Chapter 84: First Fortress 36

The instruments in the single-patient room emitted steady beeping sounds, quiet and comfortable.

An He had finished her emergency surgery. Her external injuries were severe, but fortunately, she hadn’t lost any limbs. After the stitches, she needed long-term bed rest.

By the time the anesthesia wore off, it was already 5 a.m.

An He lay in bed, pondering for a moment, then pressed the call button on the bedside. She said she had some psychological trauma and needed a companion.

An He specifically requested Kazama Asagiri, who was currently following Sekhmet to investigate the God Blood Incubation Room. But Sekhmet approved An He’s request.

Kazama Asagiri entered, and An He got straight to the point: “How’s Professor Wen?”

“Still in surgery, but I hear her condition is stable—no immediate danger to her life.” Tension and relief mingled on Kazama Asagiri’s face. “Good thing you reacted fast. If Professor Wen had died, then—”

An He cut in: “Then Babel Tower explodes, and everyone dies. You included.”

Kazama Asagiri paused. “I meant all the Professor’s experiments would grind to a halt. If she died, no one else could take over. But yeah, what you said too—those projects would’ve gone up in the blast with her.”

An He mulled over Kazama Asagiri’s words. Could the God have spared Wen Yewang for those projects? She couldn’t think of any other experiments the God might covet.

“So, without Professor Wen, the Research Institute shuts down?” An He asked.

“More than that. She’s the Saint Lord’s right-hand woman. A lot of the Saint Lord’s strategies rely on her tech support. If the Professor died, the Saint Lord alone couldn’t keep the old systems running.”

An He recalled the brainwashing methods and the Heroic Spirits Society Captain’s Resurrection Plan—both tied to the Saint Lord’s power base. These two were more intertwined than even Su Ling and Ide.

An He chuckled wryly: “That’s dangerous, putting all the projects in one person’s hands. Does Professor Wen like hoarding power that much?”

Her question was blunt, increasingly bold. Kazama Asagiri wouldn’t harm her anyway.

“Not really. Actually, Professor Wen’s been grooming successors.” Kazama Asagiri poured An He a glass of water. Seeing her spirits were good despite being bandaged head to toe—and still chatting—she went along with the small talk. “Truth be told, I’m one of them. But we can only learn the techniques. The methods and processes? Sure. But that daring resolve? No. No one can match what Professor Wen pulls off.”

Fair enough.

Scouring this land wouldn’t turn up another Wen Yewang. No one else could match her cruelty or madness.

An He sized up Kazama Asagiri. She looked like the “normal researcher” An He had imagined—probably holed up in the research group long-term, with superiors handling the dirty work, focused solely on her tasks. No schemes or twists. Among everyone An He had met, she was the least effort to approach.

—And the most easily overlooked, exploited, harmless.

This is what ordinary people are like.

An He hadn’t seen Kazama Asagiri at work, but for Wen Yewang to pull her into secret projects, her research skills must be solid. Too bad, in the First Fortress crawling with ruthless types, Kazama Asagiri’s plain personality meant she’d never measure up to Wen Yewang.

“Professor Wen worries about it too. She even jokes with us that her subordinates are so useless, she doesn’t dare die.” Kazama Asagiri smiled. “Of course, that’s not her real thinking. She hasn’t lived enough yet—better to keep on living.”

She will live—and thrive. Before Kazama Asagiri arrived, An He had mustered some strength and used her Eye of Prophecy a second time to glimpse Wen Yewang three months from now: limbs intact, full of vim and vigor. This sudden battle hadn’t altered her future.

One tough cookie.

An He dropped the Wen Yewang topic and asked about the situation outside.

In stark contrast to the room’s serene quiet, the entire Babel Tower blazed with lights.

All Heroic Spirit troops mobilized: half cleared the mycelium clinging to the roots around the fortress and quarantined every infected Bone Eater in the Lower City. The other half followed Sekhmet to clean up the underground mess.

Medical teams and the Research Institute were on full alert—saving the living, examining the dead.

A skirmish in a mere five-kilometer radius had rattled the First Fortress’s entire core team. Everyone was run ragged, sleepless through the night.

Hearing about the outside calmed An He. Sekhmet’s response was swift and decisive—at least it stopped Bone Erosion Disease from ravaging the Lower City.

