Doctor, Martyr, and Terrorist (3)
The morning of January 26th began with a minor commotion. Overnight, the lobby of the headquarters' main building had been blanketed in a dense web of spider silk. Countless strands had woven a scene that diffused the pale artificial light like fog, something straight out of a horror movie by normal visibility standards. Even Kyung-tae, the kind of guy who'd shoot first and ask questions later if a ghost popped out, widened his eyes at the sight.
"What the hell is this? Kinda cool?"
...Cool? This? I gave up trying to understand and spread a moderate telekinetic force throughout the entire lobby space, then infused it with spin and condensed it into a single point in one swift motion.
"Whoa."
Kyung-tae let out an admiring whistle as he watched. The webs that had shrunk visibility in the vast lobby to less than a meter now formed a lump smaller than a baseball when gathered together. And tucked into one side of that lump was the culprit behind this mess, meaning the pure silk volume was about the size of a billiard ball.
The awakened spider buried in its own webbing thrashed desperately to break free. But the elastic, high-tensile bundle absorbed the tiny creature's strength like a sticky quagmire. One leg it barely managed to push out was clogged with white threads clumped like cotton, rendering it useless. At the spider's rear clung a mass of immortal cancer tissue. The malignancy had spread to the silk-spinning spinnerets, forcing the awakened spider to extrude silk and fibroin proteins even in this state.
Neural signals disrupted. In other words, turning the lobby into a white labyrinth had been half involuntary for the spider too.
I paused to think from the sick spider's perspective. Spinning webs was no small drain on nutrients even for a spider. And there were limits to recycling its own threads by eating them. Just consuming silk would make hunting impossible, and without hunting, it couldn't intake other nutrients. So the best move was to spin a home with every strand it produced to boost hunting success. Whether a spider's brain could handle that level of reasoning was debatable, but seeing as even the fairyfly Tinkerbella—with a brain weighing mere micrograms—performed complex behaviors rivaling typical insects, it wasn't impossible. Sometimes intelligence optimized itself to push the limits of brain volume.
In the middle of the lobby, where stray web strands hung messily, lay the mummified corpse of a field mouse. With the headquarters tucked against a sparsely populated ridgeline, rats or raccoons occasionally sneaked in unnoticed. This one had probably sought winter shelter early and gotten trapped in the maze, becoming prey. Without this unlucky nocturnal critter, the diseased spider would've starved from its malfunctioning rear end. No lobby webbing disaster either.
"......"
I considered incinerating the spider in its white cocoon but changed my mind, beckoning one subordinate over with a flick of my finger.
"Lock it up properly and bring it to my office. I'll take a quick look when I get back and dispose of it."
"Uh, yes sir."
The security detail subordinate who took the silk ball looked immediately flustered as it stuck to his gloves. Kyung-tae burst out laughing at the sight. Suyeon, frowning, summoned staff to clean up the mess pronto.
Stepping out the front door brought the subzero chill biting at my skin. Running the mountain path each morning in a gas mask had become a recovered piece of routine since returning to headquarters. The differences from before were the heavier load I carried and the rougher terrain. The weight was greater, the path more treacherous. But the rebound pain was tolerable. Proof that both my shaman self and hunter self had progressed.
Among the facilities reachable by jog from headquarters was a military theme park whose development had halted just before completion. Needless to say, the theme park sign was camouflage for emergencies. Even if an intruder glimpsed the urban and mountain warfare training grounds inside, they'd think, "Huh, survival game arena out here?" The tanks and APCs parked like decorations were fully operational, but you couldn't tell from a glance. The underground live-fire range, barracks, and gym attached hosted a group of young Uyghurs training under my men's guidance in realistic conditioning.
Exercises to build combat muscle and speed endurance. As I removed my gas mask, the panting Uyghurs snapped to attention like springs, saluting sharply. Pure zeal burned in every pair of eyes. My mere footsteps seemed to swell their chests with emotion. The innocence of youth, the fervor of fanatics.
Returning the salute, I gestured for them to continue.
