#17. Fragrance of Rebellion (11)
The acrid stench hung heavy in the air over the cityscape we traversed by helicopter. Half of it was smoke from arson fires, the other half exhaust from coal-burning stoves. Beneath the hazy darkness, abandoned vehicles dotted the streets—traces left by those who'd desperately tried to flee the city and failed. The roads, growing ever more chaotic, starkly revealed the wealth gaps between districts. Just as I'd seen back at the San Xavier Native American reservation, straight roads were a rarity in the poor neighborhoods.
Without an official martial law declaration, the city had clumsily slid into a state of de facto siege, leaving many residents near the industrial zones behind, trembling in fear. Their sole trust lay in a single flimsy locked door. Here and there, makeshift vigilantes with crude arms stood watch—a sharp contrast to the wealthy who'd evacuated early. Of course, even an advance declaration of martial law and evacuation orders offered no guarantee of improvement. How were the destitute, barely scraping together money for meals, supposed to secure cars or tickets to escape? India's COVID lockdowns came to mind as a similar case—far more died from malnutrition than the virus itself. Such measures only amplified civilian chaos and resentment, effectively aiding the Black Sea Party.
On the flip side, martial law was a matter of face for the government. They couldn't officially admit that the political unrest sparked in Hong Kong was spreading unchecked. To the Chinese, face was sometimes more vital than life itself. The situation had to always be under control. This wasn't unique to China. It reminded me of that president who, with catastrophe looming, urged the public to carry on with daily life in peace.
"We've arrived."
There was no need for me to seize the controls, even outside combat. Building proficiency was good, but opportunities would abound later. My subordinate in the cockpit executed a smooth landing on the school building's rooftop.
A groan echoed: grrrraaawwl—one of the less mangled corpse puppets crawled toward the landed helicopter. Its grotesque form was bloated outward with proliferating Immortal Cancer masses. Its two eyes, buried in lumpy flesh tumors, fixed unblinkingly on me and my crew.
Its tongue, barely retaining any original shape, somehow formed meaningful words. "Revo... luuutiooon..."
A red dot punched into its forehead with a crack. Kyung-tae's pistol shot. The puppet's brain exploded, halting its soul circuit. The artificially anchored soul of the deceased crumbled and dispersed like ash.
Yet the mana-infused cancer cells remained alive, proliferating on mana essence and mana power as sustenance. Left alone for a few days, it would balloon into a sizable mass. But nature wouldn't grant it that time.
As the puppet stilled, birds like fragments of the night wheeled in and descended. The harsh flap-flap of wings, followed by piercing caws. A flock of large-billed crows, fearless of humans, began tearing into the corpse and tumors.
One locked eyes with me, cocked its head, and squawked with beak agape. "Revolution? Revolution!"
Kyung-tae wore a dumbfounded look. "Haha, now even the crows are chanting revolution..."
Few knew it, but crows could mimic human speech. Intelligent and mischievous birds, they delighted in human reactions. Though they couldn't grasp complex meanings, they memorized words that elicited the strongest responses. They even understood and used simple nouns for objects.
"Revolution" was likely the most heard word in the city lately, so it spilling from a crow's beak was hardly surprising. Our tepid reaction prompted the crow, which had been hopping circles around us, to shriek again.
"Dumbass!"
With a flap, it rejoined its fellows pecking at the corpse.
"..."
I turned from the crows' feast to survey the traces of combat lingering throughout the school grounds. True to their elite status, the Hu'nan Provincial Disciplinary Inspection Commission's troops had put up a fierce fight against the horde of corpse puppets. They seemed to have grasped the puppets' weakness: the head.
But the sheer numbers had overwhelmed them. The count of neutralized puppets alone exceeded three times the fallen soldiers.
Against that overwhelming swarm from all sides, this was a creditable showing.
Beyond the railing, some 120 meters away, a few high-rises blazed fiercely. Multiple strongpoints within mutual covering range—classic defensive setup, fortifying key positions and securing routes between them. Yet their swift collapse spoke volumes.
Following the ranks of puppets felled along the roads with my eyes, I nodded inwardly.
I see. I get what the Round Table pulled off.
From a boulevard several blocks away, high-pitched exhaust notes echoed faintly. Bike assault squads advancing toward the breach carved by the corpse puppets.
