Chapter 114
Chapter 114
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Oh Bloody, Boom Blada (3)
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***
Ian's plan to live out his life until his dying breath amid glorious blasts of gunpowder had failed spectacularly, in the most anticlimactic way possible.
The war was over. Not with victory or defeat, but just... poof. Gone one day, as empty and pointless as could be.
"How long are you going to keep waiting?"
"..."
Even as Gustav taunted him, Ian remained silent, revising his operations map. According to the scouts, the 13th Brigade had disbanded too, so he needed to reallocate personnel to watch that front as well...
"The war's over. You know that, right? Two months ago, some nuke from who-knows-where landed between enemy and friendly lines, turned everything to shit, and since then? No orders. No enemy movements. It's done. The flames of the world-burning war have consumed everything and finally flickered out. Hey, you listening?"
"..."
Ian ignored him again. The enemy was still out there. With their chain of command in disarray, he could wipe them out without losses. His own forces were in a similar state, sure, but at least the unit he led and the bunch calling themselves his guard were still loyal to orders. With minimal manpower, if things went well...
"There are! No! Enemies! Left!"
Riiip!
The operations map tore roughly in his hands, revealing Gustav's furious eyes beyond it. Ian stared at the man reflected in those eyes—a version of himself uncharacteristically shaken.
Ian let the pencil snap from his white-knuckled grip.
"If there are no enemies... then what am I supposed to live for?"
"...What?"
"What should I live for from now on? As a petty thief, a kid doing odd jobs at an orphanage, a college student, a mercenary, and then a commander. It wasn't a long life, but if I had to pick the most satisfying stretch, I'd choose without hesitation the days on the battlefield. But without enemies, there's no combat, no soldiers to fight it, no commanders to lead them. So what fills me now, Gustav?"
Gustav al-Harb. He was a soldier in much the same boat as Ian. Commander of the 8th Allied Forces, well-respected, and one of the survivors now that the war had ended. They'd run ops together a few times, so they got along decently. If you had to label it, closest thing to 'friends.' Minus the intimacy that word implies.
"God, is that really you I'm looking at, Ashfield? The old folks and kids you burned to ash would weep blood at this sight!"
Ian couldn't understand Gustav's sarcasm. What did the dead have to do with him?
Shaking his head at Ian's utterly baffled expression, Gustav let out a sigh-like chuckle.
"Well, yeah. You've always been that kind of guy. Better this way, actually."
"Better how?"
"I racked my brain for three days straight figuring out how to convince a thick-headed bastard like you, and now I don't have to."
Gustav plopped down in the chair across from Ian.
"Ashfield. Let's start a military outfit together. You want enemies? First, we make allies. Allies draw the clearest line against enemies, don't they?"
"A military group... like mercenaries?"
"Not quite. You know how the world's spinning now? These zombie-like mutants crawling around, most places irradiated to hell—no place for humans. Governments, laws, rules—all gone. It's a world ruled by raw power! And we're commanders at the pinnacle of that power. Leaders of armies floating free with no affiliation, no one to give orders."
Gustav's face burned with conviction as he ranted, clenching the air like he was grasping a future already in reach.
"We become the center. Soldiers follow orders. Give 'em a clear goal and commands, and the scattered troops will flock to us one by one. We rise to the top in this power-driven world! You and me!"
"So the enemies... who exactly would we be fighting?"
Ha!
Gustav snorted at Ian's question.
"Not even worth asking. Enemies? The whole world will be! An era of struggle by all against all, for all! The war isn't over! It's just getting started!"
Boom!
With his fervent declaration, Gustav slammed both fists on the desk.
"Join me, Ashfield. I'll give you enough enemies to feed that self-destructive hunger of yours."
Eyes blazing like fire. Ian noticed his own trembling hands had stilled, a smile tugging at his lips.
Beneath the flickering incandescent bulb, the two men shook hands. Gustav al-Harb—the man soldiers called Raptor—didn't lie. With his unique charisma, he gathered aimless soldiers under him, formed the Raptor Society, and declared war on the world.
***
"Kehehhehe. Obvious name, right? The guy called Raptor and the Raptor Society. Gustav was ambitious like that. Me? I didn't care as long as there were things to burn and blow up. Win-win for both of us. That way, with the military structure as a base, the Raptor Society took shape, and I ended up as Swarm Alpha alongside three other division commanders who joined later."
Fwooo—
The harsh cigar smoke mingled with the sharp booze fumes. He was drunk. Yeah, definitely drunk. The alcohol, nicotine, or maybe just the crisp dawn vibe after so long.
"It was pretty satisfying. Gustav kept his word. Enemies everywhere, and raiding supplies hoarded by early survivors beat hunkering down for scraps any day. Raptor grew strong, rich, drew bigger crowds. When we learned about the Dome—those insanely tough bastards—I laughed louder than I had since seeing that nuke on my tenth birthday. I just knew: 'Ah, these turtle-shelled freaks'll keep me company till I die!'"
