225: Chapter 225 The Chen family returns victorious, but Chen Wuwang frowns.

Chen Wuwang's boot soles struck the steel plating, emitting muffled thuds.

He walked very slowly, as if weighing something with every step.

His subordinates gathered around, their voices erupting.

"Patriarch! We held the line!"

"The insectoids have retreated! They've really retreated!"

Some laughed until they cried; others drove their blades into the ground and crouched down, clutching their heads.

A young Disciple, rushing in too eagerly, nearly collided with his back before slamming to a halt, panting as he shouted, "We… we survived!"

Chen Wuwang did not turn around.

He stood at the edge of the high platform, his gaze passing over the cheering crowd and landing on the trampled land in the distance.

Charred earth, fissures, the ruins of collapsed talisman plates, and several insectoid corpses that couldn't be dragged away were half-buried in the soil.

A gust of wind blew, kicking up dust.

His right eye was his Physical Body eye, staring at the ruins.

His left eye was a Mechanical Prosthetic Eye, automatically scanning—residual heat source 3.7 degrees, subterranean structure stable, ground fissure closure rate 98.3%.

Data streams scrolled in the corner of his vision, silent and traceless.

The louder the laughter in his ears, the quieter his heart became.

It wasn't a sense of relief, but a heavy pressure.

He knew what a "retreat" meant.

A true retreat wasn't a chaotic rout, but a clean and efficient withdrawal, with three backup routes calculated even for the rearguard.

That scene just now wasn't a defeat; it was a cessation.

The Mother Empress withdrew decisively; Moyuan had been pinned in the sky by him, unable to move, yet the opponent didn't even attempt a rescue—this indicated a prior calculation, perhaps even… a welcome outcome.

He tapped his fingertips twice against the outside of his thigh.

Once, twice.

It was like running a loop of code.

"Patriarch!" Someone else squeezed through, holding a jar of wine. The mud seal had just been broken, and the aroma of the wine was pungent. "This is the victory wine everyone brewed! Have a drink and share in the joy!"

Chen Wuwang shook his head.

The man froze, still holding the wine jar.

"Level one alert remains in effect," he said. "Rotations continue as usual. Double guards at the Medicinal Field, additional sentries at the Artifact Refining Workshop, and the mecha squadrons will rotate every two hours."

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through like a blade, and the lively atmosphere came to an abrupt halt.

The Disciple holding the wine froze in place.

Nearby, several warriors who had been laughing and slapping each other's shoulders also stopped, looking at one another.

"But… but the insectoids have left, haven't they?" someone asked in a low voice.

"They left," Chen Wuwang finally turned around, sweeping his gaze across the crowd. "But they saw everything clearly."

He raised a hand and pointed to a ground fissure in the southeast corner—only a thin, thread-like crack remained, almost closed.

"Before the last Sentry Bug retreated inside, its compound eyes stored our defense schematics. It noted where the shield nodes were, which openings the mecha emerged from, and even recorded the full patrol routes."

The crowd fell silent.

An old craftsman rubbed the wrench in his hands and said in a low voice, "Then… next time they'll strike at our weak points?"

"It's not 'next time'," Chen Wuwang withdrew his hand. "It's the next attack; it will be more accurate, faster, and more ruthless. They are learning, and they are learning very quickly."

No one spoke again.

The square, which had been boiling with excitement just moments ago, suddenly turned cold.

Someone looked down at their mecha and noticed acid erosion marks on the armor that hadn't been wiped away yet.

A young soldier subconsciously touched the hilt of the sword at his waist, his knuckles turning white.

Chen Wuwang said no more and turned to leave.

His silver hair flicked in the wind, his back straight as an iron rod planted in the ground.

He walked along the stone steps toward the Council Hall, his footsteps steady, without glancing back once.

Behind him, the celebratory wine jar was silently placed back on the ground.

Someone sighed and shouldered their long spear, heading toward their post.

A child, originally jumping and wanting to run forward, was grabbed by their mother and pulled back under the eaves.

The night wind began to rise, scattering the noise from moments before.

Before the Council Hall, the stone pillars stood grim and the door knockers were ice-cold.

He arrived at the bottom of the steps and stopped.

He looked up at the sky.

There were few stars, the clouds were thick, and the moonlight was torn into shreds as it spilled down.

He replayed the scenes in his mind—before the Moyuan mecha lost control, the whispering core inside its breastplate had vibrated violently with an abnormal frequency; when the Mother Empress retreated, the movement trajectories of all the insectoid swarms were precise to the meter, without a hint of chaos; and that Sentry Bug, the purple light that flashed across its head was by no means a natural reflection, but a coded signal.

The three events, linked together.

It was not a coincidence.

It was learning, recording, and deduction.

What they had repelled was not just an attack, but a… live-combat test.

He leaned against a stone pillar and closed his eyes.

His body should have collapsed long ago.

He hadn't closed his eyes in three days, his Spiritual Qi was overdrawn, and the claw mark on his right cheek was faintly burning.

But he could not rest.

To rest was to create a flaw.

His fingers began to tap again, one by one, against his thigh.

It wasn't unconscious; it was a habit—like when he wrote code back on Earth, tapping the table with his knuckles when he got stuck, breaking down the logic layer by layer.

Now, he was breaking down this battle.

They won.

But they won too "cleanly."

The enemy's main force was undamaged, the command System was intact, and intelligence gathering was completed.

This kind of retreat was more terrifying than a head-on clash.

Because the opponent wasn't insane, wasn't chaotic; on the contrary, it was frighteningly calm.

He opened his eyes, a flash of blood-red patterns in his pupils.

"Defending alone won't work," he said in a low voice. "I must make them afraid to come next time."

The voice was very soft, like a mutter to himself, yet also like a verdict.

He straightened up and stepped onto the first step.

The coolness of the stone seeped into the soles of his feet.

He placed his hand on the door knocker; it was bone-chillingly cold.

He didn't push.

He paused for three seconds.

Then he turned and looked toward the Artifact Refining Workshop.

It was brightly lit over there, with pale blue smoke rising from the chimney, and the sounds of forging faintly carrying over—ding, ding, ding—in a steady rhythm.

Chen Tiezhu must still be inside, unwilling to stop even though the great battle had ended.

That kind of person treated the furnace fire like their own life.

The corners of his mouth twitched; he didn't smile, but his lips curved into an arc.

"Tomorrow," he said. "It's time to have a talk."

The wind blew from behind, lifting a corner of his cloak.

He stood motionless, as if waiting for something, or perhaps he was just tired and wanted to stand for a while longer.

Over in the square, someone passed by carrying a lantern, their shadow stretched out long.

An Elder leaned on a cane, peering from the doorway; seeing him, the Elder hesitated about whether to approach.

In the end, the Elder didn't move.

Chen Wuwang withdrew his gaze and looked down at his hands.

There was sweat on his palms, and bits of black insectoid blood were still embedded under his fingernails, dried up like rust.

He slowly clenched his fist.

Then he opened it.

Clenched again.

Opened again.

Until his fingertips returned to dryness.

He took a deep breath, turned, and walked toward his living quarters.

His pace remained steady, his back straight, without a hint of wavering.

But no one saw that when he passed a lamp post, his left hand had braced against it for a split second to steady himself.

That instant lasted only half a second.

The wind caused the lamplight to flicker.

He had already walked far away.

The sound of hammering from the Artifact Refining Workshop was still ringing out.

Ding—ding—ding—