Apocalypse Forecast-Chapter 651 - 542

"Long time no see, Michel. Have you come to wag your tail and beg for mercy?"

The indifferent voice asked, filled with remembrance, "I still remember your unsightly state at the society four years ago, as if whining and wailing could make you a Great Grandmaster."

On the bridge, a deathly silence suddenly reigned.

Nobody spoke. As they passed by, they subconsciously lowered the sound of their movements, treading softly to avoid the area around Michel.

A terror as cold as the polar regions was radiating from this man. Even with a blank expression, one could still feel the anger and ferocity restrained within him.

The helmet he held in his arms had already cracked.

He suddenly wondered how the man opposite him had managed to survive being so mentally fractured.

Compared to the utterly passive ’salted fish’ he’d been just moments before, taking the medicine had at least made him capable of understanding human speech. However, he’d also become even more annoying... It made one want to stuff him into a cannon and fire him into the deepest ocean trench, or perhaps even launch him beyond Pluto—that might actually be a contribution to the Current Circumstances.

He clenched his teeth, squeezing out the words, "Mikhail, you’re as nauseating as ever."

"Yet I once liked you quite a bit. I recall you were the one who introduced me to the craft, weren’t you?"

Amidst the electrical hum, the Great Grandmaster sneered. "You were the one who freely offered goodwill, and you were the one who freely harbored resentment. From start to finish, you never understood that the outcome has nothing to do with what you’ve done. You’ve always been... just overestimating yourself."

Dead silence.

It was as if a chord had snapped.

Under the Great Grandmaster’s malicious appraisal, Michel’s restraint and composure finally ripped to shreds.

For a moment, the man’s face turned ashen, but then it calmed again.

He simply replied indifferently, "But in the end, Galina chose me."

"..."

Silence fell abruptly—long, so very long. It was so long that one might have suspected the other party had disconnected.

Yet Michel’s expression gradually grew joyful. A smile spread across his face—amused, mocking, and uncontrollably delighted.

"Need me to repeat myself?"

He said softly, "The wedding anniversary she meticulously prepared for months... while you were still engrossed in writing your paper, Galina chose me."

In the long silence, he seemed to be bathing in a gentle melody, arms spread wide, twisting his body, smiling at the man on the other end of the communication line.

"Mikhail, the one who won in the end was me! Me!"

"..."

The silence stretched on, but in that instant, it truly felt as if winter had descended.

A chilling, bone-deep murderous intent suddenly enveloped the place.

Along with the invisible transmission signals, murderous intent extracted from countless Disaster Miracles descended, forming a tangible curse that furiously tormented every soul.

But Michel seemed to be basking in a spring breeze, turning his head comfortably, lighting the cigarette at the corner of his mouth.

He took a satisfyingly deep breath and then exhaled slowly.

Enjoying the victory he’d won, he finally lifted his eyes. "I think now we can start having a proper conversation."

"There’s nothing to talk about."

The Great Grandmaster finally spoke, his voice grating like scraping steel, inhuman. "Take your War Dogs and your Ivy League, and get out of my Hell. Michel, if there’s any camaraderie left between us, that’s all there is."

"Hell is Hell, but it’s not yours."

Michel coldly retorted, "Besides, we completed the landmark exploration first."

"’Relying on a whistleblower? Give me a break,’ the Great Grandmaster scoffed. ’Is that what you came to tell me?’"

"I just came to confirm whether you still have any sense left."

Michel emphasized, "The struggle must be kept within limits."

"’Scared? If you’re scared, go back to your cradle,’ the Great Grandmaster asked contemptuously. ’Would the one who first broke the limits really be afraid of escalating the war?’"

"’The American Genealogy might not mind, but what about the Ivory Tower?’"

"’The Ivory Tower doesn’t care! If you’re brave enough, launch a full-scale war! Bring out the New World Declaration! It’s no problem; I can represent the Ivory Tower and take full charge right now. Just nod your head and say this is what you want, then our war can begin—we can even fight to the death!’"

"You think the Astronomical Society would be so indulgent toward you?"

Michel crushed the cigarette in his hand, his expression dark. "Come to your senses, Mikhail. It’s no longer the era of Utopia. When your aunt and uncle are in charge, you’d better learn to keep your head down."

"’I don’t need a crying, wailing piece of trash to lecture me! Come talk to me like this when you become a Great Grandmaster, Mr. Alternate!’"

"’Ha! A Great Grandmaster is truly formidable. If only you’d had such courage when you were signing the divorce papers...’"

"’When the Stone Pot Society announced its choice for Great Grandmaster, why didn’t you have the courage to accept? Don’t you know whether your pathetic achievements even qualified you? Did you think I interfered? Heh, I abstained. All the other members voted against you, loser! Go back and practice for another forty years before you come back!’"

. . .

On the Iron Crystal Throne’s bridge, those in charge shrank back, trying not to get involved in this major annual Alchemy brawl. The Director of Affairs and the Captain exchanged glances, sighing helplessly.

It seemed there was no hope of them coming to any conclusion.

In the midst of the nearby dispute, the communications officer signaled the Director of Affairs to come over, handing them a microphone.

"The call is from the other side," the communications officer said.

The elderly Director of Affairs understood, picked up the microphone, and began to speak in a flawless, authentic Roman accent, "This is Simmons Jiang, the Director of Affairs of the Iron Crystal Throne."

