From Titan Corporation to the Empire of Man

Chapter 703 "As long as I, Price, am alive, no enemy will ever set foot in this base."

Shortly after, in an interrogation room in the isolation zone.

Cold light hung from the ceiling, illuminating the small space and casting a chilling reflection on the hard metal tabletop.

The interior furnishings are extremely simple.

A fixed metal table, two equally fixed chairs, and nothing else.

The right wall is a single piece of one-way bulletproof glass, and the people behind the window are watching everything happening inside through that transparent barrier.

An invisible sense of oppression filled the air, making it difficult to breathe.

At that moment, an investigation department agent dressed in a black uniform sat at one end of the table.

On the shoulder insignia of the uniform, the imperial emblem reflected a chilling gleam under the cold light. The agent's gaze was sharp as a blade, his posture upright, and his whole being resembled a cold sculpture.

At the other end of the table sat a man who looked to be in his early thirties, one of the police officers among the survivors.

Although he had cleaned himself and changed into clean clothes provided by the base, his expression remained tense, and there was still some unease and wariness in his eyes.

The agent spoke first, his voice low and calm, devoid of any emotional fluctuation:

"Let's start with basic information: name, age, organization, and what year, month, and day it is now."

The police officer paused for a moment, then responded in a low voice, his tone hesitant but not insincere:
"My name is Grant McDougall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I'm with the Portitch LaPreriel Division. As for the date..."

The police officer frowned, seemingly still weighing his options, but finally blurted out:
"Today is May 2009, 6."

This answer caused the agent sitting opposite to slightly darken his gaze, but he didn't make any extra expression; he simply recorded the relevant information.

After a brief silence, the agent continued, "What exactly happened here? Tell me in detail from the very beginning."

However, the police officer did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked up, his eyes filled with vigilance and inquiry.

"Who are you? Where did you come from? I've never seen those ships and weapons before. Are you from the future?"

The agent's emotions remained unchanged, only his voice became lower and colder: "Answer my questions first, and I will clarify things for you after you finish your statement."

The police officer remained silent for a few seconds, his Adam's apple bobbing, clearly still harboring doubts, but finally took a deep breath and began to speak.

"It all started in London in the summer of 2008."

His voice trembled slightly, as if recalling an indelible nightmare: "Britain was the first to experience a large-scale plague outbreak. We called those monsters 'Blood Crosses.' They were not ordinary patients, but had completely transformed into bloodthirsty, insane monsters."

The agent's gaze remained cold and unwavering; he listened quietly without interrupting.

"Not long after, an outbreak also occurred at the White House, and even the president himself became a member of the Blood Cross."

At this point, the police officer's tone noticeably lowered, filled with deep fear: "We initially thought those lunatics would just tear each other apart like wild beasts, but we soon discovered we were wrong."
That's completely wrong. Those blood crosses retained most of their memories and skills; they knew how to use firearms, drive vehicles, and even skillfully operate modern weaponry.

The policeman's fingers tapped nervously on the table, the soft, fragmented sounds only adding to the tension of his narration.

"And they have no empathy, no hesitation, only slaughter and destruction in their eyes. They only care about one thing: how much killing can the weapons cause and how much blood can be shed."

The air in the interrogation room grew increasingly heavy.

The police officer continued, "It is said that a group of Blood Cross pilots even successfully hijacked strategic bombers carrying nuclear weapons. Their goal was not deterrence, but to ignite a global nuclear war and turn every major city on Earth into an inferno."

At this point, he couldn't help but clench his fists, a shadow of pain and despair flashing in his eyes: "If it weren't for the last remaining Royal Air Force squadron, who intercepted and shot down that bomber formation in a suicide attack, human civilization would probably have ceased to exist long ago."

The agent placed his hands on the table, his gaze never leaving the other person: "Continue."

"The United States quickly and completely fell, and Japan also fell one after another. The waves of blood-red crosses could not only tear apart cities, but also drive tanks and operate fighter jets. They were mankind's nightmare."

The policeman's voice was low and suppressed, as if every word carried an unbearable burden.

"And we in Canada, after realizing that the situation was completely out of control, immediately ordered the closure of the border with the United States, but what good did that do?"
The Blood Crosses were completely unhindered. In a sense, they were still human, but more terrifying than beasts. The defenses were nothing but paper obstacles.

