Arknights: How Did I Actually Become the Doctor? — Chapter 104

Chapter 104: Mad Shrike (Part 5)

“Commander, is there something you want to ask me?”

Kal’tsit walked shoulder-to-shoulder with the Doctor along the desolate, wind-scoured road back to Rim Billiton. Easily seeing through his distracted silence, the Feline took the initiative to break the heavy quiet.

In just half an hour, a gentle, perfectly measured smile had returned to the Doctor’s face. There was no trace of the brief, agonizing psychological breakdown he had suffered on the battlefield just moments prior. “I was just thinking… what kind of person is Theresa, exactly, to have earned Kal’tsit’s absolute, unwavering support?”

What kind of noble ideal is worth drowning in this much blood?

Tsk, his mental defenses are completely shattered. Floating just behind them in his ethereal form, you instantly deciphered the latent, desperate meaning hiding behind your past self’s words.

Was I really such an awkward, emotionally constipated guy who couldn’t just speak his mind directly? The confusion flashed through your spectral thoughts for a second before fading into the dusty wind.

Kal’tsit, meanwhile, finally had the opening she needed to showcase the ideological progress she had found on this scarred land. “Theresa… is a very special person. She is not trapped by the endless cycles of hatred, blood, and tears that define this land. She is determined to eliminate the suffering of this world from its very roots. Her ideals transcend the petty barriers of race; she is a truly great Lord of Fiends.”

Stop. Stop right there, kitty. You winced in your spirit form. The man walking beside her was already trapped in that exact cycle of blood; his psyche was practically held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. You had just forced him to slaughter a mountain of his fellow Sarkaz, and now she was turning around to pitch the ‘we are doing this for world peace’ angle? His traumatized brain literally could not process that logic right now.

Gleefully, your spirit form rested a transparent hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. Sure enough, having a fresh brain to pilot was incredibly useful—you were currently enjoying a high-definition, uncensored replay of the tactical Advisor’s death records flashing behind his eyes.

The Doctor offered a hollow nod. “…Oh, I see.”

Halfway through her speech, Kal’tsit finally realized the listener’s emotional frequency was entirely misaligned. She stopped walking, her feline ears dipping slightly. “Commander… why are you so silent? Was my choice wrong?”

“Of course not, Kal’tsit.” The Doctor’s smile didn’t waver. “I am simply glad that, over these past years, you have learned to exercise your own judgment as an independent person.”

Kal’tsit, who had not yet evolved into the cryptic riddle-maker of the modern era, felt her ears twitch with genuine warmth at having her humanity and personal judgment validated.

Kal’tsit, don’t let him gaslight you! you screamed internally. Him saying he’s ‘glad you have judgment’absolutely does not mean he supports your actual judgment! This is no different from a teacher saying they’re’gratified by your honesty’ right after you stand up and admit you didn’t do your homework!

Possessing full self-awareness and genre-savvy hindsight, your spirit had already pinpointed exactly where the psychological fracture lay. With just a little more evidence, you could perfectly diagnose the greatest anomaly of your Babel-era self.

Unfortunately, your desperate attempts to physically cling to Kal’tsit’s thigh to escape the impending narrative time-skip were entirely useless. Your vision violently violently went black. A sharp, digitized pain spiked through the back of your head, and you watched helplessly as Kal’tsit’s leg phased right through your transparent arm. She smiled sweetly, looking almost like an ordinary young girl, leaning close to your past self as they walked further away into the dust, discussing Babel’s grand philosophy.

In the suffocating darkness, a familiar, mocking laugh echoed in your ears. “Guess the rest for yourself, Mr. Make-Do.”

You: “…”

So petty! All I did was critique his skill rotations a couple of times!

When the sensory static finally cleared, the environment had completely shifted. You were standing in the bustling, metallic heart of the Rhodes Island landship… no, in this era, it was still proudly flying the banner of “Babel.”

Sarkaz mercenaries, heavily bandaged and smelling of ozone and dried blood, were cheering and jumping for joy around the deck. Countless horned warriors—some whose faces you recognized from the archives, others completely unknown—surrounded the Doctor like orbiting stars, aggressively celebrating a hard-won, temporary truce.

According to the official Rhodes Island archives, exactly two months had passed between your initial awakening and Babel’s first major counter-offensive that led to this truce.

He had literally one-click skipped two months of grueling, blood-soaked tower defense warfare for you.

