419: Chapter 419 The defense line cannot be on Blue Star

As the transport plane passed through the thirty-meter-long crack in the dome, a sudden gust of air rushed into the cabin, carrying the scorched smell of burnt metal.

Lin Yu sat by the porthole and glanced down.

The buildings of the Zenith of the Sky were rapidly shrinking; that once brightly lit giant arena now only had a wisp of blue smoke rising from the breach in its dome.

Then, the lights of the entire city went out.

It wasn't a gradual fade-out, but a collapse within three seconds, retracting ring by ring from the city's edge toward the center. Neon signs, light curtains on commercial building facades, and windows of residential areas—all civilian lighting was cut off under a single set of commands.

In its place, the streetlights on both sides of the roads lit up simultaneously.

Red ones.

Looking down from high above, the city's road network had turned into a dense map of blood vessels. Red light stretched along every main artery, converging into brighter nodes at intersections, spreading all the way to the edge of vision.

Lin Yu rested his hand on the porthole frame, his fingertips feeling the slight vibration coming from the fuselage.

This city, just three hours ago, was still betting frantically on a competitive match.

The broadcast system took over all channels.

A red window automatically popped up on the communication panel inside the cabin, scrolling through the same content. Lin Yu glanced at it—"Global Professionals Conscription Decree," Article 7: All registered C-rank and above Professionals must report to the nearest community registration point within six hours after the decree takes effect. Those who fail to arrive on time will be treated as wartime deserters.

Below the porthole, vehicles on the streets were pulling over.

It wasn't the chaos of a traffic jam, but a well-trained order. Almost all civilian vehicles turned on their hazard lights simultaneously and moved slowly to both sides of the road, clearing a straight path in the central lane.

Military vehicles poured out from all directions of the city.

Heavy troop carriers, armored supply trucks, and several low flatbed trailers of models Lin Yu couldn't name, carrying large equipment covered in canvas. They formed a column and drove in the same direction along the central path illuminated by red light.

The City Center Square.

The giant holographic screen, usually used for advertisements and entertainment programs, now displayed only a set of numbers.

05:47:33.

05:47:32.

A countdown. The time remaining for the first batch of the Expeditionary Force to assemble.

In the square below the holographic screen, crowds were gathering. They emerged from surrounding residential buildings, shops, and even underground passages. Most people were in plain clothes, but they carried weapons and equipment in their hands or on their backs. A middle-aged man in pajamas and slippers, carrying a warhammer taller than himself on his shoulder, was jogging into the flow of people.

No one spoke.

In a square of a hundred thousand people, there was only the sound of footsteps.

Another message popped up on the cabin's communication panel. Lin Yu didn't look at it intentionally, but his peripheral vision caught a few keywords—"Civilian Production Conversion," "Executive Order," "Immediate Execution."

In the city's East District, an exoskeleton factory.

A factory director surnamed Zhou stood in the center of the workshop, clutching the executive order stamped with three red seals, the edges of the paper soaked with his sweat.

"Dismantle."

He only said one word.

The workers did not hesitate. Wrenches and cutters started up simultaneously, and the precision civilian exoskeleton molds on the production line were removed one by one and thrown into nearby scrap bins. The sound of metal clashing echoed through the workshop.

Military-standard molds had already been unloaded from trucks at the back door. Those molds were much rougher than the civilian ones, with burrs even on the edges, but the dimensions were strictly uniform—standard bulletproof plates, universal model, regardless of gender or body type.

Director Zhou watched as the first plate was pressed out of the new mold, its surface still steaming. He reached out to touch it, pulled back from the heat, but didn't make a sound.

"First batch, two thousand pieces, delivery within four hours," he shouted to the workshop. "Anyone who doesn't finish will join me in military court!"

The commercial district.

The potion shops that were usually bustling with customers now had their doors wide open.

They weren't smashed open; the owners had pushed them open from the inside. A white-haired old shopkeeper stood behind the counter, stacking bottles of recovery potions from the shelves into cardboard boxes. His movements were fast, but every bottle was placed steadily, and not a single one broke.

Three military trucks were parked outside. Soldiers in logistics uniforms formed a line stretching from the shop entrance to the truck beds, cardboard boxes being passed quickly through their hands.

The old shopkeeper moved the last box onto the counter and patted the dust off it.

"There are thirty-seven more boxes of high-grade recovery potions in the warehouse on the second basement level. The password is 8824."

After saying this, he pulled a rusty short sword from under the counter, tucked it into his waist, and walked out of the shop.

No one asked him where he was going.

Inside the cabin.

Qin Zhan sat at the very front, leaning against the cabin wall, with his black longsword wrapped in red sealing strips resting across his knees. His eyes were closed, but no one felt he was resting.

"Everyone."

He didn't open his eyes, but all the small noises in the cabin vanished instantly.

"Open your tactical terminals and record your last wills."

Zhong Huai's hand paused. He was checking the spare magazines at his waist; hearing these words, his movements stalled for less than half a second before continuing.

Wen Yan had already opened his terminal, his fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard. He didn't start typing immediately, but stared at the blank input box for three seconds before quickly tapping out a line and turning off the screen.

Yan Pojun sat in the corner.

His left arm was still in a temporary sling, and his right hand gripped the war blade that was only half-length. The tactical terminal was placed on his thigh, its screen mostly shattered, with only the bottom right corner still able to display content.

He didn't type.

Using the tip of his blade, he carved two words onto the remaining frame of the terminal screen, stroke by stroke.

Triumph.

The sound of metal scraping was very light, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet cabin.

Lin Yu glanced at him. Yan Pojun didn't look up; after carving the last stroke, he sheathed the war blade at his waist and closed his eyes.

This guy, who had been so chuunibyou on the field that it made one's teeth ache, was now so quiet he didn't seem like the same person.

The transport plane flew over the port.

Lin Yu saw through the porthole dozens of ocean-going cargo ships docked at their berths, their giant cranes all stopped. Containers on the decks were pushed aside, and workers were welding brackets onto both sides of the hulls.

Those were the bases for simple anti-aircraft cannons.

Several already installed cannons pointed at the sky, the paint on their barrels not yet dry, reflecting a moist luster under the red streetlights. A cargo ship's bow was temporarily sprayed with three giant white numbers—722, a serial number, the supply route number.

Lin Yu withdrew his gaze.

He pulled out his communicator; the social media interface on the screen had changed. All trending keywords were cleared, and only a single red pinned post remained on the homepage, the font large enough to fill the entire screen—

"Our defense line is in the Eighth War Zone; it must never be on Blue Star."