Arknights: Studying medicine can't save Terra

"Go down."

Mandela took the list and began to shoo people away without any politeness.

Baron Bolton wanted to say something more, but noticing Mandela's condescending and disdainful gaze, he quickly nodded, bowed, and left the room.

After Baron Bolton left, Mandela frowned and began to look through the list.

From behind the screen in the room, a woman with long green hair emerged. The fluffy cat tail behind her was noticeably more voluminous than that of ordinary film, making her look like a soft ball of cotton candy.

But what's even more striking is the woman's naturally occurring, almost instinctive, feminine expression, as if she's about to utter a mocking "small fish" at any moment.

"Mandela, why do you look so upset?"

The woman was clearly concerned, but her tone was full of provocation.

"Stop with that nonsense, it's so fake and disgusting. Everyone knows you, Ahmoni, don't really care about anyone," Mandela said irritably.

Ahmoni covered her mouth and giggled, not caring about these things.

Her fluffy tail swished behind her as she deliberately moved closer to Mandela, speaking in a sarcastic tone:

"Since you've found out, I won't pretend to invite you along. I'll just sneak away on my own."

"Escape?" Mandela looked away from the list.

"Yes, it seems you haven't noticed the impending crisis yet."

"Will your mouth atrophy if you don't keep people in suspense?"

After being verbally abused by Mandela, Ahmoni feigned hurt and said:

"You meant well, but it was all for naught... Okay, I'm not kidding you anymore."

Seeing that Mandela was showing signs of erupting, Ahmoni stopped joking and said seriously:

“A ghost army outside the city was suddenly wiped out. According to the investigation, there were obvious traces of Letanian magic at the scene.”

"Why would Letania get involved here?" Mandela asked, puzzled.

“Use your brain, Mandra. Of course, Letania won’t appear, but this land isn’t only for Letania to use its magic.” Ahmoni said seriously, “I’ve planted some spies in Hillshire, and the intelligence they gave me revealed that Rhodes Island has an office in Hillshire, and has sent three capable operators to Hillshire in the past six months.”

Considering that Rhodes Island has been causing unrest wherever it goes since last year, I have been paying close attention to its actions.

Coincidentally, shortly before the Ghost Army was wiped out, someone witnessed Qi Yan of Rhodes Island leaving from the southern border of Kazimierz and entering Victoria.

Qi Yan said, "I once used Letanian magic in Kazimir!"

(I'm not feeling well today, so I'll just write these two chapters for now. I'll adjust myself tomorrow.)

Chapter 535 The Poet

Upon hearing Ahmoni's name, Mandra's round cat ears twitched.

"Are you kidding me? Why would that guy be involved in our plans?"

Mandela crumpled the list in his hand into a ball, his anger mixed with undisguised terror.

Ahmoni shrugged and spread her hands, saying:

"If you're really curious, you can go up to Qi Yan and ask him yourself when you see him. Our little intelligence officer doesn't have your kind of courage."

Since things have come to this, I'm leaving now.

Mandra angrily stopped Ahmoni, gritting his teeth, and said, "What about that fake? We need to notify everyone in Deeppool to evacuate together. Are you planning to abandon the troops in Little Hill County?"

Ahmoni's expression turned cold, and she turned to Mandela, saying:

"You should have stopped talking nonsense and thinking about those absurd things a long time ago."

Honestly, these plans of yours aren't part of the leader's plan. Since when did it become your place to make decisions for the leader?

Mandela: "..."

After a moment, she let out a soft click, which was taken as an admission of submission to Ahmoni.

Lost in her anger, Mandela failed to notice that Ahmoni, who had turned her back to her and walked toward the door, was slowly developing a triumphant smile of triumph.

The lighting was pleasant, and the atmosphere was lively with clinking glasses.

In the banquet hall, guests elegantly raised their wine glasses, and as the crimson liquid swirled, they finalized one cooperation deal after another, whether real or fake.

There are insincere praises, criticisms of hypocrisy and self-interest in the current situation, and frank exposés.

Several well-dressed businessmen and local dignitaries looked embarrassed, because they had just praised a big entrepreneur for hiring infected people, and the next second a man with a gloomy demeanor pointed out the company's oppression of the infected people.

After the man revealed the truth, his gaze swept over the powerful and wealthy people who had come to talk to him, silently taking in the embarrassment and dissatisfaction on their faces.

The man said nothing and turned to leave.

After he left, the group of dignitaries quickly and naturally changed the subject, and only after the atmosphere had warmed up again did they pretend to be surprised by the man's sudden departure.

The man avoided the crowd and walked to the window of the banquet hall. The cool evening breeze caressed his face, easing his weary mind from the insincere interactions.

Good evening, Mr. Williams.

A greeting came from behind the man, and the bugler, having shed his military uniform, appeared behind him in a dress uniform.

Williams wasn't surprised to be recognized; he turned and nodded to the horn as a greeting.

Horn had no idea he would meet this talented poet at this banquet.

However, upon further reflection, the horn faintly echoed in his mind, and it became clear that the poet's stance leaned towards the Tara people.

"I hope I haven't disturbed your creative process," the horn said, trying to strike up a conversation.

"Haha, no, I've just been conceiving a little poem in my mind for several days and still haven't finished it."

Williams was somewhat surprised that Horn had seen through his true thoughts, which made him more interested in communicating with Ms. Rupert in front of him.

He then took the initiative to find topics to talk about: "I thought this banquet would give me some inspiration, but now it seems that writing is something that can't be forced."

