From Titan Corporation to the Empire of Man

Chapter 664 "Using this as leverage to blackmail that so-called god."

Several days later;
Even before the morning mist had dissipated, the streets of various cities in Khar were still filled with busy figures.

Large anti-gravity vehicles belonging to the Engineering Department of the Human Empire hovered above what the Empire had designated as a slum, allowing modular housing units to be precisely "implanted" into this land that had suffered so much, like silver-gray seeds, by robotic arms.

Soon after, a gaunt old man stood in the room, his cloudy eyes reflecting the brand-new alloy walls.

He reached out his trembling hand and touched the doorplate assigned to him—

The words "Unit B-47" were engraved on it, and it still carried the residual heat of machining.

Three days ago, he was coughing up blood in a leaky shack, but now he has a temperature-controlled enclosed space and a basic terminal that can call medical drones.

"Grandpa, does this button really produce hot water?"

The dirty little girl stood on tiptoe, curiously poking at the bathroom control panel.

Boom, boom.

Before the old man could answer, heavy footsteps came from outside the door.

Two giants stood at the doorway.

One was clad in dark green power armor with a fire lizard emblem etched on his shoulder armor; the other wore red and yellow armor with a teardrop-shaped insignia that gleamed dark red in the morning light.

Their massive bodies almost blocked the entire doorway, yet they didn't create a sense of oppression, because the red-armored warrior was carefully carrying a box of food, as if it were a fragile treasure.

"Daily ration." The metallic tone came through the helmet's speaker, yet it was surprisingly gentle. "Eat after heating."

The little girl boldly tugged at the giant's waist armor and asked:

"Uncle, are you gods?"

"hehe."

The warrior in dark green armor let out a low laugh and crouched down to allow the girl to see him more clearly, saying:

"No, we are not gods, but the Emperor's battle angels."

Meanwhile, crowds thronged the holographic billboard in the central square.

As dawn broke through the clouds, it cast a pale golden light upon the heads of the thronging crowd.

The air was filled with the damp scent of earth, mixed with the anticipation emanating from the crowd.

On the towering alloy frame of the bulletin board, the imperial dragon emblem gleamed in the sunlight, seemingly looking down upon the swarming crowd below.

"The Basic Survival Guarantee Act comes into effect today."

The synthesized female voice was clear and bright, carrying an unquestionable authority, echoing in the square.

The sound waves seemed to shatter the dew that had accumulated on the edge of the bulletin board overnight, and the trails of falling water droplets drew fine silver lines in the morning light.

The crowd suddenly became commotion.

A lame veteran pushed through the crowd in front of him; his CMC power armor had long been confiscated, and he was now only wearing a faded old military uniform.

The mechanical prosthetic leg on his right leg made a screeching sound with every step he took, but this did not stop him from rudely squeezing to the front row. His calloused hands clenched tightly, and his knuckles turned white from the force.

"scam!"

His roar was like a rusty knife, cleaving through the clamor of the crowd.

On that weathered face, the scars stretching from the left forehead to the right cheek twisted as if expressing anger.

"They advertised this way during the Mengsk era too! It must be true."

Before the words were even finished, the image on the bulletin board suddenly changed.

The holographic image unfolds and projects in three dimensions, enveloping the entire square.

The scene shows a real-life slum marked "North District No. 7". Imperial medical officers in white robes move about like angels, followed by their synthetic assistants. One group is injecting medicine into the elderly people who are waiting in line.

The camera suddenly zooms in, focusing on a hunched old woman.

Her arms were covered with festering sores caused by years of insufficient nutrition and harsh environment; the purplish-black rotting flesh exuded an aura of death.

The moment the nano-injector pierced the skin, the ulcer began to heal as if time had reversed.

The necrotic tissue sloughed off, and new, tender granulation tissue spread at a visible speed, while tears welled up in the old woman's cloudy eyes, winding down the furrows of her wrinkles.

"This is not an advertisement."

A deep voice sounded behind the veteran.

He turned around abruptly, but almost bumped into the belly of the red-armored giant behind him.

The Weeping Warrior appeared behind him at some point, his shadow, cast by a body over two meters tall, completely enveloping him. On his red and yellow power armor, the teardrop-shaped insignia gleamed with a blood-red luster in the morning light.

"It's just a fact."

A metallic tone emanated from the helmet's speakers, as the wailer raised his armored arm and pointed to the notice board that was still playing the detailed rules.