Monster. His enemies called him an emotionless monster. Back then, he couldn't fathom it. He was just making the rational choice. Fine for enemies, but why did his own side fear him?
"One year on, I survived as Raptor's Swarm Alpha, practically their poster boy. Grim, but back then it felt fulfilling. Like I was living out my reason for being born, clear as day. Fulfilling, satisfying—packed with war and slaughter. Right up until the third blast."
"The third blast?"
"Yeah, that."
He could picture the puzzled looks on his friends' faces without looking. How to explain this? Superstition, maybe, but Ian believed in the explosions tied to his fate. Four blasts that upended his life. The third came a few months after he met her.
***
Ian Desmond was a man who could debate explosives for three days and nights straight, but he had zero interest in anything else. If you had to pick, just efficiency and rationality—that was his pursuit.
That's why he shared the general ward with regular soldiers instead of the exec suites, ate the same chow. Big fancy rooms, gourmet meals? Waste. Better for morale if the troops got it, not perks for a few brass.
It was that frugal streak, plus the wounds from throwing himself into more battles than anyone, that let Ian meet Molly, the nurse working the ward.
"C-Cold... Don't wanna die, m-mommy. Mommy..."
To Ian, who spent most of his Nest time in the hospital, the scene was profoundly irritating. Not because it was a soldier. He'd seen countless dying.
'Leg's got a through-and-through, bone shattered but survivable. Gut wound though... secondary blast injury. That melted rock shard's plasma explosion debris. He's as good as dead.'
Hopeless case at a glance. But the nurse in blood-soaked whites gripped the dying man's hand, locking eyes, soothing his terror.
'Stupid waste. Spend that time on salvageable patients, save more lives. Inefficient.'
Unaware of Ian's thoughts, the nurse showed the same every time he was admitted. One day, he couldn't take it and called out.
"Hey."
"Antiseptic over here! Antiseptic, please! Clyde's on painkillers stat!"
"...Hey!"
Zing!
Only after several shouts did she turn. Getting hostile glares from non-enemies? Long time.
"Desmond? Something wrong?"
Ian hesitated. Inefficient, but dedicated asset. Rational to say 'you annoy me'?
"...Bed 13's a goner. No need to bother."
His agonizing hesitation turned rebuke to advice.
"I know. Sergeant Max is too far gone."
"Memorizing names is pointless. Beds are numbered for a reason."
"Can't just call a dying man 'Bed 13 Patient!'"
"You medics know the states better, so triage before bedding down—way more efficient."
"Ugh, seriously!"
Her response irked him far worse.
"You don't just chop up lives like that! As long as there's breath, you give it everything—that's obvious!"
"No, that's insane inefficiency... Ugh!"
Protesting her nonsense, a blanket smacked his face.
"If you got breath to yap, discharge yourself! And quit stalking me with those creepy eyes—stop getting hurt!"
"No, I just..."
Her loaded words begged protest, but by the time he tossed the blanket, she was at another patient.
"...Ridiculous."
Even ignorant of outside affairs, who in Raptor treated Swarm Alpha—their top dog—like this? Slow-witted girl?
Adding 'severe mental disorder' to his assessment of the oddly captivating woman made it fit perfectly.
"Manners, attitude—total airhead."
Watching her smile warmly at another patient, Ian's unease grew. One word, one gesture, and she'd kneel before him.
"...Pointless."
Instead, he closed his eyes, pondering what about her grated on him.
After that, Ian got readmitted a few more times, encountering her same inefficiency. His mounting frustration led to sincere advice each pass-by—tailored efficiency plans shoved her way. She'd counter with life’s weight, stuff Ian couldn't grasp, arguing nonstop.
Over time, Ian admitted he enjoyed it. But why? Achievement from turning inefficiency to efficiency, he guessed.
***
"Isn't that totally it? Love at first sight?"
Ian nodded at Bex prodding his side.
"Not love at first sight, but yeah. Fell for her hard. Didn't know it then. I'd been with women, sure, but never took the lead. They chased my looks; I went along 'cause others said it was good. Never felt romance anyway."
"Lucky bastard."
"Got royally chewed out by the wife material."
"Hahaha, how'd you know? Wasn't sure it was love, but definitely interested. Offered her my aide spot. Swarm Alpha level got perks like that. Figured she'd jump—nursing's brutal, especially trauma wards like this. Know what she said?"
The professor downed his glass, face sour as ever.
"What?"
"Flat-out: 'I hate killing people!' Couldn't help pleading. Aide's not that—no front lines, no guns. Just schedule, paperwork... Pathetic begging, but she wouldn't budge. Said fine, left. Sad? Nah. But that 'unease' snowballed without me noticing."
