Chapter 71: First Fortress 23

“We spent two days together,” An He said.

Sekhmet revealed an intrigued expression. “Then do you know who she is?”

“A general.” An He answered as briefly as possible.

The topic could have ended there.

But An He suddenly noticed that Sekhmet showed no strong aggression or probing intent. The corners of her perpetually stern mouth had relaxed slightly, curving upward. In this space undisturbed by outsiders, the Saint Lord truly adopted the posture of conversing with An He.

This was an excellent opportunity. An He immediately shifted her thinking. She could use this to learn more about the Saint Lord’s behavioral patterns. An He lowered her eyes and naturally extended the topic. “Lola also told me that many people died because of the war. What was that?”

She put on a look of feigned naive confusion—Leticia had said Vivian possessed basic language functions from the start, and An He inferred that the Cabin Cocoon Project had inputted common knowledge and vocabulary reserves via machines during the cultivation phase. At least she didn’t need to worry about that.

Sekhmet lifted her gaze and said slowly, “War—a conflict between two fortresses. We breached the Ninth Fortress’s defenses, but we failed.”

“Why? Did the people of that fortress do something bad?”

“No, on the contrary. They didn’t do anything wrong, aside from being somewhat foolish.” Sekhmet leaned slightly away from the chair’s backrest, her previously crossed hands now clasped together on her knees. “It might be good to tell you in advance. We need the Ninth Fortress’s steel resources. In the future, you’ll need to participate in combat as well.”

“Will many people die?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.

Sekhmet spoke of it so casually, as if the deaths of thousands were a negligible cost.

An He couldn’t help furrowing her brow, recalling the war that had nearly annihilated the Ninth Fortress, brushed over so lightly in Sekhmet’s words. A sense of resistance and anger fermented in her heart. An He pressed her lips together. “If it’s for resources, why not use a more…” She trailed off abruptly, afraid of exposing her biases, and said no more.

“You mean, a gentler method?” Sekhmet picked up her words. “Don’t be nervous. You can express your views.”

An He nodded lightly.

Sekhmet gazed faintly at An He, her cheeks forever taut in their arcs, her hair impeccably neat, revealing silver-white sideburns. A moment later, she rose from her seat, her heels sinking into the dark red thick carpet as she walked toward the window.

“Do you think a gentle method would work?”

“I… don’t know.”

Sekhmet gazed into the distance through the one-way glass. “I can understand. Throughout history, whenever a dispute arises or a violent incident occurs, the aggressive side is always blamed: Why not try a gentler approach?”

Her low voice echoed in the spacious room. “But who knows if the party involved hasn’t already tried gentle methods? Or how can anyone guarantee that a gentle method would definitely work?”

An He stared at Sekhmet’s back, unable to provide an answer for the moment.

She couldn’t tell if the current Saint Lord was conversing with her or with Tina nearby. Every time Sekhmet turned slightly, her gaze would sweep over Tina’s eyes.

Yet An He still couldn’t comprehend Sekhmet’s stance. This is throwing the baby out with the bathwater, a sophistry to justify her own actions. Aren’t humans each other’s enemies? On this monster-infested land, shouldn’t they join hands against common foes?

She weighed her words, veiling them slightly before speaking. “What if?”

What if a gentle method could create hope?

Sekhmet turned around, her eyes suddenly narrowing. Remarkably, she looked like she… smiled.

“Some time ago, in my core growth district, there circulated a fable.”

“A fable?” An He leaned forward.

“Want to hear it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, An He nodded.

Sekhmet shifted her tone. In this instant, she resembled a stern elder suddenly relaxing. With the intonation of telling a fairy tale to a naive child, she began the story.

“At the edge of the Gobi lived a family of hedgehogs and a family of sand rats. Each found a narrow plank of discarded wood by the roadside ruins and used it to shield their burrow entrances, protecting themselves from the outside world.

“One day, the hedgehog foresaw an impending flood that would submerge the land. It sought out the sand rats to warn them of the coming flood and suggested combining their two small planks into a boat for refuge.

“But the sand rats were enjoying the comfort of their burrow and dismissed the hedgehog’s words. After all, the Gobi had never flooded before.”

Sekhmet paused. “Despite the hedgehog’s repeated persuasions, the sand rats never believed disaster was imminent. In the end, the flood arrived as the hedgehog predicted, fierce and surging, drowning them both.”

Sekhmet halted her narration. An He was momentarily stunned, unsure of the story’s intent. She asked softly, “Does it mean… they should unite?”

“Quite the opposite.” Sekhmet continued. “There’s another version of this story. The hedgehog awakens from a nightmare, finding itself two days before the flood. This time, it decides against gentle persuasion. Instead, it directly seizes the sand rats’ plank and assembles a simple boat.

“When the flood strikes, the hedgehog is already safely aboard. Only then do the sand rats realize the danger, scrambling desperately onto the stern and barely saving their lives.”

The story ended there. An He’s face paled slightly as something flashed rapidly through her mind.

Sekhmet wouldn’t whimsically tell her a fairy tale; it held no universal moral.

This wasn’t a fable—it was a prophecy.

The directionality was too explicit. For those unaware of the stakes, it might pass, but An He knew: in the Saint Lord’s tale, the hedgehog was the First Fortress, the sand rats the Ninth Fortress, and the flood the radiation and Black Fog on the Wasteland.