Okay, I take back what I just said about him, you thought, mentally wiping a tear. This guy is actually a total bro. He knew my modern gamer psyche couldn’t handle the sheer PTSD pressure of a two-month meat grinder, so he didn’t drag me through the mud with him. I misjudged him.

Wait. Did you just call him petty earlier? Whatever, I am him, who knows him better than me? Look at how perfectly this all turned out.

Selectively deleting your recent complaints from your memory, you excitedly floated around to examine this newly excavated precursor civilization ruin. Until now, you had only ever seen this place in a few low-res CGs from the Mercy Lighthouse records.

Honestly, before Rhodes Island’s engineering department fully developed and Terra’s clunky industrial aesthetics modified the interior, this sleek, minimalist design—with its silver-white surfaces and hidden holographic control interfaces—suited your sci-fi tastes perfectly.

Most of the rugged mercenaries were clearly too intimidated to sit on the expensive-looking, automatic pop-up embedded seats. Instead, they opted to sit cross-legged on the cold metallic floor, loudly downing bottles of homemade, throat-burning spirits. You cross-referenced the archives and realized with a jolt that even this terrible habit of throwing a massive drinking party after a victory seemed to have been a tradition started by you.

In this crude, chaotic gathering that dared to call itself a celebration just by stringing up a few cheap colored ribbons, you unexpectedly spotted a wealth of familiar faces.

Misery, Scout, Ace, and even a younger Hoederer were mixed in with the peripheral mercenary squads, sharing drinks and war stories. Unfortunately, scanning the crowd yielded no results for a certain explosive roach.

Hiss… Bro, I want to see the gentle, mysterious young maiden W! Do you hear me? Hurry up and show me the cutscene where you pick up my crazy waifu!

Your spectral demands went entirely ignored by the universe. However, the crowd soon parted for another mysterious Sarkaz woman—one with whom you shared a deep, life-and-death (✗) kill-or-be-killed (✓) relationship.

Her long, flowing pink hair was draped casually over her shoulders, and her smile was as warm and gentle as a blooming field in spring. Just by standing there, she radiated an unconscious, magnetic aura that made people instantly lower their guard and feel deeply fond of her. The small, complex black crown resting on her head, paired with her iconic pure white dress, allowed anyone with eyes to immediately recognize her absolute authority.

The current Lord of Fiends of the Sarkaz, Theresa.

She smiled gracefully, responding to every admiring, blood-stained Sarkaz who greeted her, walking unhurriedly through the cheering crowd until she reached the Doctor’s side. She extended her hand, offering him… a thermos?

Theresa smiled, her voice a soft, melodic chime over the din of the mercenaries. “Commander, compared to your recent habit of picking unlabeled, questionable food out of the Originium dross and putting it directly into your mouth, I feel that confiscating your personal kettle was truly a minor offense.”

She tapped the metal casing of the thermos. “I have now asked the Banshees to cast a small, specialized incantation on it. Liquids higher than sixty degrees Celsius will absolutely not be able to flow from its spout. I hope you do not try to crack the spell matrix; I will steal it back every few days to inspect it.”

Her Highness, the Lord of Fiends, used her breathtakingly beautiful face and angelic tone to deliver a statement of absolute, unhinged absurdity.

The Doctor hurriedly reached out, looking genuinely scandalized. “I didn’t sneak any food from the dross! And didn’t you just give a speech about promoting the new virtue of refusing theft within Babel? You’re the one leading the law-breaking by stealing my kettle!”

Theresa tilted her head gently, effortlessly avoiding his grasping hand. using the terrifying, raw physical strength of a Lord of Fiends—the exact kind of strength that could casually lift a mobile base’s main blast door with one arm—she grabbed the Doctor’s wrist and forcibly shoved the thermos into his palm.

“Commander, a normal person’s first reaction to that statement should be, ‘I wouldn’t pick through Originium dross for food in the first place,'” she corrected smoothly. “, this is merely a small, administrative privilege of the Lord of Fiends.”

The Doctor: “…”

Theresa’s smile deepened into something slightly teasing. “Although your tactical thoughts move far too fast for me to hear clearly during active combat, during leisure times like this, I can hear your inner voice perfectly through the black crown.”

The Doctor froze. “…Is this sacred, ancestral ability supposed to be used for eavesdropping on my break time?!”

“Abilities are not inherently noble or lowly,” Theresa replied serenely. “As long as they help others, or ensure my Commander doesn’t burn his tongue, I don’t think it counts as an abuse of power…”

Suddenly, her gentle expression fractured, a look of deep shock and mild disgust crossing her flawless features. “…No, actually, there should be some distinction. I am going to stop listening now. Please stop thinking about fcking my brother.”

