American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 113 The Descent of Heaven
Earth—Unknown.

The 17th year of the Kingdom of Heaven.

05: 30.

A sharp electronic buzzing sound, like a cold steel needle, precisely pierced every corner of the 10-square-meter standardized living space, and also pierced the man's shallow sleep.

There is no gradual increase in volume; it only explodes at the highest decibel level.

This is enough to make the dormant nerves of any living being suddenly tense up!
Of course
The man's eyelids snapped open in his sleep, and his pupils contracted instantly in the dim light.

Even so, there was no trace of the hazy feeling of just waking up in his eyes, only the physiological stress of being forcibly awakened and the exhaustion buried deep within his body.

Why not stay in bed?

joke.

That was the luxury of the weak in the old era, a potential stain on the moral record.

The movement was almost synchronized with the sound of the bell, and the arm swung out.

The man pressed hard on the alarm stop button embedded in the wall—

The piercing noise stopped abruptly.

but.
The lingering, tinnitus-like silence was all the more suffocating.

Sighed.

His gaze shifted to the narrow medical bed beside the main bed.

An elderly man with a pale face and weak breathing lay on it.

My gaze was fixed on the grayish-white wristband on the old man's wrist until the small indicator light on it steadily emitted a faint green glow.

The man finally exhaled the breath he had been holding in his chest, carrying with him the exhaustion accumulated throughout the night.

“Grant.”

The old man called out.

But the young man didn't react at all; he was already used to it.

His father, Slade Wilson, disappeared during a resource optimization mobilization eight years ago, and his mother became a vegetable.

He was prepared to spend his entire life only hearing his mother call his name in such a dreamlike voice.

"Bang~"

Take two sealed tubes from the storage compartment that pops out from the wall.

One is his 'Daily Balanced Nutrition Paste'.

The other one is 'Special Medical Nutrition Paste - No. 7' for my mother, along with several pills of different colors.

Grant unscrewed the cap.

The sealed tube contains a viscous, uniformly colored paste.

He expressionlessly squeezed his tube into his mouth. His taste buds were already numb, and he could only distinguish a base of mixed grains and synthetic proteins. The texture was like chewing on cardboard soaked in water, with no expectation of any flavor layers.

He then skillfully helped his mother up, carefully fed her the nutritional paste, and then put the pills in her mouth, swallowing them with a little saliva.

The entire process was quiet, fast, and efficient.

because
"Drip~"

A smooth, white cylinder, about one meter high, stands in the corner.

A faint blue scanning beam silently swept across the empty tube in Grant's hand and the medicine bottle on his mother's bedside table.

"Ding~"

“City C - Resident, Level 3 Data Entry Clerk: Grant Wilson, and his guardians.”

"Both parties took their medication on time and their nutritional intake met the standards."

"Data upload in progress."
-
The interior of the standardized commuter capsule is a depressing gray-blue ocean.

Grant squeezed into the crowd of people dressed in the same gray-blue uniform as him, his body swaying slightly as the capsule accelerated magnetically.

The carriage was deathly silent, with only the low hum of the air conditioning system.

No one spoke, no one even coughed.

Everyone had their heads down, their eyes either focused on the tips of their shoes or fixed on the small screen in front of them, where the host of the unified news briefing was praising His Majesty the Emperor in a flat tone.

Who made eye contact dangerous?
Any unnecessary facial expressions can be interpreted as 'unconventional socializing' or 'emotional instability'.

They were then injected with a tranquilizer by the ubiquitous 'moral exemplar' robots.

This also gave Grant's face a mask of numbness.

However, he still secretly glanced at the capsule's small car window out of the corner of his eye.

After all, this is the only time we can steal a moment from our busy schedules to enjoy the scenery.

Although the scenery wasn't anything special—

A massive, oppressively large complex of geometrically structured buildings.

The streets were so clean you couldn't see a single fallen leaf; everything was in perfect order, yet it was also chillingly cold.