Lola had mentioned that without any observational data, Sekhmet insisted the Black Fog was spreading. It sounded like a pretext for plunder, a lie to control her troops.

But An He had witnessed it in her confrontation with the God: the First Fortress would be engulfed by the Black Fog. All immortal walls would eventually turn to barren soil.

How did the Saint Lord know? Had she experienced it? Calculated it? How was she so certain it was fact?

“Have you seen it? The flood.” An He endured the numbing shock rippling through her body and asked slowly.

“I haven’t.” Sekhmet glanced at An He. “But someone has.”

“Who?”

“There was once a researcher here named An Ning. You don’t know her, but without her, you and yours wouldn’t exist.”

Sekhmet stared into An He’s eyes. “An Ning told me the Black Fog would devour this land. So she asked me: Are you prepared?”

An He’s hand on the sofa clenched instantly. A jolt of electricity climbed her spine from her tailbone, tearing a rift through her churning thoughts straight to her brain. She opened her mouth, but the surging ideas were too many to organize into words.

“I chose to believe her.” Sekhmet spoke slowly, her tone indifferent yet sharp as a wedge. “I’ve been preparing ever since.”

Preparing? Too much information streaked through An He’s mind. The human-rights-ignoring revival experiments, the reckless Cabin Cocoon Project, even the costly land reclamation—all seemed part of Sekhmet’s preparations. A leader bypassing gentle persuasion, heedless of personal sacrifices, forcefully tearing through death’s blockade.

All because of one sentence? Is this also rhetoric for stability? Suddenly, An He couldn’t form a judgment.

“I’ve done many things, faced much obstruction, and realized waiting for others to yield is meaningless.” Sekhmet turned to face An He. “I will never be a gentle person.”

In An He’s blurring vision, Sekhmet’s crimson velvet cloak intruded. She snapped back—she’d focused solely on the Saint Lord’s facial expressions, never noticing that cloak before.

The red hem burned relentlessly atop the High Tower, like flames in the night.

Sekhmet said, “I hope you won’t be either.”

An He restrained herself and lifted her head. She could never be as ruthless and decisive as Sekhmet, but she found she couldn’t refute the Saint Lord with arguments about valuing every individual in the Ninth Fortress.

Is sacrifice necessary? Is collective survival impossible?

If the answer is no, why do noble idealists always march toward death?

An He didn’t even know if the radical hedgehog or the complacent sand rats would survive.

An He’s undisguised shock fell into Sekhmet’s eyes. “You know the organization those warriors belong to. Why do you think I named it the Heroic Spirits Society?”

An He shook her head.

“I’ve always believed this catastrophe would claim many lives—perhaps mine too. The dead leave only souls behind.” Sekhmet said, “But who willingly sacrifices? Persuading others is lengthy and futile. Better I designate them. So those warriors like you who’ve undergone Thought Implantation—the faithful sacrifice for immortality, the skeptics for money and honor. In truth, beyond loyalty, Thought Implantation never instilled specific goals. Grand objectives are too hollow. I merely stoke your selfish desires, amplify your experiences, weave a beautiful dream, and you gain the power to destroy everything.”

Ah, no wonder.

No wonder An He never sensed any noble awakening in the First Fortress’s soldiers, yet they wielded terrifying power unafraid of sacrifice or death. Selfish desires amplified to the extreme outperformed detached grand ideals in explosive force.

Desires matter.

The First Fortress had no nobles.

Perhaps only Sekhmet truly pursued a path to long-term survival.

An He had thought this city-state more advanced, its technology iterating rapidly, strength expanding swiftly. But Sekhmet had instead compressed its social ecology into the most primal mode.

She hadn’t sought societal development—she sought a road to survival.

An He’s hand on the sofa tightened imperceptibly, leaving wrinkles in the soft velvet.

Recalling the researcher’s question during her Thought Implantation, she asked Sekhmet, “Saint Lord, do you believe in the faith?”

“You’re the first to ask me that.” Sekhmet stood by the window, the floor-to-ceiling glass framing the city lights and dim plains beyond as backdrop. “So I’ll give you the honest answer: If you believe, I believe. If you don’t, I don’t. Faith or no faith, it all leads through me to the same path. We seek a future where we can breathe.”

“What if there is no future?” An He blurted out.

Sekhmet fell briefly silent, then the leader raised her head. “I haven’t considered that.”

An He straightened unconsciously. She gazed once more at the Saint Lord’s face. Though Sekhmet’s expression and posture showed no change, An He felt those wrinkles—symbols of terror—concealed unshakeable strength, compelling submission.

An He nearly yielded. She suddenly understood why Sekhmet spoke so much, chatted casually with her, unperturbed by her shock and bewilderment.

So that’s it.

So that’s it!

Babel Tower’s Thought Implantation tech was trivial. The Saint Lord delighted in inking this blank slate. Now, that seemingly free dialogue—her choice to listen and think—was the true beginning of thoughts taking root.

Sekhmet was the key figure in silently implanting ideas.

In An He’s shocked eyes, the decisive leader gazed out the window again. The moonlight was completely obscured by clouds, as if dawn would never rise.

Sekhmet spoke gravely, “So, Gu Xianqing, we must eliminate her as soon as possible. Those Black Fogs and Gu Xianqing are in league—she’ll drag everyone into the abyss.”