157: Chapter 157 After the False Alarm, the Prince Finally Appears

Rockefeller did not finish his sentence.

But there was no need to.

The expressions on the faces of Samuel, Isabelle, Jacob, and William changed at the exact same moment.

Samuel pulled his right hand, which he had been clutching in his pocket, and pressed it firmly against the edge of the iron shelf beside him.

Isabelle gripped her bulletproof cloak tighter than ever before, her gaze shifting from the side of Rockefeller III's face to the row of alien husks silently floating in the pale yellow preservation fluid on the wall.

Jacob Rothschild instinctively took a small half-step back, his shoulder bumping into the cold corridor wall behind him with a very faint, dull thud.

The speed of information transmission is countless times faster than the speed of material transmission!

There is no need to traverse the physical distance of two thousand six hundred light-years to bring an entire fleet; one only needs to convert consciousness into data, cast it across the void, and boot it up in a new husk!

The Crane Family spent nearly a century using groups upon groups of living death row inmates and volunteers, step by step, from replacing only the head to fully alienating them into the Mothman form, all to provide a high-level civilization located two thousand six hundred light-years away with a body that could be taken over at any time—a supply that would never run out!

They had just wiped out all members of the Crane Family and uprooted this husk research center that the Mothmen had been operating on Earth for nearly a century. How would the Mothmen, far away two thousand six hundred light-years, view this matter?

They couldn't possibly fail to guess.

The Mothmen wouldn't need to cross two thousand six hundred light-years to settle the score with them in person; they would only need to download their consciousness into a successfully completed husk, provided that one or two finished products had already been shipped out of this underground laboratory and hidden somewhere else.

Samuel, Isabelle, Jacob, and William all focused their gazes on Rockefeller III.

No one spoke first to ask him "What do we do now?", but everyone was looking at him, their eyes filled with the same question.

Rockefeller III said nothing.

He turned around, strode out of the room displaying the fourth batch of failed husks, and began pushing open the remaining compartment doors along the corridor one by one.

The fifth batch, failure!

The sixth batch, failure!

The seventh batch, failure!

The eighth batch, failure!

...

The labels on each batch of husk containers were marked with different donor sources, ranging from federal felons to missing immigrants, from prisoners of war to anonymous individuals whose identities had been erased by the judicial system.

The degree of modification for each batch was different: some focused on the adaptation of compound eye optical nerves, some attempted to achieve biological fusion between wing membranes and human shoulder blades, and others repeatedly engaged in trial and error on the balance point between carapace hardness and flexibility.

But at the end of every label, the same word was stamped: Failure!

Rockefeller III walked all the way to the door of the nearest compartment, pushed it open, and saw the batch of husk containers with labels dated March 2026, with serial numbers reaching KC-189.

The bodies soaking in the pale yellow preservation fluid were far more refined in appearance than the early products from decades ago; the crystal arrangement of the compound eyes was nearly perfect, the wing membranes were as thin as cicada wings with smooth lines, and the surface of the carapace was covered with a layer of extremely subtle dark patterns.

But at the end of the label, the word stamped deeply was still: Failure!

Samuel, Isabelle, Jacob, and William followed him in, gathered in front of that row of 2026 labels, and let out a collective sigh of relief.

Samuel pulled a folded cigarette case from the inside pocket of his suit, clutched it in his hand without lighting one, and let out a breath, his tone still carrying the aftershocks of the panting from running through several rooms without stopping.

Isabelle loosened a corner of her bulletproof cloak from between her fingers, which had gripped it so tightly it left deep indentations, moved her lips twice, and nodded slightly.

Jacob pushed aside a surveillance terminal next to the row of labels that had been dark for days, lowered his hands back into his coat pockets, and closed his eyes for a moment.

William loudly slapped the dust off the outside of his thighs, pulled a flask from the side pocket of his coat, tilted his head back to take a large gulp, and then screwed the cap back on, his voice hoarse and deep.

"It's been over a hundred years!"

"From 1947 until now, the Mothmen gave them technology, gave them test subjects, gave them an endless supply of dead people, and in the end, this batch of husk containers is still a failure!"

"Without being able to create containers, the Mothmen's armed forces have no way to be projected onto Earth."

"Solomon didn't finish his homework in the end."

"We blew him up right before the bell rang to hand in the paper! Hahaha!"

Rockefeller III did not join them in that sigh of relief.

He stood in front of that row of 2026 labels, hands behind his back, staring for a long time at the deeply stamped "Failure" on the label, then turned around to face the corridor, his tone still steady but with a bit more chill than before.

"This is just the reverse-engineered product we can see that Solomon used to develop the Mothman husk containers."

"But the research records here span nearly a century, having gone through three generations of Crane Family heads and multiple data transfers."

"Whether he was simultaneously conducting other alien technology reverse engineering, how far that research got, or if finished products were hidden in other safe houses outside this estate... we don't know any of that."

"If he hid one semi-finished product in a bank safe deposit box, it would be enough to keep us searching for a lifetime."

"So, we can't let our guard down yet."

Samuel stuffed the unlit cigarette back into his pocket, his brow, which had just relaxed, knitting together again.

Isabelle pulled her bulletproof cloak together and stood up straight, her gaze shifting from the side of Rockefeller's face toward the area of compartments deep in the corridor that was still being searched one by one.

Jacob said nothing, only looking around again; on that entire row of glass containers, the cold lights were still flickering, reflecting the dim, eerie glow of the pale yellow preservation fluid.

William silently tucked the flask he had just unscrewed—and hadn't managed to take a second sip from—back into his coat's side pocket, pressed his thick palm onto the information card of the remaining split-finger husk accessories nearby, and nodded slightly.

It was just then that a cry of surprise came from the deepest part of the underground base!

It was a raw roar mixed with extreme excitement, disbelief, and adrenaline, as if someone had suddenly struck a vein of ore they had been desperately searching for for years in the deepest tunnel.

"The Fourth Prince... it's the Fourth Prince!"

"The Fourth Prince has been found! He is here!!"

Rockefeller III turned abruptly and strode toward the direction the sound came from, with Samuel, Isabelle, Jacob, and William following closely behind.

Along the corridor leading to the deepest part of the underground base, all armed personnel had already formed a straight alert formation on both sides; every person's shoulders and back were stiff as if they were undergoing inspection, muzzles all pointed to the ground, chins slightly tightened, not daring to breathe a sound. In the entire corridor, only the rapid, dense sound of military boots stepping over gravel remained, along with the faint, low-frequency hum of the cold fluorescent tubes overhead.