Arknights: The Prophet of Penguin Logistics — Chapter 92

Chapter 92: Into the Dark

Literature and reality alike offer countless depictions of grief.

There is the bitter, agonizing weeping that drives a person to their knees. There is the total psychological collapse, the blind, unconditional lashing out at anyone within reach, the meaningless venting of rage and resentment. Some, in the throes of absolute despair, simply choose to end their own lives. Sorrow is an endless spectrum, wearing a thousand different faces.

Yet, when confronted with a tragedy too immense to process, every single person shares the exact same reaction.

Bewilderment.

A blank, hollow incomprehension of the impossible.

Because this specific, suffocating pain had never existed in their worldview.

Staring through the thick glass of the medical container at the ruined body suspended within, every face in the room mirrored that exact, devastating bewilderment.

“…Hey. What is this?”

Bathed in the sterile, pale glow of the emergency lights, Lappland pointed a trembling finger at the medical pod. The white-haired Lupo tilted her head, staring at Nearl with a strange, almost vacant expression.

“Where is the Prophet? You know, the lively one. The guy who was just joking around with me this morning. The Prophet who I always knew would walk away fine even if the whole damn world ended.” Her voice was dangerously light, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “Where is the unharmed Lynn? Why are you showing me this… thing? We are looking for Operator Prophet. You know who I’m talking about, right?”

Nearl could not meet her eyes. The Radiant Knight turned her face toward the dim corridor lights, her throat working before a hoarse, fractured voice scraped out.

“Operator Prophet… engaged in the Central Stadium sniper battle. Alone. He single-handedly intercepted the Great Knight vanguard led by Midir.”

Lappland’s smile twitched.

Nearl forced herself to continue, the casualty list a heavy stone on her tongue. “That included the third-ranked Knight, Midir. The seventh, Cleahan the Giant. The ninth, Committ the Hawkeye. The tenth, Seno the Strong. The fourteenth, Margot the Winter Wolf. Seven High-ranking Knights. Twenty-three Intermediate Knights. Twenty-two Armorless Union assassins. Among them, one Darksteel, and two Lazurites…”

“No, no, no.” Lappland waved her hand dismissively, her silver eyes entirely devoid of light. “I’m not asking for a combat report. I’m asking why he looks like that.”

She pointed at the suspension fluid again, her voice dropping into a hollow whisper. “Why is he in there?”

“Because the Prophet stood alone against the main force of the rebellion—”

“Eh? Ah.” Lappland cut her off, the manic edge finally bleeding through. “He stopped the main force alone. So where were the rest of you?”

The silence in the medical bay was deafening.

“I’m asking where you all were!” Lappland snarled, her fangs bared. “What were you doing while he was fighting by himself?! Answer me! Didn’t you say they were just rebels?! Didn’t you say the enemy was short on manpower?! Then what the hell were you doing when he was bleeding out in front of the stadium alone?! Tell me! Answer me!”

Nearl bowed her head. “We… encountered an ambush. We were caught off guard. Before we could even react, the formation was scattered. We tried our best to break through…”

“So you let him bear the brunt of the main force alone? Alone? Huh?!”

“…I am sorry.”

“Damn it!”

Lappland drew her fist back, ready to shatter the reinforced wall. But out of the corner of her eye, she caught the blinking monitors and the fragile life-support tubes keeping Lynn’s heart beating. Her hand froze in mid-air. She could not risk the equipment.

She stared at the mangled, floating body. Her jaw worked as she tried to scream, tried to tear the room apart, but the oppressive silence of the bloodstained operators around her choked the sound in her throat. She took a ragged breath, stared blankly at the ceiling for a long second, and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ah. I’m not very good at dealing with scenes like this,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Lappland spun on her heel and bolted from the room. A minute later, the muffled sounds of agonizing screams and shattering metal echoed from deep down the corridor.

“I’ll… I’ll go stop her. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.” Croissant’s eyes were bloodshot. The usually cheerful Forte turned and hurried out after the Lupo.

But despite her brave words, it was not long before a heavy, suppressed sobbing joined the sounds of destruction in the hall.

Hearing those cries, Shining curled tighter into the dark corner of the room, closing her eyes against the suffocating pain. No matter how much faith they held, no matter the theoretical probabilities of survival, the reality was damning.

It was not just Shining. The Doctor, standing in silent observation, and Nearl, standing guard by the door, both turned their faces away in deep shame. They could not bear to look at the broken expressions of the Penguin Logistics crew. The medical staff claimed he could be repaired, that he possessed an unnatural resilience, but looking at the horrific lacerations and the flatlining charts, they knew those were just empty comforts. He had nearly died out there. For all intents and purposes, he had died out there.

In this cold, foreign land, carrying a burden that was never his to bear, he had been sacrificed.

“Then… can I stay here?”

Still dressed in her sparkling, glamorous stage idol costume—a cruel contrast to the blood and gloom—Sora stepped forward. She looked up at Nearl, her hands clasped in a desperate plea.

“My Originium Arts are based on singing. If I sing for him, it might help him heal faster. Please, let me sing for him. I have great stamina! I can sing for ten hours straight, it’s really not a problem, I just—”

“I am afraid not,” Nearl interrupted gently. “The Doctor strictly advises against exposing him to any active Originium Arts right now.”

“Ah… haha. That makes sense.” Sora forced a fragile smile, reaching up to awkwardly rub the back of her head. Without warning, thick tears spilled over her lashes, streaming down her cheeks. “His body is in bad shape, after all… I can’t do anything right…”

She choked on a sob. “Then… can I at least stay in the room? I just want to look at him. Is that okay?”

Nearl hesitated. “This…”

“…Go back, Sora.”

“Exusiai?”

Sora turned, her tear-stained face registering pure shock. The voice belonged to the one person everyone expected to be having the biggest breakdown.

Stepping past the guilt-ridden Doctor and Nearl, Exusiai took a deep, steadying breath. She walked up to Sora and gently squeezed the idol’s shoulder. Meeting Sora’s bewildered gaze, the Sankta flashed a pale, paper-thin smile and gave a thumbs-up.

“There’s nothing we can do for him right now, so let’s not crowd him,” Exusiai said, her voice terrifyingly steady. “Trust the Doctor. Trust the Prophet. That’s all we can do. Penguin Logistics has a signal out here. If the medical team needs anything, we’re on standby. If they need funds, we’ll drain our accounts and sell our gear to cover it. That’s our job right now.”

“Why are you so calm, Exusiai?”

The sharp, trembling voice cut through the room.

“Texas?” Exusiai did not flinch.

“I’m asking you why—”

“Because if I’m not calm, what else is there?!”

Exusiai spun around. Anticipating the accusation, she stared directly into Texas’s eyes. The usually immaculate Lupo was a disheveled mess, her cool composure entirely shattered.

“We can’t do anything,” Exusiai stated, the absolute finality in her tone masking the tremor in her hands. “We are completely useless right now. If we lose it, we just get in the way. So we have to stay calm. We have to make sure the Prophet has a place to come back to. We’re still waiting for him.”

Texas stared at her partner. Her lips trembled as the brutal truth sank in.

“So… we were protected by him again?”

“Yes,” Exusiai whispered softly. “We have always been under his protection. Always.”

Texas squeezed her eyes shut, a silent tear finally slipping down her cheek.

Trapped in the suffocating, oppressive atmosphere of the medical bay, listening to the muffled, agonizing sobs echoing from the corridor, the operators finally understood the true, crushing weight of powerlessness.