Holographic text flows like a waterfall:
"Free basic medical care for all"

The smaller print below details the specific content and the prosthetic replacement scheme;
"Those with the ability to work must register for employment within 90 days"

The coordinates of the supporting employment training center are flashing continuously;

"Those of legal age who are capable of independent living and working, and who refuse to work, will lose their eligibility for welfare benefits."

But this is immediately followed by provisions for the protection of people with disabilities.

The veteran's gaze suddenly fixed on one line: "Disabled veterans can apply for lifelong benefits."

This veteran, who had held his ground for three days and three nights during the Zerg siege, now looked around blankly like a lost child.

The Weeping Warrior slowly crouched down, the joints of his power armor emitting a soft hiss, and his enormous hand gently pressed on the veteran's shoulder, the movement incredibly gentle.

"Your service number?"

The veteran instinctively rattled off a string of numbers, while a stream of data flashed on the helmet screen of the grieving man:

"Found him, a corporal from the 12th Mechanized Infantry Division of Tyron."

The wailer paused, then continued, "You have the right to the latest model of neural-linked prosthetics."

The light from the bulletin board shone on the veteran's face, and beneath the hideous bullet scar, something seemed to be quietly melting.

Behind him, the crowd suddenly erupted in cheers—

The footage switched to the delivery site of the first batch of modular homes, where children, holding gift bags distributed by the Empire, smiled brighter than the morning light.

A gentle breeze swept across the square, carrying the scent of disinfectant from the distant medical wards, and also the cries of newborns.

That was the first baby in North District 7 to receive gene therapy.

The holographic projection amplified the sound, like the clarion call of a new era, echoing across the sky above Khar.

The reaction in the aristocratic district was quite different.

In the noble district north of Khar, the starlight stained the spires of the Baroque buildings blood red.

Inside a manor, in front of a gilded French window, an elderly man dressed in a dark green suit is staring intently at a holographic projection suspended in mid-air.

On the projection screen, the scarlet border of the "Asset Declaration Form" kept flashing, like an unhealable wound.

"How dare they!"

The old man's hand, covered in age spots, suddenly swung, sending the gold-rimmed teacup arcing through the air before slamming it against the wall behind the projection screen.

The scalding tea burst in the data stream, winding down the words "Family Normal Asset Reporting - Page 3," blurring the wealth figures accumulated since the colonial era into indistinct stains.

The roar of engines could be heard outside the window. Twelve Imperial auxiliary soldiers in power suits were taking inventory of the private ships on the tarmac.

The lead technician connected to the spacecraft's main control system, and data streams rolled rapidly in front of him.

"According to Article 17 of the Grey Assets Confiscation Order," the auxiliary military commander's voice also reached the old man's ears through a loudspeaker, "this unregistered Nightingale-class airship of dubious origin will be nationalized."

The siren crest on the old man's chest heaved violently, its pure gold scales gleaming dangerously under the light.

His thin, bony fingers dug into the hardwood of the windowsill, and blood seeped from under his fingernails.

Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to the scene outside the manor—

Three Flame Lizard warriors clad in dark green power armor were kneeling on one knee in the park's lawn.

They are attacking a group of civilians.
Do not!
The child, a member of the lowest caste, was demonstrating the operating techniques of the engineering mecha.

A little girl with freckles on her face excitedly pulled the control stick of the hard light imaging simulation, while the simulated mecha hydraulic clamp precisely touched a landscape stone.

"master"

The butler's trembling voice came from behind.

The old man who had served the family for over forty years hurriedly reported: "The deadline for the Private Armed Forces Registration Form is before dawn tomorrow. The Human Empire demands that we voluntarily relinquish control of all private armies."

They claimed that families who complied with the regulations would receive a pardon, and the human empire would also provide equivalent compensation.

"Ah!"

The old man suddenly laughed.

That smile reminded the butler of ancient venomous snake specimens displayed in a museum.

The old man reached his withered fingers inside his tuxedo and pulled out a thumb-sized encrypted communicator, which he then handed to the butler.

“Contact those old foxes,” the old man whispered, his voice rising from the depths of his grave. “It’s time to let these outsiders understand who Khar really is.”

"Yes, sir."

Soon, dusk washed over the city like a tide.

In the newly built modular housing complex in the working-class area, lights are gradually coming on, like a cluster of newly born stars.

Inside unit B-47, the elderly man was carefully operating the brand-new microwave oven.

Inside, a silver box from the Imperial Relief Agency was heating a nutritious meal, emitting a fragrance he had never smelled before.

Through the kitchen window, he saw the red-armored giant kneeling on the public lawn, the power armor's servo system humming softly.