You: “…Wow.”

Oh no. You suddenly realized you might have arrived late to the party. This past version of the Doctor was clearly already a seasoned, degenerate memelord.

A few meters away, a sharp-eared Banshee mercenary happened to prick up her ears, vaguely catching a few fragmented words over the noise: “…Originium… privilege… combat… no distinction… brother…”

The Banshee’s eyes widened in awe. Her Majesty the Lord of Fiends is truly diligent! Even in such a relaxed, festive moment, she is still deeply engaged in discussing such weighty matters of state and Royal Court politics with the Commander!

On the other side of the room, a few rowdy Sarkaz had pushed one of the sleek embedded chairs back and started a gambling ring around the colorful holographic buttons. They were taking turns pressing them, betting LMD on who would be the first to trigger the ejection mechanism.

“Commander, I didn’t realize you and Her Highness had already grown so close.” Kal’tsit approached, carrying two glasses of an ominous, murky green juice in her hands, with a third cup precariously held in her mouth. She sneakily wove through the massive Sarkaz mercenaries to deliver the drinks.

The Doctor took a cautious sip. For a long, agonizing moment, his brain failed to compute exactly what kind of biological matter had been squeezed to produce such a violently sour, astringent taste. He frowned, his tactical mind racing. “Kal’tsit… what exactly did you put in this?”

Theresa also took a delicate sip, her elegant face instantly scrunching up in betrayal. “I remember the fruit in Babel’s experimental agricultural zone hasn’t even begun to ripen yet…”

Kal’tsit took a sip from her own glass, her expression entirely stoic. “Indeed, it is not ripe. But the potatoes have finished their harvest cycle. This is a nutrient-dense juice squeezed directly from the potato leaves.”

The Doctor’s expression instantly morphed into one of deep, hesitant pity. “Kal’tsit… do you happen to know the secret to a bountiful potato harvest?”

Kal’tsit was still gulping down her impulsively developed, highly questionable vegetable juice, completely unaware of the devastating biological warfare the man opposite her was about to deploy. Theresa, who had just been deeply traumatized by the Doctor’s internal ‘doujinshi’ thoughts regarding her brother, was strictly refusing to use her telepathy. Instead, she leaned in, genuinely curious.

The Doctor inconspicuously set his glass down on a nearby console. He shifted his weight, moving bit by bit until he was standing at an angle where neither of them could spit directly onto his coat. Only then did he raise a single index finger, wagging it slowly as he revealed the grim truth. “The secret is—using plenty of raw, unrefined farmyard manure.”

Kal’tsit didn’t even have time to process the betrayal. She spat the green liquid out instantly, coughing violently. Theresa, unfortunately, was much calmer and had already swallowed her sip; her face cycled through five stages of grief as she looked like she desperately wished she could throw it back up.

The Doctor offered a dry, unapologetic shrug. “—Just a joke. It probably wasn’t used. I set up an automated industrial fertilizer production line on the side of the greenhouse last week.”

Kal’tsit’s face turned so dark and murderous it looked like she was calculating the exact physics required to shove him back into the Sarcophagus right then and there.

Just as the Doctor was about to receive a lethal scratching from the furious Feline, Theresa finally managed to suppress her nausea and remembered her actual business. “Right. Commander, I brought someone with me.”

She definitely wasn’t neglecting her duties or intentionally ignoring the person she had brought. It was just that, after experiencing the consecutive psychological flashbangs of the “garbage-eating Commander,” the “big-chested Onii-chan fantasies,” and the “dung-stewed potato leaves,” her royal brain was a bit fried.

Theresa beckoned toward the shadows. From the dim lighting of the corridor emerged a young girl with striking pink-purple hair. She wore a deadly serious expression, her aura as cold and pure as the lethal weapon gripped tightly in her small hands. “Ascalon, reporting to the Commander.”

“This is the child I previously placed by Theresis’s side for martial instruction,” Theresa explained softly, her hand resting on the girl’s shoulder. “She is terrifyingly talented in assassination and stealth. It is precisely because she is so talented that I cannot always look after and protect her on the active battlefield. Therefore, I have transferred her directly to your command.”

Theresa gently guided Ascalon’s hand, letting the young assassin lightly grasp the Doctor’s finger. The child, who barely reached the Doctor’s waist, nodded with absolute, grim solemnity. “…I will remember. Commander, I will protect you with my life!”

