Those Who Wish to Be Liberated
Chiiik— I arrived at the train’s final stop. The platform was quiet. Everyone disembarking here had business at the border, just like me. A former conductor, now wearing a sixth-grade attendant badge on his chest, barked at the passengers.
“All of you, up. From this point on, I will be escorting you.”
As with most social hierarchies, the secret police also saw their numbers dwindle sharply the higher the rank. The turning points were the third, sixth, and ninth grades—ranks where authority expanded dramatically. The man who introduced himself as our escort was sixth-grade. Given that this was the front line, he likely held as much sway as Campbell had at fifth-grade.
The soldiers among the passengers began gathering their belongings and filing out of the train in orderly lines at the escort’s command.
“As of this moment, you have entered the border zone. From now on, trust no one except your assigned direct superior. The instant you leave camp, every human being is an enemy. Remember that.”
His tone was rough, yet the advice was sound. In a border region crawling with spies, warning them to trust no one outside their chain of command was a small mercy.
Once we stepped off the train, we found lines already formed. Instructors checked official documents one by one before assigning people to their units. I joined the queue at the rear.
So there really are no civilians here.
The previous station had been only thirty minutes away, yet the atmosphere here was nothing like the village-like settlement we had left behind. Tension hung in the air, as though battle could erupt at any moment. A cold, hostile chill permeated everything.
My turn came quickly. When the instructor examined my papers, his eyes widened. He bowed his head low and spoke with deference.
“It is an honor to meet you. Please follow me.”
He did not seem to recognize me personally. As Campbell had said, rank itself commanded respect in this place. The instructor handed off document-checking duties to a colleague and began guiding me.
We exited through the nearest gate and approached a cluster of buildings that resembled barracks. Without knocking, the instructor flung open the door of one. A red-haired woman tumbled out—she had apparently been leaning against it. She looked up at us and gave an awkward laugh.
“Huh? Haha… What’s going on?”
The instructor clicked his tongue. He did not look surprised, suggesting this was hardly the first time.
“You lot have used up all your good days. You’ll be dead soon.”
“Yeah, thanks for the blessing. So what’s the matter?”
“Your unit’s new commander has arrived. You’d better stop acting like lunatics. The man has summary execution authority. Or don’t stop—feel free to keep going. Do whatever you want.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide at his words.
“What…? Why would someone third-grade or higher come to a place like this?”
From the exchange, I could piece together the situation. They had dumped me into the most troublesome squad even among the suicide units. I dismissed the escort.
“You may go.”
He saluted and left. I reached down, grabbed the still-prone woman, and hauled her upright.
“Wh-whoa! What strength…”
“Your previous captain was captured while being pursued and dragged off to a West Teron laboratory, correct? They marked him missing, presumed dead.”
“Y-yes… That’s right.”
“Then there should still be a sample of him at the lab.”
“Th-that would be the case… right?”
Her answers confirmed she was not entirely sane. Yet the fact that she was still alive suggested her skills might actually be decent. I walked past her into the barracks.
The interior was a disaster—half-eaten food, discarded clothes, and trash strewn everywhere. Amid the mess sat a single man.
Is this one a teammate too?
I had asked the Prime Minister for people who knew West Teron’s geography well. This was the squad I had been assigned. The state of the place was unacceptable.
I spoke with genuine intent.
“If you prove useless, you’ll likely be corpses by tomorrow. I hope your abilities live up to the task.”
Anyone third-grade or higher possessed summary execution rights—the authority to arbitrarily sentence sixth-grade and lower officials to death. If these two were truly worthless, I could simply kill them and request a new team. The man, realizing this, paled and stammered.
“We’ve already prepared for the illegal border crossing! We just hadn’t received word on when you would arrive, so we were resting for a moment…”
He trailed off, sensing that further excuses would only make things worse. At least he had some sense. Hearing that the crossing was already arranged, I smiled faintly.
“Is that so? Then we leave now. You have fifteen minutes.”
I turned away. There was no reason to waste time.
Fifteen minutes later, the two spies emerged looking presentable, dressed in civilian clothes rather than uniforms. The woman handed me a wooden pendant bearing the same unusual crest as the ones they wore.
“We’ll explain the details on the way.”
They adapted quickly. I climbed into the carriage the spies had prepared, and we set off.
***
East Bali and West Teron were divided east-to-west, so their shared border ran north-to-south. Beyond that lay foreign territory. We were currently at the southernmost end of that border.
“If we continue south, we’ll reach lands where various minority tribes live together. Among them, the Balabol tribe is said to be highly suitable for Chimera production. We’ll blend in with them and allow ourselves to be abducted into West Teron. After that, the rest of our team already embedded there will extract us, and we’ll replace the three Balabol we were ‘abducted’ with. That’s the outline.”