The city was filled with the gleam of metal and synthetic materials, and the ubiquitous, enormous 'K'-shaped emblem that emitted a soft white light.

Um.
And there are countless white cylindrical moral robots that are taken for granted.

Their blue scanning light, like tireless eyes, scrutinizes everything in this steel jungle.

These bastards
Grant looked away, avoiding lingering on any object.

but.
Just as the commuter capsule silently glided across an unusually wide but still sparsely populated plaza avenue.

His pupils contracted sharply.

A figure entered his blind spot and quickly moved to face him.

It was a person wearing a long, pure black trench coat.

In a world where everyone is forced to wear clothing in compliant colors such as gray-blue and light white.

This thick, unreflective black, as conspicuous as a stain on snow, carries an almost provocative tone.

What Grant found even more unbelievable was that the person...

The man in black seemed to raise his head slightly. Even from a distance of over a hundred meters and through the rapidly moving capsule-shaped window, his eyes, hidden in the shadows, looked with unwavering precision and without any attempt to conceal their gaze…

They made eye contact!
Although he couldn't see the specific look in her eyes, that brief exchange of glances pierced straight into Grant's nerves!
"!"

He was so frightened that he almost instinctively lowered his head.

My heart was pounding wildly in my chest, making my ribs ache.

He saw me? Why was he looking at me?
Who is he? A new disguise for the ethics committee? A test? A trap?
Does this mean I've been exposed?!
Countless terrifying speculations flooded his mind, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

The carriage remained deathly silent. It seemed that no one noticed his momentary loss of composure, or even if they did, they would never have shown it in the slightest.

After quite a while, the commuter capsule had glided two more blocks.
Grant's wildly beating heart calmed down a little.

The immense fear even gave rise to a twisted curiosity.

Unable to contain himself, he slowly, almost as if merely moving his stiff neck, raised his head again, his gaze timidly fixed on the square.

Outside the window, the square remains unchanged.

The gray-blue worker ants hurried along.

The morality robot glided at a constant speed, its huge 'K'-shaped emblem coldly emitting a white light.

And that man in black...

Disappeared.

Like a drop of water merging into the ocean, leaving no trace.

What he just witnessed seemed to be a hallucination caused by his highly stressed nerves, or a phantom image caused by excessive eye strain.

Grant swallowed instinctively, his throat dry and sore.
-
noon:

11: 30.

Inside the vast office area on the third basement floor of the archives bureau, hundreds of cubicles resemble a honeycomb.

Grant sat in his small, private space, facing a gleaming control panel and a huge digital screen.

And that is his job.
The seemingly endless, fragmented paper archives that survived the "Great Purification" period were scanned and manually entered into digital form, then handed over to the central AI system.

Al.

Let it undergo final 'purification' and 'classification'.

Fingers mechanically tap on the optical keyboard, producing a soft, rhythmic click.

Grant's expression, like that of his other colleagues, was numb and focused.

However.
His eyes, however, were like two high-precision scanners, capturing fragments of information flowing across the screen with a speed and sensitivity far exceeding the demands of his work:

An old-world document marked as 'purified - technology blueprint'.

The file of a mid-level resource allocation official.

A brief maintenance log regarding an 'unplanned shutdown' of a climate control tower in a remote agricultural area.

These insignificant fragments were instantly etched into his mind by his astonishing memory.

His actions were like searching for gold nuggets in the desert.

The stakes are high.

But they never tire of it.
-
12: 30.

The unit's canteen is spacious and empty.

A similarly oppressive silence permeated the air.

People sat in their assigned spots, silently chewing their rationed lunches.

Today's dish is a synthetic protein steak.

Um.
Commonly known as cockroach paste.

Accompanied by the soft clinking of metal cutlery against plates and the subtle yet ubiquitous hum of the morality robot gliding across the ground in the distance.

Grant quickly finished his food; the taste was as unforgettable as ever.