The Lower City was full of ordinary folk, not like them—resistant to the disease.

An He rested briefly, then asked Kazama Asagiri: “You and the Saint Lord checking the God Blood—find anything?”

“Speaking of which, the Saint Lord had me pass a message. Professor Wen injected Divine Blood into a Cabin Cocoon yesterday—that might’ve sparked this mess.” Kazama Asagiri recounted the Incubation Room logs and relayed the Saint Lord’s warning. “Vivian, your status is special. Best not touch any Divine Blood.”

An He nodded.

Sekhmet’s efficiency was as sharp as ever—pinpointing the cause so quickly and accurately. The blame fell on Wen Yewang, not her.

An He exhaled in relief. Her position was safe. Tomorrow’s questioning by the Saint Lord wasn’t so perilous.

Only now did An He fully relax her muscles. She could finally get some real sleep.

“Stay with me,” An He said, eyelids heavy. After chatting with Gu Xianqing, she’d need Kazama Asagiri’s help with something.

“Don’t worry.” Kazama Asagiri smiled faintly, assuming the battle had truly traumatized An He. “If you trust me, I’ll stay till you wake. No enemies here. Don’t be scared.”

Kazama Asagiri adjusted the vital signs monitor and added bits about the Incubation Room check. Turning back, she saw An He already asleep—thick lashes trembling faintly, sleep uneasy, breaths shallow, curled into a ball.

Kazama Asagiri gazed quietly at An He’s face. A few years older herself, she saw An He as a curious young explorer, clueless about this world like a child. She enjoyed answering her questions.

But still, Kazama Asagiri wondered: Is this what hatches from those black boxes I’ve monitored day and night? The more she interacted, the harder it was to see her as a mere subject.

If these Cabin Cocoons are no different from humans… next time I log a deactivated pod, seeing that red blood seep out—can I still numbly jot down the death number?

—I’d grown numb to it.

Sigh. Kazama Asagiri shook her head. I could never reach Professor Wen’s level.

Her soft sigh faded into the room.

Outside, twilight lingered, dawn slow to break. The barren Hamir Plains had lost its sole patch of green.

Otherwise, all was as before.

…

An He slept poorly. Images of slaughtering the Cabin Cocoon replayed relentlessly—blood at every blink.

Until warm sunlight bathed her eyelids, chasing away the unease. She opened her eyes to find herself no longer in the hospital room.

Everything around her was utterly unfamiliar—a bedroom, bed plush with a faint pine scent. Light poured from the window: afternoon sun flooding in, brightening the whole space.

An He stared out the window for a long moment, dazed.

The view was beautiful—swaying green acacia branches, light filtering through fragmented leaves, melodic birdsong lilting through. Nothing like the decayed Wasteland.

A dream? Yes, definitely.

An He snapped back, propping herself up to look the other way. Another window there, flanked by a tall bookshelf lined with long-unseen hardcover books. On the nearby sofa lounged Gu Xianqing, posture lazy, legs crossed and propped up, flipping through a paper book in her hands.

Not an ordinary book—it turned pages on its own.

Sunlight crossed over An He, just reaching Gu Xianqing. Half her body bathed in glow, hair shimmering golden-warm, while the other half hid in shadow, light unable to pass.

Like a painting.

“Whose room is this?” An He knew Gu Xianqing had woven the dream.

“Doesn’t matter.” Gu Xianqing set the book down but didn’t approach. The sofa was three meters from the bed—a safe distance. She let An He move, but only within the bed’s bounds.

Seeing no answer, An He laughed lightly: “Yours?”

Couldn’t be.

The room was too cozy, every inch meticulously arranged. Warm wood furniture neatly placed, no cold tones at all.

Did not match the current Gu Xianqing.

Besides, where could such a comfy room even exist now?

Gu Xianqing laughed, curling her legs onto the soft carpet: “Still curious? Your wounds don’t look that bad.”

“Severe.” An He sat up cross-legged, meeting Gu Xianqing’s gaze. The dream clothes were comfy—no bloodied bandages. She could move here; in reality, she couldn’t even cross her legs.

An He rubbed her cheek absentmindedly—no blood. She was clean now.