The Doctor’s easy smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. He looked down, his voice perfectly casual. “A very pure warrior. How old is she?”

Ascalon answered crisply, her eyes shining with dark resolve. “I am twelve years old!”

The Doctor maintained his gentle, reassuring smile. “Impressive. Then I’ll leave the heavy responsibility of protecting my life entirely to you.”

Watching from the ethereal plane, you shook your head. This guy’s internal sense of morality is still way too high. Well, actually, you also agreed that a world forced to send twelve-year-old girls into meat-grinder wars was fundamentally doomed.

Fortunately, this past version of the Doctor clearly felt a crushing, silent guilt about sending a child to war. You, on the other hand—the modern gamer who routinely commanded fourteen-year-old small animals to act as heavy armor defenders on the absolute front lines—did not possess such weaknesses. If you actually treated every Operator as a fragile human being, the Minor Protection Laws would have you locked up faster than Mephisto. Between managing their severe mental disorders and their underage status, your conscience would have dragged you into an early grave.

As your spirit drifted back into a cynical daydream, the idle, heavy chat between the Doctor and Theresa continued.

“So, you and your brother finally parted ways because of a fundamental clash of ideals?” the Doctor asked, his tone losing its previous humor.

Theresa’s eyes dimmed with a deep, ancient sorrow, but her voice did not waver for a second. “Yes. We love each other deeply. But at the same time, we both have things that are far more important, things that we must protect at all costs.”

“If one day, your ideals required you to kill him… what would you choose?”

Theresa thought for a moment, her hands clasping the fabric over her chest. “I would kill him… but that wouldn’t stop me from loving my brother.”

“Then,” the Doctor said, finally pushing the cup of strange-tasting potato leaf juice completely out of sight, “I have a tactical method.”

His eyes grew cold, calculating. “He is fundamentally different from you. As a Royal Court-level combatant with maxed-out martial talent, he is bound to be active on the front lines. Give me absolute command of all the elite troops in your hands. We execute a decapitation strike on him, and the political problem is solved permanently.”

He clearly expected Theresa to agree to this ruthless, efficient proposal, or at least hesitate and weigh the tactical benefits. Instead, she refused with absolute, unyielding firmness. “No. If we kill Theresis, another pro-war Royal Court leader will simply rise to take his place. If Babel cannot enact fundamental, ideological changes, and only stops killing with more killing… what difference is there between us and them?”

The Doctor let out a harsh, almost angry laugh. “Then keep killing! Force them to obey first! How can you possibly enact reform without holding absolute power?!”

Theresa shook her head, the black crown catching the dim light. “I am the Lord of Fiends of the Sarkaz. If I use sheer violence and terror to force my kin to obey, how could our reform ever truly succeed?”

“How could it not succeed?! Since they are too blind to see the road to the future, they should be forced to listen to us! After a few hundred years of peace, they will naturally know which road was the right one to choose…” The Doctor’s rising, aggressive voice suddenly cracked, lowering halfway through his sentence until it returned to a quiet, exhausted murmur.

He rubbed his temples. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Theresa wasn’t angry. She just stared at him blankly for a moment. Seeing the deep, bone-deep exhaustion etched into his features, she suddenly realized that this brilliant tactician seemed even more powerless and trapped than she was. “No, it’s fine… When I return to my quarters, I will properly consider your opinion.”

The Doctor’s brief, violent loss of emotional control had been too loud, attracting the curious, wary gazes of the surrounding Sarkaz mercenaries. The heavy conversation between the two leaders had to come to a temporary, stifled end.

Floating above them, your stomach twisted uncomfortably. Theresa’s grand ideals, as you had seen them presented in the game’s lore, were definitely top-tier, beautiful concepts. But when translated into the gritty, blood-soaked reality of Terra, her political position was agonizingly awkward.

To say she focused on the present—her ideal of wanting the Sarkaz to coexist harmoniously with all other races was infinitely more far-sighted and noble than Theresis’s warmongering.

But to say she focused on the future—she would ultimately choose to brainwash the Doctor to stop the Originium Project without having any viable alternative plan to save the world, which made her tragically focused on the present.

Great racial unity, you mused bitterly, but the precursor civilization apparently doesn’t count as a race worth saving.

You deeply admired her flawless character and her unbreakable will, and you could logically understand her moral concerns. But looking down at the Doctor—a man who had just been repeatedly run over by the brutal truck of war for two straight months—you couldn’t help but realize that his soul was already beginning to die inside.