I doubted those riders knew the true nature of the "aid" they'd received, but I didn't dwell on it. The police and military would have their hands full with them, but that wasn't my immediate concern. I was tracking a far larger prey.
"Helicopter stays here on standby."
Issuing the order, I led my crew out of the school. We crossed the deserted streets toward a hotel with a "Temporarily Closed" sign. Less than 100 meters from the school main building. An odd spot for a decent hotel, surrounded by factories and slums—but hardly unusual in this city.
This decaying manufacturing hub had an abnormal proliferation of lodgings. Despite scant tourist appeal, hordes of visitors flocked yearly, boosting revenues. Most tied to the sex trade. Dongguan was euphemistically dubbed the "City of Pleasure."
For female factory workers jobless from industry collapse, prostitution was easy money, flooding the market and driving prices rock-bottom. At one point, official stats showed it accounting for an eighth of the city economy—in a metropolis of over eight million. Among the cognoscenti, "Dongguan-style service" was slang for whoring.
I'd plumbed those depths multiple times. Ties to the Guangdong Triad, who ran the joints, made it inevitable. When thugs paraded girls for "VIP guests," my nerves frayed. Insulting their hospitality wounded pride, and masking my asexuality amid expert seductresses was grueling. Each encounter tested my disguise.
Beijing once launched a massive crackdown to "clean house." But like all Party showmanship, it ignored root causes. Streetwalkers soon returned to rebranded spots with new pimps and backers.
Strings of closure signs suggested even this booming sector couldn't weather the year's economic freeze. Pandemic in the first half, global slump and revolutionary fervor in the second.
Shady money flows beyond official eyes. Fallen illicit businesses. Spots outsiders could enter unquestioned. But derelict enough now to draw no attention. Few cracks better for conspirators to slip into.
Scoop up fire-sale properties, smuggle puppet-making materials disguised as patrons—business as usual, no red flags.
At the hotel, I silently picked the lock and entered. Visual scouting missed key intel: scent tracking.
Human olfactory receptors max out around 400 types—half a dog's, a third a mouse's, a fifth an elephant's. Inferior discrimination. Yet with just three photoreceptors (red, green, blue), humans perceive myriad colors via combinations. Non-colorblind folks distinguish high color from true color.
Thus, proper enhancement made those 400 receptors outstrip most hounds.
Fine-tuning my body reinforcement incantation spiked olfactory sensitivity. My head throbbed from sensory overload. Golden Age's Eyes boosted visual processing, but other senses lagged. Not sustainable long-term. Still, promising first try. As a mage, I was steadily building momentum.
Trailing the Round Table vanguard's lingering scents, I mused: I'd have torched the place on exit.
Overconfidence? Arrogance? Or plain ignorance. Imperialists rarely venturing from London could blunder like rookies. Their minions too. Wars are won by those making fewer mistakes, not the best fighters.
Chinese and British scents differed distinctly. I ascended stairs, pursuing the sharper trail. Higher floors intensified alien scents and deodorant afterglow.
The suite on the top floor reeked strongest of the quarry.
"Find anything?"
Kyung-tae's cautious query earned a nod. "Seven armed personnel were here."
Firearms and lube odors marked armament. Under the windowsill, wool fabric bore tripod impressions. Facing the school, they'd monitored the fortified Hu'nan DIC company's positions.
If they confirmed the school's fall before leaving... the time gap between them and me isn't that wide.
My hypothesized puppet pipeline: Rally sacrifices at forward hotels like this, ferry to production hubs for conversion, stockpile back in rooms and nearby slums. Those infamous Hong Kong coffin cubicles? Slum density allowed coffin-stacked hordes.
Concealing puppets' mana fields was tricky, but pass them off as terminal Immortal Cancer patients—problem solved.
That far, I pulled out my map.
Production sites needed kilometer-wide radii free of settlements or mana-jamming clutter—to mask grand magi channeling resurrection rites.
Couldn't ship that many by water. Harbor authorities would've flagged smuggling.
All seagoing vessels fell under port and navy scrutiny. Sustained runs to islands or ships? Instant suspicion.
Thus, sites near downtown for easy transport, yet inaccessible to people.
I soon pinpointed viable candidates on the map.