Ultraman Legend of the Light Chaser

It can be said that TPC is inherently "born to deal with extraterrestrial civilizations".

Since Golza's appearance, all sorts of monsters, aliens, and even giants have been constantly proclaiming the inferiority of TPC.

The power of your meticulously crafted aircraft, the carefully selected and trained team members, and the world's brightest researchers, all combined, is still less effective than a giant raising his hand and unleashing a beam of light.

Before, one could barely claim that "TPC is fighting alongside the giants," as long as they could repel the monsters and aliens, nothing else mattered compared to the paramount importance of survival. But now? It turns out the aliens have been operating on Earth for so long? The Crow People are capturing people everywhere, the Wood-Dwelling People are playing chase games in the streets, and the Kirieloids have hollowed out entire islands as "material" breeding bases. Is this the sense of security TPC provides?

Sato clicked his tongue and said, "Just when we received intelligence about the mechanical civilization and were preparing for war with all our might, the Kirieloids really caught a lucky break."

“Whether the Kirieloids realize this or not, there are indeed people who want to take advantage of the situation,” Aiba Yu said. “A stable society is not conducive to spreading the faith in the Kirieloid God, and the TPC led by Director Sawai is not the human union that the opponents envision.”

The speaker didn't react, but the listener was startled. Sato paused for a moment and said, "I thought you were only interested in flying planes, fighting monsters, and carving and sewing."

"Forget about that last 'hobby'." The voice on the other end suddenly lowered, and Sato's grinning face was reflected on the dark screen.

But the smile only lasted for a moment before Sato's upturned lips fell again: "No matter how many times I tease you now, I won't feel happy anymore. Sigh, these are troublesome times."

……

Life Science Research Center.

Number Twelve, "Paladia," sat back on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

This is Hastur, a key warehouse of the Life Sciences Research Center. Security has been heightened since the intrusion during the Bizomo incident. Number Twelve was brought here not as research material, but as an object requiring special protection and observation.

It's hard to say whether the Kirieloids did anything to her, and Number Twelve herself thought so too. Therefore, after a brief hesitation, she accepted the TPC's arrangement.

This house was originally a small warehouse with only four bare walls and a ventilation opening as its sole decoration. But after Number Twelve entered, the researchers nailed a display screen to the wall and connected it to a signal, and Number Twelve began living a secluded life at home.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Dr. Yuecheng said. "Until we confirm that all your indicators are normal, you can only stay here for now. Please let us know if you need anything. If you want to go out for a walk..."

“I’m not going out,” Number Twelve replied. “I can’t see through ‘Father’s’ plans, but I’ve figured it out recently. He deliberately let me out. He must know that you guys will come looking for me, and he knows that I’m very likely to reveal the locations of the strongholds that I know—he’s definitely expecting more than that. It’s better for me not to see anyone.”

Complete isolation is always the safest option, right? Number Twelve thought.

The television was showing a documentary, depicting three polar bears—one large and two small—strolling across the ice field. The howling wind emanated from the speakers, accompanied by the crunching of their feet on the snow; the cold air seemed to penetrate the screen and sting one's face.

Will Kumamon freeze into an icicle in the Arctic? Number Twelve stared blankly at the snow on the screen. After a while, she moved to the bedside and finally picked up the telephone receiver.

The clerk's voice came from the other end of the receiver, and Number Twelve hurriedly said, "Has Sosuke returned? Is he alright? He must not go out; 'Father' is watching him."

"Uh..." The clerk frowned. "Who are you talking about?"

“Sousuke is Sousuke, and ‘father’... is my father,” Number Twelve said.

The clerk hesitated for a moment: "If you find it too boring in there, it's okay to make a joke. Please continue."

……

"At this very moment, we are 10,000 meters in the air. Poor Paradia must be on the ground, missing her father so much that she wants to break my neck."

He stretched in his wool coat, and a sliver of light shone through the edge of the porthole. He pulled open the sunshade, and the sudden burst of sunlight abruptly woke the person next to him from their dream.

The man mumbled something groggily, groped for his hat, and tried to put it on his face, but was stopped by a wool coat: "Hey! Wake up! The plane has been hijacked and we're forced to return!"

"What?!" The man in the rolled-brim hat jumped up like a carp, while the woman in the wool coat looked at him with a smile: "Just kidding."

"Are you out of your mind?" the man in the rolled-up hat snapped. "I spent half a day with you squatting on some godforsaken island watching penguins, then dug in the dirt for two days, and we almost missed this flight... If we're late, we'll have to dive across the Atlantic! And you won't even let me sleep!"

