Chapter 2 – A Peaceful Life

The chaos in the wealthy district was refined and restrained.

No one was shouting, but conversations and eating had stopped. Some began receiving calls, others checked their phones, their faces turning pale.

Wei An noticed everyone lowering their voices, speaking anxiously or scanning news alerts on their phones.

Like some of the guests, he too lowered his head to check his phone.

Silver Bay was Taoyuan’s largest terrestrial military base, where the majority of the Federal Military forces sent to pacify Yingtian were stationed. They had been preparing for a large-scale victory banquet in three days.

Just moments ago, at least a thousand missiles had simultaneously struck the heavily fortified military base.

From aerial footage, the missiles fell like rain, exploding and turning the ground into a scorching hell, the sky stained blood-red.

The news was plastered with bold red headlines: *Silver Bay Base Attacked*, filled with shock and ominous implications.

Satellite images captured the final moments before the disaster struck—decorations for the banquet could be seen, glittering brightly.

The aerial shots showed only slight signs of chaos. They had clearly detected the attack: some tried to evacuate, others knelt on the ground, while some stared blankly at the sky. No one knew what the final moments were truly like.

In any case, whatever anyone wanted to do, it was already too late.

By now, the terrifying sea of flames from Silver Bay had stretched across hundreds of kilometers, reaching the wealthy district of Tongyun.

The scene on the ground must have been catastrophic, but in Tongyun, the horizon was only slightly brighter, the crimson fading into a delicate pink, strikingly beautiful.

Low, tense murmurs spread through the party crowd, occasionally punctuated by a sharp voice betraying fear.

“Is this real? Silver Bay was attacked?” one guest gasped.

“Who would dare attack Silver Bay? Do they have a death wish?!” another exclaimed.

“It makes no sense—”

“But Silver Bay’s defense grid is one of the most advanced in the country. After the Federal Military arrived, they even upgraded it—energy shields, orbital defenses, anti-air missiles—everything was fully equipped. How could it be breached so easily? The news says it was completely leveled?”

“I had no idea Taoyuan had so many ground missiles!”

“It looks like a bombing. How many personnel were stationed at Silver Bay? All those people—just gone?”

“Plenty, I’d say. My god, they were preparing for the victory banquet—”

Everyone was stunned.

Discussions erupted rapidly, names, connections, and speculations flashing through the conversations. Guests analyzed Silver Bay’s defense levels, recent political tensions, and the power struggles among the Federation’s elite families—anything to make sense of the situation.

Wei An was equally shocked. What the hell is going on?

Hadn’t Taoyuan always been the Federation’s model of stability? The province with the slowest pace of life, neither a strategic stronghold nor a producer of critical resources, holding only three basic seats in the parliament, with straightforward, uncomplicated politics… How could something like this happen?

The issue here wasn’t just an attack, the loss of lives, or property damage. This was a major upheaval among the upper echelons.

Taoyuan did have its local political struggles—companies with shady dealings, private militias operating in gray zones—but Wei An knew that small-time players in a backwater province like this couldn’t pull off something of this magnitude.

Silver Bay was one of Taoyuan’s largest military bases, housing the bulk of the Federal Military—core, elite forces from the Central Sector, far from helpless lambs in a predator’s jaws. An attack like this required meticulous planning, not just changing defense passwords or planting a few moles inside.

This was a long-brewing, bloody conflict among the upper ranks.

Wei An could smell it—subtle, like the rot deep in the bones of a massive beast, reeking of blood and shadow, impossible to fully grasp. But if you’d spent enough time at the top, you’d recognize that scent. It brought strife, ignited conflict—deadly, yet inevitable.

People speculated wildly, but to Wei An, it was as obvious as a billboard.

Of course, this had to be tied to that officer who’d come all the way from the Capital Sector to quell the rebellion in Yingtian—Dexin Ming, the youngest son of the Dexin family, one of the Federation’s most powerful clans.

From the moment he arrived in Taoyuan, Dexin Ming had been the center of gossip. Though no one really knew much about his personal affairs, they loved discussing him anyway.

He was the kind of person born into extreme privilege—his name inscribed in the annals of the Federation’s great families with golden ink from birth. The Federation might be a civilized society, but it still clung to many old, rigid traditions. Generations of influence meant that certain people carried an indelible aura of money and power, attracting endless attention.

Dexin Ming was one of those people.

Wei An had lost count of the gossip he’d heard about Dexin Ming these past days. Discussing someone like him was like discussing the Federation’s core of power—the craftsmanship of ancient imperial artifacts, jewelry made from priceless gems, fine wine. It was an obligation and a pleasure of this lifestyle.

When Dexin Ming first arrived in Taoyuan, Wei An had paid some attention, but the whole affair had seemed routine.

He had come because a regulatory bill he’d signed off on while serving as a co-governor in his family’s territory the previous year had gone awry—it had been a cushy post, and the bill seemed insignificant at the time—resulting in a demotion.

His posting in Taoyuan was meant to be a transitional phase, a chance to rack up some military achievements before returning to the Capital Sector.

Nobles’ children often pulled such maneuvers, and Dexin Ming had played the part. Though he was here to suppress the rebellion, his first order of business upon arrival had been renovating the banquet hall.

Everyone knew that the swift resolution of the Yingtian operation was largely due to his capable deputies and the ample resources at his disposal.