It sounded simple, yet it was clever. The fact that West Teron hunted minority tribes for Chimera materials was no secret. But knowing exactly when and where they conducted these operations—and swapping people during the process—required deep infiltration. In other words, our people had already penetrated quite far.
They’re not as incompetent as their first impression suggested.
“Tell me about West Teron’s current Chimera situation. Scale, number of core creators, achievements—everything.”
The male agent, looking tense, began reciting the information.
“Chimera production appears to exceed ten thousand units per year. Most are only minor physical alterations. Additionally, the twenty core creators produce roughly forty high-grade specimens annually. These are capable of full-body transformation.”
Ten thousand first-stage and forty second-stage Chimeras per year. Boots could create one second-stage per day. Individually, Boots and his assistants were overwhelmingly superior, but in total output they were far behind.
They certainly have the manpower.
Chimera work on zombies had already increased overall combat strength by about 1.5 times. Even at the first stage the difference was noticeable. Since zombies fought primarily with their bodies, attaching useful modifications produced immediate, tangible results. If I could absorb all of West Teron’s infrastructure, the gains would be enormous.
Of course, this was national-level production. At the very least, their core technicians were highly desirable.
“Were the twins a stroke of luck?”
“Yes, they were. The twins were considered nothing short of miraculous. They were the first successful second-stage mutations in history. Because of that, many believe full-scale war may resume soon.”
“What do you think?”
The agent pondered for a moment before shaking his head.
“In my personal opinion, they won’t. East Bali holds too great an advantage in open warfare. West Teron can’t simply push forward because of the nature of the Chimera industry. Once they lost their second-stage specimens, they effectively lost any chance of victory.”
“Couldn’t they just make more?”
“If it were that easy, it wouldn’t be called a miracle.”
I already knew this. Inducing a second-stage mutation in a Chimera required the ability to autonomously cultivate aberrant cells—something only third-stage Chimeras could produce. In other words, creating a third-stage Chimera required a third-stage Chimera. A bizarre, circular structure.
West Teron must be seething.
Even their top creators could barely produce one second-stage every six months. Third-stage work was likely beyond them anyway. Still, having no opportunity at all was very different from having a slim chance.
Conversely, I couldn’t understand why the assailants who had attacked the Prime Minister had acted so passively and refrained from mutating.
Do they not realize the value of a third-stage sample…?
If someone had stolen my only third-stage sample, I would have dispatched my strongest forces immediately. Or perhaps there was some reason I didn’t yet know.
Either way, it works in my favor.
The third-stage Chimeras I currently possessed were only half-successes. Rather than true autonomous cell cultivation, Ju Giju’s regenerative ability had been used to force the mutations. Once the twins began cooperating with research in earnest, I would finally obtain complete third-stage specimens.
“Good. You know your information well. Then do you also understand what our next objective is?”
“Uh… Previously our mission was to infiltrate laboratories and extract information. We haven’t been briefed on any new orders. Has the mission changed?”
“We will infiltrate the laboratory where the Chimeras are created and secure their research data.”
Both agents looked shocked. Chimera research data was essentially worthless to East Bali. There was no reason to risk their lives obtaining it. So I decided to give them a small incentive.
“You know I have summary execution authority, correct?”
“Y-yes, we do…”
I grinned.
“Having that authority also means I can grant corresponding rewards. If the mission succeeds, you’ll receive whatever compensation you desire.”
“Whatever we desire…?”
What did they want? According to the personnel files I had received beforehand, these two were convicts. Their crime? Rebellion. It was almost laughable. In the past, many minority tribes had been absorbed into Baliteron. The impoverished tribes had supported the Chimera industry—ironically, it was one of the few ways the lowest classes could earn money. Then the nation split. The minorities living in the east naturally fell under East Bali’s rule and were branded traitors. Traitors were sent to the front lines. That was how the suicide units began.
Yet even in war, love could bloom. Second-generation children were born among the suicide units, and they grew up continuing their parents’ fate. The two standing before me were exactly that—second-generation descendants of traitors. They were people who longed for liberation from East Bali.
“I have been granted autonomy.”
At my words, the spies froze. Autonomy meant that if I accepted them, they could escape East Bali’s grasp. I was offering to fulfill the wish their parents’ generation had carried for so long.
East Bali condemned West Teron for treating people inhumanely and turning them into Chimeras without consent. Yet East Bali had its own Chimeras—the suicide units. The border zone was the place where East Bali’s inhuman product and West Teron’s inhuman product slaughtered each other. That was the true face of the frontier.