The conversation continued naturally with the horn:

“Such occasions always drain a person’s energy too quickly. I can tell you’re very tired, and you didn’t attend this banquet of your own volition.”

In fact, I bet everyone willing to attend such events is doing so out of necessity.

A glint appeared in Williams' eyes.

He examined the horn carefully for a moment, then smiled and said, “If I’m not mistaken, madam, you’re not from Tara.”

Your accent is that of a Victorian aristocrat who received a standard Lontinham education.

"You truly deserve to be called a great poet; you are very perceptive."

“The first step in creating is observation. I can tell that your intentions are different from theirs,” Williams said confidently.

"Are you doubting me?" Horn asked with a deliberately light laugh.

"What are you doubting? I'm here to exchange ideas, and you are the one exchanging ideas with me."

Even if I'm not a Tara?

"Precisely because you are not a Tara."

At this point, the two looked at each other and smiled, both finding the other to be an interesting person.

Williams took a glass of ale from a passing waiter's tray, took a small sip, and continued with a smile:

"It's a pleasure to chat with you. When it comes to communication, language and writing are for communication, and they are amazing."

“That’s because you’re being considerate of me,” Horn said modestly. “If you spoke Tara, I would be practically deaf.”

Williams burst into laughter.

He turned his head and glanced at everyone at the banquet, saying with a hint of mockery:

“You’ll hardly hear Tara at this banquet.”

"Even if the theme of this banquet is the revival of the Tara people's mindset." Horn shrugged.

"What use is thought? You plant a feather in the soil and imagine it growing into a feathered beast."

Williams murmured a poem he had previously published.

He turned his head and noticed the thoughtful look in Horn's eyes. He raised his glass, took a sip of malt liquor, and explained:

“I can tell you’re here looking for something, but unfortunately, you probably won’t find what you’re looking for here. There are only merchants, nobles, and a Tara poet who speaks Victorian.”

Some yearn for the revival of the idea called Tara, and I look forward to it too. But in my eyes, I cannot and do not want to change this land. I am just someone who tries to plant feathers.

Thoughts are free, and no one can interfere. The beasts that grow within each person are different, just as everyone has different hopes for the future of this land.

The horn looked intently at the poet before it.

Williams' presence at the banquet seemed so out of place, making him the only one who was sober.

The horn seemed to want to say something more, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the bagpipes approaching.

She could only say goodbye to Williams and then turn around to greet the bagpipes.

"Captain, something's wrong!"

As soon as the bagpipes approached, he whispered a report: "I was observing the situation from the window when I suddenly noticed that all the pedestrians coming and going outside had disappeared. They must have been evacuated."

"According to the information provided by Qi Yan, it seems that the military has arrived."

The moment the bugle sounded, the door to the banquet hall was suddenly kicked open.

Dozens of fully armed garrison troops stormed in, pointed their weapons at the dignitaries in the hall, and took control of everyone as soon as they appeared.

Horn and ACE met up at one place.

ACE shared the intelligence he had just received: "Oliver patrolled the streets outside, and they were all under military control, conducting a large-scale search for something."

The bugle frowned and looked at the leader of the military unit.

She knew him; she had met Colonel Hamilton when she went to the military base to negotiate. He loathed Deeppool and, by extension, hated the Tara people who helped Deeppool.

At this moment, Hamilton caught these powerful figures who were trying to align themselves with Deeppool red-handed. One can imagine what fate awaited these powerful figures, given Hamilton's methods.

She wanted to step forward and try to negotiate to prevent the situation from escalating, but ACE held her shoulder down.

“This is not something we can stop,” ACE warned. “Qi Yan has already given us the answer. Now we need to consider how to prevent an even more severe crisis from unfolding.”

"But wasn't the little boy who caused the conflict already caught?" Horn asked, puzzled.

“Qi Yan wouldn’t lie to us. The Tara people who have sided with Deeppool probably cover the entire Hills County,” ACE said firmly.

horn:"……"

While the two were talking, Hamilton had completely taken control of the situation and, without any hesitation, used force to intimidate these people into revealing the mastermind.

Baron Bolton, the host of the banquet, was trembling with fear, shaking his head with all his might to deny everything and try to extricate himself from the situation.

Unfortunately, the military's actions were far more ruthless than these powerful figures could have imagined.

Before long, Lieutenant Hill brought a panicked young man before Hamilton and reported loudly:

"We caught him in the hallway outside. He was trying to escape through the window. He was probably an attendant of one of the people present, preparing to tip him off!"

Hamilton immediately drew his sword and pressed it against the young man's neck.

The sharp blade pierced the youth's skin shallowly, and crimson blood trickled down his neck. Though not fatal, it terrified the youth, leaving him paralyzed and limp.

“I will count to three, and you must reveal your accomplices and where those people in the deep pool are.”

Hamilton said coldly, "Otherwise, I'll randomly pick another person from among you. Now, three... two..."

The young man was so frightened that he couldn't utter a complete sentence. The elegant ladies in the banquet hall were screaming in terror, and the once high-ranking nobles were pale with fright.

Horn and the others all frowned.

If things develop this way, then they will have no choice but to take action.

At the critical moment, a figure suddenly stepped out from the crowd.

"Colonel, please take me away. Don't make things difficult for this poor, almost unconscious guy."

With a compassionate expression, Williams calmly walked up to Hamilton and said, "If you have any questions, I think I know more than this servant."

Hamilton frowned at the simply dressed man before him and said irritably:

"Who are you cursing at again? What information could you possibly have?"

“Symmo…Symmo Williams, a poet.”