Chapter 423: Detroit Extermination War (2)
Chapter 423: Detroit Extermination War (2)
"Another bust."
I had spent the last two days scouring almost every suspicious location I’d marked in advance, but I had nothing to show for it.
Just in case Harvey had betrayed us, I even peered through the bone walls to catch a glimpse of what was inside. However, by the time I found nothing behind the third Bone Wall, I decided it was a waste of time and chose to trust the barriers.
Of course, since Harvey wasn't exactly sharing information with us, there were places we’d marked that didn't have any bone walls at all. Those spots were equally fruitless.
Regardless of the lack of progress, the fact that Harvey was alive and doing his job was encouraging news. There was, however, one thing that really got on my nerves.
"That bastard’s chronic illness is flaring up again."
It was Harvey’s bad habit—likely born from his pretentious artistic streak—of trying to give every single thing he made out of bone a unique design.
It was practically a mental illness at this point; even the bone spears he fired in rapid succession had subtly different designs.
To be honest, Harvey was one of the more normal ones if you looked past his excessive obsession with bones. But that bizarre taste, combined with his self-proclaimed status as an artist, earned him a seat at the table of lunatics.
I hadn't noticed it at first because the first Bone Wall I saw was just a plain slab with some text carved into it. Looking back, he was probably going for a "minimalist" look.
If I asked him about it, he’d probably start rambling about "modernism" or some such nonsense.
In fact, every Bone Wall after the first one was far from simple, adorned with all sorts of decorations.
For instance, the third Bone Wall we found looked something like this: a circular hole was bored through the center of The Wall, and in the middle of that hole sat a white sphere covered in irregular spikes.
And on that Bone Wall, this sentence was carved:
‘Nothing here. – Harvey –’
‘– The Rising Star –’
The top part was written in neat block letters, while the bottom was scrawled in cursive like a signature.
That was likely the title of the piece.
As for why the first one didn't have a title, he’d no doubt spout some crap about it being an "Untitled" work intended to capture simplicity.
"Harvey is an artist, after all," Edward remarked, seemingly wanting to defend the guy after overhearing my half-muttered complaint.
"...There’s a time and a place for everything, isn't there?"
Even for a self-proclaimed artist, if he had the energy and time to make every single Bone Wall different in a situation like this, I wanted to tell him to use that time to actually work.
If this were a necessary condition for activating his ability, I’d give up and accept it. But as far as I knew, no such restriction existed in Harvey’s magic.
Of course, considering that magic is heavily influenced by the user's belief, it was possible that a restriction had formed simply because Harvey believed it should be so, even if it wasn't in the original magical formula.
Then again, seeing how he’d spam magic indiscriminately without a care for art when he was in a life-threatening situation, that probably wasn't it either.
In short, he was just wasting time because of his personal taste.
Harvey should consider himself lucky I wasn't standing next to him right now.
If I had seen that nonsense in person, I would have smacked him upside the head immediately.
Back in the day, I used to subject him to "magical punishment" involving physical correction every time he pulled stunts like this. He’d at least stopped doing it when I was around, but it seemed he’d regressed during our time apart.
Through the parenting books I read while raising Linshua, I’d fully realized that correction through violence isn't a great choice, whether the subject is a child or an adult.
But with Harvey, it didn't matter because hitting him at least relieved my stress.
Besides, it wasn't as if those guys in the Assassination Team had any room left in their personalities to twist further just because they took an extra punch or two.
Well, enough lamenting about Harvey.
He wasn't in front of me, so chewing him out in my head would only pile on more stress.
Therefore...
Smash.
I might as well break this.
A swift punch shattered the statue blocking our path.
It was a statue that, no matter how you looked at it, was a blatant plagiarism of The Thinker.
The title of the work was definitely...
—Endless Anguish—
I believe.
"Next. Let's move."
Having relieved some stress by smashing the plagiarized artwork, I led the team toward the next location.
* * *
I had told Svetlana we would start from the nearest location, but the general direction had been decided from the start.
From the outskirts of the city where we had been waiting, we moved gradually toward the center.
As we drew closer to the heart of the city, the surrounding sounds began to fade.
The first reason for the silence was that the Defense Force was still systematically carrying out operations from the outskirts and hadn't reached the center yet.
The second reason was that no one was left in the center.
The Management Bureau’s special Neutron Bomb had been dropped the moment the extermination war began.
Hardly any living creatures remained in the center of Detroit, which had taken a direct hit.
Naturally, one would expect corpses to be lining the streets. However, as if to prove the Doctors had entrenched themselves in The Core, the number of infected was so high that everyone had seemingly melted away. The streets were empty of bodies, filled only with vacant paths and puddles of melted flesh.
I had passed through these streets countless times while gathering information before the war, but not a trace of that atmosphere remained.
Only our footsteps echoed through the silent, deserted city.
Of course, it wasn't completely empty.
Occasionally, we saw remains.
Those who hadn't melted and remained as corpses had died with their bodies surprisingly intact.
However, most of them had died in similar ways.
Those clutching their eyes, those gripping their chests, and those fumbling over their own bodies.
They had crawled out of the concrete buildings that had shielded them from the initial neutron radiation, seeking someone to treat their dying bodies, and gripped the parts of themselves they were losing.