These ragtag-camouflaged trainees were none other than Maryam Batur's group. Prostrating in reverence or praying five times a day every time they saw me wasn't ideal for the future, so as their savior, I'd demanded they drop the formalities. I'm closer to you than the blood in your veins; keeping respect in your heart suffices. A loose adaptation of a verse I'd heard from Alim Shahidi.
"Leg tucks—120 reps! Three minutes, cadence-matched! Ready!"
At the instructor-subordinate's shout—standard Chinese laced with English—the whole group hung from the pull-up bars. Gripping tight so hands framed the face, pull knees to elbows. Tough even bare-bodied for normals, but Maryam's all-awakened group had heavy ankle weights besides.
"Go!"
The group's average reinforcement coefficient had already surpassed 3.0. But coefficients meant nothing without baseline fitness. These underdeveloped bodies hadn't tapped their full potential. Exhibit A: Maryam Batur.
"Up, up, up, up—proper form, proper form, proper form, proper form—"
Matching the instructor's cadence, Maryam hauled her body up, neck veins bulging, face flushed crimson. Reports said her coefficient yesterday was the group's highest at 4.71. Yet her ankle weights matched her seventeen-year-old brother's at 2.9.
Grrrh... A whimpering groan leaked through clenched teeth. Despite the single layer in this cold, sweat soaked her back and collarbones; faint white vapor rose from her exposed nape in the chill wind. The sharp muscle striations in her forearms were new days ago. Still lacking, but a few more days and her fitness would hit the mark.
This growth rate was remarkably fast, even accounting for awakened recovery.
'Back when one finally died, I worried they'd turn sour.'
The day I gripped those six unfortunates' crowns and plunged the ritual sword into their shoulders for baptism, one perished on the spot from mana circuit rupture. A death beyond magic or surgery—soul scattering. The fate awaiting me if my eyes were gouged. The soulless body kept its heart beating pointlessly for minutes. As I shook my head and stepped back, Maryam draped over the fallen child, shedding silent tears until the heartbeat stopped. No sobs, not from less grief, but because her own lie left her unable to show excessive sorrow.
I'd watched for signs of resentment after. But her deception became irreversible once the group experienced my "miracle" baptism, and Maryam showed no animosity.
'Maybe she's just used to farewells.'
In Karamay's camps and communist nobles' pleasure dens, her group had witnessed mass deaths and endured equal partings. Terror's vanguard: grieving farewells but never crumbling. For me, who'd planned to eliminate her at any hint of trouble, it was a relief.
"Halt! Rest!"
Maryam's group dropped from the bars en masse, many collapsing butt-first from leg fatigue. Maryam sprawled flat, chest heaving with ragged breaths, ignoring the frozen ground's bite.
Her lats, obliques, abs, iliopsoas, and glutes bulged from near-overwork. The instructor clapped briefly, praising the lot.
"Two minutes forty-two! Seven seconds faster than yesterday! Excellent! You're all crushing it!"
The seated or prone Uyghurs smiled. Some glanced my way, recovering; eye contact and nods lit their faces with joy. Few things motivated like visible daily gains. Add approval from a revered idol, and it was intoxicating. Likely their first taste of true achievement. Lives of hunger, deprivation, constant surveillance, violence, oppression—365 days crammed with survival worries. When had they known positivity?
Truth be told, varying degrees, it applied to my other subordinates and the organization entire. Those I'd recruited by resolving grudges had pre-org lives of abject failure, betrayal, poverty, injustice. No minimal human respect outside, stability only inside. Their first lives free of self-loathing. Existence no longer pure torment. The belonging and loyalty sprouting there rooted deep, unshakable. Same phenomenon in the world's top army, the US military. Once infamous for low-quality recruits, enlisting convicts to fill ranks. Light offenders got the deal: "Jail or Iraq?" Hence, "No sane person joins the Army." Scandals exploded, but stats showed over 80% of ex-cons served as model soldiers. How? Street-life scum cherished soldierly treatment and respect—their first "human" lives.
This was a core pillar guaranteeing my organization's integrity.