Chapter 1336: Treatment Plan
The squad leader hurried to the spot his team had indicated—a sunken area some distance from the bombing zone.
By now, daylight had fully broken. The brilliant sun cast its radiant glow over Wolf Ridge Mountain. Along the edges of the bombing site, the obsidian-like crystalline formations—created by molten rock cooling and solidifying—reflected a kaleidoscope of colors under the sunlight. The ground team, dispatched from the forward research vessel, gathered around a strange mass of molten material, using their portable magical detection devices and life-sensing equipment to examine an odd-looking wreckage embedded within.
The sound of metal boots clanking on the mountain path announced the squad leader’s arrival. Through his thick protective visor and the gentle hum of his wind shield, he frowned as he looked at the bizarre relic his subordinates had found. It was wrapped in a clump of blackened matter, half-buried in the viscous slope. At first glance, it could easily be mistaken for an unremarkable rock.
But a closer look revealed sharper, more regular edges and surfaces than any natural stone. Though deformed, the marks of artificial manufacture were still visible. Peering into a damaged crack, the squad leader could even make out a complex internal structure—crystal-like inlays and curling metallic “branches.”
“What do you make of this, sir?” one subordinate asked. “It’s definitely man-made, right? But it’s clearly not from the orcs… Could those monsters from the wasteland really have built something this advanced?”
“The monsters themselves lack intelligence,” the squad leader replied grimly. “But their controllers are another matter. Don’t underestimate our enemies. Those dark priests actually wield quite advanced technology. We can’t just dismiss them as mere beasts.” He stepped closer to the molten mass, carefully inspecting the relic inside. After confirming his hazardous material sensor hadn’t triggered, he gingerly touched the surface with a finger and said in a low voice, “This is no ordinary object… Look around—this is right next to the supercritical accelerator’s blast point. The surrounding rocks have been completely burned away, yet this thing has survived intact.”
“We ran it through a distortion filter earlier,” another team member added. “There’s a faint magical signature at its core, but it’s barely there—probably thoroughly damaged. Also, unlike the other wreckage left by those creatures, this one has no toxic residue or magical contamination. It’s… clean. Which is strange.”
The squad leader’s expression darkened at that. The wasteland monsters were synonymous with pollution; wherever they went, cleanliness was a foreign concept. Yet here was a “clean” artifact, untouched by contamination. That alone was highly unusual.
“We need to get this thing back up,” he said decisively. “Have the chief analyst and their team examine it. Everyone, get ready—we’ve got work to do!”
“But how are we supposed to extract it?” one subordinate groaned. “It’s completely encased in those crystals. We don’t have the fine tools to chip it out.”
“Then we cut the whole chunk out and haul it up,” the squad leader waved a hand. “I’ll notify command to send a heavy-duty cloud transport. Let the lab people figure out how to carefully extract it later. Let’s get moving!”
Not long after, inside a large laboratory on the upper deck of the forward research vessel, Marlin Lesley stood before a massive analysis platform, staring blankly at the “research sample” just delivered by the exploration team.
Light from the lab’s ceiling illuminated the seasoned researcher’s clear, bright head, making him look almost radiant.
“Our team found this near Impact Site Seven,” an assistant researcher explained beside him. “It shows clear signs of artificial manufacture and a complex internal structure. It’s suspected to be a ‘relic’ left behind by those mutants. Everything around the impact site was destroyed by the supercritical accelerator’s energy—except this. The crystalline material encasing it came with the sample; the surface conditions on the ground didn’t allow for further removal.”
Marlin frowned, pondering deeply before turning to the nearby mainframe communication terminal. “Can we scan the internal structure?”
As he spoke, a blurry female-shaped hologram appeared above the device, her synthetic voice responding, “We can only capture a rough outline within the crystalline material. The detailed internal structure cannot be reconstructed. Analysis results are being transmitted to the platform.”
Moments later, a projection crystal on the analysis platform flickered, and a pale blue hologram materialized in the air—a distorted, warped cube-like object, its general shape barely discernible.
“This thing…” Marlin’s brow furrowed as he stared at the hologram. His mind flashed back to something he had recently seen in the high-level neural network data stream—intelligence sent by the sea witches from the ocean’s depths…
“Contact the Dawn of the Mortal Realm immediately!” he snapped, turning to the mainframe. “We may have just caught a vital lead!”
The distinctive, complex scent of alchemical potions hung in the air. From deep within the ventilation ducts came the low hum of machinery. Bright daylight streamed through the large crystal windows, illuminating the neat, simple furnishings and bringing a rare warmth to the winter room.
Wycliffe lay on a soft bed, feeling the alchemical remedies gradually healing his internal injuries and purging toxins. Yet his gaze kept drifting toward the window.
Even now, he still felt a surreal disbelief—just looking at this spacious, bright room, who would imagine it was actually in the sky?
He was aboard a floating “medical ship,” soaring high above Red Jade City alongside this massive airborne fortress. What an incredible experience.
To be honest, Wycliffe was no stranger to flight. As a powerful supernatural and one of the “Five Kings” of Ogure, flying—whether by his own power or mounted on a griffin—was nothing new. But that kind of flight was worlds apart from riding a gravity-defying flying fortress. He still remembered the awe he felt when a dragon-rider fighter jet delivered him to this “medical ship.”