“Just kidding,” the man in the wool coat repeated, “We didn’t cross the Atlantic. This flight made a stop in Mexico before transferring to the Pacific!”

The man in the rolled-brim hat opened his mouth, his eyes widening even further: "Don't tell me its final destination is Tokyo."

“Of course not. You know the Japanese and English for Tokyo. What does it say on the screen?” the wool coat said. “Vladivostok, a small city. You, an illiterate person, certainly wouldn’t know it. So when I said it was on the west coast of Africa, you believed me immediately.”

The man in the rolled-brim hat was stunned by his companion. He lunged toward the porthole and pressed his face against the glass—he tried to see the coastline and white sand beach below through the gaps in the drifting clouds.

Even the most dull-witted person could tell where they were: exceptional eyesight allowed the man in the rolled-brim hat to discern the skin tones of the passersby, if only he had taken the time to look closely.

The answer can be easily found in the service manual placed next to the seat.

"Are you out of your mind?!" This time it was the man in the rolled-brim hat's turn to repeat, "Tell me how far away TPC's headquarters is from us? How long will it take them to find us? When will that human form of Ultraman Tiga and the tomb guardian smell us and come strangle us? Huh?!"

"You should have some confidence in yourself. Why don't you strangle them?"

"Bullshit! Did we just fly over their heads or have we already passed over them?"

"They have no time to worry about what's happening above them, and one of them is heartbroken on a South American island, while the other is living a life of misery in a ward at the medical bureau or an isolation room at some research center."

"Could you please stop using such disgusting language?"

"Hmm? You understand these words?" the wool coat chuckled. "Anyway, as long as we don't stupidly grow to gigantic size and reveal ourselves in the street, no one in TPC will bother looking for us. And the most dangerous place is the safest place—everyone's attention is on South George Island, which is just the right time for us to come back."

The rolled-up hat made his scalp tingle, and he slammed the sunshade shut, plunging the cabin into darkness once more.

“Their base is nearby, and you know what they’re developing,” the man in the rolled-up hat said in a low voice, “technology that the Goblins would consider a threat, but as a weapon, it’s just a simple application!”

“It’s okay if you shout it out loud now; soundproofing in first class is an essential feature of any private jet,” the wool coat said.

"So you knew this was a private jet! My private jet! Why did you make me leave my private jet in a carefree place and come to the enemy's headquarters!" the man in the rolled-up hat cursed.

"To be precise, it's your countless 'children' or 'brothers and sisters' private jet. Don't casually claim other people's things as your own; that's called illegal appropriation," the man in the wool coat scrutinized the man in the rolled-brim hat's face until the man's expression changed from horrified to disgusted before speaking. "I still can't stand your body. Why not use Kamimura's? He's so devout, willing to dedicate everything to the god Kirieloid. If you asked him to offer his body, he would definitely agree—a body enriched with ancient genes, let me think... that's called the Golden Legend!"

The man in the wool coat tried to sound humorous, but the man in the rolled-brim hat grew colder and colder. Finally, he replied, "I'm not interested in human bodies that mutter 'Aya' eight or ten times a day. I've lost interest in raising children. Don't mention people with the surname Kamimura to me."

“Kamimura is the surname you personally chose,” the wool coat said. “I am the ‘father,’ giving them the ideal body, and you are also the ‘father,’ giving them the meaning of life as human beings.”

"What do you want to say?"

"I want to say that the 'Aya' you raised has finally grown into an enemy whose name can be called. She finally has the courage to leave the loving family that her good brother built for her and hang out with those researchers abandoned by TPC. In her spare time, she works as a dancer who is rarely seen and makes a lot of money. When she is busy, she transforms into a lizard and hunts down aliens all over the world."

The man in the wool coat was still smiling, his tone becoming increasingly gentle, as if comforting a friend who had suffered misfortune: "Vladivostok is very close to your 'hometown.' You will be there to plan and participate in the final operation until everything is settled—children always have a rebellious phase when they grow up, just like my 'Paladia,' and your 'Aya.'"

"All you're saying is trying to get me to decide to kill her." The drowsiness in the rolled-up hat had vanished. He now desperately wanted to reach out, grab the guy's neck tightly between his palms, and squeeze it shut like a pressure relief ball.

“How could that be?” The man in the wool coat waved his hand in denial: “What I mean is to give the children more patience. You might as well look at their actions, like a real old man, growing flowers, walking dogs, fishing in Vladivostok, with plenty of pension and old-age insurance.”

“Now that we’re there, how could we possibly be idle and become retired? You’re trying to fool me again.” The man in the rolled-brim hat gritted his teeth.