The response was an equally courteous voice.

"’This is Pant Delong, the troupe director of the Ivy League,’ the old man on the other end said. ’It seems both our leaders are temporarily unable to fulfill their responsibilities.’"

The Director of Affairs glanced at the Great Grandmaster, who was still engaged in the remote argument, and raised an eyebrow helplessly. "I’m afraid that’s the case."

"I think we need to have a talk."

"I feel the same."

"’So—’ After a brief pause, Pant Delong suggested, ’To avoid further losses, I propose we keep our struggle within set boundaries. How about that?’"

The Director of Affairs nodded but didn’t rush to agree, simply asking, "A good idea, but where would these boundaries be?"

"’Let’s halt the escalation of war and decide the outcome with all the forces currently within Hell. Neither side, regardless of what happens, shall deliberately damage the Town of Dusk. Treating prisoners of war with care and not misusing banned relics—these are all standard procedures, so I think that goes without saying.’"

The Director of Affairs, unmoved, asked again, "What about entry restrictions for both sides?"

Pant Delong paused for a moment before speaking again. "Great Grandmasters and Creators must not directly intervene. They must not use Authority Relics or Miracle Imprints. As for Sublimators... they are limited to Below the Fifth Stage."

The terms still had many exploitable loopholes, causing the Director of Affairs to smile. "How about we simplify it? Below the Fourth Level? Wouldn’t that be more convenient? We wouldn’t need to worry about too much destruction either, right?"

"’Wouldn’t that be a bit too favorable for your side?’ Pant Delong laughed. ’I’ve personally experienced the Judge’s methods. Let’s not go there, shall we?’"

"’Look who’s talking.’ When the first jab didn’t work, the Director of Affairs prodded again, ’Aren’t your biological weapons quite handy as well?’"

Pant Delong countered without hesitation, "If we’re limiting technology, then the Ivory Tower’s No. 4 nano-sequence probably doesn’t fit the rules either, right?"

"’Since we currently have the advantage, isn’t it only natural that the terms favor us?’ the Director of Affairs asked calmly. ’Who plays a game with absolute fairness?’"

"’If this advantage you speak of is about the Control Center, then I fear your upper hand won’t last much longer,’ Pant Delong hinted."

The Director of Affairs replied calmly, "If your side has such confidence, it’s unlikely we’ll reach an agreement."

"But we have plenty of time, don’t we?"

Pant Delong’s tone became more complex. "We have to come up with a framework before the leaders above finish their argument."

The Director of Affairs glanced at the Great Grandmaster, who had now stooped to arguing about how often the other’s students washed their underwear back in school, and couldn’t help but sigh. "Yes, I think we have plenty of time to talk slowly."

The long night passed in this way.

In every sense, it was a night filled with conversation.

.

.

Fortunately, before the next day arrived, the Director of Affairs and Pant Delong had managed to hash out a rough agreement, though it was only a rough one.

Delving into further details was pointless. If both sides truly intended to show some restraint in this contest, discussing it to this extent was sufficient. If they were determined to be shamelessly obstinate, more talk would be useless.

And so, the Alchemist circle’s annual spectacle came to a close.

Michel lost.

His voice gave out first, and he fell silent.

When the man clad in Armor stepped onto the bridge and nodded to him, Michel cut off the communication, no longer paying any attention to the Great Grandmaster on the other end.

"Did it work?" Michel asked.

"Following the map you provided, we searched sixteen locations tonight. We found another Control Center at the second one, but there were no traces at the others."

The man shrouded in Armor handed over the report. "In a few hours, once the preliminary preparations are complete, we can start excavating."

"Good."

Michel massaged his throat, his expression gloomy.

Though the direct assault had failed, the strategy of creating a diversion had at least been partially successful.

When the Colonel made a mistake, Pant Delong had promptly mended the situation by shifting priorities.

Taking advantage of that brief night, the Ivy League had mobilized all its personnel, braving the Curse to conduct a large-scale search in Hell. After paying a hefty price, they had finally found another Control Center among the sixteen suspected locations.

At least this way, they were back on an even footing with their opponents.

Otherwise, he truly didn’t want to face Mikhail again.

Regrettably, they were still one step behind.

Just before dawn, in the darkest hour of the night, the sound arose of hundreds of ornithopters beating their wings.

The hurricane howled.

At the horizon, illuminated by countless searchlights, a gigantic cube suspended by hundreds of ropes revealed its form.

The subterranean Control Center had been unearthed in a single night and, guided by navigators, was now approaching the Iron Crystal Throne.

They were doing it on purpose, flaunting their spoils of war to the losers.

Michel narrowed his eyes.

Unexpectedly, however, the mercenary shrouded in Armor, who had always seemed indifferent to everything, looked up. He moved a few steps forward, gazing into the distance below the giant cube.

He was looking at the giant truck leading the convoy.

"What’s wrong?" Michel asked hoarsely.

"Nothing, I just saw an acquaintance," the captain of the Eye of Nightmare replied calmly. His fingers tightened on the weapon at his waist, then relaxed. After a long moment, he averted his gaze. "Just some old scores to settle. Nothing worth mentioning." He then said, "We should go."

Michel nodded, turned, and left.

Meanwhile, in the sky, the giant ship that had hovered there all night coldly changed course and disappeared into the distance.

The war came to another end.

But it did not usher in the start of peace.

What had arrived was merely a brief lull before the next war.