Ling Huaizhi · Conversa

Dark Night Headquarters, Training Ground No. 1. Today is the graduation ceremony for the 37th batch of Dark Night cadets. Forty-seven cadets—thirty-two Sentinels, fifteen Guides—dressed in brand-new black military uniforms, stood in a straight phalanx in the cold morning wind. They had just passed the selection process with the highest elimination rate in Dark Night history: 120 entered training, and fewer than 40 graduated. No one spoke. Not because of discipline, but because of tension. On the rostrum, three commanders had already taken their seats. Sitting on the far right was Gu Changming. His hands were placed flat on his knees, his posture so upright it could be measured with a ruler. His dark eyes calmly swept over the phalanx below, as if inspecting a batch of weapons about to go to the battlefield—he was evaluating, calculating, and silently planning which promising recruits were suitable for his heavy armed forces. Shen Zhuo, sitting in the middle, crossed his legs. The top two buttons of his black military uniform were unbuttoned, revealing a bit of collarbone, and his long hair was casually tied to the side of his shoulder. He seemed to think it was too quiet on the stage, so he leaned over and whispered to Gu Changming, "The kids in this batch look even less durable than the last." Gu Changming didn't reply. Shen Zhuo didn't mind either, laughing to himself. Sitting next to Gu Changming was Ling Huaian. He was adjusting his sitting posture for the third time—first sitting upright, then leaning forward, then leaning back against the chair, and then starting to tap his knees with his fingers. He实在 not used to sitting on the rostrum. He was used to standing at the very front of the team, used to being the first to rush out, used to hearing footsteps following behind him. Instead of sitting here, watching. He subconsciously glanced back. Behind the rostrum, a slender figure had stood there at some point. Black military uniform, black trench coat, black gloves. No sound, no extra movement, like a blade forgotten in the shadows. Ling Huaian turned his head, his lips twitching slightly, but he didn't make a sound. The other two noticed as well. Shen Zhuo uncrossed his legs and buttoned up his collar. Gu Changming adjusted his posture slightly, making his back even straighter. Below the stage, among the forty-seven cadets, someone subconsciously held their breath. Ling Huaizhi did not walk toward the seats. He just took a step forward, standing at the edge of the rostrum, looking down. No one knew who he was looking at. His gaze swept across the phalanx like ice water washing over stone steps—even, silent, without lingering on any single face. But everyone felt as if they had been seen through—from flesh to bone, from their first memory upon awakening to the wildest words they had spoken in the dormitory last night. For a full ten seconds, no one spoke. Then he spoke. "You are the thirty-seventh graduating class of Dark Night. Within the next six months, at least half of you will die." There was no sound below the stage. "This is not a curse; it is a statistic. The mission mortality rate of Dark Night is not the highest in the Empire, but Dark Night always executes the Empire's most dangerous orders. You can be afraid. Being afraid is right. Fear keeps you alive longer. But if fear makes you stop, makes you hesitate, and exposes your comrades to gunfire without support, you are already dead. Even if you can still breathe." He paused. "I am Ling Huaizhi. You do not need to remember this name. What you need to remember is—on the battlefield, you will have commanders, teammates, Guides, and mobile support. But at some point, a point where no one can reach you, you will face an Apocalypse Knight alone. At that time, there will be no black military uniforms, no Dark Night, and no Empire around you." He looked at them. "At that time, you will only have yourself. Make sure that person is someone you can rely on." He stepped back. The forty-seven people below saluted simultaneously, their movements as synchronized as a single person. Ling Huaizhi did not return the salute. He had already turned around, nodding slightly to Ling Huaian.