Chapter 230: Not a real game
The sky was dark—not from storm clouds, but because the sun had long since retreated, leaving the moon to take its place, veiled shyly behind layers of apocalyptic haze.
The storm had ended. The heavy raindrops that once hammered the earth were gone, leaving behind shallow pools and a lingering chemical odor that clung to the air.
The convoy pressed forward, the roar of the military hummers echoing through the silent wasteland. Their reinforced tires sliced through mud and stagnant water without pause, advancing steadily until the towering concrete walls of Shelter City 8 came into view.
The battlefield outside the city had already been wiped clean. The rain had washed away the blood and filth, while work crews had cleared the dismembered bodies of the mutants. The scarred, barren land now lay disturbingly calm, as if the slaughter that had taken place only hours before had never happened.
As the convoy reached the city, the massive reinforced gates opened without question or delay. No words were exchanged. The vehicles rolled through in heavy silence.
Every soldier stationed along the walls, even those hidden from direct view, turned to acknowledge their passage. Whether standing guard at the gates or patrolling the battlements, each offered a sharp salute. Their faces betrayed their tension and uncertainty, but military discipline held firm. Respect was rendered—not to protocol, but to something far more unsettling.
The real aftermath of the battle became clear only after they entered the city.
Shelter City 8 should have been silent by now. At this hour, especially after such a brutal storm, its rain-soaked streets ought to have been deserted. Yet the roads were packed. Thousands stood along the main avenue, stretching as far as the eye could see, flanking both sides of the route the convoy followed.
Inside the armored hummer, Adyr watched in silence, his gaze flat as the headlights swept over the mass of waiting bodies. Word had spread, fast and wide. These people knew exactly who was returning.
Most of them wore cheap, disposable masks and plastic goggles, a thin defense against the chemical sting that still lingered in the air. Their fragile human bodies weren’t built for exposure. But they stood anyway, crowded together, their feet caked in mud, their shoulders hunched beneath cheap raincoats, refusing to leave.