Chapter 168 will be entered in sequence.

Tomsk Oblast, Siberia.

A007 Core Infection Area.

In the very center of the dark realm, Stanford regained consciousness and opened his eyes.

Then—he saw a Hebrew man in front of him, smoking a pipe and waving a handkerchief around.

"You're awake. We've cured your 'seeing everyone as a pigeon' habit."

The other person whistled and pointed to the window. They were in a very European-style hall: "Look outside, how does it feel?"

The feeling was certainly unpleasant. Stanford followed the gesture for a while, his face cold, thinking that he couldn't stand this kind of place—it was like returning to the mass graves of the European Union. Looking up, there was a dome made of cheap building materials, always lit by fluorescent lights that could make people faint. Outside the buildings, there was no living thing except for frozen ditches and blood and corpses hidden in the shadows.

The two Eoubs operatives stared at the scene for a long while.

Such scenes are all too common; they appear in most control missions, only on a smaller scale and for a shorter duration, but with wildly varied content, allowing for complete expression of personal imagination. For example, the genocide-themed extermination operations in the Americas resulted in tens of thousands of deaths in a single night. And now, in Siberia, it's like a large-scale, high-budget blitzkrieg; the higher-ups have hired numerous heavyweight stars to recoup their investment, thus amplifying the gore until it becomes uncontrollable.

Hebrew recalled the recent rebellion—which had indeed caused quite a stir in the community, and even now, follow-up procedures were being added—those people in the salons really hadn't forgotten their original intentions.

No matter where they go, nothing will end. The role they have to play will remain the same. These people made their fortune in Eoubs, so they have to come up with something new or shed some blood to show those bastards at the top.

Fortunately, this is another world.

When they joke around, ask who to kill next and arrange work, those annoying voices simply disappear, and what you feel in that moment is the essence of the entire void.

Hebrew brought up the floating screen, stared at the holographic images for a few seconds, and then silently opened another file in the terminal.

He turned his head and found Stanford looking at him.

The man had a "don't mess around" look on his face, but Hebrew was quite certain that his expression meant he also really wanted to do something big.

So he flashed Stanford a heartbreakingly bright smile and said, "Since we're already here, why don't we go out for a stroll?"

Even with the light from the streetlamp shining in, the other person's face was still frighteningly pale.

As Hebrew spoke, he browsed the catalog of 'Budapest Riots' on his terminal—originating from a promotion selection, a common internal conflict among operatives—who would do all sorts of outrageous and disgusting things for power, except that the protagonist that time was Sergio, and there were many supporting characters, including Stanford.

He lost too much in that undercurrent of struggle. As punishment, his enemies, under Sergio's orders, killed his entire family, raped his own sister, and even hung her gruesome corpse upside down from the ceiling.

Even now, no one can clearly explain what kind of person Stanford has become, but it's understandable what kind of person an operative who was capable of reaching B-level status a few years ago would become after experiencing something like this.

He became the new head of the South African branch, filled with deep hatred, and was willing to do anything to retaliate against the European faction.

Hebrew quickly finished reading them, thinking to himself that throughout human history, those in power who killed disobedient leaders always tried their best to smear the image of the other party as arrogant and ignorant. But Eoubs' forum administrators went even further; they gleefully packaged the videos and materials, creating a tragic tale of a hero's resurrection to intensify the conflict—which was indeed true, but it was just too outrageous, bro.

Over the years, people in the Eoubs circle have been asking those involved in similar incidents how they made the decision to rebel, whether they regretted it, or felt extremely angry, and whether they felt fortunate when they were rescued or poached by other divisions.

There must have been some kind of realization, which involves the experiences of countless deaths.

So what can they learn from this? Probably not just to free up some time, sit comfortably in front of a terminal, hold hallucinogens or strong liquor, watch others die tragically through a floating screen, and continue such a painful life.

Thinking of this, Hebrew glanced at Stanford again. The man stood beside him, and although he seemed normal, except for his sour face and the fact that he could spout a bunch of perfunctory, official answers—he just felt that something was off about this man.

He looked at him with a bitter expression, then patted his chest and said seriously, "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. Have you seen Haihu? My characteristics are as fierce as 999,000 magnetic fields. No one can beat me with a single finger."

Stanford finally spoke, his voice very soft, cold and ethereal, like that of a dead person.

"Can you stop being an idiot?"

...

...

Krasnoyarsk Krai.

A009 core infection zone base.

"The most disgusting thing in this world is a dream, because it has nothing to do with identity, class, or family background."

"People always cherish their dreams, rely on them to keep going, suffer for them, depend on their dreams to live, and then die because of their dreams."

"All the guys I've met so far are the same; sometimes they just want to drink a bottle of fine wine and have sex with a few gorgeous girls, or they fantasize about becoming gods."

"Perhaps it's because we can't live without something to be obsessed with; everyone is a slave to something."

Hamilton, a cigar dangling from his lips and wearing an incredibly flashy pair of sunglasses—clearly high-end—was perhaps a big fan of Western movies. Even in Siberia, where the average daily temperature is -16°C, he was only wearing a denim jacket and leather-trimmed tight-fitting riding breeches. He looked like he was carrying a Winchester rifle; he was practically obsessed.

He did bring it, but he got so caught up in listening to music on the plane that he accidentally opened a hole in the cabin. The passengers and crew died on the spot, and the weapon bag crashed into the wilderness with the plane. It's probably covered in snow by now.

Fortunately, he had looked at the map before setting off and there was a delivery device in the terminal, which allowed Hamilton to safely enter the infected area. Otherwise, he would probably have had to shamelessly contact the person in charge and ask them to send someone over to take him there.

"Damn it... As expected, spending too much time with that guy will make me unlucky. Even the butterfly effect that was not yet awakened back then can still affect my luck now."

As he muttered this, he suddenly looked up as if struck by a flash of inspiration, and gazed at the sky above.

Amidst the dark clouds, a passenger plane engulfed in flames was hurtling toward them at breakneck speed.

So abruptly, without any warning.