Chapter 100: The Mad Shrike (I)

Gurgle, gurgle…

‘Is no one going to do anything? Someone is literally drowning in this metal box!’

You try desperately to lift your hand, struggling with every ounce of strength you can muster. Your arm does lift, but it floats upward with a strange, weightless drift.

You freeze. All the agonizing discomfort suddenly dissipates into the ether. You instinctively hold your breath, yet the crushing sensation of suffocation is completely gone.

Only then do you realize that you are not the master of this body.

The drowning, the freezing numbness, the suffocating pressure—all of those sensations are locked away with the actual owner of this physical form. You are merely a phantom hitchhiker, momentarily sharing his senses.

[Project “Deep Blue Tree” detected. No response.]

[Project “Heaven’s Fulcrum” detected. No response.]

[Project (Y… detected. No response.]

[Project (^.^) detected. Responding.]

In the suffocating darkness, a cold, synthetic female voice broadcasts a string of alerts. It speaks in a language you have absolutely no memory of learning, yet you understand every single syllable perfectly.

The next moment, a sliver of blinding white light violently pierces the boundless dark. A slightly cool hand reaches through the glare and grasps “your” hand.

“Prophet, Father… I am sorry to wake you early, but I need your help.”

Kal’tsit, clad in heavy combat gear, looks down at “you.” Her expression is entirely alien to the memories you hold of her. There is no coldness, no biting sarcasm—only the deep admiration and absolute trust a child might hold for a father.

You immediately realize exactly what era you are witnessing.

‘Oh no, I am looking through the eyes of the Ghost of Babel?!’You feel your eyes grow incredibly sore. Under the stinging glare of the overhead lights, physiological tears silently merge into the thick nutrient fluid flooding the Sarcophagus. It looks exactly like blood flowing back into blood, or ancient hatred melting into fresh hatred.’What a beautifully poetic metaphor!’You mentally clap your hands in sheer amazement.’So the entire foundation of that melancholy, tragic mastermind vibe was actually just terminal chuunibyou?!’

The person lying in the coffin instinctively thrashes. Trembling fingers violently tear away the life-support tubes embedded in his flesh, causing a blurred mist of crimson blood to explode outward into the green nutrient fluid.

Kal’tsit firmly grasps his fingers. Using her use, he drags himself up into a sitting position and instinctively scans the room.

“Cough, cough… Cough!”

“Doctor, welcome back.”

The acrid smell of ancient dust, rusty steel walls, tangled hoses scattered across the floor emitting a sickly green glow, a white-haired feline covered in fresh blood splatters, the low hum of operating machinery, and the slowly darkening hibernation pod. These elements constitute your past self’s very first impression of this ruined world.

“…How long was I asleep?”

His voice is terribly raspy, ground down to gravel by the long slumber. Floating just behind your past self like a tethered wraith, you notice him instinctively clenching his knuckles tight.

This is a tiny, subconscious habit you only ever display when you are completely terrified. You reach out, letting your transparent fingers brush against his shoulder.

Instantly, a tidal wave of intense unease and suffocating fear climbs into your mind. The gap between the legendary Evil Spirit feared across your era and this lost, helpless version of yourself is a vast, unbridgeable chasm. He feels no different from the panicked protagonists of those cheap transmigration web novels you used to read.

You quickly yank your hand away and shake it hard. If negative emotions pile up too much, they will turn this body into a Terra-style pressure cooker. You refuse to take a losing deal where one person suffers twice for the same trauma. Better to let the Ghost of Babel digest his own panic.

Fortunately, the internal terror does not affect his external performance in the slightest. His expression remains so chillingly calm that it actually makes Kal’tsit nervous.

“I… I know I should not have woken you early,” she stammers slightly, “but an unforeseen change has occurred on this land. I found something I want to change.”

She pauses, her voice softening. “…Can you help me?”

‘Wow, Kal’tsit actually had such a well-behaved, docile side?’

You watch this feline—who has clearly not yet experienced the bitter sting of betrayal—with absolute amazement. Upon seeing “you” awake, her tense expression visibly relaxes. She carries a hint of unconscious reliance and deep relief, acting as if simply waking “you” up will automatically solve every problem in the world.