Those who had seen the flash at ground zero, or whose heads hadn't been shielded, resulting in damaged eyeballs.
Those whose torsos hadn't been shielded, causing neurological interference and the agonizing pain of cardiac arrest spreading from their chests.
Those who had avoided severe initial damage but, as their tissues failed, lost all sensation due to nerve damage and circulatory failure, fumbling with numb, clumsy hands over their own bodies as they turned purple with necrosis.
These were the forms of those who had clung to life for a brief moment, only to die in the end.
It would have been better if they had died instantly from lack of shielding; at least there would have been no pain.
Because they had partially blocked the neutron radiation for various reasons, they had felt the agony until the very end.
The number of pure civilians who died instantly or in lingering pain wasn't large, but they were undoubtedly victims of this operation.
Even the flesh-colored monsters couldn't completely block the Neutron Bomb detonated in the city center; they were struggling to move, trailing necrotic purple flesh behind them. It was safe to assume there were no civilian survivors.
And this wasn't even ground zero.
The Management Bureau’s special Neutron Bomb had exerted this much influence despite being a considerable distance from the blast center.
They’re definitely going to keep a tight lid on this information.
This weapon of mass destruction had been used a few times before, but mostly to strike large enemy forces in areas where it was certain no civilians could survive. Even if this was a slum, this was the first time it had been dropped on an inhabited area.
Even I found the sight quite gruesome. If even a single photo of this scene reached the media, the Management Bureau wouldn't be able to escape criticism.
It was a scene of mass slaughter that would instantly sweep away rational debates like "Was using a Neutron Bomb the right call?" and replace them with an instinctive sense of horror and dread.
"...Wasn't there a better way?"
It was Edward’s voice.
"It was cruel, but an effective strike. The enemies are pure biological weapons. If we prioritize the survival of humanity as a whole, there was likely no better way."
"...Though the emotional part of me, which falls outside such calculations, doesn't think so."
That was Brantley.
While those words were exchanged, Montague and Svetlana remained silent.
Montague merely glanced at the victims and crossed himself.
Svetlana fired three shots into the air, paused her rapid fire for a moment, and then fired three more.
Once the gunshots echoed through the city, no one brought up the subject again.
Everyone knew.
We had reached this point by killing the innocent.
In fact, there were several we had killed with our own hands.
We had killed a homeless man sprawled on the street in a drunken stupor. We had neutralized a civilian who, in a state of panic, pointed a gun at us by breaking his arm, but we hadn't stopped him when he shoved the barrel into his mouth and committed suicide.
Even the members of the Assassination Team, who were accustomed to killing and viewed it as a necessity for the mission, felt a flicker of guilt in the silent heart of this urban massacre, now that the heat and noise of the operation had faded.
Perhaps because of that, our pace across the ground slowed.
It wasn't that one person slowed down and the rest followed.
When one person slowed, the others matched them, and in that situation, someone else would slow down further. The overall speed had decreased noticeably.
I needed to fix the mood.
I sympathized with what these idiots were saying.
However, these fools didn't realize that their overall combat effectiveness had dropped because they were being affected by these emotions—whether it was their first time feeling this way or just the first time in a long while.
And so...
"Is this your first time seeing dead people?"
I spoke up, my voice laced with a hint of annoyance.
Of course, I didn't truly feel that way.
Someone started to open their mouth as if to respond.
"Don't start acting like saints now when you usually kill people without a second thought."
This wasn't a voice meant for debate.
It was the voice of someone taking on the role of the villain to berate them.
I cut off my subordinate before he could speak.
"I don't remember every single operation, so I don't know if you guys were there, but I once killed a certain clergyman in the Vatican."
I couldn't remember exactly who he was or what his name was.
Was he an assistant to the Archbishop, or the Archbishop himself?
His name was so common I couldn't recall it precisely.
But I remembered what kind of person he was.
I remembered his basic profile written on the documents as a target.
The feeling of pushing him.
The sweetness of the chocolate gelato I ate after the mission to maintain my cover.
"He had to die because he belonged to a hardline faction opposing the Awakened, but he was a good man. He ran an orphanage and a foundation that protected refugees and the poor who had flooded into Europe. He did a lot of things."
But I killed him.
Whether that was the best method at the time, or whether I had tried my best to avoid that outcome but failed, didn't matter.
"But I killed him. Because he wasn't necessary for the future we’re building."
The important thing was the fact that we killed him.
There might be regret for that action.
But I do not deny the action.
I do not let that action slow my steps.
If I did, it would feel like everything we’ve built would be negated.
"So, pick up the pace, you murderous maggots."
If you’ve built a tower by killing people, at least don't let the tower collapse.
Talking about the value of the dead.
Saying it’s for the sake of the dead.
Those are words you use when a comrade who shared your goal dies.
They aren't words to be used for the opponents we’ve slaughtered.
So, like the killers we are...
"Let's go kill some trash even worse than us, so those who died unfairly can at least have some company on the way down."
That would be the most fitting way for killers like us to mourn.
"I'm heading out first."
With those words, I increased my speed.
So that my subordinates would follow behind me.