He stood up and walked towards a toilet stall.

There is no deadbolt.

But he didn't hesitate at all, taking out a tiny device smaller than a fingernail from his inner pocket, cleverly disguised as a button.

My fingers pressed on it very quickly a few times.

After completing the operation, he walked to the sink very naturally, pretended to wash his hands, and flicked his fingertips.

Make the 'button' slide precisely into a very hidden, long-abandoned ventilation duct interface gap at the bottom of the wall.

There was not a sound.

Delivery completed.

The message has been sent.

Grant left quickly, without lingering at all.

Even if he doesn't know who will take it away, or even if it may remain there forever.
-
12:30
The afternoon's work was a precise replica of the morning's, but it was even more grueling.

Fatigue begins to erode the nerves, eyelids feel like they're filled with lead, but the brain must maintain an even higher level of activity.

Grant's fingers flew across the optical keyboard.

He had to ensure that the input speed met the system's "efficiency target" and avoid triggering the automatic warning of "low productivity," while also sifting through the vast sea of ​​information like gold to capture those dangerous fragments and imprint them firmly in his memory.

And each time, the almost inaudible scraping sound of the pulleys of the 'moral exemplar' could be heard from behind.

It would cause the muscles in his back to tense up uncontrollably for a moment, and his breathing would stop for half a second until the sound faded away before he dared to exhale slowly.

This kind of continuous mental drain is a hundred times more exhausting than simple physical labor.
-
17:30:

Grant squeezed back into the stuffy commuter capsule, his body swaying slightly with inertia.

This time, exhaustion overwhelmed him like a tangible tide. He could barely stand and could only lean against the cold bulkhead.

Even so, he dared not close his eyes.

The moral robot's eerie blue scanning light is always on; close your eyes before bedtime.
That is laziness.

"Ding~ Special situation detected. The capsule train will be delayed by one to three minutes."

"Ok?"

That's not standard.

An unusual sense of stagnation spread. Although no one was talking, many people's lowered eyelids lifted almost imperceptibly, and a very subtle doubt flashed in their numb eyes.

Grant glanced out of the corner of his eye, almost unconsciously, towards the car door.

Something seems to have happened on the platform.

There were only two morality robots.
The smooth white cylinders stood one in front of the other, blocking the way for a mother and child.

The mother, dressed in a standard gray protective suit, was pale and tightly gripped the hand of a boy who looked to be about five or six years old.

In the boy's other small hand, he was still tightly clutching a crumpled piece of drawing paper.

A cold, synthesized electronic voice was playing, not loud, but loud enough for those nearby to hear clearly:
"...Unauthorized creative activity was detected. According to Article 14, Paragraph 3 of the Artistic Expression Standards Act, drawing non-standard, unauthorized imagery constitutes a Level 2 ethical violation."

"In accordance with regulations, the works that violated the rules have been confiscated, and the creators have been given mandatory aesthetic correction education."

here we go again.
Grant's gaze fell on the drawing paper in the boy's hand.

Above, a standard, square heavenly housing unit is drawn with crayons.

The windows and doors were drawn very neatly and precisely.

However, in the blue sky outside one of the windows, the boy clumsily drew a...

A small creature with wings.

It was a bird.

A moral robot extended its mechanical arm and precisely and ruthlessly snatched the painting from the boy's hand.

The boy's little hand grasped at the air in vain, his eyes instantly filled with tears, his little mouth pursed, but he dared not cry out.

This is useless.

Another morality robot slid forward, its cold mechanical arm gripping the boy's small arm.

"According to procedure."

"Violators must immediately undergo a seven-day intensive 'Standard Aesthetics' correction course. Guardians are requested to cooperate."

The mother's body trembled violently, and her face turned ashen.

She instinctively tightened her grip on the boy's hand, but then abruptly released it as if she had been electrocuted.

