Chapter 833: I'm Your Uncle Pangolin!

Chapter 833: I Am Your Granddaddy Pangolin!

The air inside the cathedral was as bitter as the howling winds sweeping across the Desolate Marsh, yet Westpoint Port, nestled deep within the tropics, was a land that knew no winter.

Everything bore a price...

Every living soul within this settlement.

His gaze flickering with inner turmoil, Anwo suddenly succumbed to a wave of despair; abandoning all hope in the insurgent army, he raised his rifle once more, though he left the safety engaged.

"...I care nothing for any of this, even if we are merely being used. Grant me and the brothers at my side a chance to survive! And I shall grant you yours!"

"...Had you not interrupted, I was just about to come to that. Returning to our previous topic, if you wish to live, you must feign an execution, yet leave the victims drawing breath."

Ishel cast a mocking glance at the cowardly wolf who so feared death, before resuming his discourse with slow, deliberate precision.

"Do not just stand there like a fool. Go to the harbor, secure some corpses and a few carts used for hauling the dead, arrange the bodies properly within the church, fire a volley into them, and then drag them out."

Though it carried the taint of desecration, the urgency of the moment left no room for such scruples.

Survival was all that mattered now.

Anwo inquired anxiously.

"And then?"

Ishel's mind raced at a furious pace, yet his speech remained perfectly steady, devoid of the slightest hint of panic.

"Then these survivors must bear the indignity of lying among the corpses, slipping out of the city alongside the dead-carts. Fabricate whatever excuse you must—say that those who perish within the Silver Moon Cathedral must be laid to rest in consecrated ground... The insurgent army bears no grudge against Master Melgior; they should not trouble him. However, Master Melgior must accompany them, which does carry a certain measure of risk—"

"It matters not, if it means saving these poor souls, such a risk is trifling," Melgior interrupted, looking at him with earnest gravity. "I shall accompany the caravan out of the city. With me along the way reciting the holy verses, the charade will surely appear more convincing."

"My thanks, it is a heavy burden I impose upon you."

Ishel nodded toward the priest, before turning his gaze back to Sahadu, the old butler who had remained silent from the very beginning.

"Is Earl Sharma's estate far from here? How vast is it? Can it accommodate two hundred people?"

Sahadu snapped out of his daze abruptly, speaking in a hurried rush.

"Not far at all! If we set out now, we can surely arrive before dawn! We possess a vast plantation! Let alone two hundred people, even two thousand would pose no challenge!"

"Excellent..." Ishel said, nodding his approval. "Once out of the city, you will lead everyone to Earl Sharma's estate. Find a manor of modest size to conceal them all. Remember! The fewer who know of this, the better!"

The youth named Parven could not help but ask.

"Should we not scatter them to hide?"

Ishel rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Are you a pig? What difference lies between capturing one or capturing ten? Keeping everyone together is the safest course! Furthermore, only a single soul must deliver food and water... No, there is no need to choose—it shall be you. These two hundred lives are now your responsibility."

As he spoke, he gripped Parven's shoulders, staring into the lad's eyes until the terror within those pupils crystallized into resolve, only then releasing his hold.

"You are a clever fellow... Since you understand there is no future in tangling with this wretched lot, seize this final chance to survive."

Summoning his courage, Parven nodded and accepted the charge.

"Yes..."

"Very well."

Hearing the youth's assent, Ishel pushed him toward Anwo's side.

"This boy belongs to your unit now. Find an occasion to promote him; at least see to it that he attains the rank of centurion. Once Earl Sharma's estate is secured, dispatch him to oversee the Earl's properties and dependents."

Anwo cast a sidelong glance at the lad, nodding as he spoke.

"That should present no great difficulty... I have heard that Janusz promised the Lion State to Abhisek, my immediate superior. When the time comes, some men will surely be left behind to secure the surrounding lands."

A surge of relief washed over Ishel's heart.

"Splendid."

Butler Sahadu inquired with trembling trepidation.

"Since this place has already become a vortex of calamity... Can we not simply flee?"

"Flee?"

As if he had just heard a most amusing jest, Anwo looked upon the old butler with grim amusement.