The whole affair had seemed like a perfunctory exercise in bureaucracy—until now.

The sky darkened further. The fires in Silver Bay still burned, staining the night with an ominous crimson glow.

The party ended. Guests left in a hurry, constantly on their phones. Wei An bid them farewell, offering reassurances and promising to stay in close contact to monitor developments.

For now, things appeared stable. Taoyuan’s relevant agencies had already responded, mobilizing rescue and medical teams while enforcing roadblocks nearby.

Both official and civilian sectors would organize fundraising efforts. People would attend, donate money, and express their sincerity.

No one knew the deeper truth, but power struggles were always treacherous, fraught with anxiety. People like them needed to react quickly and spend enough money to signal their submissive, non-threatening stance.

By the time Wei An saw off the last guest, night had fully fallen.

With the crowd gone, the surroundings were quiet. The earlier liveliness and panic felt like an illusion, as if they had never truly existed.

Wei An wandered aimlessly for a while, unsure what to do next.

In the garden, AI robots efficiently cleaned up the remnants of the party. Their movements were silent and precise, like ghosts gliding through the night. These days, villas didn’t need permanent housekeeping staff—AI robots made life convenient, and many people lived alone.

But few were as truly solitary as Wei An. Most mansions had at least some servants or bed partners. He had nothing.

His local friends occasionally asked about it, but there wasn’t much to say. They were party friends—close enough for socializing but not overly concerned with the details of each other’s lives.

Wei An stood in the darkness for a while. The mansions in the wealthy district were spaced far apart, with open landscapes and lush greenery. For now, all he could hear was the wind and the chirping of insects.

He zoned out for a bit, then turned and walked through the dimly lit hallway back to his room.

He turned on the TV in the living room. Televisions had always been somewhat niche, and now they were practically obsolete. Originally just an extension of computer terminals, they had flourished briefly due to technological limitations during Taoyuan’s ancient era—later relegated to places like prisons, mining zones, or orphanages, broadcasting fixed channels on loop.

But Wei An used his fairly often.

When turned on, any channel would be playing something, eliminating the need to choose—giving the illusion that everyone had their lives perfectly planned out.

The screen flickered to life. A financial news host spoke gravely about whether the Silver Bay incident hinted at a deeper conspiracy, his face etched with grief over the decline of morality.

Wei An switched channels. An entertainment program was recommending films about war and disaster—stories of people uncovering the truth and restoring order in times of crisis.

Another channel, same theme.

Finally, after wading through a sea of death tolls, missile models, political predictions, conspiracy theories, and lamentations about societal decay, Wei An found a small, neglected station airing the 88th episode of a melodramatic urban romance series.

He stopped to watch. The characters’ lives were filled with bedroom drama—heated expressions, fights, suicides, car crashes, miscarriages—all very eventful.

The show was interspersed with ads for everything from kitchen paint to counterfeit toilets and newly built villas. Some products were still available; others had long since been discontinued.

Wei An had stumbled upon an obscure, neglected station with no human oversight—just an AI randomly scraping content, outdated and disorganized.

He sat on the sofa and watched for five hours.

He didn’t move much, just sat quietly. Occasionally, an AI programmed for wellness routines would bring him juice, which he drank conscientiously.

In the early hours of the morning, an advertisement played.

The screen first showed an aerial shot of a grand, stately building with a sense of history, then cut to its entrance, where a sign read *Taoyuan Provincial Museum*.

A deep male voice announced that the museum’s annual exhibition on ancient civilizations was about to begin.

As everyone knew, long before recorded human history, a civilization had once existed in the universe. Even in the farthest reaches humanity had explored, ruins of this ancient empire could be found.

No one knew how this civilization had perished, only that its remnants were so vast that modern human technology couldn’t even begin to map its boundaries.

During the long Great Dark Age, fragmented nations worshiped it as a deity, engaging in bloody rituals and sacrifices. Even in modern times, remnants of that blind faith occasionally surfaced.

This year’s exhibition at the provincial museum was a rare feast of ancient civilization. Visitors could see the prototypes of those bizarre artifacts typically only encountered in history books, films, or games—and delve deeper into the sinister history of this land.

Don’t miss it if you’re in the area.

As the voice spoke, promotional images flashed on screen:

A silent ruin bathed in sunset…

A lone head of an unknown species…

A vine-wrapped spear with teeth…

A painting of a battlefield under an eerie sky…

Wei An sat under the bright lights, mesmerized by the rapidly shifting images.

The pictures grew increasingly horrifying, depicting scenes beyond the imagination of ordinary human life.

A twisted human figure knelt in prayer, its limbs withered, emaciated, its entire body blackened as if forged in the fires of hell.

Its eyes and mouth were three black holes—small, round—screaming and wailing in a language of darkness and agony that no human tongue could comprehend…

Wei An suddenly reached out and turned off the TV.

The last traces of human voices vanished from the house. Silence settled in.

The wind rustled through the trees outside, its sound like a long, mournful wail—as if he were in some vast, unknown wasteland, surrounded by desolation stretching endlessly into the distance.

But that wasn’t the case. His house was large, expensively furnished, filled with carpets, sofas, books, and artwork. The lights were bright…

Wei An sat motionless for ten minutes. Then he stood up and went to take a shower.

Time to sleep.