Apocalypse Forecast

Chapter 545 464 Tuner_1

In the Persia Region, once the capital of this nation, within the camps of the Rome Army garrison.

Outside the tents was a cacophony, but within the spacious tent, there was utter silence.

All curtains in the meeting room were drawn. In the dim light, a beam shone from the projector, casting an image on the screen that displayed a complex biography from afar.

The high-ranking officers of the garrison in the Persia Region, commissioners from Constantinople, envoys from the Imperial Guard, and senior law enforcement officials sat behind a table, listening to the intelligence department's briefing.

"This is the target of our joint operation and the largest destabilizing factor in the entire southern Persia Region."

The messenger stood beside the screen, pointing to the blurry silhouette that appeared among the documents, and said in a grave tone, "For a long time, he and his Integrated Front have been entrenched in the southern mountainous areas, causing us significant trouble. Due to him, international oil prices fell by six percentage points last April. He has inflicted losses on our forces exceeding one hundred billion Dinar, and direct or indirect military deaths are approaching six hundred."

"Haven't you tried bombing?" asked the commissioner from Constantinople.

He wasn't an amateur trying to direct professionals. Instead, he represented the Senate, posing questions to the garrison, and every question required a clear and definite answer.

Why had such a person become a major threat to the Empire?

Owing to his ongoing attacks, the military budget increased yearly. More importantly—after protracted political jockeying—hints of proposals to withdraw troops were circulating within the Senate.

The struggle over oil had dragged on too long between Rome and the Russian Federation on this land.

Both parties were gradually exhausted.

"We are unable to pinpoint their location," replied the briefer. "The Integrated Front has close ties with local forces, and the main actor's movements are unpredictable. We can't even confirm his identity to this day.

No one knows his original name or where he came from. All we know is that four years ago, he appeared in the Baghdad Region, entered a restaurant, and gave a speech on the spot. Afterward, listeners invited him into their homes, offering all their possessions for his guidance, but he took nothing. Instead, he wandered through Persia, preaching.

We initially thought he was just a charlatan and swindler, but before we knew it, a new terrorist organization had taken shape in the Baghdad Region. Everyone fanatically followed him, believing he would bring a new order to this land. What happened afterward is as you can see from the reports—he has continually inflicted substantial losses on us."

"Have you considered an offer of surrender?" the Imperial Guard envoy asked.

These members of the Rome Empire's intelligence agencies were best at playing dirty. While soldiers were battling and sacrificing on the front lines, they had made countless deals with drug lords.

"If that were useful, things wouldn't have reached this state," the briefer sighed. "Most of the envoys we sent had their ears cut off and were sent back; others, more seriously, went and never returned."

"Killed?" inquired the Senate commissioner, frowning.

"No, worse than that."

The briefer's expression turned grim. "They defected, renounced their homeland, and chose to stand against their fellow citizens."

"A Lawrence of Canaan?" someone joked under their breath. "Even if there's no information, doesn't this man have a name? How do others refer to him? The Mysterious One?"

"You know who?"

A joke that failed to amuse.

"—The Tuner."

After a brief silence, the briefer stated indifferently, "Everyone calls him the Tuner, believing he will set everything back on track, just like tuning a piano."

"Sounds quite elegant," the commander who had made the sarcastic remark raised an eyebrow. "But unfortunately, that ends here."

"This is your mission, Mr. Red Gloves."

The general of the Persia garrison spoke up, "Through inside information, we have confirmed the current location of him and his close associates. There are only two of them, far from their troops and subordinates, in their most vulnerable state. Your task is to bring him back in one piece. I want him alive, understand?"

"Capture the Tuner alive?" the special forces captain known internally as Red Gloves asked. "Is that necessary?"

"Why not?" the general countered. "If we can get the Tuner in our grasp, the Integrated Front can become our Sharp Blade... a blade against the Russian Federation. Do you understand? We cannot afford any mistakes on this mission."

"Understood."

Red Gloves stood up slowly, picked up the mission briefing designated for him, methodically put on his gloves, and saluted the officers present, "We will give it our all."

The general stood up. "For Rome."

"Mhm. Back to Rome." Red Gloves turned and left the briefing room.

Outside the tent, the heavily armed operation team had already been waiting for some time.

Elite squads, a joint force from the Imperial Guard and law enforcement officers, stood quietly under the harsh sun, like specters, about to dissipate in the rising heat.

