349: Chapter 349 It still has to be you, numerical values

The Neuroparalytic Toxin took effect even faster than Wei Ziqing had anticipated.

The Mantis Leader's compound eyes were still glowing, but its grayish-blue carapace had begun to tremble slightly—a sign that its muscles were losing control. It tried to pull out the sickle-blade embedded in Wei Ziqing's abdomen, but its forelimbs felt as heavy as lead and wouldn't budge.

Two more seconds passed.

It collapsed sideways onto the ground.

Wei Ziqing didn't move either.

He knelt on one knee where he stood, the Mantis Leader's sickle-blade still skewering his abdomen, while his sword remained plunged into the opponent's chest. The two of them looked like a duo-statue, frozen in the center of a pool of blood.

He didn't dare pull it out.

He didn't know how much blood he had left to lose.

"...What an interesting way to fight." The Mantis Leader lay on the ground, its compound eyes still fixed on Wei Ziqing. Its voice was much weaker than before, yet it remained steady, betraying no fear or anger at its impending death. "Trading a life for a wound. Using yourself as bait."

"In the military texts I've read, this is called... the Dead Agent strategy."

Wei Ziqing didn't answer. His hand gripping the sword didn't loosen, but he no longer had the strength to push the blade even an inch deeper.

The dozens of Mantis Evolved Forms surrounding them had not intervened from start to finish.

They watched the scene in silence.

Watching their leader fall beneath the sword of this human youth in plain white armor.

The air was silent for a few seconds.

Then, the nearest mantis—one even larger than the leader with a dark brown carapace—slowly retracted its forelimbs.

It folded its sickle-blades across its chest and bowed its head. The friction of its chitin produced a faint rustling sound.

That was the etiquette of the mantis race when facing the strong.

Then followed the second, the third, the fourth.

On the stands, by the rock walls, in the shadows of the thickets, those Mantis Evolved Forms that had originally formed a perimeter put away their weapons one by one and lowered their compound eyes.

No one gave an order.

They simply, silently, and in unison, lowered their heads to their fallen leader—and to the human youth who had defeated him.

Wei Ziqing remained kneeling on one knee, unmoving.

The group of ordinary people behind him didn't even dare to breathe.

After about half a minute, the dark brown mantis in the front row raised its head.

It didn't look at Wei Ziqing, but instead glanced toward the back mountain before emitting an extremely brief, nearly inaudible rasping sound to its kin.

The encirclement dispersed.

Like an ebbing tide, the mantises silently cleared the path, retracted their sickle-blades, and retreated into the darkness. They no longer looked at the survivors—those bipedal animals that had been "prey" just moments ago.

Acquiescence.

Wei Ziqing understood that gesture.

Only then did the dark brown mantis turn toward him.

It looked down at the sickle-blade piercing Wei Ziqing's abdomen, then at the fallen leader. Its compound eyes shifted, seemingly making some sort of judgment.

Then it turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.

In less than a minute, it returned.

Hanging from its forelimb was a roll of grayish-white, ribbon-like material woven from something resembling plant fibers. It walked up to Wei Ziqing and crouched down—a posture that brought its compound eyes nearly level with Wei Ziqing's visor.

Using the tip of its sickle-blade, it extremely carefully—as if afraid of cutting something fragile—sliced off a section of the tape.

Then it gently placed the strip and the rest of the roll on the ground by Wei Ziqing's knee.

It gave Wei Ziqing a look.

There was no hostility in its compound eyes, nor was there submission. Just a kind of... acknowledgement.

Then it turned and, along with two other mantises, gently lifted the fallen Mantis Leader. The sickle-blade piercing Wei Ziqing's abdomen was finally pulled out—one of the mantises used extreme speed to sever the tip of the sickle-blade, allowing the leader's forelimb to be withdrawn while minimizing the aggravation of Wei Ziqing's wound.

More blood gushed out.

But Wei Ziqing didn't fall.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up the piece of grayish-white bandage from the ground and pressed it against his abdomen.

Carrying their leader, the mantises silently and swiftly disappeared into the deeper darkness of the back mountain.

Only the heavy, terrified gasps of the humans remained in the vicinity.

"...You." Finally, someone dared to speak; it was the middle-aged man who had said "Better to stick with the officials" earlier. His lips trembled as he pointed at Wei Ziqing's abdomen. "You... you're bleeding. A lot of blood."

