coobybook Chapter 505 [Empire] Familiar Love
Chapter 505 [Empire] Familiar Love
Chapter 505 [Empire] Familiar Plot
Walking along this dilapidated street, I gradually went deeper into the neighborhood, and the scene became more familiar and more depressing.
On the stall before me, several pieces of exotic animal meat, cut into irregular shapes, dangled from the iron rack, their surfaces still stained with blood. The air was filled with a fishy, stench of rust and charcoal, making it somewhat unpleasant. The vendors' faces were pale and haggard, their eyes revealing a sense of feeble weariness. Whenever a customer passed by, they would look up and mechanically inquire if they wanted to buy, their voices devoid of any enthusiasm, as if they were simply trying to fill a void in their time and livelihood.
The chunks of raw meat, exposed to the air, seemed poised to rot at any moment, yet they blended seamlessly into the city's desolation, as if they themselves bore witness to the planet's long history of war and cold. Beside the meat lay piles of hides and bones, chopped into pieces by humans at some unknown time and piled haphazardly. The hides, still adorned with the unique scales of exotic beasts, shone faintly, like twinkling stars against an icy sky. From afar, they seemed beautiful, yet felt devoid of any warmth.
I continued walking, entering a narrow, dark alley. The walls on either side of the alley were mottled and dilapidated, adorned with rusty metal signs that rattled uncomfortably in the wind. The ground was covered in mud and snow, and every step was accompanied by a dull echo. The atmosphere was oppressive, almost suffocating. The narrow alley entrance was completely obscured by the buildings on either side, and the light was so dim that it was almost impossible to distinguish between day and night.
Several shirtless men were talking in low voices in the corner. Their faces were rigid and withered, their stubble almost connected into one piece, and their eyes were deep and unfocused. When they saw me passing by, they just glanced at me briefly without stopping their conversation.
I continued walking, hearing intermittent footsteps and whispers. Occasionally, a cold breeze blew through the alley, carrying with it a chilling airflow mingled with the stench of mold and the scent of exotic beasts. Each alley seemed to lead to deeper darkness, approaching with each step, making it impossible to ignore the hidden pain and devastation. Just like these corners of the streets and alleys, places left unattended, they too were slowly being forgotten in this world of war and ice.
Almost everything here reminds me of the days on the Capital Star.
The pungent smell of blood grew stronger, seemingly blending with the dilapidated neighborhood, a tangled scent of coke and rust that permeated the air. My pace quickened involuntarily, and the scene before me grew clearer and clearer. At the end of the alley was a dimly lit hall. A mottled wooden sign hung at the doorway, with a few words carved into the board. Though blurred by weather and frost, I could still make out the words: "Mission Hall."
The edges of the sign have been worn and ripped by time, and the deep cracks in the wood reveal an air of antiquity, as if it once held the hopes and losses of countless people. Despite its worn appearance, the sign still retains its former majesty. The words, though crude and even slightly crooked, exude a resolute strength, like the only thing offering a glimmer of hope and direction on this desolate street.
The tavern's main door stood open, and from within came a low murmur and the clinking of glasses. Dim yellow light filtered through the cracks in the door onto the street, casting a mottled shadow on the ground, as if countless tiny fragments were dancing. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, meat, and the pungent scent of tobacco, as if it were the most common smell on the planet. Several burly men stood at the entrance, their arms crossed, their eyes wary and cold, as if they were accustomed to this hostile environment.
The hall's windows were covered in thick dust, obscuring the view outside. Through the lattices, one could vaguely see people seated at tables. They wore a variety of clothing, their expressions ranging from angry to apathetic. Occasionally, a few low voices could be heard, punctuated by a burst of laughter, which seemed somewhat jarring. In the corner of the hall, a faint fire burned, illuminating the dim space. On the walls hung several old, yellowed posters advertising various missions: hunting exotic beasts, transporting supplies, searching for missing persons, clearing insect nests... Each poster boasted a generous reward, enough to attract anyone with the means to scramble for it.
The atmosphere inside the tavern was oppressive. Everyone seemed to have their heads bowed, either buried in their glasses or whispering amongst themselves. Even the busiest corners of the hall were devoid of life. The people here had become one with this wasteland, their every inch bearing the marks of war and cruelty.
Without hesitation, I stepped towards the door. Although this place was quite different from my impression, and even made me feel a little uneasy, it was still the only place I could find a glimmer of "opportunity" at the moment. My eyes rested on the yellowed sign, and a thought flashed through my mind.
Pushing open the door, I was greeted by a pungent, bloody odor. The low hum in the hall suddenly ceased, and everyone's gaze turned to me. In the center of the tavern, a large, blood-stained boxing glove hung on the wall, standing out. The metal had been struck and pressed so many times that it bore a noticeable dent, and the bloodstains had turned a mottled black, as if every drop of blood bore witness to these grim stories. Scattered beside the glove were several rusted bullet casings and old blades, and a faint sense of oppression hung in the air.
A scarred man stood beside the table, a wine glass clutched in his hand, his gaze sharp as a knife. A thick scar stretched from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth, his facial muscles tense, as if every movement carried an air of violence. He was recounting a story about a young mercenary who, due to a moment of negligence, was trapped by the enemy during a mission and ultimately failed to return to base alive. His voice was low and hoarse, tinged with a hint of sneer.