Meeting Kal’tsit’s trusting, expectant gaze, you gleefully place your phantom hand right back onto your past self’s shoulder. Sure enough, the crushing internal pressure and anxiety instantly doubles.

Unfortunately, it seems only this specific fragment is deeply etched into “your” memory. Before you can get enough of observing this ultra-rare, limited-edition Kal’tsit, your vision goes completely black. You have forcibly entered story-skip mode.

‘If my brain is so capable of storing memories, then let me see the whole damn story! What is the point of cutting out two CG segments and playing them back like a broken PowerPoint presentation!’

Before you can even formulate another complaint, a massive headache hits your skull like a blunt club. The brief wraith-perspective permanently freezes on Kal’tsit’s smiling, outstretched hand.

“Doctor… Doctor?”

Rosmontis follows closely behind the Doctor, who has been unusually quiet ever since laying eyes on the Blood Diamond. Following his casual hand gestures, the young feline easily crushes several mutated monsters attempting to block their path. The Doctor clearly knows just as little about this abandoned, decaying world as the rest of them do, yet his adaptation speed remains downright terrifying.

“Do not worry, just follow me.” The Doctor habitually pulls his hood down lower and threads his way through the crumbling ruins, perfectly staying within the monsters’ blind spots. He waves a hand without looking back. “Over here.”

Yato hesitates for a fraction of a second before falling into step. Though she was officially assigned to be his vanguard guard, she has found almost zero opportunity to actually draw her blade. Compared to the precise, calculated predictions she witnessed when she first experienced the Doctor’s command, these bizarre, rule-breaking tactics seem infinitely more effective on this Originium-riddled wasteland.

The Doctor connects to PRTS once again. Without anyone knowing exactly what command he issued, the holographic interface quickly transitions from a standard pale blue to a dead grayish-white. Lines of code, so heavily encrypted and complex that Yato cannot even begin to make them out, scroll rapidly across the screen. They finally condense into a single string of bizarre characters.

The Doctor glances at the screen, nods to himself, and casually gestures toward a seemingly random patch of empty space.

“…Roughly this way. Rosmontis, compress your Originium Arts, lock spell intensity at exactly 82 percent. Adnachiel, set up the field shielding base station.”

Steward looks resentfully at this scummy Commander who has somehow managed to forget his name yet again, but he obediently pulls the heavy equipment from his tactical bag and begins the on-site assembly without a word of complaint.

As Rosmontis brings her massive sword-shield slamming down, the large, highly stable clusters of Originium crystals embedded in the ruins shatter instantly, spraying razor-sharp fragments in all directions. The previously stable fabric of space begins to violently fluctuate.

The Doctor calmly removes his tactical glove and reaches his bare hand directly into the center of the space, which is currently rippling like the surface of a disturbed lake. With a slight exertion of force, looking as casual as someone snapping a dry wafer in half, he tears the fabric of reality apart. A pitch-black sky is immediately revealed through the fractured, bleeding rift in space.

“If this were a video game, this would probably be the entrance to the next level. Who wants to scout the way for me first?”

No Rhodes Island operator could ever refuse such a direct invitation. Rosmontis is the very first to jump into the void, with Steward following close behind her heels.

Yato instinctively turns back, her hand resting on her hilt. “I want to cover your rear.”

The Doctor smiles faintly and waves his free hand, gesturing toward his other arm, which is currently holding the spatial rift wide open like a snapped cracker. “Do not worry about me. I will be right behind you.”

Yato nods slowly. “…Understood. I await your command on the other side.”

Then she bends her knees and leaps into the darkness.

For a brief, silent moment, only one living person remains in this utterly desolate world.

The Doctor maintains the passage with one hand while looking back, his gaze nostalgic as he surveys this world that has become nothing more than a hollow, rotting shell.

Without looking back a second time, he steps forward and enters the passage. He takes with him that glowing Blood Diamond, an artifact as tragic and beautiful as the frozen heart of a dead civilization.

With his final departure, the world that had barely managed to maintain its fragile existence folds in on itself. It shatters like a piece of crumpled scrap paper, burning away bit by bit until absolutely nothing remains.

[Rhodes’s Note:

Enjoying the operation so far, Doctor?

(This daily grind literally pays the landship’s rent! 🙇‍♂️):

Massive thanks for reading and supporting the operation!]