Everyone scrambled to wrap the bandage around Wei Ziqing.

The grayish-white plant fiber was made of an unknown material, but once applied to the wound, it actually stopped most of the bleeding. Someone took off their jacket to cushion his back, while others supported his arms; four or five hands reached out at once to steady the swaying, plain white figure.

"I have to go back," Wei Ziqing said. He tried to shake off those hands, but the piercing wound in his abdomen left his movements with only a tenth of their usual strength.

"What's the use of you going back like this?"

It was the middle-aged man who had previously said "Better to stick with the officials" who spoke. He gripped Wei Ziqing's forearm tightly, his knuckles turning white, his voice low but more stubborn than anyone else's.

"If you go there, you'll only be a burden."

Wei Ziqing fell silent.

"That man over there..." The middle-aged man paused. "He was the one who sent you out. He knows what he's doing."

He let go of his hand.

He said no more.

The others silently gathered around, half-supporting and half-carrying Wei Ziqing toward the depths of the back mountain. He glanced back in the direction he had come from—there was still faint activity near the arena, but across the layers of rock walls and dense forest, nothing could be seen clearly anymore.

"...As long as it's bandaged up," Wei Ziqing murmured.

No one answered him.

They brought him deep into a hidden cave in the back mountain.

Meanwhile.

The Arena.

Lu Jianchuan could no longer remember how many this made.

A silver-white arm pulled out from a mantis's breastplate, and the massive body collapsed like a falling scaffold, crashing onto the stone steps at the edge of the stands. Chitin fragments mixed with pale blue bodily fluids splashed onto his leg armor; he stepped over it without looking down.

Behind him was a downward-sloping trail of blood that spanned the entire arena.

It started from the central sandy ground—where the remains of three Bone-Armored Mantises lay. One had been slammed into the ground entirely, its head buried in the sand and its forelimbs still in an attacking posture, like a bronze statue driven into a foundation.

Then there was the gap where he had broken through the iron fence; the entire iron gate had flown five meters away, its edges curled with molten scorch marks—the residual heat of a full-strength punch in Explosive Combustion Form.

Then the bottom of the tiered stands. Four lay dead there. Two were stacked together, a silver-white Arm Blade piercing through the first into the second, like a pair of skewered oysters.

Then the middle section. Then the edge of the high platform.

And then, right here.

Lu Jianchuan stepped onto the final stair.

There were no more mantises standing around him.

Pale blue fluids pooled on the stone slabs, reflecting the cold white light of the emergency lamps above the stands. Chitin shards, severed limbs, and broken sickle-blades were strewn across every inch of the ground he had walked, like the banners of a defeated army.

The air was thick with the pungent, sweet-metallic scent of evaporating bodily fluids.

He was still maintaining his Explosive Combustion Form.

Dark red energy conduits pulsed faintly on the outside of his chest, shoulder, and leg armor, like lightning pressing low before a storm. The vents were still dissipating heat, emitting waves of transparent thermal distortion.

He stared at the top level of the stands.

There was a row of glass-partitioned VIP rooms.

Through the bulletproof glass, several figures could be seen—some slumped on sofas, some pressing against the back wall trying to hide in the shadows, and some holding up phones while trembling, unsure whether they were recording or calling for help.

Dressed in fine clothes.

Wine glasses still in hand.

He walked toward them.

A mantis at his feet, still with a breath of life left, tried to raise its forelimb, its sickle-blade barely three inches off the ground. Lu Jianchuan didn't stop, or even look down; he simply stomped his heel onto its head carapace.

Crack.

The sickle-blade hit the ground.

He continued forward.

The silver-white armor, reflected in the pools of blood and shattered chitin, remained expressionless.

Lu Jianchuan kicked open the bulletproof glass door of the VIP room.

The hinges shrieked under the strain as the entire door smashed inward, knocking over a floor lamp.

Six people were inside. Three were huddled behind a sofa, two were pressed against the back wall, and one was slumped on the carpet by the coffee table. Their clothes were very expensive, and the light reflecting off their wristwatches was brighter than the emergency lamps.

Wine glasses had spilled, and red wine seeped into the light-colored carpet like a spreading pool of blood.

Lu Jianchuan stood at the doorway.

