Chapter Forty-Three: Warning

As the stage curtain slowly rose, revealing the most brutal and wicked side to the audience, how would they react? At this moment, Shrek’s reaction was undeniably the most intense. His eyes were wide open, his eyeballs nearly bursting from their sockets, and his body trembled violently. His breathing grew rapid, blood surged within him, and even the scene before his eyes began to blur, as if he were in a dream.

Or rather, Shrek desperately hoped this was a dream.

For what lay before him was, unmistakably, a vision of hell.

Countless mangled corpses lay strewn across the ground. The soldiers who had been so lively just moments ago were now reduced to heaps of flesh, lying in eerie silence—no, that word was wrong. It was more accurate to say they looked like piles of building blocks carelessly scattered by a child, littering the earth. There was nothing left of life here, nothing that could even be called a creature—only chunks of meat.

As if they were slabs of beef or pork chops.

The moment he realized this, Shrek felt as though his stomach had been struck with a heavy blow, his body curling up like a shrimp. He gasped for breath, but the urge to vomit was overwhelming, dominating his senses. What terrified him even more was that, though afraid, he could not tear his gaze from the carnage.

To be honest, Shrek had never imagined he would show such weakness. He was a soldier of the Federation, fighting for its cause. He had survived the Cataclysm, rallied beneath its banner, and firmly believed in the righteousness of their actions. For this noble purpose, he had fought in countless battles, committed innumerable massacres. During their expansion, the Federation had often faced stubborn resistance, like that in District 9, but in the end, they had always prevailed—because the Federation was stronger.

Massacres and demonstrations were common in such campaigns. Shrek himself had witnessed entire settlements burned alive, mothers clutching their children only to be butchered. He had even participated in such actions on more than one occasion. By now, he believed nothing in this world could frighten him. He had become a devil in human skin, performing the bloodiest work with an unflinching face.

Yet now, he realized he was nothing more than a naive child—one who thought a punk haircut and rebellious attitude made him untouchable, only to be slapped down by a true underworld boss when he thought himself invincible. Only now did he understand how foolish his pursuit had been.

Simple slaughter did not disturb him; the problem was that this was not mere killing. Shrek finally understood why he could not look away from those damned remnants.

Because they were beautiful.

If a man were hacked to death by blades, the corpse would be grotesque, repulsive to all but the most deranged. But these remains were different—neither bloody nor mangled, but neatly arranged, as if they were cuts of meat displayed on a supermarket shelf, textured, clean, with a geometric beauty, like pieces of a puzzle.

Yes, there was an unsettling beauty to it, akin to the strange allure of a fly under a microscope, or the exposed viscera of a dissected cockroach—a beauty the rational mind could appreciate, but the instincts could never accept. Shrek even felt this was not a human work at all, but something beyond humanity.

This feeling only lessened when Shrek saw something else, but his mood did not improve; if anything, it sank further into despair.

The once-mighty tank, which had just exuded such power, was now just another heap of scrap metal, similarly sliced apart and scattered. Its massive bulk had saved it from complete destruction, but seeing its charred, cake-like cross-sections sent a chill through Shrek's body. This was an M1A1 main battle tank—the pride and backbone of the Federation—now reduced to worthless debris without a sound.

It was the Doctor.

Despite the instinctive revulsion and resistance coursing through him, Shrek’s mind now cooled and reached a conclusion. The Federation’s actions were never arbitrary; District 9 was the strongest settlement they had ever attacked, the first with Level Five clearance. They had prepared thoroughly, bribing Fernando as a key move, and through him, gained a deep understanding of District 9.

Truth be told, upon learning the facts about District 9, the Federation had been baffled by its bizarre system. The Blackstone Group, which ruled District 9, lacked absolute military might or intimidation. It resembled an alliance, but the Seven Giants managed their own affairs without interference, a policy that seemed almost comical, completely at odds with the interwoven interests typical of parliamentary alliances.

Neither dictatorship nor democracy, District 9’s twisted regime was incomprehensible to the Federation. Their only conclusion, after much debate, was that this odd system must have arisen from some tacit understanding among its real rulers—a trust that was surely unreliable. In their view, such a loose structure meant District 9 could not possibly mount an effective defense; they might even scatter at the first sign of real danger.

This time, with Blackstone Group launching its city development in the ruins and summoning all Seven Giants to action, the Federation’s suspicions seemed confirmed. Clearly, the rulers of District 9 did not trust each other, and Blackstone Group itself had little faith in its “allies”—otherwise, it would have left someone behind for security. The wilds were perilous, even without the Federation, and Fernando had informed them that many outsiders had arrived in District 9 recently, seeking shelter from the “storm.” Logically, Blackstone should have stayed behind, but instead, they all departed.

“This means the ‘Emperor’ of Blackstone Group has no control over the Seven Giants; their relations must be terrible. All we need is the right opportunity, and victory will be ours!”

Shrek still remembered the general's self-satisfied expression at the time. But now, his certainty was gone.

“Retreat! Retreat immediately!!”

Forcing himself, trembling, to tear his gaze from the tank’s remains, Shrek barely regained enough composure to act. He issued his order in a quivering voice, then turned to open the vehicle door and escape. But just as quickly, his movements froze.

Behind them, a dense mist was silently rising, forming a wall before their eyes.

What in the world was this?

If, moments ago, Shrek could have dismissed the mist as a natural phenomenon, he no longer believed that. No ordinary fog could slice through both men and tanks. Clearly, this was no mist. And if that was the case, would they not end up like the others—diced into pieces of meat?

“Lord Shrek…”

His subordinates seemed to have reached the same conclusion, watching their commander with terror, unsure what to say. Shrek’s face turned ashen; he hesitated, but finally made his decision.

“Turn around! Everyone into the vehicles—retreat at top speed!”

With the M1A1 destroyed, Shrek dared not press forward. He could only take this desperate gamble. Of course, he suspected the enemy was toying with him, but at this point, he had no choice.

No one objected. The soldiers who recovered quickly followed his command, and the armored vehicles spun around, crashing through obstacles without hesitation, their engines roaring as they sped toward the thick mist.

“Report to command! Report to command!”

Shrek was drenched in sweat, staring into the fog as he shouted into the comms. Thankfully, the mist did not seem to block their communications.

“We’re under attack! We’re under attack! Iron Bull has been destroyed! The Iron Bull Squad has been completely wiped out!!”

“…What’s the situation? Report, please! Who destroyed Iron Bull? How many enemies are there? What weapons did they use?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!!”

Hearing the unnervingly calm voice in his ear only made Shrek’s anxiety worse.

“Damn it, I don’t know a thing—it’s the Doctor, it has to be the Doctor! I request reinforcements—no, I demand a full—”

Shrek never finished his sentence.

A faint, chilling wind swept past. In the blink of an eye, the speeding armored vehicle was sliced neatly in two, the passengers inside decapitated as precisely as if on an assembly line.

The vehicle wobbled for a few seconds, then burst into flames with a roar.

Through the burning fire, Ferren’s figure slowly emerged. Gazing at the bloodstained scalpel in his hand, he allowed himself a satisfied smile. Then he turned, eyes narrowing as he looked into the mist where the vehicles had vanished.

“Narcissus, it’s your turn now.”