Chapter 47: Revealed

"What happened? Answer me immediately! Damn it! Where are they?"
Confronted with the sudden interruption of communications, Michael’s face was dark as thunder. Not far in front of him, the others wore equally tense and uneasy expressions. Clearly, though they did not understand the situation at the front, Michael’s demeanor alone was enough to show that this was anything but good news.
“Damn it!!”
Now Michael was beside himself with rage. He slammed his fist hard on the table, then rose and strode toward the exit. His departure prompted his adjutant to hurriedly come to his side, his voice anxious as he inquired,
“Sir Michael, where are you going?”
“I will personally lead a team to the front. Order the mobile units to prepare at once and support us from the flank. I will go myself and crush the resistance of those damned wildlanders once and for all. Then they’ll learn the might of the Federation Corps! Order the ‘Harrier’ to be ready—we depart immediately!”
Even as he spoke, Michael strode out of the command tent. But as he beheld the scene before him, he paused, struck by surprise.
“Damn it, what’s going on?”
Beyond the tent, a dense white fog had enveloped the world. Even the searchlights within the camp could not pierce this heavy mist; only feeble glimmers of light were visible. Frowning at the sight, Michael turned to the sentry standing guard outside.
“What’s happening here? When did this fog roll in?”
The sentry snapped to attention, replying hastily, “Sir, it began about five minutes ago, but the fog wasn’t nearly this thick then... In fact, we were just about to report—”
“Enough.”
Michael’s irritation only grew. Where had this thick fog come from? No one had mentioned anything like this before. But the cause of the fog was irrelevant to him now. All he wanted was to muster his troops and wipe out those stubborn country bumpkins in one swift assault. He was certain that, if he took charge himself, there would be no problems. If blame was to be laid, it fell on those fools at the front who, even with detailed intelligence, had still managed to botch things so badly!
Damn it all!
Grinding his teeth, Michael strode into the mist. Though the fog was thick, it was not yet so dense as to obscure all sight. He made his way directly to the temporary helipad behind the camp, where an armed helicopter sat motionless and silent on the platform.

What’s going on here?
Seeing the idle helicopter, Michael frowned. He had already issued orders for the mobile unit to prepare—so why had this chopper not responded? Approaching it, he saw the pilot slumped in the cockpit, head drooping as if in sleep. The sight made Michael’s anger flare. He rapped hard on the window, but the pilot did not stir; he seemed to be in a deep slumber.
“Useless fool, damn you! Wake up, do you hear me, you lazy idiot!”
Infuriated, Michael drew his pistol and hammered it against the window. With a loud bang, the “sleeping” pilot finally moved—his body slumping sideways, his head rolling free from his neck and thudding against the glass.
What on earth...?
Michael stared, momentarily frozen by the sight of those vacant, lifeless eyes behind the glass. Then, jolted to his senses, he stepped back and raised his gun, scanning his surroundings with alarm.
What had happened? How had his pilot been killed?
On edge, Michael realized for the first time just how eerily silent everything was. He had issued orders—surely the camp should be stirring with activity by now—yet all around was deathly quiet, nothing but this damned fog...
Fog?
The word struck a chord. He recalled that Shrek had once reported encountering fog... Was there something wrong with this mist?
He could not remain here any longer!
Michael reached for the pendant around his neck, then swiftly turned and retraced his steps. His priority now was not to advance, but to return to headquarters and order a full retreat. He cursed his guards for their incompetence—how could someone infiltrate the camp without any of them noticing? Were they all blind fools?
“Sound the alarm at once! We’re under attack! Damn it, you useless—”
He burst into the command tent, but his words died in his throat. Michael’s eyes widened in horrified disbelief at the scene that awaited him.
The once-bustling command center was now a slaughterhouse. The staff who had moments before been busily working now lay sprawled in pools of blood, their bodies torn apart and scattered like so much refuse. Not far ahead stood a young man in a black trench coat with a wide-brimmed hat, his right hand raised. In his grip, a gleaming scalpel was plunged into the neck of a woman in uniform nearby. She struggled desperately to escape Faelen’s grasp, but it was useless. His scalpel was lodged with precision in her trachea; she could not breathe, her mouth opening and closing in vain like a fish, only harsh wheezes escaping from the wound. With a flick of his wrist, Faelen sliced downward, and in an instant, her body was laid open, viscera spilling out with the blood as if it were garbage. The woman convulsed one final time, then lay still.
“Ah, so you’re the commander here?”

At last, Faelen lowered his hand, turning to squint at Michael with a gentle smile. Michael’s face was ashen; the other’s speed had been so shocking that he had not even had time to react before Faelen had killed his adjutant. Rage filled him.
“You bastard, you killed Susan!”
“I don’t see that as a problem,” Faelen replied coolly, flicking the blood from his scalpel.
“As uninvited guests, this is simply the fate you deserve, isn’t it?”
“Very well.”
Michael’s expression grew darker still, his eyes bloodshot as he glared hatefully at Faelen.
“I will kill you, and make you die in agony, you damned yellow-skinned monkey!”
Faelen merely lifted his head and smiled.
“What a pity. The things I detest most are racists and—”
As he spoke, Faelen twirled his fingers, the scalpel spinning and splitting into a dazzling fan of blades before reappearing in his grip.
“It seems treatment is unavoidable.”
“Die!”