The silver-white armor took on a cold tone under the warm indoor lights. He was still stained with pale blue mantis fluids, and chitin fragments were stuck in the gaps of his leg armor; he looked like a statue that had just walked off a battlefield.

None of the six dared to move.

None of them dared to speak.

Lu Jianchuan didn't speak immediately either.

He was feeling his own heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was loud. Much louder than usual. It wasn't the rapid pace after intense exercise, but rather a... deeper tremor emanating from his very marrow.

He was all too familiar with this sensation.

Like a low-grade fever.

His temperature hadn't risen, but every cell in his body was burning, craving something he couldn't provide.

He didn't know what this was.

(Narrator-kun: But I know, so let me introduce it to everyone now.)

His armor—silver skeleton—had never been a complete evolutionary form.

Remember that stormy night ten years ago? Both of them had been drunk that night.

The path "The Forger" designed for him: force the directional compilation of the evo factor to abort before reaching the threshold of a "Complete Form," constructing a set of semi-finished armaments that could be deployed or retracted at any time. The advantages were safety and reversibility. The price was—

The evolutionary program was permanently stuck at 80% on the progress bar.

And that remaining 20% had never given up.

The instinct of the evo factor is "completeness." Once activated, the underlying code continuously sends the same signal to the host: forward, complete, reach the finish line. But the silver-gray armbands on Lu Jianchuan's arms—now two of them—were physical locks, firmly stuck at the 80% mark.

On one side was the unconscious drive of the factor.

On the other was the conscious suppression of the System.

There was no escalation of conflict, no violent rejection. Just two sets of instructions continuously and at a low intensity consuming each other within his body. For three years, this consumption had never ceased.

Manifesting externally, it was a persistent, low-grade fever-like stickiness.

At this moment, Lu Jianchuan's evo factor concentration was 1.049%. It was far from the dangerous critical threshold and not enough to trigger any physiological collapse.

But that craving of being "just a bit away from completion" had already become a part of his physical perception, like background noise.

Lu Jianchuan stood at the doorway.

The silver-white armor took on a cold tone under the warm indoor lights. He was still stained with pale blue mantis fluids, and chitin fragments were stuck in the gaps of his leg armor; he looked like a statue that had just walked off a battlefield.

None of the six dared to move.

None of them dared to speak.

Lu Jianchuan pulled a black voice recorder from his waist and pressed the red button with his thumb.

The indicator light turned on.

"Are you going to speak for yourselves," he began, his voice exceptionally calm in the wrecked room, "or should I use my fists to force it out of you one by one?"

The silence lasted for three seconds.

The one on the sofa was the first to break. He was a man in his fifties, his hair combed meticulously but now all disheveled and hanging over his forehead. He practically crawled as he peeked out from behind the sofa, his lips trembling:

"I-I'll talk... It's the Evergreen Group... the Evergreen Group set it up... we only provided the funding..."

He confessed intermittently for twenty minutes.

Funding channels. Offshore accounts. Middleman codenames. Details of the deal with the mantis race. The number of "consumables" they had tricked. Death counts. Cremation sites.

The red light on the voice recorder didn't flicker once.

The second, the third, the fourth.

Some added details, some shifted blame, and some tried to hide key points only to be exposed on the spot by their accomplices. The room gradually filled with the atmosphere of mutual backstabbing unique to those at the end of their rope.

When the last one finished speaking, Lu Jianchuan stopped the recording.

He put the recorder back at his waist.

"Finished?"

No one dared to answer.

Lu Jianchuan walked toward the one closest to him—the middle-aged man who had been the first to confess. The man even squeezed out a fawning smile, as if to say: I've confessed everything, we're partners now, right?

Lu Jianchuan blasted a punch into his face.

The sound of the nasal bone shattering was crisp. The man didn't even scream; his entire body bounced off the sofa and flew across the room, smashing the glass coffee table and embedding himself into the synthetic leather padding at the base of the wall.

"You—!"

Another wealthy businessman jumped up, his finger pointing at him tremulously: "You have no sense of honor! We've already confessed!"

Lu Jianchuan was already in front of him.

"To prevent you from escaping."

He said.

The second punch.

The third punch.

The fourth punch.

The fifth punch.

The sixth punch.

The six people lay scattered throughout the VIP room in various twisted poses, like broken dolls tossed into a corner by a naughty child. They were all breathing. But for at least four hours, none of them would be able to stand up on their own.