Then, under the watchful eyes of Grant and all the other passengers who were silently observing the scene, all the struggle and pain on her face were erased by the eraser, disappearing quickly, replaced by a kind of...
Extremely distorted, extremely standard—

smile.

This is a guardian who meets the standards of "actively cooperating with the reform" and "understanding the greater good".

That smile, however, revealed a chilling emptiness in his eyes.

"Thank you for the committee's correction. This child will study hard..."

Her voice trembled, but she tried her best to keep her tone steady.

The morality robot effortlessly carried the boy away, his small figure disappearing behind the cold pillars of the platform.

The mother, however, maintained that stiff smile, standing there like a sculpture in the process of weathering away.

Grant forced himself to look away.

He took a deep breath, feeling a tightness and pain in his chest that made it almost impossible to breathe.

How tragic.
Is a fictional bird, existing only in a child's innocent imagination, really enough to constitute a crime?!

Is it enough to forcibly pull a young soul away from its mother and subject it to that cold, rigid correction?
In this society where even imagination is strictly regulated and every color needs to be reported.

He desperately wanted to shout, to tell all these numb people in the carriage, to tell the mother forced to smile, to tell the child who had been taken away—

That's right! Drawing a bird is not wrong!
In that past that was completely forbidden to be discussed and erased from all records.

There really were birds flying freely in the sky!
Birds aren't just found in ecological parks!
They really exist! They really soar through the sky!

but.
His lips, however, were welded shut with the strongest welding rod.

No syllables could be produced from his throat.

He couldn't say anything.

There was nothing he could do.

He could only lower his head quickly, almost in fear, like everyone else, avoiding his mother's empty gaze, and hiding himself even deeper into the gray-blue crowd, as if he had never seen the bird that shouldn't have existed, and the subsequent shattering.

The capsule's doors finally closed slowly, shutting out the platform.

The train restarted and accelerated, as if nothing had happened.

Grant leaned against the cold bulkhead, feeling the chill seep into his clothes and reach his very bones.
-
18:18
Pushing open that standardized door, the 10-square-meter space brings a distorted sense of belonging.

The first thing he did was rush to his mother's bedside to make sure the green light on his wristband was still working.

Then, as if following a set procedure, I took out two tubes of nutritional paste and a small box of synthetic vegetable puree from the wall cabinet—

This is almost the highest level of supplies they can get.

He mixed the vegetable puree into his mother's nutritional paste, hoping to make her eat better.

"Mom, the archives bureau issued a notice today."

As he fed them, he repeated the message that was allowed to be spread in a numb, monotone voice.

"The efficiency of the Third Shipyard has increased by another five percent, for which His Majesty the Emperor has commended us... The progress in stockpiling supplies for the interstellar expedition is encouraging... All this is for the glory of 'Heavenly Kingdom'..."

“Our ‘Heavenly Kingdom’ is thriving and prosperous.”

"Under His Majesty the Emperor's leadership, we will spread the glory of humanity to every corner."

Grant kept rambling on and on, seemingly saying a lot, but...
He himself didn't even know what he was saying.
-
19:30-21:00:

The screen on the wall was forced to light up, playing a program produced by the Imperial Propaganda Bureau.

The emperor's figure appeared on the screen.

He was dressed in a crisp white uniform with a 'K' emblem.

His face was stern, and his eyes were indifferent.

He preached the necessity of 'purification', the benefits brought by 'order', and the great significance of 'interstellar expedition' for the future of humanity.

The data stream at the bottom of the screen also scrolls in real time with uniformly formatted expressions of 'support' and 'praise' from people across the country.

Sitting expressionlessly in the designated chair, Grant's gaze seemed to be fixed on the screen, but there was no focus in the depths of his pupils.
-
21:30:

After helping my mother to bed, I checked her vital signs again and confirmed that the wristband was functioning normally.

Grant tucked her in, the only gentle moment of the day.
-
22:00:

The lights were adjusted to the minimum brightness allowed by regulations.

Grant sat by the small, sealed-off window.

