Invasion [To the Outpost] Chapter 42

“Do you… do you know how to use a gun?” he asked Nicole, his voice soft and gentle, almost like a whispered plea.

“Point it at me, just once,” he said weakly, his hands covered in blood as he motioned toward his head.

“Please, I don’t want to become a monster in the end.”

At that moment, Nicole’s spirit form appeared.

It was a silver-and-white reticulated python. The great snake’s pale body slithered across the ground, coiling and weaving around the two of them.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. I’m a guide—a very skilled one. Please calm down and cooperate with me,” Nicole said softly.

Though the guide was young, her voice was tender as she held the sentinel’s hand, soft and warm.

The silver snake circled them, its beautiful scales shimmering with iridescent light, isolating all the surrounding chaos and violence.

The sentinel stared blankly at her, his restless expression slowly settling.

“That’s right, just like that. I’m about to perform spiritual guidance for you,” Nicole said.

Once, back at school, she had always thought of herself as a rebellious, free-spirited girl—defiant, untamed, undeniably cool.

Now she realized how laughable all her former self-righteousness had been—childish antics.

This moment, however, was when she truly felt cool.

The noble heiress closed her eyes and gently placed her hands over the sentinel’s eyes.

One person stepped forward, then another, then a third.

Many followed, rolling up the sentinel’s trouser legs to stop the bleeding and tend to his wounds.

Seeing the jagged stump where his leg had been bitten off brought tears to several guides’ eyes.

The sentinels in the sky fought desperately to protect the swaying airship.

Inside, the guides worked tirelessly to treat the wounded being brought down.

Everyone was giving their all.

But the monsters seemed endless.

The sky glowed a warm orange-yellow, like a canvas painted with oil—so beautiful it could have been a masterpiece.

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The fragile little airship drifted unsteadily across this boundless painting, desperately searching for an escape.

In the distant sky hovered a gigantic city mirage.

It was a city from days long past—skyscrapers towered densely, their windows sparkling like scattered stars. Neon lights floated between buildings, circling elevated highways crowded with flowing traffic.

That old ghost city hung in the far sky like someone lost in a dream of the past.

From the radiant illusion flew out a swarm of monstrous heads, black as storm clouds.

This strange and vast world stretched endlessly.

Monsters poured forth relentlessly, seeking the elusive “door” to freedom.

The number of sentinels able to fight dwindled, almost all lying on the airship, dead or wounded, unable to rise.

The guides were drenched in sweat, many unable to summon their spirit forms anymore.

Shu Jingtong lowered his gun.

His shoulders were swollen and red, completely useless now.

The sentinel he had been leaning on had just fainted, now lying at his feet.

He looked at the scene before him with a trace of despair.

They had tried their best.

Yet he couldn’t help but wonder—if only he, if only they were stronger.

If they hadn’t grown up in the comfort of the White Tower, if they had trained harder, might there still be hope in such dire straits?

Born into a terrifying era.

How had they been able to close their eyes and live so many years in peace?

Sweat blurred his vision as he wiped it away, surrounded by comrades too battered to stand.

Only one person remained upright—Lin Yuan—still standing straight amid the blood and dust.

At the giant breach atop the airship, black heads stacked and surged endlessly.

Like a tide of darkness rising but never falling, sticky and piled thick around the hole.

So many monsters, all held back by Lin Yuan alone.

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But these monsters would not be shaken off or killed entirely; like an overflowing wave, the piled-up sea would inevitably break and crash down.

Perhaps they would all die.

But he hoped—hoped that she, that one person, might survive in the end.

Shu Jingtong’s gaze blurred with unshed tears.

Lin Yuan stubbornly stood on the chaotic battlefield.

Her chest and back were soaked with sweat.

Outside, the orange-yellow sky burned like a great fire.

Faces filled the sky—countless human visages, various expressions of laughter, anger, and curses, creating a maddening cacophony.

Blood soaked the ground beneath her feet, the anguished cries of classmates and warriors echoing endlessly.

Lin Yuan’s head pounded as if it would split apart.

Inside her heart was a vast emptiness, hollow and unreachable, sealed shut by some unseen force.

She felt as if she had returned to childhood—little and alone, standing amid a raging inferno.

Around her was only weeping and wailing.

Everyone would die, she thought, just as before, everyone would perish here in agony.

No matter how hard she tried, it was useless.

Even if she drained herself completely, in the end she would save no one.

But it didn’t matter—she would feel no pain, no sorrow. She was an emotionless monster.

The place where feelings should dwell was empty, sealed away—just as her father had once closed off her five senses, a lock yet to be undone.

She would never feel sadness or heartbreak.

Only… why was she still standing here?

She didn’t quite understand herself.