Chapter 135: Humans Part 1
Samantha agreed reluctantly.
They left the warehouse shortly after.
The city outside was still breaking apart, but their path stayed unusually clear. Roads that should have been blocked were open.
Groups of armed men that would normally challenge movement were absent or already gone. Even the usual panic at intersections felt distant, as if the area had been quietly cleared out ahead of them.
John noticed it first.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
Samantha didn't answer. She kept walking, eyes forward, grip tight around the weapon she had formed earlier.
Francis stayed close, not visible in any fixed way. His presence shifted through nearby bodies and empty spaces, never settling long enough to be pointed at.
A checkpoint stood ahead of them, abandoned mid-operation. Barriers lay half-lowered. Shell casings were scattered across the pavement, but no bodies remained.
Aris slowed as they passed through it.
"This is not normal evacuation behavior," she said quietly.
No one replied.
The further they went, the more complete the silence became. It was not peace. It was absence—like a path had been decided for them and everything else had been removed from it.
Samantha finally spoke, without looking back.
"You're doing this."
Francis didn't deny it.
The air around them shifted slightly, as if something unseen had adjusted its attention.
(I am removing obstacles. Nothing more.)
By the time they reached the outer perimeter of the military zone, the gates were already open.
The base stood intact, but empty of resistance. Floodlights still worked. Doors were unlocked. Even the security systems appeared to have been shut down from the inside, as if someone had walked through earlier and decided nothing should remain active.
Samantha stopped at the entrance.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then she stepped forward.
And the others followed.
As they moved deeper, signs of preparation became clearer.
Lights were on in corridors that should have been dark. Doors that were supposed to require clearance were already open. Even the air carried a faint circulation, as if systems had been maintained continuously rather than reactivated.
John slowed. "Someone's been here."
Samantha didn't respond. She was already noticing the same details—fresh tool marks on panels, recently replaced wiring covers, food crates stacked in organized rows near junction points.
Aris touched one of the crates, then pulled her hand back slightly.
"This is recent," she said.
Francis said nothing, but his presence tightened around them, guiding rather than pushing. The path forward became unmistakable.
When they reached the final access tunnel, the air changed.
It was cleaner here. Pressurized. Controlled.
The tunnel opened into a vast hangar space.
The airship was already there.
Large, unfinished in some sections, but structurally intact. Its hull stretched across the bay like something waiting to be completed rather than repaired. Walkways had been installed around it. Power lines ran into its body from multiple temporary stations.
And people were already inside it and around it.
Samantha stopped at the threshold.
A full crew stood across the hangar floor.
Pilots near the forward docking ramp, going over final checks on portable consoles. Engineers clustered around open panels along the lower hull. Medical staff had set up a small triage zone beside stacked supply crates.
Even support personnel—people for logistics, maintenance, communications—were already assigned and moving with quiet coordination.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then a man near the engineers looked up and noticed them.
"Welcome," he said simply, as if it had been expected for hours.
Samantha's eyes narrowed. "What is this?"
(It's me. Don't worry about it. All the people here are my loyal servants. I handpicked them to make sure you survive in outer space. I've also begun repairing the airship. It will be operational in 12 hours.)
"You didn't ask any of us," she said.
"I didn't need to," Francis replied. His tone remained even. "Time was not on your side."
She stepped forward a half pace. "You call this preparation? You took people against their will, assigned them, and built an evacuation plan without consent."
(I saved them. If I hadn't chosen them, they would still die tomorrow.)
His words were so direct that she couldn't even retort.
"I hate you. Do you really think I'll call you father if you keep doing this?"
(I don't even want that. I'm just a selfish being, and right now I want to save you before I leave this place completely, so I don't have any regrets.)
In the end, she could not do anything.
People began boarding the airship in an orderly flow. Engineers first, then pilots, then medical staff and logistics teams. Crates were lifted through cargo lifts. Power systems flickered as sections of the hull came alive one by one.