In the dim dawn light, the colossal sky city hovered among the clouds. Towering buildings stood proudly on steel-forged floating platforms. Steel war machines swirled around the city, weaving through clouds and mist. Above these flying cities, dragon flocks soared. As the sun rose over the distant horizon, darkness faded, and the earth stretched beneath his feet. It gave him a dizzying illusion—that mortals had ascended to the heights once reserved for gods, looking down and ruling over all creation…
But perhaps it wasn’t an illusion. For the Cecilians, who had accomplished the godslaying feat and built marvels like the Dawn of the Mortal Realm, they might truly have earned the right to oversee everything on this land.
Wycliffe’s thoughts churned restlessly. Maybe it was the “healing field generator” beside his bed, or the lingering effects of the “holy elixir” the nun had given him two days ago, but his mind was more scattered than ever. Then, suddenly, a massive shadow appeared outside the window, slowly moving through the clouds and mist.
It was the Dawn of the Mortal Realm—the core mothership of this “sky fortress battle group,” now the new command center of the Ogure defense line. The medical ship he was on, the two “war cathedrals” he had seen earlier, and several other airborne fortresses all belonged to its escort fleet. Besides the two war cathedrals stationed at the Farm Fortress and this medical ship, other sky fortresses regularly detached from the fleet to fight on the southern and eastern fronts—or rather, to carry out “purification and extermination.”
Thanks to these terrifying airborne war machines and the ground forces led by Duke Bertram Franklin’s Cecilian expeditionary army, large swaths of the Ogure tribal lands were being reclaimed, and the mutant bands lurking in the forests were swiftly wiped out.
It was said that when the Dawn of the Mortal Realm returned to the battlefield, the entire western front would launch a massive counteroffensive against the wasteland—and that day might not be far off.
At that moment, footsteps and the sound of a door opening interrupted Wycliffe’s wandering thoughts. He snapped back to attention and turned toward the source.
It wasn’t the familiar physician who had been caring for him, nor the nun who had brought him here. Instead, a strange little old man stood before him.
The man wore a dirty, worn researcher’s lab coat, as if he had just come from the lab. His hair and beard were pure white and unkempt, as if he hadn’t groomed in ages. He was hunched over, smiling cheerfully. As for his aura… Wycliffe, who usually avoided judging strangers by appearances, had to admit this old man’s vibe was hardly “authoritative” or “steady.”
But Wycliffe knew that if this man could appear here, dressed so sloppily on a medical ship, he was no ordinary person.
His instincts proved correct.
“Good morning, Your Majesty Wycliffe,” the old man said with a bright, upbeat tone and a dazzling smile. “Looks like you’re recovering well. I’m in charge of this medical ship—you can call me Pittman.”
Wycliffe blinked in surprise—his guess had been right. This really was someone extraordinary.
He hadn’t expected the man to be quite this remarkable.
The leader of this massive airborne medical fortress was clearly a figure worthy of respect. Wycliffe’s expression immediately grew serious as he rose to greet him. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Pittman. I apologize if my current state is not quite up to proper etiquette.”
“No worries, don’t take it personally. Honestly, I’m not exactly known for my manners,” Pittman said quickly, waving a hand dismissively. Then, with the other hand behind his back, he strolled over at a leisurely pace to Wickliffe’s bedside. Leaning in, he glanced at the human king’s empty right arm. “I came by mainly to check on your condition—specifically, to see how your strength and stamina are recovering.”
“I’m feeling much better already,” Wickliffe replied promptly. “Thanks to the treatment your side provided—the potions and healing devices were very effective.”
“That’s good to hear,” Pittman nodded, stroking the thinning beard on his chin. “Since your strength and energy are almost back to normal, it’s time to address your arm. Limb restoration is best done sooner rather than later. In short, I have two options for you.
“The first is flesh regeneration. As the name suggests, it uses druidic techniques to regrow your limb directly. There will be several rounds of surgical intervention and adjustments along the way. The advantage is that the new arm will be almost indistinguishable from your original one—as if you were never injured. The downside? It takes a long time. Your new arm will need extensive treatment and fine-tuning before it’s functional. Plus, it will be much weaker than your original, battle-hardened, magically attuned arm. Imagine a superhuman warrior suddenly with a normal person’s arm—that’s the reality.
“The second option, which I actually recommend, is a newer technology developed in collaboration with our mechanical engineering department. It involves crafting a new arm for you using magi-tech machinery and artificial nerve fibers. Sounds incredible, right? But it’s entirely feasible. We can build you a powerful steel limb.
“The benefits here are speed and efficiency. It’s much faster to fit you with a prosthetic than to wait for a limb to regrow. Once the arm is ready, we attach it, and you can use it immediately. The main time investment is just adapting to the new limb. Also, this tech is linked to innovations coming out of Talrond. With the right materials, your new arm could be a formidable weapon in itself—you’d regain your strength quickly and could even return to the battlefield sooner. Of course, it’s not without drawbacks. After all, it’s not your original flesh and blood, so it might require…”
“I’ll take the second option,” Wickliffe interrupted calmly, cutting off the old man’s rambling.
He seemed to have already made up his mind.
“Are you sure? I should warn you, this isn’t a simple swap. We’ll have to perform complex work on the ‘interface’—some of your nerves and bones will be replaced with implant connectors. Changing it later won’t be easy… Aside from the Talrond dragons who’ve been modifying their bodies with implants since birth, most of us aren’t quite ready for this.”
“I understand, but my decision is final,” Wickliffe said solemnly. “My kingdom and people are engulfed in war. I don’t have time to lie in bed and slowly undergo ‘treatment.’ I need to return to the front lines and lead the counterattack. Mr. Pittman, please help me recover as quickly as possible.”
(End of chapter)