“Gu Xianqing.” Seeing her feet on the floor, An He steered to business: “Have you invaded Wen Yewang’s mind yet?”

“Not yet, been busy.” Gu Xianqing paused mid-rise, then sat back. “Aren’t you gonna ask about me first?”

An He felt the soft bedding under her palms: “Vivian made it back safe to the Lower City?”

“Heh.” Gu Xianqing leaned back arms-folded, the sofa shifting comfortably behind her. “You really… don’t care about me, huh.”

Gu Xianqing sighed, continuing on her own: “Lower City’s been lit up all night. Heroic Spirits Society swept for Bone Erosion patients across the whole area—anyone with symptoms dragged off, killed or quarantined. Your little sis made it back, but it’s not safe. Can’t expose ourselves, so Lola and the New Oasis crew hid all night.”

An absurd sensation welled in An He—like thorns piercing flesh. She opened her mouth, but words failed. Before sleep, she’d praised Sekhmet’s swift action stopping the disease’s spread.

But when policy hits real people, why does it turn to disaster?

Can the world never have it both ways?

Throat tight, An He lifted her numb hand moments later: “Blame the God’s invasion. It didn’t just hit the Cabin Cocoons—the ripple effects shattered the First Fortress’s fragile balance.”

“Call it that if you want.” Gu Xianqing didn’t argue. Someone always takes the fall.

“Gu Xianqing.” An He looked up. “One thing bothers me. We barely survived last night fighting tooth and nail. But those Cabin Cocoons were powerful—if they’d truly united, I couldn’t have picked them off one by one.”

Especially 707—she’d held out awhile after landing before dying, but her Innate Talent cut off midway. A bit longer, and An He’s predicament would’ve worsened.

But the God withdrew early.

Such easy retreat meant the God wasn’t cornered.

This was An He’s first real-world clash with a so-called god. The entity wielded terrifying power, capable of razing a fortress anytime.

If this was just her testing the waters… humanity’s path is precarious. Worse than even Sekhmet fears.

“Is the God dead?” An He already knew.

Gu Xianqing’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath in, slow out, ambiguous: “You’ve read the cultists’ books. Know how they call Her?”

“The… Immortal God?” An He’s relaxed body tensed in horror, fear spreading.

“What is a god, really?” An He asked Gu Xianqing, but got no answer.

She hadn’t expected one. Gu Xianqing never speculated on god-related matters.

“Kazama showed me the records Wen Yewang left in the incubation room,” An He said, observing Gu Xianqing’s expression. “Wen Yewang left a note next to the Divine Blood—Bone-Phagocytic Fungus evolved into a higher-dimensional being. Gu Xianqing, is that right?”

Gu Xianqing said nothing, simply holding her arms crossed in calm silence, offering no rebuttal.

An He let out a wry chuckle. That was probably it, then.

Since ancient times, the gods people worshipped had indeed been higher-dimensional beings in a certain sense. But in myths and legends, those who evolved into gods were always humans—or at least animals and plants, if you stretched it.

After all, they were stories written by humans. No one had ever mentioned fungi evolving into gods first.

Humanity had always known so little about them. But upon reflection, they were everywhere— in the air, on the skin, beneath ice sheets, under the deep sea—possessing astonishing adaptability and unparalleled survival prowess.

Now, it had evolved, gaining power on par with the God’s. It could think, parasitize, control, and even coexisted symbiotically with the radiation-laden Black Fog.

An He found it absurd, yet puzzled by her own sense of absurdity. Of course a god doesn’t have to be from another species?

“Won’t it die?” An He shifted her wording.

“Unlikely,” Gu Xianqing replied curtly.

An He recalled the Mycelium remnants in the Ninth Fortress cave—long dead, yet still capable of drawing nutrients from blood and flesh to revive. It truly was hard to kill.

It was too minute, too intelligent, with helpers everywhere, and masters of concealment.

Simply destroying a few Cabin Cocoons clearly wouldn’t shake its foundation. If you likened the God to Bone Eaters, the Cabin Cocoons were mere insignificant bones—lose the bones, shatter the Mycelium, and it still regenerated without issue.

She needed to find the God’s Core. That was the crux of the problem.

She had no idea where the God’s Core was, nor what its next plan might be.

