20: Gold in the corpse

The explosive bang of hydraulic locks snapping open detonated within the deathly silence of the secret chamber.

Hiss—

Before the white mist from the pressure relief valve could touch the floor, a deathly pale palm had already gripped the edge of the pod.

The knuckles were a sickly blue-purple from excessive force, and fingernails dug deep into the shock-absorbing gel layer, scraping out a piercing screech.

Li Cang rose abruptly from the thick, turbid nutrient solution.

There was none of the usual confusion upon waking, only a feeling of suffocation as if he were about to drown.

His back heaved violently, and his muscles spasmed uncontrollably the moment they left the liquid, as if every nerve ending were on fire.

Intense pain.

But this was by no means the sharp pain of flesh being cut; it was a dull, overloading ache from a vast consciousness being forcibly compressed into a Mortal skull.

Three seconds ago, his mind had been spread across the battlefields of the Terra Radiation Wasteland, commanding the Legion's advance from a bird's-eye view.

He could sense the recoil of every Bolter in the First Company and "see" the rotting skin of the Mortal Auxiliary Army on the flanks amidst the biochemical toxins.

Sensory feedback from hundreds of units formed his vast, divine consciousness.

And now, the data stream was instantly disconnected.

That omniscient, omnipotent "Commander" had vanished, and his sensory world collapsed into this weak, aching body, shivering from hypothermia.

"Urgh..."

His stomach convulsed violently, and bitter acid bile surged up his esophagus.

Li Cang dry-heaved, unable to vomit anything but a few mouthfuls of sour water.

This "phantom limb pain" made him feel as if his body were missing thousands of pieces—each representing a unit sacrificed on the battlefield just moments ago.

He grabbed a coarse sterile towel, not even stopping to wipe the sticky culture medium from his face, and stared intently at the holographic projection array that had just hummed to life in the darkness.

There were no flowers, no applause, only a frantic stream of crimson data dancing across his retinas.

It was a cold sentence of judgment.

[Campaign Settlement: Black Basalt Fortress Siege]

[Tactical Evaluation: S (Epic Pyrrhic Victory)]

Every line of text spat out by the Cogitator array carried the scent of blood, and behind every number lay shattered remains:

[Thunder Legion First Company Attrition Audit]

[power armor Total Loss Rate: 42% (Stress fractures in ceramite armor, servo-joints completely scrapped)]

[Biological Combat Attrition: Muscle fiber dissolution rate 70%, 12 cases of comminuted fractures, 3 cases of pre-genetic collapse reactions] [Material Inventory: Nerve suppressants exhausted, analgesics exhausted]

[Mortal Auxiliary Army Attrition Audit]

[Confirmed Deaths: 2,140]

[Severe Disability: 800 (Missing limbs/organ failure/severe radiation sickness)]

[Unit Assessment: This unit has lost its tactical significance; immediate disbandment or conversion into Servitor raw materials is recommended]

[Logistics Ammunition Audit]

[bolt shell Inventory: 0]

[Promethium Fuel: 0]

The red light on his retinas reflected off Li Cang's pale face. He watched the final settlement box pop up, his breath nearly stopping.

[Revenue Liquidation] [Loot Conversion: +3,200 GP (genesis points)]

[Deduction Evaluation Reward: +2,000 BP (Blueprint Points)]

[Automatic Deductions: Emergency Battlefield Maintenance Fees (power armor repair/Treatment of the severely wounded/Corpse disposal)]

[Deduction Amount: -3,200 GP]

[Current Final Balance: 0 GP]

Li Cang stared fixedly at that perfect "0," a dry, cold laugh squeezing out of his throat.

Three thousand two hundred points.

That was the total value of this glorious victory.

This money was only enough to hammer those smashed suits of power armor back into shape, sew up the torn muscles of the Thunder Warriors, and throw two thousand Mortal corpses into the incinerator.

Over two thousand lives fed into the meat grinder, a fortress captured with every ounce of effort, and in the end, all it yielded was a damned break-even.

His body went limp, and he slumped into the cold command chair, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the metal surface of the armrest in a rhythmic click-clack.

This wasn't just a game; it was a logically rigorous dark universe.

If it were those viewers who only watched the holographic live streams, they would be climaxing over the violent aesthetics of Thunder Warriors tearing tanks apart with their bare hands, or weeping over the tragic bravery of Mortals charging into lasers.

But in Li Cang's eyes, there was no romance in war.

War was only cost accounting.

Every bolt shell fired was money burning; every warrior falling was an asset lost.

He had won this battle on a tactical level, but in terms of strategic resources, he was completely bankrupt.

If the next skirmish broke out in ten minutes, his proud Thunder Warriors—those demigods clad in power armor—would have to drag their nearly scrapped bodies forward and use broken gun stocks to bash in the enemies' heads.

Because they had no more bullets.

Fragments of memory flashed back abruptly—images from after the siege ended.

Arik Taranis, the Commander who held the Lightning Banner, the leader of the Thunder Warriors hailed as humanity's strongest weapon.

After the smoke had cleared, he hadn't stood atop a mountain of corpses roaring as the legends said.

He was hiding in a shadowed corner of the fortress.

That demigod-like giant held his head, his muscles writhing frantically under his skin like living things, tearing and restructuring. Sweat mixed with blood seeped from the gaps in his armor; he was suppressing his screams, not letting the Mortals under his command see this scene.

Genetic collapse.

That was the truth of the current Thunder Warriors.

They were weapons of war forced into premature maturity—an exquisite, infinitely powerful, yet doomed glass dagger.

Every swing wore down their lifespan.

When one died, there was one fewer. The combat instincts forged in seas of blood and mountains of corpses, the tactical intuition gained through countless injuries—all would turn into a pile of worthless rotten meat along with the collapse of their bodies.

"I can't keep fighting like this."

Li Cang's voice was hoarse, but his gaze gradually shifted from exhaustion to a coldness unique to an actuary.

"I must stop the losses. I cannot let this precious combat experience rot away with the corpses... I need to recycle it, even the value of the dead."

He suddenly raised his hand, swiping open the vast and obscure [Civilization Tech Tree].

The holographic interface expanded in the void like an intricate interstellar chart. Countless grey nodes floated about; Li Cang didn't even look at those flashing with tempting golden light like [Heavy Bolter Manufacturing] and [Void Shield Generator].

No money to buy iron, no money to cast steel. Any physical arms race was currently a luxury for him.

His finger dove rapidly along the dark vein representing [Biology - Gene Alchemy], finally stopping at an inconspicuous node in the corner at the very bottom.

The icon for that node wasn't a weapon or armor, but a bright red organ that had been stripped out, pulsing slowly in the holographic projection.

[Theoretical Prototype: Progenoid Gland - Prototype]

[Prerequisites: Gene Alchemy (Mastered), High-intensity biological death samples (Satisfied)]

[Research Cost: 1,800 BP]

[Technical Description: "The greatest waste is the loss of experience." — Since the flesh is destined to collapse, engrave experience into the genes. By implanting a secondary gland within the warrior, this organ will act as a "black box" to record the host's physical mutation thresholds and combat reflexes. When the host dies, recover the gland, extract the sequence, and implant it into the next subject.]