"Shall you flee with dry rations, or empty-handed? And just how much food do you intend to carry, and toward what destination? Once word of what transpired here spreads, the surrounding wilds will crawl with those who seek your lives. You would have no time to escape, nor could you run far! Mark my words, staying put is the safest course. In due time, the Wilanthians will land here... I wager Janusz will not remain to defend this place; he will likely install a scapegoat in his stead."

"But if I remain in the Lion State, those Wilanthians will slaughter me..." Parven said, terror gripping his voice.

"So long as these people draw breath, you shall not perish. If they die, it matters not where you flee."

Anwo glanced at the youth, his expression a tangled knot of emotion, though in the end, he held his tongue. He then turned his gaze toward Lady Margery, speaking up to ask.

"And the children? Do they also venture out of the city?"

Margery fell silent for a long moment, hesitation flickering in her eyes, before she finally steeled her resolve.

"It is far too perilous... We cannot place all our eggs in a single basket. Someone must survive to bear witness, to tell the outside world what transpired this night."

Anwo nodded in agreement.

"I am of the same mind. The children carry too great a risk; if one should cry out along the path, everyone perishes... Will you go to bid the children farewell?"

"There is no need."

Margery shook her head gently, then stepped before the old nun, taking her hands in her own.

Looking into those aged eyes, she spoke with heartfelt sincerity.

"We entrust our children to your care. In a few days' time, the Wilanthians will surely arrive... But unless you judge that the knowledge of our survival might alleviate the suffering of the people here, please do not reveal to them that we live. Tell them instead that we were led away and executed."

Those forces would never allow them to survive.

Perhaps they would offer rescue.

Yet they would invariably arrive a minute or two "too late," only appearing after everything had been brought to a close.

It was an obvious truth.

A train already set in motion would not grind to a halt merely because an ant lay upon the tracks.

Could sparing two hundred lives restore the three thousand who had already perished?

The war would unleash its fury regardless.

And to ensure that the puppet controlled by the mastermind within the insurgent army remained untainted—lest any "personnel changes" disrupt the subsequent grand design—the puppet manipulated from the shadows would inevitably receive the intelligence a step ahead of those who marched to their rescue.

As for the reason why...

Because they had been factored into the "budget" from the very beginning.

Margery took a deep breath, continuing her plea.

"It should not be the Legion alone... The people of the Alliance will likely descend upon this place as well. Yet the Alliance cannot be fully trusted either; they maintain close cooperation with the Legion within the Mutual Coexistence Community, and it remains entirely possible they will adopt a policy of appeasement. Too many matters beyond our comprehension are unfolding in the shadows. I beg of you, watch those people closely, and see if they are truly worthy..."

In truth, even if they were unworthy, it mattered little now.

If even the Alliance aligned itself with the Legion, supporting their invasion of the Empire, two titans joining hands to ravage this land, then no matter how brilliant the light of truth might be, it would surely be smothered into darkness.

And when that hour arrived.

Perhaps only the hands of the Enterprise or the Academy would come to gather their bones, recording that such things had once transpired upon this earth.

Marguerite tightly clasped the old nun’s hand, her earnest voice carrying an unconscious note of pleading.

“Please… I beg you to take good care of them. If we should fall, tell the children the truth when it’s all over.”

The old nun nodded solemnly.

“I will! And you, madam… please take care of yourself. The children cannot lose their mother. Even if only to keep those wicked ones from planting ugliness in their minds, you must survive.”

Melchior stepped beside them, speaking in a very soft voice.

“Brave people don’t die so easily… It’s getting late. Let’s prepare as quickly as we can.”

“I’ve already sent men to the docks for bodies,” Anwo said, glancing toward the door and then at the two hundred-odd Verlanders in the hall. “You all get ready too—see if you need to change clothes. As for luggage, forget it. Leave it here.”

Anwo turned to Isher, who stood with arms crossed, and then to the dozen or so brethren behind him.

“What about you? Go home? Or go with these Verlanders to Count Sharma’s?”

“They don’t need me. You’re more crucial than them. I’m more worried about your safety… If you mess this up, we’re all dead.”

Isher looked left and right, tore a long strip from his sleeve, and tied it around his arm under the stunned gaze of the crowd.

It actually looked convincing enough.

After all, the armbands the rebels wore weren’t uniformly made either.