Ian's dreamy tone dripped happiness as he reminisced. Friends gagged at the sweetness, but he pressed on.
"Wrestled that mystery unease. Going back... felt weird. But ignoring it was worse. That night? Blasted every bomb and gun in the range till dawn. Halfway through torching the place, a brilliantly stupid idea hit."
***
'Kill her.'
Ears ringing from nonstop shooting till sunrise, but it untangled the knot, birthing a crystal-clear solution. How hadn't he seen it before?
'Sure, intriguing, but just a hobby. If it's messing with daily life this bad, isn't it a drug-like poison?'
Explosives always delivered. One day, perfect answer!
"Borrow this."
"J-Just take it!"
"Will do."
Ian grabbed a silver revolver from the range wall, stepped out. Its heavy chill firmed his resolve. One shot. One, and months of chest-tickling 'unease' gone. Efficient. Clean.
By the time the ward's Red Cross came into view, he was humming. Soon, her. What to say? Just shoot? Or dissect why she had to die? Like debating her childish vitalism?
'No long speeches, but one line's fine. Come to think, only non-explosive thing that's entertained me. Hmm... 'This was avoidable.' Reminds her she's the irritant—wouldn't have to die otherwise.'
Cool-headed as ever, Ian reached a lucid conclusion, mood uncharacteristically buoyant as he flung open the ward door.
Screeech!
Amid alcohol and blood stench, a sharp cry pierced the ward.
"Ow, our little nurse. Hurts, huh?"
"Ugh!"
"So why not listen? We're patients too, y'know?"
The charged air sank Ian's high instantly. No—plummeted to abyssal depths of unprecedented twisted horror.
Five soldiers. Unhurt. Surrounding, intimidating someone.
"Nuts all night, come here for relief, and you? 'No fuss in ward, get out'? Talk to a patient like that?"
"Raptor's girl? You knew the score! Acting pure! Who wants marriage? Just fun times!"
"Hey, Dixon! Enough taming—drag her in!"
"Aaagh!"
Then, the familiar features of the woman grabbed by her hair, cheek swollen purple—
Snap.
Something broke in his head. A pitch-black, sticky emotion Ian had never felt flooded from brain to fingertips to toes.
Nothing visible. Patients staring at his beastly roar-charge, panicked soldiers, insignia of Swarm Alpha's elite guard on their shoulders. Just hoped his headshot habit made their end hurt.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! ...Bang!
Came to after blowing five heads off, pumping an extra into the hair-grabber's corpse. All dead, yet compulsion screamed more to do.
Stepping over spasming, blood-gushing bodies, Ian approached her. Why? Brain fed fragments only, no full thoughts.
'Why'd I do that? Allies. But right. Why though? Meaning? Dunno. Revolver's great. Right! Revolver. Purpose. Tied to her. Finish that, say something...'
Curled in a brain-and-blood-soaked corner, trembling. Sight ignited uncontrollable panic in Ian's chest. Must do something. Or...!
[I hate killing people!]
'Ah...'
His mind quit proper thought, spewing words as they bubbled up.
"Th-This...!"
Clack!
Ting, clink—
"Was unavoidable!"
Hurling the revolver, Ian babbled. Empty casings pinged sadly—irrelevant.
"A-As Raptor's leader, I must protect members!"
Lie. Truckloads of troops discarded like rags.
"They threatened you, Raptor's medic—betraying lives your hands could save—so had to 'exclude' them from Raptor! Not meaningless murder!"
Desperation mounting, Ian identified one unease: fear. Killing five in front of a woman who despised murder, cherished life.
Ian couldn't believe himself. Kill allies? First. Lie? First. Pant with anxiety? First. Blackout rage? First. And...
"So... reconsider... please."
Heart pounding like never before, swear to god.
"I know it. I'm a hollow shell under this fancy Swarm Alpha title. Clung desperately to what little emotions I had to fill the void! Yeah! That was enough, a full life! Until now!"
Ian reached out. Her fear-shaking shoulders moved him before thought.
Doffed his coat over her, gently embraced. Piled 'uneases' unraveled along emotion threads, bursting like buds from his depths.
"But... with you, maybe I can change. Even a lifelong emotionless monster become human? Can't bear it."
She gave her all to the hopeless. Seeing her devote to the unsavable, Ian realized: maybe she'd share true feeling with his corpse-like emptiness.
She slowly raised her head to his heartfelt confession. Kneeling like confession, clutching life's last hope, Ian pulled her close.
"So, please... one chance. To live as human by your side..."
Crunch.
Guilt and shame tightening, teeth gritted mid-confession, Ian froze. In his arms, she hugged back. More beautiful than a thousand words—permission.
Like a newborn's wail announcing arrival, Ian wept in her embrace. First hold like this in 22 years since his sister's death. No one else.
***