***

When Red Gloves awoke again, the world seemed upside down.

He was hanging in the air, barely alive.

In the darkness, his labored breathing was the only sound.

The elite, selected from all of Rome, forged by the Imperial Guard and law enforcement officers—soldiers who were once like ghosts—had now all become actual ghosts.

It was, unbelievably, at the hands of a woman.

Yes, a woman.

At first, the mission went smoothly. They broke through the village with unstoppable force and came face to face with the Tuner.

When the man raised his hands and surrendered, everyone overlooked the woman behind him—his seemingly harmless assistant. They allowed her to approach bare-handed, to within ten paces.

At that time, they did not know what kind of monster had stepped into their hunting ground.

Only when a dagger, flashing out from the shadows, severed his hands did he finally, in his shock, experience terror and despair.

Incredible...

Now, the gentle face of that woman once again emerged before him, her presence nearly cutting off his breath with fear.

"Xiao Xian, you've frightened him."

Beside him, someone sighed helplessly in the Dongxia language, "Why did you leave only one survivor?"

"I got carried away. Couldn't be helped."

The person called Xiao Xian raised her hand, tenderly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then smiled and lifted the dinner plate she held, "I just made dinner. Would you like some?"

"Stop teasing him, and don't feed my captive that poison-laced food."

"Didn't I capture this one?" Xiao Xian argued.

"Now, he's mine."

A deep voice drew closer, mingling with the sound of a chair scraping across the floor.

A weather-beaten middle-aged man sat before him.

His lean and erect figure, like an engraving, seemed deeply etched into Red Gloves's vision. His calm and solemn demeanor was unforgettable after a mere glance. More striking than his bearing were his pitch-black eyes, burning as if with a ghostly fire. He had long black hair, streaked with conspicuous strands of grey that added to his weathered look.

One could see that he once possessed a handsome and dignified face, now so imposing and solemn that one dared not look at him directly.

Black eyes, black hair?

A Roman?

Immediately, Red Gloves realized, seeing past the sun-tanned bronze skin to the original complexion beneath. That realization left him all the more stunned.

An Asian? An Asian?

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Red Gloves."

The man known as the Tuner sat before him, gazing at him calmly as he introduced himself, "You can call me the Tuner, a... mere traveler who happened to pass by."

It sounded like a joke, but it wasn't funny.

"Rest assured, I won't kill you, nor will I subject you to the tortures you Romans relish—none of that will happen to you."

After a brief silence, he said calmly, "I want to talk to you about all that the Romans and the people of the Russian Federation have done to this land. Originally, all of this was none of my business..."

Red Gloves had intended to scoff, to disregard it all. But when this man began to speak, he found himself compelled to listen, feeling a sense of curiosity and some sort of... indescribable allure. It was as if someone were holding up a torch in the dead of night, revealing the Truth to him.

He should have chosen to take his own life at that moment. If he had any shred of loyalty left for Rome. Unfortunately, it was too late.

He listened to the words spoken by the man before him: words about principles, about responsibility, about one's country; about the duties a person bears upon entering this world; about how to become a man; about... justice.

***

A month later, Red Gloves returned to the military camp, alone.

He was the sole survivor of a combat team that had vanished without a trace.

Upon discovery, he was immediately taken to the medical room for a thorough examination—his body was healthy; the Integrated Front hadn't mistreated him, and even his severed right hand had been properly stitched and bandaged.

Then, military commanders interrogated him repeatedly in solitary confinement, questioning him about everything he had experienced.

Throughout it all, Red Gloves remained silent, his eyes closed. But when he occasionally opened them, they were fierce and fervent, as if he were always ready to sacrifice himself for the Truth.

Eighteen hours later, after harsh interrogation and trials with various potions, the torturers dejectedly gave up all attempts on Red Gloves.

Eight hours after that, following a brief sleep and meal, Red Gloves entered the conference room—as an envoy of the Integrated Front. He met with the very people he had faced before.

"State your purpose, the once Mr. Red Gloves."

The garrison general, holding the report of recent losses, spoke indifferently, "Just like your former colleagues. Tell me, what are the Tuner's demands? What does that madman want from us?"

"Basic order, clean drinking water, and trivial medicine."

Red Gloves smiled. "What we seek—no, what the suffering people of this land long for—is just that simple."