Setting Off

“She carries the fortunes of humanity, but she isn’t the Chosen One. That’s why Lord Bael can’t see through her intentions, nor can he tell what kind of outcome she’ll ultimately lead to.”

“That kind of uncertainty is far more troublesome than a Chosen One who’s guaranteed to come at you with a holy sword.”

Chen Guan didn’t press the matter.

The whole talk of yin-yang balance was simply too high-level. This was a game far beyond his ability to play.

…

Afternoon.

The Logistics Department was located on the western side of the camp, in a row of enormous military warehouses.

By the time they arrived, teams from other academies were already lined up to collect their supplies.

The sergeant in charge of distribution was a middle-aged man with a stern expression. The skin on his face had been darkened and roughened by the winds of the Northern Frontier.

When it was their turn, the sergeant checked An Changqing’s student ID and mission authorization.

“Eastern Reconnaissance Team One. Eight from Huaqing, four from Yanjing. Correct?”

“Correct.”

The sergeant turned around, took several standard-issue tactical backpacks from the shelves behind him, and handed them out one by one.

The packs contained high-energy compressed rations, purified water, medical kits, and some standard reconnaissance equipment.

“These are issued as additional equipment.” The sergeant then took twelve palm-sized metal discs from a locked iron box and handed them over.

The discs were cold to the touch. Intricate patterns were engraved across their surfaces, and a dim crystal was set into the center of each one.

“What are these?” An Changqing asked, examining the disc in his hand.

“Soul beacons.”

“Soul beacons?” Long Ao turned one over in his hand. He had never seen anything like it before. It was probably a recent invention. “What do they do?”

The sergeant glanced up at him. “The energy field around a rift interferes with the mind. In severe cases, it can cause hallucinations, disorientation, and even mental breakdowns.”

“When your mental barriers fail, this device can forcibly anchor your consciousness to the real world.”

“Single-use. Once activated, it can last for fifteen minutes,” the sergeant added. “Hopefully, you won’t need them.”

With that, he stopped paying them any attention and began distributing supplies to the next group.

Holding the cold metal disc, they felt the tension from the meeting finally transform into a very real, imminent danger.

“Looks like this mission is going to be more troublesome than the report made it sound,” Qin Wu said, weighing the beacon in his hand.

He had no objections to having a junior two years below him serve as team leader. He was more suited to fighting, just as his name suggested.

Managing the club already left him completely overwhelmed, let alone being responsible for the lives of an entire team.

The pressure would be unbearable. He ought to be grateful that he wasn’t the team leader.

Baal’s voice rang out in Chen Guan’s mind again, carrying undisguised mockery.

“Anchoring a soul? Interesting.”

“Humans have actually managed to figure out something like this. The workmanship is crude—like a child’s toy—but the underlying principle is correct.”

“What principle?” Chen Guan asked silently.

“Use a crystal containing pure spiritual energy as a point of reference. It’s like throwing someone a rope when their soul is being dragged into the abyss—giving them something to climb back up.”

Baal let out a derisive snort. “But if you run into spiritual contamination on the level of Astaroth, this thing will be nothing more than a cotton thread. One tug, and it’ll snap.”

It had to be admitted that although Baal wasn’t exactly a scholarly demon, his wonderfully vivid metaphors always got the point across, much like White Tiger.

It was the sort of clarity that felt like hearing celestial music after a long silence. In an age when everyone spoke in riddles, there were still old masters devoted to plain language.

After collecting their equipment, they returned to their dormitories to make their final preparations.

Night deepened, and the military camp remained brightly lit.

At 9:30 p.m., the twelve members of Eastern Reconnaissance Team One assembled at the designated meeting point on time.

An Changqing stood at the front, with Yanjing Academy’s Wang Shuo beside him. Wang Shuo still wore the same dissatisfied expression, but he no longer said anything.

Li Ce stood beside a military armored personnel carrier in a combat uniform. He would be responsible for escorting them into the restricted zone.

When he saw Chen Guan, his gaze lingered briefly before moving away.

An Changqing glanced at his watch. The hands pointed to 9:50.

“Looks like it’s about time.” He turned around, his eyes sweeping over every member of the team. “Check your equipment one last time. We leave in ten minutes.”

The vehicle’s engine was already running, emitting a low rumble.

Chen Guan adjusted the shoulder strap. The ache in his left arm seemed to intensify in the oppressive atmosphere.

He looked toward the ominous blue light in the night sky. The dry, frigid air of the Northern Frontier flooded into his lungs, bringing a sharp sting.

An Changqing’s voice came from the front.

“Let’s go.”

The troop carrier’s interior was dim, illuminated only by a few emergency lights glowing a faint red and blurring everyone’s features into indistinct outlines.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a resounding clang, completely cutting off the camp’s lights and voices.

The engine’s roar became muffled as the vehicle began to shake and rumbled into the darkness of the Northern Frontier wilderness.

An Changqing turned his gaze toward Su Yuehe, seated across from him.

Su Yuehe leaned against the cold wall of the vehicle, staring blankly at the tips of her shoes. No one knew what she was thinking.

An Changqing gently nudged her. “What’s on your mind? You haven’t said a word since earlier.”

“Nothing.”

Su Yuehe shook her head and forced an ugly smile, but her eyes remained dull. She lowered her head even further.

Silence descended over the vehicle once more, broken only by the constant jostling as it rolled across the frozen earth.

Wang Shuo, seated beside An Changqing, broke the silence.

“Team Leader An, are we really only surveying the perimeter this time?”

He still had the data report in his hands, and it was obvious he had serious doubts about White Eagle’s arrangements.

An Changqing shifted his gaze from the tactical terminal on his wrist to Wang Shuo. “The mission briefing was perfectly clear. Phase One is preliminary positioning.”

“But the data from the south is anomalous. I’m worried there could be oversights if we rely solely on the Great Wall’s monitoring system.”

Wang Shuo persisted. He had always been highly suspicious by nature.

“Your concern is valid, but this isn’t something we can decide.”

An Changqing’s tone was gentle, but his meaning was unmistakable: this was an order, not a matter for debate.

Wang Shuo’s lips moved, but in the end he said nothing more and turned his head away.

The Yanjing Academy student beside him muttered under his breath, “As expected of someone from Huaqing. He’s got the official line down perfectly.”

His voice was quiet, but in the cramped vehicle, everyone heard it.

Long Ao had been dozing with his eyes closed. Hearing this, he opened one eye and shot the student a cold glance.

The student felt a chill run through him and immediately shut his mouth.

Liu Feiyu had headphones on, music with a driving beat playing inside them. He leaned in the corner, tapping out the rhythm on his knee, looking completely immersed in his own world.

Then he suddenly spoke, his voice just loud enough to cut through the engine noise.

“Wang, have you ever wondered why they won’t let us go south?”