A little girl is standing on tiptoe, tucking a wildflower into the seam of her shoulder armor.

Just then, the roar of an engine suddenly came from afar.

Several unmarked hovercars glided like ghosts into the dark alleys of the upscale district, their headlights sweeping across the mottled walls and illuminating slogans that had been spray-painted there sometime ago.

"Human empires do not support parasites."

The paint was not yet completely dry, and under the moonlight, it seemed to have a sticky, bloody hue.

The night wind, carrying a complex atmosphere, swept across the city.

The smell of disinfectant from the medical makeshift hospital, the aroma of composite materials from the modular housing, and the sandalwood scent wafting from the upscale neighborhood.

Amidst the mixed winds, the faint sound of metal clanging could be heard, perhaps workers were working through the night, or perhaps nobles were preparing to launch some coordinated "operations."

But soon after, in unit B-47, the little girl was curled up on the temperature-controlled mattress and fast asleep.

She was still clutching the candy wrapper the giant had given her, a sweet smile playing on her lips.

This was the first night in Khar's history that no child went to bed hungry.

In the dead of night, several hovercars silently landed on the estate's private helipad.

The hull only revealed its full outline upon landing, as if emerging from the night. The hatch opened, and a group of nobles in fine clothes, surrounded by bodyguards, quickly stepped out.

The manor gates were already wide open, and the elderly butler stood bowing, his silvery temples trembling slightly in the night breeze.

"Gentlemen," he said in a low, respectful voice, "my master has been waiting in the secret chamber for quite some time."

The nobles exchanged a glance, then followed the butler through the corridor.

Portraits of family members from different generations hang on the walls on both sides of the corridor. In the dim light, the eyes of the people in the paintings seem to be watching the visitors as if they were alive.

The carpet beneath our feet was so thick that it almost swallowed our footsteps; only the rustling of our clothes against each other was particularly clear in the silence.

The butler pressed his finger on the hidden identifier, and a secret door slid open silently, revealing a downward spiral staircase.

A scent suddenly filled the air, a mixture of old parchment, sandalwood, and metal rust inhibitors.

The secret room was more spacious than I had imagined, with a crystal chandelier embedded in the dome, casting a cool white light onto the display cases.

Inside those glass cases, antiques from Earth slumber quietly—

There was even a knight's sword that was said to have been passed down from the Middle Ages, with the gems inlaid on the hilt gleaming with a blood-red luster under the light.

The old man stood by the round table in the center of the secret room, toying with an antique gold coin in his hand. When everyone arrived and took their seats, he gave a perfunctory smile.

Thank you all for coming.

"Enough!" an elderly nobleman with a full head of silver hair interrupted impatiently. "Speak quickly if you have something to say. We've already done you a favor by coming here."

"."

The old man's smile froze for a moment, then returned to normal. He put down the gold coins, the metal striking the solid wood tabletop with a crisp sound.

"Gentlemen, we are losing everything." His finger traced the table, activating the holographic projection that displayed the crimson title of the "Private Armed Forces Registration Form." "If we hand over even our last remaining armed force, who will protect our property?"

A brief silence fell over the locked room.

"Ah."

A young nobleman suddenly let out a cold laugh and rubbed the family ring on his right hand.

"How can you protect him?" His voice was filled with suppressed anger. "Don't you know about that god? All the soldiers who followed Valerian into battle saw it—He crushed Charles with a single step!"
What can we use to fight this force? Being able to leave behind any property with legitimate income is already a blessing!

"right"

"Yes."

Several nobles nodded in agreement without realizing it, and some even began to back away, seemingly wanting to escape this dangerous conversation.

The old man squinted, and the wrinkles on his face looked as if they had been carved by a knife under the light.

“I’ve received the latest news.” His voice suddenly lowered, like a viper flicking its tongue, “That so-called god has a child.”

The temperature inside the sealed room seemed to drop sharply.

“We can kidnap him secretly.” The old man made a restraining gesture, “and use him as leverage to blackmail that so-called god.”

"You are crazy!"

The young nobleman suddenly stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a screeching sound.

The nobleman's face was deathly pale, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The other nobles also gasped in shock, and some even knocked over their wine glasses, the red wine spreading a dark red stain on the antique carpet, resembling blood.

The old man remained calm, even with a confident smile, and slowly took out a data chip, gently placing it on the table.

"The way to contact my old colleagues is right here."

The chip's surface reflected a cold light, like a bomb that could explode at any moment.
(End of this chapter)