Chapter 93
The light screen in the lobby suddenly went out, then lit up again a few seconds later.
The images projected onto the screen are the final scenes of the battlefield:
—237’s chest cavity burned, and the two flames intertwined, forcing back the originally unshakeable agent.
The meeting room was deathly silent; even breathing sounded harsh.
Finally, someone slammed their hand on the table and stood up abruptly, their voice hoarse and excited:
"You see! He's not a threat, he's the breakthrough point! Only he can shake the order!"
Another high-ranking official immediately retorted, his face grim:
"No, he's just a pawn—a 'hybrid' corrupted by both the afterimage of the mother tree and the lingering effects of the rift! Can't you see that? He might not even be able to control himself!"
"But the fact is he won!" supporters countered. "Without him, we wouldn't even have a chance to fight back! Instead of worrying about him getting out of control, let's bet everything and make him our new standard-bearer!"
"no."
The opponent coldly interrupted, pointing his finger at the 237 faces that were frozen frame by frame on the projection.
"Didn't you notice? In the instant the agent retreated, his eyes—were responding to some higher call. That wasn't our power, but the imprint of a third force."
If he continues to grow stronger, the final result will not be victory, but defeat.
Silence spread once again.
The number 237 on the screen burned silently, like an unpredictable star core.
Someone whispered, "So... we either choose him or we destroy him."
An argument erupted in the hall.
Supporters chanted, "This is self-destruction!"
Opponents angrily denounced: "This is to prevent future destruction!"
—The faction completely split.
On the one hand, 237 is regarded as a continuation of the mother tree's legacy and a banner that must be supported;
On the other hand, they see him as a potential host of a third force and must eliminate him completely in the shortest possible time.
When the conflict escalates to its extreme, it becomes impossible to reach a consensus on decision-making.
The lights in the hall flickered, as if the entire council itself had been torn in two by the presence of 237.
The echoes of the conference still reverberate through the city, like an old wound that has not yet healed.
Outside the quarantine zone, the lights were on as usual, but in the shadows, behind every door lay a divided mind.
Between day and night, 237 and Sprout 12 did not immediately leave the medical bay—they had other options.
Sprout 12's fibrous roots had seeped into the corridor's air vents, using spores as messengers to scatter tiny, coded pollen particles into the ventilation system. These pollen particles weren't ordinary reproductive bodies, but rather the "eyes and ears" of the free species: when a breeze carried them past someone's breathing valve, they would gently plant a scene in that person's dream—on one side, 237's pale, resolute resistance against the agents; on the other, the fractured internecine slaughter among the higher-ups. A few short frames were enough to stir the heart.
Late at night, several mid-level technicians, still clinging to conscience or gripped by fear, awoke in their dormitories to a vision woven by spores: the higher-ups would sacrifice the next generation of energy sources in their names, and the outside world would be swallowed by a new order. The images washed over them like a tidal wave, bringing their doubts to the forefront. Bean Sprout 12 watched as these men shifted from shock to resolve, feeling their heartbeats slowly aligning with the resonance of the roots.
“We need manpower, and we need cover,” Sprout 12 whispered in the cabin, his voice like the wind rustling through dry leaves.
237 pressed her moss-green palm against the bulkhead, the light spreading across the metal surface, touching the control nodes of the passage. It wasn't a forceful seizure, but rather like extending roots: slowly and steadily prying open a crack in the access control.
Their plan was not complicated, but it was extremely dangerous:
The first step is to create a series of seemingly ordinary malfunctions to force senior management to divert their attention.
The second step involves using awakened technicians to feign a malfunction and take away critical equipment and energy modules to an underground dome—the conduits originally intended for "reconstruction" will be diverted in the darkness to become new branches for the expansion of the root network.
The third step involves using a fake dispatch order to place several loyal or coerced high-ranking officials as "cover agents," allowing the outside world to see a so-called restoration and order; while the real control is secretly provided to 237 by the selected puppets.
"What we need is time, not a head-on victory." 237's voice was as deep as the earth.
The bean sprout nodded, its leaves trembling softly, like an echo of agreement.
In the darkness, several spores flew towards the dormitory of the mid-level technicians on night watch. They projected images into the dreams—not intimidation, but a choice: continue weaving lies for the hollow upper echelons, or help a root that could truly reshape the laws of the world. Those who awoke no longer saw only fear in their eyes, but a hidden resolve.
Meanwhile, Sprout 12, posing as a "messenger of freedom," easily moved among the construction crew. He traded information seeds obtained through pod exchanges for the trust of several night shift workers: a few bags of "energy powder," a few discarded rune chips, and several easily tampered progress records. The workers believed they were contributing to the town's reconstruction; in reality, they were laying tunnels to the underground vault, unknowingly redirecting a small section of the main vein to the grid beneath 237's feet.
237 doesn't personally handle these details. His presence is like a heart, pulsating and transmitting decisions; Sprout 12 is like hands and eyes, wandering between the cracks. Their rhythms complement each other: one is rooted in a broad strategy, the other cultivates the details close at hand.
They also used lies: writing fabricated "energy consumption curves" into the system logs to conceal the true flow as "seasonal fluctuations"; adding fictitious safety inspections to the reconstruction report and marking the underground vault as an "abandoned storage facility." Sprout 12 left slight corrosion marks on critical equipment with its spores, forcing the maintenance team to temporarily replace parts, thus buying them a few hours of downtime.
But every step was fraught with risk. When Ya Dou returned to the cabin on the night of the 12th, his branches and leaves were covered in a layer of cold sweat-like ash, and his voice was lower than usual:
“We can fool machines and human eyes, but we can’t fool time. There’s a division at the top, and some people have started checking each other’s accounts. We have far less time to use now than we thought.”
237 closed his eyes slightly: "Then let's live every moment as a time for preparation. We don't fight against fate; we treat fate as soil and cultivate it slowly."
They began recruiting—not through open courtship, but by using the lure of a "secret ideal of revival." Several technicians, two engineering foremen, and a logistics officer were gradually drawn into deeper circles. They weren't entirely believers; more often, they were pushed to the brink by fear: fear of the decisions of those above, fear of being ruthlessly stripped away by a third force. But in Sprout 12's gentle and calm words, these people found another way to survive—to help a new root grow, or to watch the world be rewritten amidst decay.
As night deepens, the city lights remain bright. A semblance of order is maintained by a select group of high-ranking officials, whose false reports and smiling faces continue to broadcast reassuring words. But underground, pipelines are being quietly rerouted; within the ventilation ducts, the spores of Sprout 12 act like an invisible net, protecting the dreams of those recruited, preventing fear from engulfing them.
237 meticulously recorded every instance of energy collection and every leak of information. He didn't ruthlessly absorb resources; each new root he grew outlined a vision for this plain—not mere domination, but a new cyclical law, an order that would allow even the weak to survive in the desolate wasteland. However, this path required sacrifice, lies, and unavoidable forbearance.
When the first night shift worker secretly passed a piece of altered pipe diagram to the entrance of the underground dome, Sprout 12 smiled in the shadows: a smile that carried the sharpness of leaf veins and the warmth of the earth.
237 reached out, his fingertips touching the paper as if he had touched a new root. He whispered:
"Growth begins with a small patch of black soil."
The city's outward appearance remains unchanged, while the network they've woven underground slowly expands, like a vine quietly climbing in the night. The eyes of the third force are still watching, but they have already placed the first real pawn in their palm. The next step will be bolder growth—or a more complete betrayal.
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