The scale of it made the movement feel almost rehearsed.
Samantha walked with the others but kept a slight distance, as if space itself could separate her from the decision that had already been made.
Francis stayed unseen, but never absent. Every checkpoint opened before they reached it. Every delay resolved before it formed.
On the surface, the capital continued collapsing into noise and panic.
Far from the hangar, in the remaining pockets of the city, the situation had shifted again.
The last organized groups were now cornered.
Clan families that still held influence gathered in sealed rooms, watching reports on damaged screens. Power was unstable. Communications came in bursts, distorted and incomplete.
Then the news broke through.
An airship.
Semi-operational. Protected. Moving under unknown command. A full evacuation route already in motion.
At first, no one believed it.
Then footage confirmed it—people boarding. Military access zones cleared. Entire personnel structures already in place.
No one spoke for a moment after the broadcast ended.
Finally, one of the clan heads leaned forward.
"So it's real. There's still a remaining airship we could use."
No one answered directly. A few avoided eye contact. Others watched the flickering map instead.
A metal door at the far end of the room slid open.
Footsteps followed.
The Dark Chains executive entered without announcement. Two armed escorts stayed behind him, but he didn't look at them. His attention went straight to the table.
He placed a small device down. It projected a tighter, cleaner feed of the airship's current status.
"Confirmed," he said. "Hull integrity above ninety percent. Active crew onboard. Departure capability within hours."
A clan leader frowned. "How do you have this level of access?"
The executive didn't react to the question. "You're asking the wrong thing."
That shifted the room slightly. Chairs adjusted. Hands moved closer to weapons out of habit, not intent.
He continued.
"The question is not how. The question is what you intend to do with it."
One of the clan representatives finally spoke. "Our underground base would be useless against the new threat, so it's better for us to get an airship and at least try a safer place on the other continent."
"That is true," the Dark Chains executive nodded. "However, the group that is now in possession of this airship will not go down without a fight. According to my scouts, they are Covenant members, hybrids, and we also risk having to fight a beast that can control normal human beings."
The clan leaders' brows furrowed. They were already well aware of this issue beforehand, which was why they had ensured no normal humans could enter their underground base after the lockdown.
"If we're going to go for it, then only individuals with special abilities can go. You need to leave the others behind," the executive said.
The decision was made after hours of argument and silence. Lists were drawn up, revised, and cut down again. Names were removed without ceremony. Some protested. Most did not.
In the end, they chose efficiency over everything else.
Only the most capable were allowed through.
Those with combat ability, technical skill, or specialized knowledge were marked for extraction. Everyone else was left behind in sealed sectors of the underground bases, told they would be "protected in place" until further notice.
No one said what that really meant.
By the time the convoys were ready, the plan had already hardened into something irreversible.
Engines roared through tunnel exits and fractured surface routes. Armored trucks moved in tight formation, followed by unmarked transports bearing Dark Chains insignia.
The convoy stretched across broken highways and temporary bridges, pushing through terrain that had already begun to fail under the weight of the ongoing collapse.
In total, their number exceeded three thousand special categories.
It was not an evacuation force.
It was an armed migration.
At the front of the convoy, the Dark Chains executive reviewed live updates on a display screen mounted inside his vehicle—routes, timings, estimated resistance zones near the military perimeter.
A clan leader sat opposite him, arms folded, watching the data flicker.
"This many people moving at once will attract attention," the leader said.
"It already has," the executive replied without looking up. "Besides, the whole capital will be gone tomorrow, so who cares?"
As much as the clan leader wanted to retort, there was no denying that the world was now meeting its end. He could not help but curse Lucien.
If they had never waged war against the kings, humanity might have had a few more years—maybe even a decade.
Little did he know that, regardless of Lucien's actions, the nation was still bound to be destroyed by Francis. The orbital cannons had only accelerated the inevitable.
The only thing that was not part of the plan was the silver substance, which was the result of human intervention more than anything else.