122: Chapter 123 Not Wasting Money is a Virtue

Lynn's index finger pressed hard on the red plastic button.

A crisp click was amplified countless times in the dead-silent office.

At the same time, the door was pushed open.

The thing that looked like her assistant stood at the doorway, without a weapon or the triumphant sneer of a villain; its expression was even a bit awkward, like an employee who had made a mistake.

"Director," it said, its voice identical to that obsessive-compulsive young man, "you've pressed the wrong button."

Lynn ignored it, her eyes looking past its shoulder into the corridor.

The red alarm button bypassed the local AI system entirely, using low-level hardwiring that led straight to the Heavy Mecha Squadron stationed in the West District.

This was the Cyber Federation's final insurance, specifically designed to handle the highest system-level threats.

She heard the sound of metal treads crushing the composite flooring—heavy, rhythmic, carrying that industrial sense of power that could crush anything.

Three heavy mechas burst through the security door at the end of the corridor, their composite armor glinting coldly under the overhead lights. The barrels of their medium-caliber rapid-fire cannons had finished preheating, and energy shields formed a translucent honeycomb force field around their frames.

The Cyber Federation's A-class Logistics and armed forces did not disappoint; it took less than forty seconds from the alarm to their arrival.

Lynn's tense back finally eased slightly away from the chair.

"Target at the door," she shouted into the air, knowing the mechas' tactical pickups would hear her, "Eliminate immediately."

The three mechas stopped ten meters outside the office door.

The cannon barrels rotated.

But not toward the "assistant" at the door.

The three dark cannon barrels bypassed the Infiltrator standing at the door and locked directly onto Lynn, who was sitting behind the desk.

Lynn's pupils contracted sharply, and that spine-tingling electric sensation surged through her scalp again, ten times more intense than when she had seen the misaligned documents earlier.

"Verifying identity," the synthesized electronic voice of the lead mecha rang out, flat and absolutely neutral. "Target database match failed; identified as an unregistered biological individual."

Unregistered biological individual.

Lynn looked down at the data wall in front of her; the green light points were still flashing, and her own identity node was still highlighted.

But that was an old interface, a cached image she saw using master control privileges that had already been stripped away.

In the low-level database accessed by the mecha units, the data for the technical director named Lynn had been erased.

Or rather, it had been replaced.

The "assistant" standing at the door stepped aside, clearing the line of fire for the rapid-fire cannons.

"Actually, we aren't very good at direct combat," the thing explained in a very sincere tone, "but your system is just too convenient. By changing just a few numbers, your machines will work for us."

Lynn's finger left the red button.

She looked at the dark muzzles of the cannons.

The automated system she was so proud of, the two standard deviations she had set, the thresholds she had personally widened—it had all eventually become a perfect closed loop, locking her out.

"Fire." The mecha's electronic voice issued the final command.

Lynn closed her eyes.

The roar of the rapid-fire cannons tore through the peace of the West District administrative building. The glass curtain wall was shattered by the shockwave, and shards of glass fell like hail onto the street below, startling several residents who were out for a walk.

They looked up, not understanding what had happened, but soon they wouldn't need to understand, because from another large gate at the end of the street, more "people" walked out.

Li Cang watched the situational map in the cockpit.

The highlight marking representing the Cyber Federation's core control node in the West District went dark.

It didn't turn red; it was simply erased from the map.

He raised an eyebrow and took a sip of the protein drink on the table.

The Cyber Federation collapsed even faster than he had expected. People who relied too much on a system had no basic resistance once the system was taken over; Lynn hadn't even lasted five minutes.

He switched his view to the East District.

The East District hadn't collapsed; the East District was very lively.

But this liveliness was producing side effects.

After hovering at eighty-eight for two hours, the panic index began to climb.

Eighty-eight point five.

Eighty-nine.

It was just a tiny bit away from the collapse red line of ninety.

He clicked on the low-level monitoring logs for the East District, looking directly at the footage instead of the data.

The problem was in the Waste Conduit.

Hark had ordered the executed Infiltrators to be thrown there; sixty-four bodies had been dumped in two hours.

Now, there was no more room to pile them.

Blood flowed down the slanted conduit onto the main road, and the air circulation system pumped the thick scent of blood into every corner of the dome. Those old ladies and men who had just been fanatically beating their neighbors to death began to feel an after-the-fact fear as the fervor faded, smelling that scent and seeing the bloodstains in the corridor that could never be wiped clean.

