Linde's mental core sensed a chilling rage, not directed at the "Crimson Bulwark" before him, but at the massive machine called the Empire that had created it all.
This dream was violently shaken and on the verge of collapse due to the intrusion of Linde's powerful external consciousness.
Those painful fragments of memory were like glass in a storm, ready to shatter completely at any moment, annihilating Vika's last remaining, repressed consciousness.
"Certainly."
Linde's mental power spread out silently, like the most flexible yet strongest net, forcefully smoothing out the violent fluctuations of the dream.
He anchored his will to stabilize this fragile space that held Vika's last vestige of "humanity".
The chaotic images, piercing noises, and tearing pain were forcibly suppressed and sorted out, and the dream temporarily stabilized in a relatively still and gloomy state.
Linde's mental perception acted like a searchlight, sweeping across this "ruins" made of despair.
Finally, in the darkest, most inconspicuous corner, he "saw" it.
It was a huddled-up figure.
He was no longer the bright-eyed, energetic fishing village boy from my memory, nor the dark red killing machine outside radiating terrifying pressure.
He was so thin that he looked as if a gust of wind could blow him away.
His body was barely covered by tattered, stained linen clothes, and his exposed skin was so pale it was almost transparent, covered with purplish-blue bruises and needle marks.
He hugged his knees tightly with both arms, buried his face in his arms, and his body trembled slightly uncontrollably.
It was a chill and fear that came from the depths of one's soul.
Linde's mental energy slowly approached, without disturbing the area, like a gentle, cold light softly enveloping that corner.
He could feel that inside this curled-up body, there was only extreme weakness, deep-seated fear, and boundless emptiness.
Vika's core consciousness as a "human" has been ravaged to the point that only a tiny spark remains, like a candle flickering in a storm, ready to be extinguished at any moment.
Linde's mental power materialized into an almost transparent hand, which gently rested on the trembling, cold shoulder.
Without a word, only a calm yet powerful mental message was transmitted, piercing through layers of fear and reaching the faint core of consciousness:
“Vika…I saw it.”
The curled-up figure trembled suddenly, like a frightened little animal, and raised its head slightly, revealing a pair of eyes.
What eyes they were!
It was as empty as a dry well, having lost all the spirit a young person should have, leaving only numbness, confusion, and bottomless fear.
Deep within his pupils, the cold white light of the laboratory and the figures in white robes, like the Grim Reapers, were reflected.
These eyes stared blankly in the direction of Linde's spiritual power, unfocused, only showing an instinctive fear of anything that came near.
Linde's mental power did not retreat; instead, it became even more concentrated, transforming into a stable, gentle ball of light that emitted a faint warmth, hovering in front of Vika and dispelling a bit of coldness and darkness.
That thought was transmitted again, carrying comfort and an undeniable power:
"I know of your pain. Your past has not been completely erased. It is here."
The light flickered slightly, reflecting the waves of the fishing village, the blurry yet warm faces of his parents, and the flickering of the campfire in the military camp... Those fragments of memories that had been stripped away and suppressed were captured and reproduced from the ruins of his dream by Linde's spiritual power.
In Vika’s empty eyes, there seemed to be a very faint glimmer, like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, creating a barely perceptible ripple.
His lips moved silently, but no sound came out; instead, they trembled even more violently.
Linde's psychic energy continued to radiate a steady warmth, like a small campfire lit on an ice field.
"Rest now, Vika. Your war... is over for now."
With this thought, a profound spiritual comforting power flowed into Vika's remaining consciousness.
The violent trembling gradually subsided, and the tense body relaxed little by little, like a puppet with its strings cut.
His empty eyes slowly closed, carrying a trace of exhaustion as if he had lost all his strength.
He curled up again, but this time, as if protected by the ball of light, he sank into a dreamless, deep slumber.
The faint spark of consciousness was temporarily protected by Linde's power, and no longer flickered and seemed about to go out.
Linde withdrew his mental energy from Vika's side and once again scanned the dream ruins distorted by the Empire's atrocities. Deep within his consciousness, he felt as cold as steel.
He took one last look at the curled-up, sleeping "remains" named Vika, and then, like the receding tide, his mental energy silently withdrew from the deepest corner of his consciousness within the Crimson Barrier.
Before leaving completely, he left behind an extremely subtle yet brand-like spiritual imprint, deeply engraved in the deepest part of the alchemical core that imprisoned Vika's brain.
This mark is like a cold coordinate, a silent witness.
As his consciousness returned to the cold command center of the Steel Sky, Linde slowly opened his eyes.
The playfulness and curiosity that had been there before had vanished from his deep purple eyes, replaced by a chilling aura, like ancient ice, as if he had seen through the cruel truth.
He looked at the frozen image on the screen: Victor Horn's pale yet confident face, and the dark red killing machine beside him.
"I see."
Lind's voice was soft, yet carried immense weight, echoing in the silent command room: "A sword forged from life... stripping away emotions, imprisoning the soul, solely for absolute obedience and the efficiency of slaughter."
His fingertips tapped lightly on the cold control panel, producing a crisp sound.
“The Principality of Oak… Victor Horn…” Lind uttered these two names in a calm tone, yet they contained a killing intent colder than a beam of death. “The so-called ‘pinnacle of alchemy’ that you pursue is to create this kind of… living weapon?”
He slowly stood up, his gaze seemingly piercing through space, looking directly at the fanatical researchers in the distant Oak Institute and the pulsating "Heart of the Furnace".
"The empire needs a sword that doesn't think..."
Linde's lips curled into a cold, emotionless smile, a smile so chilling it could freeze the soul. "Very well. Then let this sword see for itself just how... fragile the 'empire' for which it has given everything is in the face of true power."
The spiritual imprint left deep within the Crimson Barrier is like a dormant volcano, awaiting the command to erupt.
Linde's gaze had already turned to a more distant place—the capital of the Sass Empire, and the blood-stained alchemical furnace hidden behind the sophisticated technology of the Duke of Ork.
A storm was brewing in his cold, purple eyes.
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