Chapter 125: Klein

While Provence was still locked in combat with Adonsa, the battered Wyvern Knights finally relied on their superior mobility to return to the city ahead of time, landing atop the towering walls.

The sight of so many fallen Wyvern Knights and their panicked retreat threw the city into an instant state of panic. Many people were so desperate they nearly collapsed to their knees, only managing to regain the strength to assist the knights in reinforcing the defenses after being scolded and encouraged by a few superiors who were feigning calm.

After being hunted by the Mother of Corpses, the number of Wyvern Knights had dwindled to just over two hundred. Some had even performed a desperate "self-amputation," carving out entire chunks of flesh from both themselves and their wyverns to shed the parasitic monsters planted by the Mother of Corpses, just to survive.

Most of the knights were not heavily wounded; they were simply exhausted. Surviving the powerful attacks of the transformed demons was a feat of immense difficulty, so there were naturally few wounded—only the dead or the unscathed.

Behind the knights, at the edge of the horizon, a massive shadow followed, crushing the earth under its own weight as it surged forward like a landslide. The rumbling of the ground and the howling wind rolled in, slow and heavy, allowing a bottomless despair to slowly permeate every heart.

No one knew if these walls, which had protected them for a thousand years, could still fulfill their duty. Once the city fell, even if this monster were to retreat, humanity would be exposed to the gaping maws of the demons, destined to become nothing more than foul-smelling excrement.

The Wyvern Knights, their eyes still burning with the resolve to die, braced themselves despite their exhaustion, standing firmly on the front lines to face the deepest horror.

Xu Xiaoke watched this spectacular yet desperate scene and muttered, "Uglier than the Zerg..."

So said the thick-skinned interstellar veteran.

As a genetically modified soldier born and raised for war, Xu Xiaoke possessed his own unique set of values and philosophy. He did not fear or panic in the face of life-or-death crises; instead, he savored them. Like an old guitarist preparing for a concert in front of ten thousand people, he was calm and seasoned, enjoying the thrill of his nerves being pulled taut.

Xu Xiaoke hoisted his door-sized great axe onto his shoulder and sighed, "I really wish I could be in my favorite Governor-class mech to have a proper go at this monster!"

Interstellar soldiers were, of course, not mere muscle-heads; trying to out-muscle the Zerg was like an old man eating arsenic—a death wish. The Zerg were true carbon-silicon hybrid creatures, with muscles and bones laced with metallic components that were tougher than the latest alloys. The siege-type Zerg could dismantle an entire artillery fortress single-handedly.

True to the slogan "Bigger is better, more is stronger, billions of turrets, billions of stars," it was various types of heavy artillery that formed the backbone of their strength.

However, the role of mechs could not be ignored. In the complex environments of resource-rich or ecological planets, where every inch of ground was worth its weight in gold during bloody battles against the Zerg, mechs were indispensable.

The Zerg would hide in the skies, mountains, rivers, and even underground, ready to launch a lethal strike on tank formations at any moment. In such times, only elite mech divisions could contend with them, holding back the sharp teeth and cruel claws of the Zerg.

Without various fire support and powerful mechs, an interstellar soldier was nothing more than a shelled lobster.

Yet, Xu Xiaoke would not complain about not being given the chance to pilot a mech. That was war—cruel and unreasonable. Never mind the enemy denying you fairness; even the high-and-mighty masters behind you might suddenly issue a brain-dead order that would stab you in the back.

Xu Xiaoke was long accustomed to it.

Xu Xiaoke knew deep down that he was so thick-skinned that only war could give him a thrill, but Li Kangshan, who had fought alongside him for so long, was different.

Li Kangshan was holding something inside—perhaps a fire, perhaps a bomb. A colossal force was trapped deep within him by various constraints, gradually catalyzing into something heart-wrenching.

Li Kangshan was a sensitive man. Precisely because he was too sensitive, he could not be numb, nor could he compromise; even indifference was too great a luxury for him. He was merely bewildered by the helplessness etched into the depths of every living creature's heart, but Xu Xiaoke could sense something in him...

Kindness?

Or justice?

Xu Xiaoke’s eyelids twitched. Those were not good words.

Justice always walked hand-in-hand with tragedy, accompanied by the embellishment of blood and slaughter. It could even turn its blade upon its own wielder.

At this thought, Xu Xiaoke forgot the approaching Mother of Corpses and began to scan his surroundings.

Where had Li Kangshan gone?

And what about Klein, who spent his days wandering around with his puppy-like wyvern?

Klein was running away.

He was fleeing through the dark, secluded streets with his wyvern, which was now the size of an adult, heading in the opposite direction of the battlefield.

Klein was extremely cautious, terrified of being spotted by the refugee-like residents. He feared that if they saw him, they would shout that one line that would make him jump three feet high.

"Traitor!"

I am not a traitor; I am simply preserving my strength!

No!

Klein suddenly snapped out of his thoughts, catching sight of a young, furious face peering through a crack in a dilapidated door.

"You are a knight, how can you run... urgh!"

Following the sharp accusation, the naive child—whose head seemed too large due to malnutrition—was hurriedly silenced by a woman who appeared to be his mother. She pulled him away and quickly slammed the door, which could barely close, shut.

At first, Klein felt a pang of panic, but upon realizing that this was the only household around, a murderous intent surged within him.

Just like any villain caught in the act, he immediately commanded his wyvern to smash through the useless door to hunt down the poor mother and child.

The wyvern let out a vicious growl and darted into the narrow room.

He could not let this mother and child have the chance to report his position, as it could jeopardize his squad's next move.

Klein had only withdrawn from the front lines after receiving a signal from his captain, Provence, to prepare.

But his desertion would inevitably have a disastrous effect on the defensive line and severely damage morale. On that count alone, he would become a public enemy; thus, no word could leak out.

Although Klein's wyvern could not yet carry him in free flight, its combat power was already comparable to a tiger or leopard; killing two civilians would take only a few breaths.

However, the moment the wyvern entered, Klein's vision—still exposed on the street—swayed violently, followed by a sudden darkness. His frail body felt weightless as he lost all sensation.

Perhaps a second passed, perhaps half a minute. When he regained consciousness, he found himself humiliated, sprawled on the ground. A sharp pain throbbed in the back of his head, blood was flowing freely, and the sickening metallic scent of rust filled his nose. His wyvern, once inseparable from him, was now glaring viciously at its own master.

To be precise, it was glaring at the person who was currently stepping on its master's back.

Someone had launched a surprise attack the moment the wyvern left its master's side, boldly ambushing the man who trained a wyvern ten times more dangerous than a tiger or leopard.

The wyvern was caught in a dilemma, wanting to protect its master while fearing that the assailant might harm him, and thus it hesitated.

It went to show that being too smart was not necessarily a good thing; a common dog would have already rushed in and bitten wildly.

Stupid it might be, but that would have disrupted the assailant’s rhythm, preventing the situation from becoming this passive.