"Look at these gloves," he said, pointing to the terrifying weapon on the wall. "They're not just for decoration. That unfortunate guy tried it once, fighting the enemy outside, and the result was..." He made a cutting gesture, as if describing the pain of death. The big man then lowered his head and took a sip of wine. "He returned from the mission a little late, and ultimately never made it back."
He paused, his eyes scanning the young men who had just arrived at the tavern, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "This is the price of being a mercenary. You must understand that no one here will be held responsible for your death. You can register, but no one will feel bad if you die. Unless you have the skills to defeat these monsters, or are lucky enough."
His eyes were cold, as if he was observing every young person who entered the tavern, as if he could see through them all. Before he finished speaking, his gaze turned to the task notice board on the wall. Those tasks marked "high risk" made no one dare to touch them lightly.
"If you're not afraid of death, or becoming the next trophy hung on the wall, then go ahead." The scarred man's tone was somewhat sarcastic. "However, I urge you to think carefully. Don't easily believe in so-called mercenary honor; it's nothing but an empty shell."
The tavern was completely silent. The atmosphere seemed completely subdued by the man's words, even the usual chatterers fell silent. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the center of the hall, and a chill ran through their hearts. This place was a place that devoured hope—no warmth, only endless darkness and a harsh reality.
I stood at the doorway, listening silently to those words, my heart unwavering. It was simply the most commonplace sound on this planet, no different from the cold-blooded stories I'd heard before. I felt no fear, nor any reason to retreat. This was the reality of this era, destined for this war-torn land, where everyone must learn how to survive, how to avoid being consumed in every battle.
I couldn't help but chuckle, the sound seemed particularly abrupt in this dead silent tavern.
Looking up at the giant, blood-stained iron fist, I finally understood that this horrifying scene had become standard on every planet. It was like a regular process, a warning about death and survival. No matter who came, they had to go through this first.
The design of this glove is crude and simple, the steel's unadorned form a product of intense heat and force. Yet, to me, its presence carries no threat. Perhaps it's because I'm used to a harsher reality, or perhaps it's because I've long understood that no matter what "warnings" I face, this planet itself is a constant reminder to stay alive.
I turned again to look at the scarred man. He continued to tell the story of the young mercenary, his tone growing increasingly somber. But I could see a flicker of emotion in his eyes—not anger, not pity, but the cold, battle-hardened indifference of death. What he was describing wasn't a lesson, but a way of life that had become normal. Every new teenager entered this way—they must first feel the threat of death before deciding whether to continue.
I curled my lips slightly, a bitter feeling welling up inside me. I recalled myself back then, facing the same metal fists, listening to these dissuading voices, cautiously completing each mission, and constantly telling myself to "survive." But this time, it didn't intimidate me at all. Instead, it only made me laugh softly, as if it were a familiar scene.
The horror of this planet lies not in the threat of death, but in the fact that everyone must find their own way to survive within these ruthless rules. For us mercenaries, all lessons and warnings are ultimately just a formality, and survival is the only goal.
I stood up straight and walked towards the blood-stained boxing gloves with a sneer, not to intimidate or warn, but simply to make my own choice.
The big man's gaze paused on me for a few seconds, as if he was assessing the military uniform I was wearing. An unpredictable emotion flashed in his eyes, but he didn't repeat the story of the unlucky mercenary and the boxing gloves.
Then, he finally spoke, his voice low and somewhat reluctant: "Classmate, you are a soldier..." There was a hint of discomfort in his words, as if reminding me that my current identity was incompatible with the atmosphere of this pub.
Only then did I realize how utterly out of place I was in my military uniform in this near-deadly tavern. My dark blue uniform, with its faintly gleaming gold stars on its epaulettes, stood out against the gloom. Beer barrels, bloodstained tools, and a motley crew of mercenaries, their faces rough and weathered, filled the air with the unnatural smell of smoke and alcohol. Against this crude atmosphere, my gleaming uniform seemed remarkably "noble"—like a wildflower swaying in the dirt.
I gave a helpless smile and quickly glanced down at my inappropriate clothing. The stiff material of my uniform stiffened my every movement, completely out of place in this environment. I used to be indifferent to these external factors, even dismissing this symbol of authority with a touch of disdain. But now, standing in this tavern filled with stench, blood, and sordid dealings, I suddenly felt my identity bound by these clothes, like a ticket to entry, full of hope, yet abruptly blocked from the door.
"Uncle, I'm fine," I whispered, trying to break the awkwardness in the air and keep my tone as calm as possible. "It's just that there might be something a little off about your place." My lips curled up slightly, and I forced a casual smile. Then, suppressing my uneasiness and discomfort, I straightened my clothes and gave the big man a somewhat hasty salute.
The big man looked at me helplessly, then turned around and whispered, "This is not the place for you to stay, go back." Although his tone was a little commanding, it was also helpless, as if he was used to it.
I stood there, realizing that this place wasn't for someone of my status. But I wasn't about to leave easily. I wasn't one to be limited by my status. Standing there, my eyes darkened. I took a deep breath, turned to the big man, and said casually, "No, I'm staying here today."
I have never relied on my identity. As a student of a military academy, this military uniform is just a piece of clothing at this time.