He looked outside through the thick, slightly tinted special glass.

The night sky was occasionally pierced by the searchlights of the Empire State Building in the distance and the beams of light from patrol airships, making it impossible to see any stars.

It was boring and quiet.

but.
This is the only moment of the day that is theoretically not subject to forced scheduling and that nominally belongs to 'oneself'.

He let out a long breath.

Grant's shoulders slumped completely, his once straight back bent slightly, and he slumped into the chair.

That last breath seemed to have taken away all the strength that had sustained him throughout the day.

"Another...day has passed."

He murmured almost silently, his voice hoarse, mixed with a hint of relief at having escaped unscathed.

And
A deep-seated, boundless weariness.

The nerves that had been taut for nearly eighteen hours finally received a very limited, luxurious relaxation at this moment.

But it was in that moment of letting down their guard that they realized what was happening.

Perhaps it was due to his long-standing habit of cleanliness, or perhaps it was a subconscious appreciation for this only 'outside world' he could touch, but he unconsciously raised his hand and gently wiped the windowpane with his fingertips.

A tiny speck of dust had somehow settled there, casting a flickering shadow.

This was an instinctive action.

however--

His strength seems to have increased again.

"Crack~"

The force applied to the fingertips was only slightly increased.
A crack appeared on the glass.

Beep! Beep! Beep!
A sharp, urgent alarm, loud enough to tear eardrums, suddenly blared from behind him without warning!
Great!
He maintained his status as a model citizen for ten years.

Has this day really come after all?!
Grant's expression faltered.

Then, the gentle blue scanning light on the top of the morality robot in the corner suddenly went out, and then burst out with a dazzling, flashing scarlet light, locking onto him like a demon opening its eyes!
The cold, ruthless synthesized voice echoed in the small room, each word like an icicle piercing his heart:
“Citizen Grant Wilson (ID: 73-8C-11) was found to have engaged in ‘unconventional cleaning behavior’.”

Article 7, Paragraph 3 of the Code—

"Prohibiting unauthorized maintenance of public standard interfaces is suspected of pursuing non-standard aesthetics and breeding arrogance."

"Behavioral grade: Level 3 negligence. Immediate standardized correction is required!"

"Citizen's age detected: 28, meets the requirements of the Fifth Shipyard in Area A".

"Corrective measures revised."

Grant's pupils suddenly contracted!
A wave of immense fear washed over him like a bucket of ice water, instantly dispelling all his exhaustion and lingering hope!
The Fifth Shipyard.
Isn't that the main force that's about to embark on an interstellar expedition?!
Even if I am only punished with seven days of forced labor, as long as I go there, I could leave Earth at any time by joining the fleet on an expedition!

"boom--!"

High-pressure airflow is ejected from the bottom of the morality robot.

It slid toward him quickly and precisely, emitting a threatening buzz!

The robotic arm rose, and the sedative injection needle at its end gleamed coldly in the dim light.

He sprang up from his chair, dodging the attack; Grant's mind went completely blank.

Is there really no other choice?!
Without hesitation, he reached into the garbage bag and pulled out a metal pipe.

This is an electromagnetic pulse device that he created by hand over five years, based on information from the archives.

Once activated, the released pulse will instantly paralyze ordinary moral exemplars and destroy the chip implanted under their skin by the Kingdom of Heaven.

"sorry."

"I want to live."

He spoke softly, whether to the robot or to his mother sleeping in the next room.

"boom!"

The moment the button was pressed, the lights in most of the residential area went out.

The moral robot froze.

But what followed was...
The piercing sirens blared throughout the seventh housing district!
"boom!"

Grant stormed out the door without hesitation, disappearing into the darkness.

“Wilson.GO”

“Wilson.”

The mother, a vegetable in her sleep, was murmuring to herself. But he was too preoccupied to pay attention.
Because his escape began, and this escape
He had been preparing for ten years.

(End of this chapter)