Too tricky. An He had never dealt with a situation like this. The God would surely come for her again—could she evade every invasion? Would she end up like 707, controlled and wreaking havoc on everything? An inexplicable fear crept over her.

…

The air hung unusually still. Gu Xianqing looked up and saw An He with her head bowed, her loose hair draped obediently over her shoulders.

It was a long while before An He lifted her gaze. “Those hundreds of unformed Cabin Cocoons in the Incubation Base—I plan to destroy them.”

She stated it flatly.

Gu Xianqing dropped her arms in surprise, leaning forward. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“If the God controls these Cabin Cocoons and they repeat the same mistakes, better they never see the light of day,” An He said, lowering her eyes. Her voice came out flat and emotionless. “To me, these things Wen Yewang created—these Cabin Cocoons—should never have existed in the first place. Not a single one.”

Gu Xianqing frowned. “Is that really how you feel, An He?”

“Am I wrong?” An He tilted her head, asking calmly.

“No.” Gu Xianqing’s emotions stirred subtly. She stood abruptly, her breathing quickening as she countered.

“Why? Don’t you think so?”

“Of course not—because you are a Cabin Cocoon too. Without this plan, you wouldn’t exist.”

Gu Xianqing raised her voice. “I thought you’d already accepted your identity as a Cabin Cocoon.”

An He had accepted it quickly, showing no overt distress. From entering the First Fortress until now, she’d lived every moment amid treacherous schemes with no time to dwell. Even when Gu Xianqing told her An Ning wasn’t her mother but a researcher, An He hadn’t reacted strongly.

Gu Xianqing had thought Cabin Cocoons truly had such resilient acceptance.

But now she saw otherwise.

“You’re denying yourself,” Gu Xianqing said, furrowing her brow. “Do you think you shouldn’t have been nurtured into existence?”

An He smiled. “That’s not a choice I got to make.”

“What if it was?”

In that instant, 707’s final gaze flashed in An He’s mind.

“Then I’d choose no,” An He answered Gu Xianqing’s question.

Gu Xianqing’s breath trembled slightly as she realized this was the gravest chain reaction—a delayed side effect.

In the past, An He wouldn’t have given such an answer. Perhaps the deaths of the Cabin Cocoons had made her empathize with her own kind, stirring an existential crisis.

The crisis lingered in her subconscious, amplified by dreams, yet An He remained oblivious, failing to confront the trauma.

“Don’t regret it, An He.”

An He leaned back, propping herself up with her hands behind her, utterly relaxed. A gentle smile played on her face. “Gu Xianqing, have you never regretted anything?”

Gu Xianqing’s pupils flickered faintly with the shifting light. “I have no regrets.”

“I don’t believe there’s anyone like that in the world.”

“Then ask Wen Yewang. Ask Sekhmet. See if they regret creating all this.”

An He lowered her eyes, pondered, then laughed softly. “Yeah, they probably wouldn’t.”

An He relaxed fully, lying back as warm bedding enveloped her. “So I really don’t get it—where does this ‘stubbornly follow a path to the bitter end’ conviction come from for you people, even if it’s the wrong road?”

“Maybe because we want to live,” Gu Xianqing softened her tone. She stepped forward barefoot across the plush white carpet. “Everyone on this land shuns death, claims they’re not afraid—yet An He, no one willingly walks toward it. Death is real. It hurts.”

Gu Xianqing stood at the bedside, her cheeks bathed entirely in light, softened by a gentle glow.

“Regret breeds defeat, strips away hope. I won’t allow that. Little lamb, no matter where you were born, being alive is a good thing—and you must keep living. Only the living can write the history of life.”

“The living.” An He clutched the blanket, rolling over and muffling her face in it. Her voice remained flat. “Gu Xianqing, Cabin Cocoons have no mothers. We’re manufactured just to be sharp weapons. Are we even people?”

Gu Xianqing sat on the edge of the bed. In that moment, an intangible ache bloomed in her chest—she realized she didn’t actually relish others’ raw vulnerability.

Gu Xianqing leaned down, raising a hand to hover above An He’s hair, but this time it didn’t descend easily.

“An He.” Gu Xianqing withdrew her hand and repeated the name. “You do have a mother.”