They don't need to force their way through our border checkpoints at all; after all, the Canada-US border has far too many loopholes.

At this point, the policeman finally stopped, letting out a heavy breath. Fine beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and his voice was slightly hoarse from recalling the events over a long period of time.

A brief silence descended once again upon the interrogation room.

The only sound was the occasional faint hum of electricity emanating from the overhead light.

The agent spoke slowly, his tone devoid of any emotional fluctuation:
"Your account will be recorded in its entirety, and we will verify everything you have said next."

After a moment of silence, the policeman's breathing gradually calmed down, but his eyes still carried a lingering shadow.

After a long silence, he slowly began to recount the ordeal of their town.

"The situation in Canada is not much better than elsewhere."

His voice was low and hoarse with weariness, “The whole country has been attacked, and there is hardly any place that can truly stay out of it.”

Our town of Portichlapreri isn't a large town; all the police officers combined number no more than a hundred, which is negligible in terms of numbers.

He paused, a complex look of recollection flashing in his eyes, before adding, "Fortunately, we have relatively sufficient firearms and ammunition."

After all, many people in the population own their own hunting rifles and a large number of semi-automatic rifles. Without these, we would probably have been completely swallowed up by the Blood Cross in the first few weeks.

Therefore, we police officers could only do our best to set up barriers at the main entrances and exits of the town and block the main roads.

We also cut off radio communications and stopped responding to any calls on the radio.

We knew very well that once our existence was exposed, we would most likely be targeted by the Blood Cross army. Our only option was to disguise ourselves as a desolate town, hoping that the demons wouldn't notice us.

At this point, he took a deep breath, his voice filled with helplessness and despair: "However, the Blood Cross is ultimately not a natural disaster that can be avoided by chance."

His gaze gradually became fixed, as if that terrifying scene was replaying before his eyes.

"After ravaging a town, those things always migrate in groups to find the next target to slaughter. They are numerous, act madly, but are surprisingly consistent."

There's no clear pattern, but once they target a place in droves, it's the beginning of destruction. Our town... unfortunately, became their next target this year." His voice suddenly deepened, and his fist slowly clenched.

"That night, the sky was lit up by fire, the streets were filled with howls and gunshots, and blood crosses swarmed in from all directions, like a tide that overwhelmed the roadblocks we had tried so hard to set up."

Although our firepower initially halted their advance, when the tide truly swept in, the so-called defensive line was instantly torn apart.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and a painful struggle flashed in his eyes; every word he uttered seemed to tear open old wounds.

"We had no choice but to retreat. My colleagues, a few firefighters, and I fought desperately to protect a group of survivors. Taking advantage of the Blood Cross's attention being drawn to the front, we fled in panic with them."

Our only goal at that time was to find a shelter where we could barely survive, and eventually, we took refuge in a fire station.

His voice softened slightly, carrying a hint of relief, but more so a lingering fear.

"After all, it was a building with excellent fire prevention facilities, and the walls and structure were much stronger than ordinary houses. We desperately sealed off the entrance and used the remaining gasoline and gravel as traps to barely hold off several waves of Blood Cross pursuing us."

During that time, every night felt like torture on the edge of hell. Only after the main force of those monsters left did we dare to confirm that the town no longer existed.

His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were vacant, as if he could still see the ruins and bloodstains.

“At that time, we lost most of our colleagues and the people, and we could only survive on the remaining resources in the town. Canned food, dry food, and even some half-rotten food became our lifeline.”

He paused, his breathing becoming rapid, clearly recalling the more painful parts.

"But such a way of life can't last long. Not long ago, two of my colleagues couldn't stand it anymore and decided to risk going to a large supermarket on the outskirts of town to collect some supplies."

We all knew what that meant. Leaving the fire station meant being constantly exposed to the Blood Cross's roaming ranks.

His voice trembled, and painful regret flashed in his eyes: "In the end, the nightmare still came. They had only taken a few blocks when they ran right into a migrating Blood Cross army."

I can't even imagine what happened. The entire area was instantly enveloped in screams, gunshots, and a cloud of blood. I knew they couldn't possibly come back alive.

