Arknights: The Prophet of Penguin Logistics — Chapter 90

Chapter 90: Compassion (Part 2)

Blood itself has no taste.

Only when it pools over the tongue does one register that thick, metallic tang. Otherwise, it is nothing. The true horror of the scent stems from the cocktail of bodily fluids that rupture and leak in the wake of violent trauma. That is the source of the pungent, suffocating stench of death.

But this time was entirely different. The vanguard of Knights instinctively ground to a halt the moment they laid eyes on the dark alleyway. Their nostrils flared; their minds were instantly painted with the visceral hue of slaughter. It was neither a trick of the imagination nor a simple truth. It was a primal premonition, a sixth sense honed by years of dancing on the razor’s edge of mortality. Some unknown revelation gripped them, allowing them to instinctively perceive the carnage waiting within the shadows. The final demise of the lightless Midir, that mad old Knight, lay hidden inside.

No one spoke. Instead, a collective, heavy swallow echoed through the ranks as they stared into the dim, yawning mouth of the alley.

“Isn’t that… the Giant Knight, Kleihan?!” a Knight suddenly shouted, his voice cracking as he pointed a trembling finger at the blood-soaked shadows. “Look! That’s Kleihan! One of Midir’s Four Knights—he’s right there!”

At the threshold of the alley, blocking the most direct path, a towering figure knelt.

Even in the heart of Kazimierz, a Knight of such colossal stature was an extreme rarity. He rested on the cobblestones like a fallen monument. Dark red liquid seeped from every microscopic fissure in his once-pristine white armor, pooling along the slightly curved slope of the street. The blood lingered at the entrance, slowly evaporating into a sinister, crimson mist.

The surrounding Knights froze. It wasn’t that their training was lacking, nor that they were sheltered from the brutal realities of the arena. This scene simply shattered the boundaries of their comprehension.

“It’s suicide,” an older, battle-scarred Knight declared with grim certainty as he studied the giant’s unnatural posture. “That kneeling stance… it’s practically impossible to achieve unless it was self-inflicted. He drove his own longsword straight through his spine, then dragged the blade across his throat until it pierced the back of his skull. It drained his entire circulatory system to create this… this display. But that’s only theoretical. Who in their right mind would actually do such a thing?”

“Unknown Originium Arts?” another muttered, gripping his hilt tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Regardless of the method, someone managed to stop Midir for us,” the veteran replied. “The fact that they haven’t retrieved their companion’s body means they were halted dead in their tracks.”

“But what kind of organization possesses the power to stop Knight Midir?”

“Let’s move in and find out. They must have left bodies behind. Whoever did this is a benefactor to Kazimierz. Do not forget that.”

Nearl, assuming temporary command of the detachment, gave a firm nod to the men and women around her.

The armored group carefully skirted the kneeling giant, stepping over the rivers of coagulating blood to enter the alley.

Yet, the deeper they ventured, the more an icy, suffocating dread coiled around their throats. These were fearless warriors of Kazimierz, veterans of countless bloody clashes, but for the first time in their lives, they felt genuine, primal terror at the sight of mere corpses.

Beneath the veil of mysterious mist, the ground was carpeted with the dead. The stone walls and paved streets were scarred by a frenzy of weapon strikes and volatile Originium Arts. But the most horrifying detail lay in the method of their demise: every single person had died by another’s blade. The faces of the fallen were frozen in masks of absolute shock. Their torsos were torn open, spilling a grotesque, metallic stench into the stagnant air. Whether they were black-clad assassins of the Armorless Union or rogue Knights who had stripped away their identifying badges, they had all met their end in this narrow corridor.

Suicide. Murder. Fratricide. It was as if an invisible, demonic hand had reached into their minds, turning them into bloodthirsty puppets programmed to butcher one another. As the group waded through the black, mist-shrouded alley, the only sound was the hollow echo of their own armored boots. Staring at this hellish battlefield, their initial gratitude toward their nameless benefactor rapidly dissolved, replaced entirely by a creeping, suffocating dread.

They could not fathom what kind of twisted power could orchestrate such a flawless hellscape of mutual slaughter.

And just as the oppressive atmosphere reached its breaking point, a wet, ragged cough echoed from the deepest, darkest pocket of the mist.

“…God’s mercy is that He allows everyone to sleep equally.”

An ethereal, hollow voice drifted through the smoke. It was accompanied by the grating, metallic screech of a heavy blade being dragged across the stone, followed by the agonizingly slow thud of footsteps.

“Whether one is a Knight or a commoner… in the face of death guided by fate, it is all entirely meaningless.”

“…Who goes there?!” a Knight barked.

“Even if the path guided by fate is a mistaken one, even if all of this is meaningless…” The voice paused, punctuated by another wet cough. “…the moment enlightenment appears, it becomes meaningful to me.”

A silhouette slowly detached itself from the swirling smoke. Instinctively, every Knight in the alley drew their longswords, the ring of steel echoing off the blood-stained walls as they aimed their weapons at the relatively short figure.

Only Nearl and Shining lowered their guards. Their expressions shattered into pure disbelief. They watched as the figure dragged himself out of the haze, weakly waving a hand to part the darkness, revealing a chilling, blood-stained smile.

“You two… certainly made me wait a long time.”

The incomplete figure looked at the two women, his smile contrasting horribly with the state of his body.

“Don’t forget to say hello to my companions for me,” he rasped. “I did… what only I could do.”

“Lynn…” Nearl’s voice trembled. “Are you… are you still alive right now?”

In your current state, can you even be considered alive?

Looking at the man who had parted the mist, Nearl’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The sheer horror of his injuries forced her to instinctively turn her head away. He was missing nearly a third of his bodily tissue, a mangled wreck of flesh and exposed bone that defied all medical logic.

But Shining did not look away. She stepped forward in absolute silence. Her black cloak billowed softly as the pale, golden radiance of her healing Originium Arts flared to life, enveloping the man who looked as though he had just crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. The Sarkaz doctor let her own sword clatter uselessly to the cobblestones. Through the warm, glowing layer of her Arts, she gently embraced his ruined body, supporting his weight before turning her gaze upon the stunned Knights.

“He requires emergency surgery,” Shining stated, her voice carrying an absolute, commanding authority. “Tell me where the best hospital in the vicinity is. I must stabilize him immediately. Find surgeons who know how to mend catastrophic wounds using primitive, physical methods. His body may reject standard treatments. Find the best facility, and do it now. We do not have much time left.”

Shining gently stroked Lynn’s blood-matted hair. Her pitch-black eyes held no panic, no excessive emotional breakdown—only the boundless, deep compassion of a healer for the dying.