Chapter 958: Chapter 169: Under the Shadow of Vengeance
Key positions are guarded by watchtowers manned by Steam Knights, their vigilant eyes scanning within and outside the camp, monitoring every movement in the wilderness while overseeing the order within the camp.
The patrol teams composed of able-bodied survivors carry rifles as they patrol along the planned routes. Although their steps are not perfectly aligned, they have at least learned basic vigilance and cooperation.
In the core area closest to the Energy Tower, the greenhouse that was half-destroyed by explosions has been restored to new. The cold-resistant crops cultivated meticulously by Northern Territory technicians thrive inside the glass housing, with tender green seedlings appearing vibrant under artificial lighting.
Though there are still a few stubborn individuals murmuring doubts about the New God belief in the shadows, public acts of sabotage have vanished as the most extreme dissenters were collectively voted out of the camp.
At the morning meetings hosted by the Missionary Group’s leader in the central square, the voices of opposition grow weaker, replaced by increasingly visible survivors willingly joining the reconstruction efforts.
Although the settlement cannot yet be called completely harmonious, at least basic order has been restored.
Steam Knights no longer need to mobilize frequently, allowing engineers from the immigrant group to peacefully set up new pipelines and networks.
As night falls, the streetlights in the camp turn on one after another, casting an orange glow like a sheer veil over the entire settlement, bringing a long-lost warm halo to this land under reconstruction.
From a few prefab houses, faint sounds of joyful conversation and children’s laughter emerge, smoke rises lazily from chimneys, and the air is filled with the aroma of stewed dishes...
All these tell of a kind of almost luxurious peaceful life taking root here.
Yet beneath this façade of tranquility, dark currents slither like vipers through the shadows.
Those expelled extreme individuals, like wounded beasts, drag their festering wounds across the frozen soil, leaving mottled blood traces in the snow with every step.
Unclear curses roll in their throats, frostbitten fingers claw into the dirt, dragging out long, intermittent marks behind them, resembling some horrifying totem.
Eventually, they crawled into the darkest corner of the Seven Hills City.
It is a forgotten underground temple, with mummified corpses hanging from the dome, kneeling in front of an altar stained with blood by priests of the Evil God.
In the underground cave stinking of decay, flickering green flames cast twisted shadows on stone walls.
Fanatical priests cut their skin with Obsidian fragments, tattooing ink mixed with the blood of divine malice into their flesh.
Dark red droplets roll down pale skin, converging into tiny streams on the stone floor.
A man covered with tattoos trembles all over but reveals a grim smile amidst the agony, his teeth clenching noisily, eyes bulging from pain, yet staring intently at his bleeding palm as if to crush the apparition of those traitors.
"It’s all their fault!" His voice scrapes out from decaying lungs: "Those traitors willing to be the Empire’s dogs, those disaster-bringing missionaries!"
They firmly believe they are the last awakened ones of Seven Hills City.
In their twisted perception, the survivors in the camp are traitors bought with a few pieces of bread, and the missionaries distributing medicine are demons wrapping poison in sugared guise.
A woman as thin as skin and bones caresses her fresh tattoos, fingers lingering on the raised runes, muttering: "We clearly coexisted peacefully with the gods’ followers..."
She completely forgets the sight of sacrificial children hanging from temple beams, remembering only the chaos after the Empire’s Floating City descended.
The most ironic thing is, nearly half of them were sacrificed on the day of conversion.
When the throat of the first companion was slit, blood splattered across the face of survivors. Instead of fear, they showed ecstatic expressions amidst screams: "This is the god selecting true followers!"
All suffering suddenly had a simple answer — it was all the Empire’s conspiracy.
"Blood debts must be paid in blood!" In the darkness, dozens of eyes glowed with the light of wild beasts, their breaths becoming heavy, fingers involuntarily convulsing.
They grind steel bars from the ruins into spears, gather shards of glass into daggers, wrap their hands in torn cloth strips to prevent slipping.
In everyone’s mind there’s a constant rehearsal of revenge scenarios: to nail missionaries to the Energy Tower, force converts to watch their loved ones being sacrificed, use the most agonizing screams to repay the "betrayal" they endured.
The night wind hits the camp fence with icy grit, making a sound akin to the wailing of lost souls, as if issuing a final warning.
The warmth from the Energy Tower continues, smoke still rises from the tents, but in the shadows, avengers have already sharpened their claws.
Their whispers spread in the darkness, growing like a plague, just waiting for the opportune moment to unleash accumulated hatred.
-----------------
Under such shadow quietly breeding evil, a silver-gray airship slowly emerges on the horizon like a meteor cutting through the sky, casting a stately shadow over Seven Hills City.
When Perfikot’s figure appears on the gangway, the entire camp falls into shocked silence.
Missionary Group priests unconsciously straighten their backs, engineers from the immigrant group take off their work caps and press them to their chests.
Someone even becomes so excited their knees buckle, relying on holding onto a companion nearby to stay upright.
The shock brought by the arrival of the Northern Territory Count extends far beyond this.
Her name has long transcended the realm of political leaders, becoming a legendary Chapter in the Empire’s textbooks.
In every classroom of the polar refuge, children can recite her feats of leading humanity through the apocalyptic winter; in every steam workshop’s break time, craftsmen sing praises of her wisdom in developing cold-resistant crops.
The young people of the immigrant group can hardly contain their excitement.
For their generation, Perfikot is not only a ruler but also a savior living in legend.
Some secretly pinch their arms, suspecting if everything before them is a dream; some already kneel on the ground, their foreheads tightly against the cold frozen soil.
This almost religious fanatic worship comes from the deepest of memories in their marrow: it’s this Count who invented the Energy Tower helping their parents survive the cold nights, and her cultivated cold-resistant crops spared them from hunger.
Perfikot gracefully walks down the gangway, her silver-white hair flowing with a metallic luster in the Energy Tower’s halo.
As her ice-blue eyes sweep over the crowd, everyone feels a tremor of awe and reassurance.
In this apocalypse where faith and despair intertwine, her existence itself is a miracle, a tangible, living legend of mortals.