His voice gradually lowered, almost trembling with sobs: "If it weren't for your appearance, we would probably have followed in their footsteps long ago."

Even the most fortified fire station cannot withstand the torrent of bloodshed; in the end, our fate will only be utter destruction.

As he finished speaking, he slowly closed his eyes and slumped into the chair as if all his strength had been drained.

That appearance not only revealed endless exhaustion, but also made the narrative seem even heavier and more real.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere was equally somber inside the observation room behind the one-way bulletproof glass.

The room was filled with thick smoke from burning cigars, carrying a faint, acrid aroma, which slowly swirled under the ceiling light, casting blurry shadows.

John Price, the commander of the reconnaissance unit, sat upright in his chair, a lit cigar between his fingers.

He slowly exhaled gray smoke, carrying a cold and composed air that had been honed by the passage of time. His gaze remained fixed on the policeman in the interrogation room, whose expression was pained. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, yet hidden deep within the wrinkles around his eyes and the white hair at his temples.

Beside him stood three old comrades-in-arms who had fought side by side for many years.

Simon "Ghost" Riley still wears his signature skull mask. Although the years have made his back no longer as straight as it was in his youth, his dangerous and imposing aura remains undiminished.

John “Soap” McTavish crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on the other side of the one-way mirror, his brow furrowed, seemingly suppressing his anger.

Gary "Little Strong" Sanderson leaned slightly against the wall, twirling a small tactical dagger in his hand. His expression was calm, but he couldn't hide the numbness and weariness he felt from past battles deep in his eyes.

These four individuals are the core backbone of the reconnaissance unit, without exception.

They were the participants in countless operations and are living legends in the hearts of a generation of soldiers.

Even now, despite the nanotherapy mechanism provided by the Department of Biology and even after undergoing gene enhancement surgery, the signs of aging on their bodies are still clearly visible.

Wrinkles, gray hair, and a slightly heavy air about him.
Time has not spared them, but it has allowed them to retain an undying fighting spirit beneath their steely exterior.

Price took a puff of his cigar, the ash falling softly, and said in a low voice, "I'm afraid it won't be long before I have to step down from the command post completely."

His tone carried a subtle sense of emotion, but without any hint of vulnerability.

He slowly turned his head, his gaze falling on McTavish, his voice steady: "Soap, sooner or later you'll have to shoulder the burden."

McTavish's expression shifted, as if he wanted to refute, but in the end he just nodded silently, knowing in his heart that Price was right.

In terms of seniority, prestige, and leadership ability, he is the most suitable successor.

However, this responsibility is so heavy that it could crush any soldier.

On the other side of the observation room, Lei Ruoya stood quietly.

Her posture was upright, and her gaze was also fixed on the policeman in the interrogation room. As the policeman recounted his horrific experience, her expression gradually turned cold, and an undisguised resentment appeared between her brows.

Her hatred for those infected with the Blood Cross was almost extreme.

That was not only a hatred of an enemy, but also a complete rejection of anything that had tainted human dignity and civilization.

She spoke slowly, her voice low but resolute: "Such monsters should not exist in this world at all. Any mercy shown is a betrayal of our own people."

Price, with a cigar in his mouth, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and nodded slowly: "Commander Vitellius, you are right."

His tone was no longer ambiguous, but rather resolute and steely: "Your Glory Legion and Weeping Company can move out with confidence. You don't need to worry about the rear. Our reconnaissance units will stay here to ensure that there are no problems with the front-line base."

At this point, he forcefully stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, a swift and decisive motion that seemed to symbolize the elimination of all uncertainties.

"I guarantee that as long as I, Price, am here, no enemy will ever set foot in this base."

McTavish, Ghost, and Xiaoqiang all nodded slightly; their silence was a silent vow.

Lei Ruoya gazed at them, her expression no longer tense, but replaced by a cold and resolute one.

She knew that these seasoned veterans would not disappoint her. If the Glory Legion and the Weeping Company were the sharp spearheads of the Empire, then the reconnaissance troops were the steel shields protecting the rear.

Whatever awaits them ahead—be it the shadow of the Blood Cross or unknown threats—they are prepared to meet it head-on.
(End of this chapter)