Seeing Anwo’s dumbfounded expression, Isher raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve rebelled too.”

“Now I’m your subordinate.”

……

Everything went as planned. Anwo sent trusted men to the docks and brought back over three hundred corpses.

Most people at the docks were dead drunk, paying no attention to the bodies—they just assumed some meddlesome leader had ordered a cleanup.

The rebel forces had yet to form an organization; the command system was in chaos, with no unified directive.

Even the “retired veterans” of the Gray Wolf Army gathered around Janusz couldn’t sort out seniority, let alone the smaller factions.

But if Madame Marguerite’s guess was right—that an invisible hand was pulling the strings—then the rebels’ disorder wouldn’t last long.

At least not long enough for reinforcements from Eternal Night Port to arrive.

They only needed to push someone forward as leader, raise a banner as their flag, invent a pretext for the uprising, decide who would stay behind to die, and then march out of the city in force toward the Heavenly Capital.

Barring surprises, the ones left behind would be the city guard.

They were the most disliked and the least effective in combat—perfect targets for the Verlanders’ fury. Those big-nosed bastards could use them for target practice.

Of course, this wouldn’t be said outright. In the end, it would be framed as a “pledge of loyalty,” just like his own mission to kill at Silver Moon Church.

But unlike him, the pledge they’d have to offer—even if they staked their entire families’ lives—would never be enough…

Watching his trusted men arrange the bodies in the church, Anwo’s expression turned icy.

The young man named Paven approached him, trembling.

“Ready…”

Though he hadn’t killed anyone, his clothes were drenched in blood, as if he’d crawled out of a pile of corpses.

Anwo nodded, gestured for the twenty-odd trusted men to aim at the bodies slumped crookedly on the church pews, and dropped his hand cleanly.

“Fire!”

The moment the words fell, crackling gunfire echoed through the church. The crowd closed their eyes in anguish, and the children in the basement let out muffled sobs.

The cart for the bodies was pushed in; when it came out, it was fuller.

The dazed priest shuffled alongside the cart, one hand clutching the silver crescent at his chest, the other resting on the bloodstained wheelbarrow.

A few patrolling “cloth-bandaged” soldiers nearby saw this and showed envious expressions.

“Those guys must’ve had a blast.”

“Damn… too many people, too few bodies at the docks. I didn’t even get a sip of the soup.”

Suddenly, someone let out a lewd chuckle.

“Hey, isn’t there a nun in the church? Want to go check it out?”

Before he could finish, the decurion beside him smacked his head.

“Are you fucking crazy? Even Janusz didn’t dare touch those prayer-chanters. You think you’re tougher than the boss?”

He’d seen with his own eyes that Melchior was not only alive but dared to walk beside that wolf-man, chanting prayers for the dead.

The implication was clear.

Another soldier, who’d probably been to the church, shot the man a contemptuous glance.

“That nun’s at least fifty or sixty… You interested in an old hag like that?”

The lewdly chuckling soldier finally shut up, scratching the back of his head.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know…”

The laughter and curses drifted down the street, like a farewell to the corpse cart.

Back in the church, the old nun silently bowed her head, gripping a mop, futilely cleaning the blood-soaked hall.

Later, a few more people came into the church.

But they only glanced at her, then at the blood on the floor, and hurried away without a word.

The church seemed forgotten, a quiet corner in that hell of piled corpses and seas of blood for three whole days.

Until the deafening roar sounded and the Verlanders’ boots landed on the docks, ending it all…

……

The candle flame on the silver candlestick flickered gently. In a sudden daze, the distant time was pulled back to the present.

Having finished recounting the story, the old nun slowly spoke again.

“If all went well, your wife and the other survivors should be hiding in one of Count Sharma’s mansions or plantations, cared for by a decurion—or maybe a centurion—named Paven. And Mr. Melchior should be there too.”

“As for Anwo, he should be beside his superior, Abusek—that was Mr. Isher’s advice. The most dangerous place is the safest. If those people suspect you, you’ll die no matter what you do.”

“…But if you can earn their trust, there’s hope of being drawn into their circle and finding evidence of the Legion’s involvement in this conspiracy.”

The basement was unusually quiet.

