of something more. Exchanging glances, the officers waited until a three-star centurion cleared his throat, stepping forward to inquire. “… What use is it?” Tyr didn't answer verbally; instead, he clapped his hands. The conference door opened, and a nondescript man with plain glasses entered the room. The centurion's brow furrowed at the sight of the man's flat nose. "Who is this?" Stopping beside Commander Tyr, Martin gave a slight, respectful nod. "I am Martin, from Vault 68 in the Great Desolate. I am a biologist." Hearing the word 'vault,' disdain flickered in the centurion’s eyes. "Someone from a vault… What are you here for?" Rather than getting offended, Martin responded with a composed smile to the condescending stare. "Naturally, to save you." "Save us?" The centurion laughed, his eyes mocking, as if viewing a clown. "Since when did we need saving by a blue rat?" With a resigned shrug, Martin turned to Tyr. “Honorable Commander Tyr, I’m not great at debating. Can you ask your men to calm down for a moment?” Tyr nodded, directing his gaze at the centurion. “Sit.” The icy tone carried a weight of unchallengeable authority. In an instant, the centurion felt as if a beast’s eyes were upon him. As a cold sweat trickled down his forehead, he gritted his teeth and resumed his seat. "Now, I can begin." With a relaxed tone, Martin spoke, reaching into his pocket and placing a holographic computer pen on the table. A soft blue light projected from the table, forming a 3D hologram in the air. Amid the puzzled gazes, Martin succinctly explained. "The 'Final Solution' project. It might be new to you, but in fact… we’ve been preparing this ultimate weapon for a long time." "To efficiently eliminate all troublesome creatures on Earth's surface, aside from using physical means like neutron eradication, no method is more reliable than a virus." "Since the start of the war, we have actively conducted experiments to realize our goal, even stationing research teams at the frontline." "The Borro Province proved to be the ideal testing ground. The survivors there hail from what was once the world's center, offering a richer genetic diversity than any other area on the Wasteland. Thanks to this diversity, our experiments proceeded smoothly, and we have now essentially developed the completed form of the 'Final Solution,' both infectious and destructive..." "Hold on." Martin hadn't finished speaking when an officer abruptly stood up and interrupted him. "I think I understand what you're implying—you plan to use a viral weapon to destroy the Alliance." "Exactly," Martin nodded with a smile. "As I said, it's the simplest and most efficient method." The officer stared intently at him and continued. "But how can you guarantee this virus won't affect the Vylanteans?" "That brings us to the genetic codec we recently acquired." Martin lightly tapped on the holographic display, and the blue light particles transformed into multiple DNA helix images. "We only need to make slight modifications to the Final Solution to turn Vylanteans into carriers without them becoming ill. Although I'd like to explain the feasibility of this academically, I doubt you'd understand. Simply put... the purer a Vylantean's bloodline, the less they are affected by the 'Final Solution.'" Upon hearing this, the conference table erupted in whispers, officers exchanging glances filled with various emotions—some surprised, some excited, some anxious. Another officer soon stood up, swallowing hard before asking. "Is this... reliable?" Martin nodded slightly. "I can stake my life on it." "I have one more question," the officer who had previously challenged Martin kept his eyes fixated on him, speaking deliberately, "You aren't Vylantean yourself... What do you gain from developing such a virus? Or rather, what's your motivation?" Martin chuckled. "I've explained this to Commander Tyr many times, but since you're curious, I'll repeat it." Pausing, he continued with a hint of disdain. "The benefit for me is ridding the world of some troublesome pests. The world is in its current state because those grotesque creatures keep breeding, spreading their filthy ideas and genes... that's the root of the Wasteland era. If you all are willing to cleanse the land of those dim-witted mutants, I fully support you." "As for myself, you don't need to worry—I am capable of developing a vaccine if I can create this virus." "Ultimately, I can turn myself into a Vylantean." The Vylantean project itself was an intermediary product of the Homomorphic Being Project. Whether Vylanteans inherited the world didn't matter to him. In fact, even if mutants conquered the world, he could accept that. They were all intermediary products of the Homomorphic Being Project. Once the project was completed, the initial life forms would be supplanted by a higher form of life, and human civilization would complete its final 'dimensional elevation.' Of course, such matters were irrelevant to the ants at the table, and the big-nosed ones didn't need to know. Including Commander Tyr. Though their genes were advanced enough, their vision hadn't caught up. Their worldview extended only as far as conquering the world, never reaching the level of civilization elevation. Take now, for example, where these people were infuriated by his remark about turning himself into a Vylantean. But anger was all they could muster. As long as Commander Tyr was "enlightened," his plan could proceed. As expected, after a brief contemplation, Tyr began inquiring about practical aspects. "When can this ultimate weapon be deployed? The Alliance's biological research capabilities are formidable. Is there a chance they could develop a vaccine to neutralize it?" "With the gene codec in hand, I can complete the final brick of this structure in at most a month," Martin said with a gleeful smile, pausing before continuing. "As for your second concern, I can assure you." "The method I used to craft the Final Solution employs biotechnology unique to Vault 68, which isn't in their technological repertoire." "Unless they find a researcher from Vault 68, they can rack their brains but won't find a solution." And it wasn't just Vault 68; it included the Torch Church's technology brought by celestial beings! Not even the Academy could decrypt it! The officers at the conference table stared at him unblinkingly. "What if they do find it?" Martin chuckled mockingly. "Find it?" "My home was razed by those foolish Wastelanders ages ago!" To be continued...