The man in the wool coat shook his head: "I'm telling the truth this time. TPC will be very, very busy... Even if something like a Wood-Earth alien playing a chase game in the street happens, they might not have the manpower or energy to deal with it."

Chapter 178 Tsunami

The fears surrounding Typhoon Paradia (No. 12) have come true.

Her "father" did indeed have ulterior motives in placing her in the position of public relations.

Not only TPC can find her, but countless cameras, whether intentional or unintentional, can also find her—now her clumsy speech is being broadcast on television, with white text scrolling across a blue background: Missing preacher, or imprisoned by some organization.

"This TV station is really stupid," Number Twelve thought, and switched to another channel.

The channel's visuals were much cleaner, showcasing the vast ocean. Number Twelve felt more comfortable and leaned back contentedly, guessing that this might be a special program about marine life.

[But this beautiful ocean also harbors countless evils.] The voice-over says.

Number Twelve's expression fell, as if he had swallowed a fly.

Antarctica is considered a paradise far removed from the world, a haven for polar animals, but since the bloody Whaling Bay, humanity has once again brought misfortune there...

Number Twelve decisively exited the live stream and returned to the menu. She decided to watch the replay; in this kind of leisure time, one should watch some soap operas about family and friends.

……

Why have these TV stations stopped airing dramas and started producing current affairs commentary?

! ”

TPC Information Department, Public Opinion Monitoring Center.

Having received the warning, they immediately changed their focus and indeed discovered something deadly.

"Was the program registered before it went online? Was the content reviewed?" one of the people standing in the middle shouted. "They really know how to use their emotional manipulation skills in interview programs on South George Island. I almost cried while watching it!"

“Team leader, freedom of the press,” the person sitting to his left leaned forward and whispered, “and they didn’t say anything explicitly.”

"The subtitle says 'imprisoned by a certain organization,' and then 'slap' plays footage of our base rising up. Is that what you call not saying anything explicitly?" An entire wall of the monitoring center was occupied by square screens, each playing different TV stations, online platforms, and even some captured live footage. The team leader's finger swiped from the left to the lower right corner, tapping repeatedly in the air, like an enraged homeroom teacher counting heads.

His finger hovered over one of the screens. His mood seemed to have improved somewhat, and his previously high-spirited tone returned to calm: "Come on, see what this TV station is showing—zoom in, quick."

The operator on the left did not feel any calm; he felt as if he were sitting in the eye of a typhoon, waiting for the typhoon to continue, knowing that the violent winds would eventually sweep him into the sky.

He was filled with anxiety, but his hands kept moving. As the image zoomed in, the sound also filled everyone's ears.

“My Joshua—he must be on that island! He is suffering in hell, and we miss him day and night. No one knows where he is until the truth comes out!”

The middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face, was filled with regret, repeatedly saying she shouldn't have agreed to go to sea with him. Two hosts, a man and a woman, sat beside her. The female host turned to wipe her tears, and the piano background music rose to its most moving part. Amidst the music and her sobs, the male host sighed, "At this moment, I can't help but think of my family. I have parents, a wife, and children. If they disappeared without explanation, and were ultimately implicated in extraterrestrial human experiments, I imagine I would be even more hysterical right now. I have many questions in my heart, and I believe these are the questions everyone has."

Why would there be a prison built by aliens on Earth?

Why was the local TPC completely unaware of the mass disappearances of civilians?

Why haven't we received any friendly signals from any extraterrestrials since the promulgation of the "Regulations on the Management of Special Life Forms (Trial Implementation)"?

Why do civilians still suffer misfortune even after the war has ended?

"Why do we, as humanity as a whole, still need to rely on unknown external forces?"

Why has Earth become a playground for aliens and monsters?

Can peace truly be bought with peace?

In the presence of everyone at the TPC Information Department's Public Opinion Monitoring Center, the host posed seven questions in a row, which together formed the "Seven Questions for TPC." Still feeling the heat of the moment, the host said emotionally, "The endless distance, the fate of countless people, are all related to me, and even more so to you."

The team leader didn't finish watching the program. He rushed out to the minister's office halfway through, believing that the minister was like an ant in a hot oil pan—damn it, they had already heated the pan and were already adding oil!

His operator was right. "Freedom of the press"—TPC operates under the banner of a peace organization, so how could it do anything "authoritarian"? Besides, what the TV station broadcasts is only related to the local government. Unless it involves the director's speech or something similar, it doesn't need to be censored by TPC.

Therefore, the work of the public opinion monitoring center has always been very passive, relying entirely on the strong support of member states to get by. Now, the time has finally come for the bomb to explode—no, this isn't a bomb…it's more like an earthquake.