The players watched the VM-translated subtitles, while Yarman held his breath.

The first to break the silence was little Ruby.

A faint mist, like sweet spring water from a dry well, moistened her dust-veiled eyes.

Hope rekindled in her gaze as her lips moved softly.

“Mom… is alive…”

“Marguerite… Oh, Silver Moon Goddess above!”

Yarman stammered in excitement, pressing his lips and nose against his clasped hands.

He wished he could kowtow to the Silver Moon Goddess on the spot!

Praise the moon!

Even if the Silver Moon Goddess doesn’t live there!

If this isn’t a miracle, what else could be called a miracle?!

“Where is she now? No... what should I do to bring her back?”

Gradually calming down, Yalman began to realize that this matter was not as simple as it seemed on the surface.

First, he couldn’t leave West Sailport.

The soldiers outside would surely keep him here for safety reasons and question him about why he wanted to go out.

This was entirely reasonable.

And if he told them that Marguerite was alive and with the people who stayed in the church that night, the Heavenly King’s troops would surely find them before the Valiant rescue forces arrived.

Then not only would Marguerite die, but everyone with her would die too!

Even the good man who spared her that night—Mr. Anwo, who was hiding among the Heavenly King’s troops—would die!

They would die in silence, taking all their secrets to the grave.

“Your wife doesn’t know either, but she believes you must have a way, that you can save everyone! Not just her and the two hundred survivors, but all those about to be dragged into this war...” The old nun sighed softly and looked toward the Alliance people.

Yalman followed her gaze and also looked for help to those beside him, especially the one who seemed the most reliable, the “Far-Sighted Eagle.”

The latter had been silent all along, stroking his chin in thought, until Yalman’s eyes fell on him. Then he slowly spoke.

“This is tricky... If we leave West Sailport, the Valiants will surely follow us warily. Besides, just us alone won’t be much use. The Heavenly King’s troops in Lion Province must be at least a hundred thousand strong, right? Forget covering the evacuation of two hundred people—without heavy equipment and support, even two squads of ten would give us a hard time.”

The “Stirring Stick” scratched his head, his face also showing difficulty.

“True, and if the rescue fails, the Legion might shift the blame: ‘You knew it was so dangerous, why didn’t you report it!’... Tsk, tough. If those bastards bite back, we’d have nowhere to plead our case.”

“What about sending an airborne unit?” the “War Wolf” asked, puzzled. “Since we know the Legion is behind this, why not just send troops directly?”

Old Stick rolled his eyes.

“Are you kidding? Those are Legion citizens—it’s not the Alliance’s place to rescue them. Besides, do you think you can just move troops on a whim? If we did it your way, the Alliance might as well do nothing else but circle around this tiny patch of land.”

Old Wolf grew anxious.

“But—”

Old Eagle cut him off, thinking seriously.

“Brother Stick is right. Calm down. Even if we have resurrection tokens, that doesn’t mean we can act recklessly.”

“And to be realistic, from the Alliance’s standpoint, saving just those two hundred people isn’t enough. That guy Anwo is even more important to us than those two hundred lives. He might have found evidence of collusion between some high-ranking Heavenly King officials and Legion insiders... That could be the only thing to stop the Legion, though it’s just a possibility.”

In other words, before rescuing the survivors, they had to find Anwo first.

As he said this, a trace of worry creased Old Eagle’s brow.

“But the trouble is, we can’t contact that guy at all. We don’t even know where he is.”

The Stirring Stick suddenly spoke up.

“That’s actually easy.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him, including Old Eagle’s troubled gaze.

Old Stick cleared his throat and switched to his non-standard Common Language.

“Hasn’t that Yanush already surrounded the Heavenly Capital? The ‘loyalists’ who pushed him to power must be by his side, right? Like that Abusek—find him, and you find Anwo... We just go straight to the Heavenly Capital.”

“Go to the Heavenly Capital?! Are you insane?” the War Wolf stared at him in shock.

“Then let’s put it another way: an envoy to the Heavenly Capital?”

The Stirring Stick grinned, looking at his three dumbfounded brothers, and shook the VM strapped to his arm.

“Since they’ve shouted the slogans of abolition and equality, we, as the ‘big brother,’ ought to at least take a look, right? Make sure they don’t get the words wrong.”

