Chapter 137: Countdown (II)

In the pristine laboratory, everything proceeded in orderly precision.

White-robed researchers bustled back and forth, some clutching clipboards and whispering to one another, while others monitored the various figures and logs flickering across the screens. A gray-haired elderly man stood in the corner of the laboratory, gazing at the clipboard in his hand while exchanging a few words with an assistant nearby. The assistant nodded and turned away.

"Click..."

At that moment, the heavy metal door to the side swung open, and a man in a black uniform stepped in. He cast a quick glance around the laboratory before striding directly up to the old man, lowering his voice.

"Doctor, we have a problem."

"Oh? What kind of problem?"

Hearing the man's words, the old man lifted his head slightly to signal he was listening, though his eyes remained fixed on the clipboard in his hand as his pen continued to dash across the paper. Though his demeanor lacked a certain formality, the man in black didn't mind. Instead, he lowered his voice even further and delivered his report with solemn gravity.

"Fifteen minutes ago, No. 17 initiated self-destruction. Through signal feedback, we have confirmed that No. 17 has been destroyed."

"Oh?"

At this, the old man finally tore his eyes away from the clipboard and looked up at the black-clad man beside him.

"Number Seventeen had an incident? Do we know what happened?"

"I suspect it was subjected to an attack. Prior to this, we intercepted a resonance signal emitted from the 'Cemetery.' Out of an abundance of caution, we dispatched No. 17 to investigate. Perhaps it came into conflict with whatever entity is entrenched within the 'Cemetery,' and thus..."

"Does the upper echelon know?"

"Yes, we reported to the Committee immediately."

"And their view?"

"They instructed me to seek your opinion."

Hearing this, the old man let out a helpless sigh and reached out to tap his forehead.

"Look at my memory. As one gets older, it really is easy to forget things... Very well, activate Number Eighteen, and go investigate what happened to Seventeen... That will be all."

"This..."

Faced with the old man's crisp and decisive answer, the man in black was clearly momentarily stunned. Nonetheless, he nodded and turned to leave. Watching the metal door close behind the man once more, the old man sighed, shook his head, and redirected his gaze back to the clipboard, instantly losing himself in the study of the formulas inscribed upon it.

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit room, a raspy voice drifted back and forth through the crackling current of the airwaves.

"The destruction of No. 17 is clearly suspicious. We must conduct a thorough and comprehensive investigation into this matter!"

"Was there truly no information transmitted via the synchronization pulse?"

"At the time, No. 17's signal transmission was severed by some mysterious force; we were unable to receive any data! I believe we should take proactive measures..."

Amidst the chaotic murmuring and arguing, a single voice rang out, making an unquestionable and final decision.

"Activate No. 18."

This declaration brought the meeting to an abrupt close. Moments later, the clamorous room quickly returned to profound silence. Upon hearing the command, the man in black, who had been sitting quietly near the door, rose to his feet. He walked over to a console positioned at the front of the room, reached to his waist to retrieve a cruciform key, and inserted it into the keyhole on the console. With a gentle turn and a crisp "click," a glass cover beside the console sprang open, revealing a vibrant red handle nestled within. Taking a deep breath, the man reached out, gripped the handle, and pulled it down firmly.

"Beep... beep..."

Accompanied by shrill alarm klaxons, crimson warning lights began to flash incessantly. Overhead, a series of incandescent bulbs flickered to life, illuminating the previously pitch-black room. As the alarm wailed, deep within the room against the far wall, a pitch-black rectangular iron casket slowly unlatched its lid. Frigid, biting mist spilled out from within, coating the floor in a thin layer of frost. Almost immediately, an automated robotic metal arm extended from the adjacent wall, its syringe-tipped appendage piercing the neck of the man slumbering inside the black iron casket.

"..."

After a brief pause, the man opened his eyes. He shook his head slightly, then stepped out of the black iron casket. The man showed no reaction whatsoever to his surroundings, as if he cared neither where he was nor what had happened to him. With the steady, measured gait of an ordinary commuter, he walked over to the wardrobe by the door, pulled it open, and slipped a long black robe over his shoulders. Next, he reached out and punched a sequence into the digital keypad embedded inside the wardrobe. The screen flashed momentarily before a countdown timer rapidly materialized. Glancing at the display, the man dipped his head in acknowledgment, turned around, and pushed the door open.

"Whoosh—!"

The howling, biting wind of the wasteland swept in in a swirling gust. The man lifted his gaze to survey the boundless, desolate wilderness stretching out before him, and without a moment's hesitation, stepped outside. Within moments, his figure vanished into the pitch-black shadows of the dark wasteland.

And at that exact same second, the countdown timer inside the wardrobe reached zero.

"BOOM!!"

The next instant, a towering pillar of explosive fire consumed everything that had ever existed within that place.

"Puff."

Faren watched as a soldier pulled out a cigarette and used a pitifully small flame to light it, placing it between his lips. The man leaned lazily against the wall, not even bothering to glance at the newcomers from out of town.

Lifeless.

Everywhere in the settlement before them, people wore this exact expression. Whether it was the guarding soldiers, the tavern keeper, or the ordinary residents of the settlement, upon entering the settlement named "Hope Town," Faren and his companions saw nothing but numbness. Logically speaking, outsiders like them should have quickly attracted the attention of the settlement's inhabitants, but right then, these people couldn't even be bothered to throw a glance their way. Everyone moved with a listless languor, looking for all the world like living corpses.

"Why are these people like this?"

Clutching her magic wand tightly, Franka stared with wide, curious eyes at the ragged settlement residents lining the street, who looked virtually indistinguishable from beggars. There wasn't even any sign of planned housing here; people huddled together inside dilapidated ruins, relying on fires built in discarded oil drums to ward off the wasteland's bitter cold. Beyond that, they seemed utterly indifferent to everything around them.

"There's nothing strange about that."

Compared to Franka, Erika was clearly much more familiar with these small settlements. She slung her laser rifle over one shoulder while sweeping a glance across the half-dead residents.

"People in places like this are everywhere. Their lives are worse than death, yet they don't want to die... so they simply hand their fates over to the whims of destiny. Surviving one day at a time like this, and dying whenever your time runs out—it's nothing special, really."

"I see."

Hearing Erika's explanation, Franka nodded. Although her familiar form was constructed from data and intelligence, that did not mean she possessed human values or moral frameworks. Her previous question had stemmed purely from curiosity, and now that she had her answer from Erika, she evidently cared little about whatever hardships these people had endured.

In truth, Faren didn't care either.

While Faren had claimed they were coming here to find some amusement, the fundamental reason remained that they were in need of supplies. The *Harmonious* was connected to an energy network, meaning power wasn't a concern, and water could be sourced by locating a fresh water supply. Food, however, was a different story. The *Harmonious* did not possess pocket dimensions capable of holding hundreds of acres of farmland, so provisions still had to be replenished through settlements. After all, in this era, every settlement maintained at least some rudimentary greenhouses to grow hardy crops like potatoes or corn. Naturally, crops deprived of sufficient sunlight could not compare to those from before the disaster, but for basic sustenance, there was no real difference.

"Let's hurry up and deal with this trouble, then head back! This damn place is utterly depressing!" (To be continued.)