After leaving Alpha Gold Crown, Meng Chongyun immediately went to Xue Jie’s office.
Seeing him like this, the worry between her brows was impossible to hide.
“Chief Executive, you only took the serum yesterday…”
Meng Chongyun sat down at his desk, rolled up his sleeve, and extended his arm.
“I know.”
Last night, Shi Zhixin had built an initial prototype of the mental energy storage tank based on previous design models.
Unfortunately, the energy retention rate wasn’t high, and the extraction process had indeed been agonizing—so much so that even a man who had survived countless battles and had leveled up twice on the battlefield nearly didn’t make it through…
But because he had already taken the serum yesterday, after a brief rest, the bulk of his mental energy had recovered.
Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have gone back to Alpha Gold Crown today, but time was running dangerously short…
Xiao Shi needed time to research the method for extracting mental energy from the insectoids, so the instruments had to be installed as quickly as possible. If Meng Chongyun weren’t there, there was no telling what Alpha Gold Crown might do to the engineers.
From yesterday through today, his schedule had been packed to the minute.
The Federation needed the upper hand in this battle, and his personal safety was nothing compared to that.
Xue Jie had no choice but to clip the detection sensor onto the Chief Executive’s arm and wait for the detailed report to come through.
Under normal circumstances, she would have scolded him—even if he was the Chief of the Military, this was pure recklessness!
But the situation at hand was dire, and everyone was pushing themselves to the limit. Besides, the Federation had only one 3S-level soldier, and some things only he could do…
“What about the soldiers training at the Academy of Sciences?”
“They haven’t been cleared yet for evaluation, but during the isolation period they seem to have kept training. Today they even asked whether I could send them dumbbells and a treadmill.
Also, the training plans you asked me to prepare for the marshals—I’ve already sent them over…”
Xue Jie replied to Meng Chongyun’s questions while keeping her eyes fixed on the detector’s report. She lingered on a few numbers marked in red, exhaled quietly, and began preparing the serum.
Hearing that, the stabbing pain in Meng Chongyun’s head eased somewhat. But before he could enjoy two minutes of quiet, Shen Jie—chairman of the organizing committee for the Fifth Military Academy League—called in via video feed.
“Chief Executive, something seems to have happened on Blizza… We notified the academy league to suspend competition last night, but the live broadcast is still running as we speak, and we can’t reach any of the staff…”
At the same moment, Guo Hongfan—Deputy Chief of Staff at the Tian Shu Star military headquarters—also patched through to Meng Chongyun’s communication channel.
“Chief Executive, please look at the academy league’s live broadcast… Blizza has fallen.”
The citizens across the Federation’s planets had already caught wind of it.
The insectoids were invading. The government had ordered everyone to stay indoors and take personal precautions, to avoid opening windows and doors as much as possible, and to report any pets—regardless of species—to their local community immediately.
Some people had been pulled out of their homes and taken into centralized quarantine overnight, while the rest stayed inside, glued to their optical computers, waiting for news.
The government promised to provide basic necessities and assured residents that they could contact their local coordinators at any time for emergencies. For the most part, people’s emotions remained stable.
This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened since the Federation’s founding. The old emergency protocols were a bit dated, but a quick revision made them viable for immediate use.
There was certainly some chaos in the early stages, but every military district did its job impeccably. Citizens trusted the military above all else, so the few hateful voices online were quickly drowned out.
It was under these circumstances that people began to notice—why was the military academy league live broadcast still going?
Sure, the kids were on Blizza, a godforsaken rock of a planet, but the whole Federation was locked down now. Did first, second, and third place really still matter?
On the screen, the young cadets were still staging their desperate survival act. With no optical computers, they had no idea what had happened back in the Federation.
“Are you kidding?! The Federation’s falling apart and they’re still competing? Isn’t this insectoid invasion supposed to be serious? My planet is locked down!”
“I think my neighbor got parasitized last night—they hauled him away. He had a cat…”
“Is the ranking even important right now?! Shouldn’t they be bringing those students back?! Is the organizing committee insane?!”
“What about the military?! What are they doing?!”
“Sis Ma! Forget the bonus points button—get out of there! The insectoids are coming!”
“Isn’t Blizza supposed to be safer? It’s so far away…”
“Didn’t the military and the education department co-host this event? They owe us an explanation!”
The barrage comments were so dense that if you didn’t clear the screen, you couldn’t see the visuals behind them.
Meng Chongyun enlarged the virtual screen. He saw the kids still hunting for the bonus points button and frowned deeply enough to crush a mosquito.
“What the hell is going on? Where are the safety officers?”
The moment he said that, another stream popped up in the academy league’s broadcast—a safety officer’s point of view?!
Kes smoothed his hair, glancing at his reflection in the backup “little bee” camera, then checked his optical computer and flashed a satisfied smile.
“Hello there, Federation viewers.”
“Hello hello, MY ASS! Get those kids back NOW! The environment out there is awful—who knows if there are insectoids?”
“Is your organizing committee out of its mind?! Look at what’s happening! What are you trying to do?!”
“I don’t believe the military would treat these kids like this. Maybe they have a contingency in place?”
“Wait—you say this is live, but is this pre-recorded?”
“First of all, our Valk…”
Kes read through the barrage comments one by one, then faced the camera again. His tone carried a hint of amusement.
“Heh heh. You’re right. There are some.”
“There are WHAT?! Bring the kids back!!”
“What’s he talking about?”
“Why is there only one safety officer? Where are the others?”
“Why does a safety officer have a live stream? Is there another hidden rule?”
“Who cares about rules anymore?! Organizing committee—speak up!”
“Please explain more clearly.”
Kes kept his polite smile and pushed the “little bee” farther back so that everything behind him was captured in frame.
The interior of the hovercraft was splattered with blood. Two bodies lay on the floor, eyes wide open, rifle still clutched in their hands. The rest of the people went about their business as if they hadn’t seen anything at all.
One safety officer stood up from a chair, staggering at first, but by his fifth step he was steady… He stopped, straightened his back, and gave a stiff smile toward Kes.
“Adaptation complete. Heading to the cockpit, Guard Captain.”
“Good. Keep following Qilin.”
After replying, Kes turned his face back to the camera.
“I’m answering your question—there are some. Right here, there are insectoids. In fact…” He paused, letting the smile widen. “…all of us are.”