“Holy shit?!”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

“I need to ask the boss first! Damn it, I’m not going along with this madness!”

Just as Old Eagle, Old Wolf, and Old Guan were all shocked by this terrible idea, a yacht about ten meters wide slowly approached the dock at West Sailport.

A haggard-looking man came down the gangplank, took two steps, then bent over his knees and dry-heaved.

“MMP! This damn place is way too far!”

Though his awakened constitution spared him seasickness, the constant transfers and the taste of sea food along the way had worn him out.

There was no regular ferry from Golden Harbor to West Sailport; this yacht was rented temporarily in Golden Harbor, and the supplies on board were all fish caught along the way.

After catching his breath, he finally felt better.

By then, the soldiers on the dock had already noticed this uninvited guest and were gathering around with weapons.

“West Sailport is closed to all but local residents! Who are you?” The decurion on duty, Pete, stepped forward, squinting at the yacht and the man beside it.

Such a small boat didn’t seem fit for open sea.

This guy must have come from Golden Harbor!

Realizing he might be from the Alliance, Pete’s face turned cold, and his eyes grew hostile.

“You’re from the Alliance—”

“Bah! The hell I am!” The man rolled his eyes, cutting him off rudely.

Staring at the stunned little decurion, the Battlefield Atmosphere Specialist cursed without restraint.

“I’m your uncle Pangolin! Rank: Chiliarch! When I was killing Blue Rats, you were still playing house on some sand dune!”

His Common Language was no longer as halting as before; he used interjections with practiced ease.

“Which century are you from? Call your superior over!”

Pete: “???”

As soon as the Battlefield Guy finished speaking, the soldiers gathered at the dock stirred and parted to make way. A man in an officer’s cap walked toward the two facing off at the pier.

Seeing an old acquaintance he hadn’t met in a long time, Maclaren seemed lost in some memory. The stern corner of his mouth relaxed into a nostalgic smile.

“Long time no see. You seem to talk more now.”

Hearing that familiar voice, Pete whirled around, his face showing surprise.

“General Maclaren?! You... aren’t you asleep at this hour?”

At the sound of that familiar name, the Battlefield Atmosphere Specialist, who had been putting on airs, froze. He finally made out the man standing against the streetlight, and his expression instantly turned awkward.

He had been too hasty.

This guy outranked him.

“...Hello, General.” The Battlefield Guy forced a salute.

MMP!

What business does a chiliarch have coming here?

Damn it!

MacLaren smiled, returned the salute, then said in a casual tone.

"I recall you served under Corvey?"

The battlefield veteran nodded awkwardly.

"Uh, yes! But I'm on secondment... I don't actually command troops directly, just handle matters concerning relations between locals and Verlanders, since there's a ten-thousand-man cohort stationed there."

MacLaren said offhandedly.

"The 37th Ten-Thousand-Man Cohort, right? I remember Corvey's unit has that designation."

"Yes!" The veteran nodded, but inwardly wondered how this guy, thousands of kilometers away, knew so much about the deployment in Haiya Province.

MacLaren continued.

"Did Benno send you?"

"Yes..."

Watching this honest man who kept nodding, MacLaren asked with a smile.

"What did he want you to do?"

The veteran hesitated whether to speak, but seeing that MacLaren seemed to know everything already, he decided to test the waters and came out with it.

"To go as an envoy to the Celestial Capital and negotiate with the Celestial King's army."

The surrounding soldiers stirred, including that Pete, who couldn't help clenching his fists, their eyes burning with visible rage.

Negotiate?

To hell with negotiation!

He only wanted to slaughter the people of this settlement, then go and massacre the so-called Celestial Capital and the Celestial King's army!

Glancing imperceptibly at the decurion beside him, MacLaren then looked back at the pangolin standing by the yacht and gave a slight nod.

"This isn't the place to talk. Come ashore first."

"Yes..."

You son of a bitch know this isn't the place to talk!

The battlefield atmosphere group swallowed the words, pretending to be an honest man as he followed behind MacLaren, passing through the murderous stares of the soldiers.

Enduring the prickling sensation on his back, the veteran couldn't help muttering to himself.

That damned old Mac!

He's learned to play tricks!