Chapter 117: Jabs

Kai stood at the very back of the group, his frigid gaze locked onto Alion. Silver hair and icy blue eyes... the more he looked at that face, the more strangely familiar it seemed, as if he had seen it somewhere before.

Yet Kai had been deployed to this area the moment he emerged from his gestation pod, while Alion had lived continuously in Central. Their trajectories in space and time shared virtually zero points of intersection.

He clearly shouldn’t know Alion at all.

Puzzled, Kai scoured the depths of his mind, but all he could drag up were fractured, hazy fragments.

Naked human test subjects submerged in glass vats, ice-cold hypodermic needles, translucent tubes feeding into flesh...

No, that wasn’t right. The spirit guides didn’t match up.

Under the weight of Alion’s open threat, the squad had no choice but to submit to the electronic cuffs, allowing themselves to be escorted aboard the warship to await their sentence.

Gales whipped across the gantry bridge. As Cyrus passed Alion, he paused for a brief second.

An invisible wave of spiritual pressure spread between them—clashing, testing, and locking horns in silence.

Cyrus’s voice dropped to a low, deadly murmur, coated in a layer of frostbitten rage.

"Alion... you better pray to whatever god you believe in that you never fall into my hands."

Cyrus knew full well that his frame-up and subsequent exile to 616 were inextricably linked to Alion.

After all, he was Mikado’s most loyal hound.

Alion raised his eyes slightly, revealing the sculpted line of his jaw beneath the brim of his officer’s cap:

"Very well. We shall wait and see."

Alion silently watched Cyrus’s figure until it vanished completely into the corridor ahead.

Why did it feel like that monster’s rank had climbed even higher?

He slowly peeled off his black leather gloves. The tips of his fingernails showed a faint cyan tint, and his skin possessed not a trace of warmth.

Alion was exceptionally sensitive to the cold—a trait stemming from an apparent innate genetic anomaly—which was why he constantly wore gloves.

Lingering on the leather was the faint, soft warmth and delicate fragrance of the woman. Alion raised it slightly, catching a subtle whiff.

A gardenia-scented Guide pheromone. It didn’t seem particularly special on the surface.

Yet Alion knew Cyrus wasn’t a man who developed an interest in women casually; his tastes were notoriously discerning.

Alion’s curiosity was growing by the second.

Bunny was escorted by the medics straight to the medical wing aboard the warship. The stark white corridors were deathly quiet, broken only by the rhythmic hum of maintenance droids bustling to and fro.

She was ushered into a fully automated medical suite. The medical droid instructed her to strip away her clothing and step inside the photon restoration pod.

Her tactical suit, stained with dried blood and alien fluids, crumpled down around her ankles. Stepping barefoot into the pod, Bunny lay down with her arms crossed over her chest.

A soft blue light scanned her from head to toe, accompanied by the cold, mechanical synthesis of an AI voice:

"BMI below optimal baseline... medium nutrition profile... mild anemia detected..."

"No fatal trauma. Five soft-tissue lacerations, one puncture wound... zero infection or suppuration..."

"Estimated restoration duration: 3 hours..."

A sleep-inducing agent was injected smoothly into her skin. Bunny’s eyelids fluttered shut as crystal-blue restorative fluid gradually rose, washing over her body like gentle waves rolling across a soft beach.

She felt her frame grow light, enveloped in a wave of soothing comfort that allowed her mind to go completely blank.

Three hours later, strictly following programmed protocols, the medical droid transferred the fully restored Bunny to an individual quarters to rest.

Meanwhile, the Sentinels, having completed their physical evaluations, were carelessly dumped into the warship’s collective barracks—crammed six to a room alongside ordinary enlisted soldiers.

The warship would deliver the Sentinels back to their tower, a journey scheduled to last thirty hours.

— Sentinel Mess Hall 1 —

Terra’s military warships observed extremely strict hierarchy divisions: enlisted ranks and officers, logistics and elites, Sentinels and Guides were all strictly segregated into separate sectors. Without explicit clearance, cross-sector movement was strictly prohibited.

The squad from 616 had been subjected to a full round of grueling disciplinary penalties before being released—Alion’s petty way of purely disgusting them.

At 19:00, the mess hall filled as the majority of soldiers gathered for dinner.

Inside the spacious mess hall, scattered groups of dining Sentinels had already filled most of the seating area.

Rain carried his food tray over, joining his teammates at a long table tucked into the eastern corner of the hall. Sentinel rations were virtually oil-free and salt-free—undeniably bland—though they compensated with a reasonably wide variety of options.

Aside from poached chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and boiled carrots, the counter offered sliced fish, green salads, and pre-packaged sandwiches.

Every item was a product of genetic modification.

Arden loaded extra fruit onto his tray, harboring a personal weakness for bananas and kiwis. Orion, Illai, San, and Brandon took seats directly across from him, while the remaining squad members occupied an adjacent table nearby.

Illai cast a look of utter disgust at the bitter melon sitting on his plate. Hating the taste with a passion, he picked every slice off without a word and dumped them straight onto his older brother’s tray.

Orion shot his younger brother a quiet look before wordlessly eating every piece of bitter melon; he refused to let food go to waste.

Illai was vastly pickier than Orion—detesting bitter melon, mustard greens, and red cabbage alike—and habitually forced his brother to clean up whatever vegetables he refused to touch.

Brandon hadn’t even picked up his utensils. Resting his chin in his hand, he stared blankly at his tray, devoid of any appetite. "How much longer until she gets out of the medical center?"

"I miss her so much."

Brandon was consumed with guilt over Bunny being forced into the radiation zone by the punk man. He felt like a useless hound who had completely failed to protect his girl.

Neither Arden nor Rain held any affection for Brandon’s high-pitched, baby-talk tone—viewing him as nothing more than a cloying, manipulative green-tea brat.

Arden fired back a blunt jab. "Why don’t you wait until your dick grows hard before you start missing her?" ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Hairs haven’t even grown in properly, yet he thinks about her every single day.

Brandon’s expression darkened instantly. "Arden, did I fucking insult you or something?"

Rain kept his mouth shut, smoothly passing his own small side dish of bitter melon over to Orion as well.

Facing the mute snake’s bewildered, silent stare, Rain offered a polite, serene smile. "Eating extra vegetables helps supplement your vitamins."

San clapped a hand onto Brandon’s shoulder. "Ignore these two rough bastards. They don’t have the faintest clue what women actually like."

Arden let out an amused chuckle. "Oh? And I suppose you know what women like?"

Illai turned his gaze toward San, expecting him to share something genuinely useful for once.