132: Chapter 132 Stalemate, Dispute

Lingwu City.

The once-magnificent city walls had already collapsed by half. The fractured walls looked as if they had been torn open by some giant beast, with broken bricks and tiles piled into crooked little mounds.

The streets were no longer streets.

They were ravines of ruins, plastered with blood, charred ash, and mud.

Stretchers were pushed out from the alleyways one after another, to temporary medical stations, to morgue sheds, and to open spaces that hadn't even been named yet.

Some of the wounded were still groaning, letting out muffled gasps from their throats; others had long since gone silent, their bodies covered with white sheets, the edges of which were still being stained dark red by blood, bit by bit.

The stench emitted by the corpses as they rotted in the heat and chaos made it feel as if the entire city was slowly decomposing.

A grey-haired veteran stood at the entrance, clutching a register with curled edges.

Every time a corpse was carried in, he would lower his head and cross out a name.

The tip of the pen fell very lightly, but every stroke felt like adding a stab to his own heart.

"The three hundred and seventeenth."

"The three hundred and eighteenth."

"The three hundred and nineteenth..."

Three days ago, hundreds of thousands of Mimics suddenly appeared in Lingwu City, catching everyone off guard.

In this battle alone, the confirmed death toll exceeded three hundred thousand, with countless injured.

Meanwhile, Cao Shen had swaggered into the Martial God Secret Realm with his army of hundreds of thousands of Mimics.

Representatives from the Five Major Powers and the military had already gathered in Lingwu City.

The temporary Command Headquarters was set up in a large shopping mall in the north of the city. On the walls hung defense maps of Lingwu City and a Formation Plate projection of the entrance to the Martial God Secret Realm.

Representatives from various factions sat on both sides of a long table.

Some wore military uniforms, some wore ancient martial arts robes, some wore association uniforms, and some were simply draped in dust-covered coats, their specific origins unclear.

But everyone's face bore the same expression of anxiety.

Most eye-catching were the seven battle reports hanging on the wall.

Each one was like a slap, striking heavily across everyone's faces.

First assault: 327 entered, 41 survived.

Second: 512 entered, 58 survived.

Third: 689 entered, 72 survived.

Fourth: 804 entered, 63 survived.

Fifth: 956 entered, 81 survived.

Sixth: 1,200 entered, 94 survived.

Seventh: 1,500 entered, 112 survived.

Total: 5,988 entered, 521 survived.

Casualty rate: 91.3%.

This number sat there like a cold verdict.

Five thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight people went in, and in the end, only five hundred and twenty-one returned.

The rest remained forever under that dark red sky.

The images transmitted back by the Formation Plate only ever managed to scan up to the entrance passage before being completely submerged by the dense swarm of Mimics.

The Mimics lunged forward like a tide, followed by screams and the sound of tearing.

The seven assaults had yielded only one piece of intelligence:

The secret realm entrance passage was three meters wide.

At most, only five people could pass through side-by-side at once.

And at the end of the passage, at least a hundred thousand Mimics were waiting.

"We can't keep fighting like this!"

The speaker was Zheng Hongyuan, the Vice President of the Lingwu City Awakener Association, at the peak of the sixth rank.

He slammed his palm onto the table; the teacup was jolted upward, and its lid rolled onto the floor with a crisp clatter.

"The casualty rate is over ninety percent. This isn't a war; this is suicide!"

His voice was heavy, and his eyes were filled with uncontrollable fury.

"Our low-rank Awakeners aren't leeks! If you harvest them batch after batch, we'll run out sooner or later! If we keep fighting like this, the low-rank combat power of the entire Great Xia will be hollowed out!"

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Someone from the opposite side replied coldly.

The speaker was Ye Canglan, an elder of the Qingyun Ancient Martial Arts Sect, in the late stage of the sixth rank.

His grey martial robes were still stained with blood, though it was impossible to tell if it was from his enemies or himself.

"Let your high-rankers go in!" Zheng Hongyuan's voice suddenly rose.

"Do you even know what you're saying?"

Ye Canglan's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp as a knife.

"Don't you know the Martial God Secret Realm suppresses high-rank Awakeners? A seventh-rank entering is suppressed to the late fourth rank; a sixth-rank entering is suppressed to the mid-fourth rank. Tell me, how much of an advantage would they have?"

"The seventh-rank powerhouses of your Awakener Association are precious, but aren't the seventh-ranks of our Qingyun Ancient Martial Arts Sect just as precious? Why should our people be sent to their deaths?"

"So your plan is to continue using low-rankers as fodder?!" Zheng Hongyuan stood up as well, the veins on his forehead bulging.

"Enough."

A cold female voice interrupted their dispute.

Su Jingxuan, Vice Principal of Tianyan Academy, at the peak of the seventh rank.

She had been sitting in the corner from the beginning, quietly watching the Formation Plate projection as if observing a disaster that had nothing to do with her.

At this moment, she looked up, her calm gaze sweeping across the room.

"You've been arguing for three days. Have you reached a conclusion?"

"Over five thousand of our people are already dead, yet you're still arguing about whether to send in high-ranks or low-ranks."

She looked toward Zheng Hongyuan.

"Vice President Zheng, you say we should send in the high-ranks. Then tell me, after a seventh-rank powerhouse enters and is suppressed to the late fourth rank, how many of the hundred thousand second and third-rank Mimics do you think they can kill? A hundred? A thousand? Or ten thousand?"

Zheng Hongyuan's face turned ashen; his lips moved, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Su Jingxuan then turned to Ye Canglan.

"Elder Ye, you say we should continue the assault with low-rankers. Then tell me, how many more people must be sent in to break through the passage? Five thousand? Ten thousand? Or fifty thousand? Do you even have that many people to sacrifice?"

Ye Canglan clenched his teeth, the veins on the back of his hand bulging one by one.

He didn't answer either.

"So, does anyone have a better idea?"

Over a dozen people sat on either side of the long table, representing the strongest factions in Great Xia, yet at this moment, not one of them could step forward with a feasible solution.

Because this problem was inherently unsolvable.

If high-rankers went in, they were suppressed too severely; their advantage was simply insufficient.

If low-rankers went in, they lacked the numbers to break through the blockade of a hundred thousand Mimics.

Wait for reinforcements?

Reinforcements were already on the way.

But the more reinforcements that arrived, the more people would die.

Moreover, Cao Shen had already entered the secret realm, and no one knew what he was doing inside. Every day of waiting added another layer of uncertainty.

"In the seventh assault, we lost one thousand four hundred people."

Zheng Hongyuan sat back in his chair, his voice lowering but still thick with suppressed rage.

"If anyone thinks they have a better idea, step forward."

He looked up, staring at everyone present.

"If not, then we proceed as I said—continue sending people until the entrance is cleared!"

This time, no one opposed him, but no one stepped forward either.

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