books44 Chapter 559 [Empire] This time, it is finally no longer related to me.
Chapter 559 [Empire] This time, it is finally no longer related to me.
I was lying in bed, and I was fully conscious.
This clarity is unpleasant. My body is strapped to the hospital bed, but my senses aren't anesthetized; instead, my brain is unusually active. Time here becomes viscous, like a stretched shadow, slowly dragging my thoughts backward. I don't want to remember, but memories don't need my permission—they always seep out from the cracks when I'm least expecting anything.
Being dragged into memories while fully conscious is an almost agonizing experience. It's not a gentle replay, but rather being forcibly pulled back along by the ankles, forced to regress to where you've already been. The images are fragmented and incomplete, yet they carry the weight of emotion, leaving no escape.
I was staring blankly at the ceiling.
Then, an even sharper sound pierced the eardrums without warning.
It wasn't the low-frequency vibrations from underground, nor the beeping sounds from the equipment in the wards, but an alarm that blared simultaneously throughout the entire hospital corridor. The sound was amplified to an almost brutal degree, penetrating the walls and spreading rapidly along the metal structure, carrying a clear and cold command.
The female voice on the broadcast system was completely emotionless, yet exceptionally clear:
—All non-support combat personnel are to take their positions immediately.
— Repeat, all non-support combat personnel immediately take their positions.
"all."
This word was deliberately emphasized, like a nail driven firmly into the air.
A commotion immediately erupted outside the ward. Footsteps approached and then quickly receded, mixed with brief commands, the clanging of metal equipment, and the rapid rolling of wheelchairs. The once orderly medical area was forcibly switched to a different operating mode within seconds.
Wartime mode.
I instinctively turned my head to look at the door of the ward.
It's empty there.
The medic who was just here a moment ago has already left. Perhaps when the first alarm sounded, or perhaps even earlier. All that remains of him is the overly neatly arranged medical equipment tray and the lingering smell of disinfectant.
I suddenly realized something.
The instruction stated that the personnel were not support combatants.
Supportive types are excluded.
I laughed inappropriately.
It wasn't because of relief or joy, but rather an extremely brief, even somewhat absurd, reaction.
The medic who was just moments ago on high alert, his muscles taut, is now probably being told to stay put and continue his "support" duties. He won't be allowed into the war zone, and he won't appear on any frontline roster.
That smile didn't last long.
Because the next second, I realized that I was also excluded.
It's not because it's "supportive".
Rather, it's because—I'm not in any combat personnel's ranks at all.
I had no personal terminal, no pop-up status interface, no identity verification, and no system-level summons. The only sound in the ward was the echo of an alarm, coming again and again from the depths of the corridor, but it had nothing to do with me.
This feeling of being "unrelated" is more unpleasant than being forced to stay.
I stared at my hands. The IV tube extended from my wrist, and clear liquid dripped down, rhythmically and calmly. They were hands that had once wielded weapons, been connected to tactical systems, and were by default destined for the battlefield.
Now, they are just the patient's hands.
I should understand that.
From the moment I lay down on this bed, I was defined by the system, the process, and my identity as a "non-callable resource".
But it wasn't until the alarms actually sounded, until the entire hospital was making way for the war, that I truly realized the weight of this fact.
I should—
He's no longer a soldier.
When this thought arose, there was no ceremony, no clear boundary. It wasn't as formal as retirement, nor as resolute as removal from the rolls; it simply and silently completed the separation in a fog. Perhaps it had already been separated long ago.
The footsteps in the corridor gradually faded away, but the alarm continued, a rhythm tolling from a world I no longer belong to.
I lay in bed, listening intently.
No one has asked me how I am.
Nobody needs my confirmation.
No system treats me as a "usable" part anymore.
This time, it's finally none of my business.