Fanaticism can dull pain, but fanaticism cannot last.

When the civilians realized they were living next to a morgue, the panic could no longer be suppressed.

Li Cang put down his cup.

One of the failure conditions for the script was the panic index exceeding the threshold.

He couldn't let these people lose their nerve now.

He opened the trump card deployment interface.

The second trump card.

[Corpse Starch Recycling Method].

He pressed the flip key.

One interference point was deducted, leaving one point.

"Time to work," he said to the screen.

Sergeant Hack stood at the entrance of the Waste Conduit, looking at the mountain of corpses inside.

His deputy stood beside him holding a Bolter, his voice sounding a bit weak.

"Sergeant, there's no more room to pile them, and the smell is too strong. Some pregnant women in District C have started vomiting from the scent. If this continues, there's going to be trouble."

Hark didn't speak. He knew there would be trouble. He could kill Infiltrators, but he couldn't perform magic; he couldn't make these sixty-plus corpses vanish into thin air.

He was considering whether to bring over two barrels of Fuel to burn them directly.

Just then, the large iron door at the end of the Waste Conduit, which was usually locked, made a dull mechanical clicking sound.

The door opened.

Behind the door wasn't a junkyard but an automated conveyor belt. The treads of the conveyor belt began to turn, emitting a low-frequency rumbling noise, and a cold wind carrying a strong scent of chemical neutralizer blew out from within.

Several industrial robots wearing fully enclosed protective suits slid out from the doorway.

They had no emotions and no weapons, only two thick mechanical arms.

They slid to the front of the pile of corpses, their mechanical arms opening to grab a body as easily as picking up a log, and threw it directly onto the conveyor belt.

The conveyor belt sent the bodies deep into the iron door.

From inside came the sounds of cutting machines and high-temperature reactors starting up.

Hark watched this scene, not moving, nor letting his subordinates fire.

These weren't Infiltrators; this was the Colony's low-level infrastructure operating, though he had never seen it operate this way before.

Ten minutes.

The sixty-four corpses were cleaned up completely. A high-pressure water gun at the end of the conveyor belt washed the floor, and the scent of disinfectant covered the smell of blood.

The iron door closed again and locked tight.

The Waste Conduit was empty.

Hark glanced at his deputy.

The deputy swallowed hard.

"Notify all districts," Hark said, his voice steady. "Continue the screening. If anyone is caught by mistake, keep them locked up. If the light flashes and they're confirmed, drag them straight here and throw them in front of this door."

Three hours later, it was dinner time in the Colony.

A long line had formed in front of the Public Cafeteria.

Martha stood in line, the pipe wrench in her hand already cleaned and tucked into her belt. In front of her was the old man who had placed righteousness above family; his cane still had a bit of his son's blood on it.

The line moved forward, and the cafeteria's rationing window opened.

Today, no Nutrient Solution or Compressed Biscuits were being issued.

What came out on the window's conveyor belt were steaming blocks—pale yellow, cut into perfect squares, emitting a strong spicy aroma that smelled somewhat like some kind of low-quality bouillon cube.

This was the physical product of the flipped trump card.

Martha took a block and found an empty seat to sit down; the old man sat opposite her.

She took a bite.

The texture was a bit coarse, but it was very high in calories, much better than the Compressed Biscuits they usually ate.

"This ration is pretty good today," Martha said while chewing. "It feels quite satisfying to eat."

"Yeah," the old man said, slowly grinding the block of starch with his toothless mouth. "After eating our fill, we have to keep searching tonight. I heard there are still a few suspicious ones over in District C."

"Count me in," Martha patted the pipe wrench at her waist. "I'll handle my entire floor."

The cafeteria was buzzing with noise as everyone discussed their experiences catching Xenos that afternoon, exchanging notes on which movements were most suspicious and which reactions were most off.

The fear was gone.

Because the monsters had been eliminated and transformed into the calories on their plates.

They ate the rations made from their neighbors, and under the cover of chemical spices, they built an extremely morbid yet indestructible social cohesion.

On the panic index panel, the red line approaching ninety plummeted like a waterfall after dinner time began, finally stabilizing in the safe range of twenty-two.

At the commentary booth.

Isabelle watched the cliff-like drop in the curve, then looked at the new trump card the red side had just flipped.

She looked at the name of the trump card.

[Corpse Starch Recycling Method].

She opened her mouth, attempting to use the sociological models she was so proud of to explain this phenomenon.

But she couldn't say a single word.