Chapter 287: Final Preparations

"Name? Age? Professional specialty?" At the No. 3 entrance of the Yunchuan City Dungeon, the staff asked without looking up.

"Wu Jianguo, sixty‑one, former barbecue stall owner, now quality inspector. Specialty…" Lao Wu paused, "Heat control."

The staff swiped on the tablet: "Assigned to the dungeon's central kitchen, responsible for nutritional meal quality monitoring. Next!"

Lao Wu received a wristband—identity tag, contribution‑point account, emergency communication—all in one.

He followed the crowd inward; the passage was wide enough for four trucks side by side, and the overhead lights stretched into the depths like a river of light leading to the earth's core.

Beside him, a young mother held a child who was whimpering; she hummed a lullaby softly.

It reminded Lao Wu of his own childhood, playing by the river and hearing that song.

He kept walking forward.

At Moon Base, when Engineer Zhao Gong's video call linked to the Longyin Control Center, the picture jittered a bit as he walked through the workshop holding a personal terminal.

"See that?" he pointed the camera at a row of Yinglong‑Ω mechs under assembly.

"The final three hundred units will be completed tonight."

Feng Yan smiled in the hologram: "Engineer Zhao, a spot has been kept for you on the dungeon side."

"I'm not going," Zhao Gong said briskly. "I'm sixty‑eight this year, have been on the Moon for three years, and am long accustomed to the low gravity and lack of air here. Returning to Blue Star feels worse. Besides—"

He swung the camera to frame the massive Heavenly Punishment array outside the window:

"I have to watch from here. When you win, I'll be the first to launch fireworks on the Moon for you, using the leftover missiles of Wang Hao—definitely bright enough."

Wang Hao interjected from beside him: "Engineer Zhao, my missile is precious!"

"If we win, it's not costly; if we lose, it's even less costly," Zhao Gong said, taking a puff from his tobacco pouch. "Alright, I won't hold you up. I'll keep an eye on loading the last batch of mechs onto the ship."

The connection cut off.

The control room fell silent for a few seconds.

"Zhao Gong's temperament…" Wang Hao muttered, "still so reckless."

"Being reckless is good," Li Yang adjusted his flight suit, "Only recklessness has kept us alive until now."

The global resource allocation system entered an overload state.

The Torch Dragon‑Ω Qiming algorithm upgrade's combat AI seized control of all logistics networks.

Drones, autonomous trucks, even civilian mechs all operated under a unified dispatch order.

"The Kyoto region's nutritional meal stock is sufficient to sustain 180 days."

"White Elephant Province has a 17% shortfall in medical supplies, already reallocated from Sakura Province."

"The African Dungeon drinking‑water purification system installation is 93% complete."

"Moon Base's helium‑3 reserves have reached wartime standards, capable of powering the Heavenly Punishment array at full output for six months."

Data streams scrolled across the screen—cold yet orderly.

Chen Guang stared at one entry: five million human soldiers worldwide and three million various mechs have all taken their assigned battle positions.

"Three million units…" he whispered, "that's a third of humanity's heavy‑industry output, all turned into weapons."

"That's still not enough," Feng Yan said, standing before the star map.

"If the Harvesters fleet truly has tens of thousands of units, we need at least a 70% loss‑exchange ratio to get through the first wave."

"Seventy percent?" Wang Hao widened his eyes. "You mean we have to destroy seven thousand, while we also lose over two thousand ourselves?"

Feng Yan turned and said, "Therefore artistic weapons must be effective. If a civilization signal bomb can scramble their systems even for just ten minutes, we can push the exchange ratio to one‑to‑three, or even one‑to‑five."

"The pressure is huge," Wang Hao said seriously, unusually. "If my missile isn't artistic enough, does that make me a criminal?"

"Don't worry," Chen Guang adjusted his glasses.

"According to the Qiming simulation, your Crazy Grass Trajectory Mode scored 87 out of 100 in the artistic rating system—an excellent abstract expressionist work."

Wang Hao: "... You really gave me a score?"

"Data doesn't lie."

Six o'clock in the evening, Longyin Cafeteria.

This is the literal "Last Supper."

Starting tomorrow, everyone will eat according to wartime rationing, and the cafeteria will be converted into an energy‑bar distribution point.

But today, the kitchen took out all its stock.

Though not extravagant, it's the usual four dishes and a soup: braised pork, stir‑fried greens, tomato and egg, cold cucumber salad, and a big bowl of seaweed egg‑drop soup.

Yet everyone ate very slowly.

Feng Yan lifted his bowl of soup and surveyed the room.

Li Yang was serving meat to Wang Hao, Wang Hao complained about the excess greens, Chen Guang quietly sipped his soup, and Zhao Kaiyuan's holographic projection discussed improvements to the energy‑bar formula.

As usual.

And yet completely different.

Halfway through the meal, Feng Yan stood up and tapped his bowl.

The cafeteria fell silent.

"Three years ago, we built exoskeletons in the warehouse," he said, his voice low but audible to everyone.

"Back then we were thinking about how to get the project approved, how to make the state see its value, how not to lose our jobs."

"Two and a half years ago, we secured our first national‑level project. Our thoughts shifted to how to build mechs, fire missiles, and keep laser cannons from missing."

"A year ago, we discovered the deep‑space threat. Our focus turned to how to create the Heavenly Punishment, how to build defenses, and how to ensure humanity's survival."

"Today," Feng Yan raised the bowl of soup in his hand.

"We sit here, and this may be the last cafeteria meal we ever have."

"Tomorrow, some will go to the dungeon to command logistics, some will go to the Moon to operate the artillery batteries, and some will board mechs to confront the enemies arriving from the starry sky."

He paused:

I have no grand reasoning. Just say this—

Respect all civilizations that refuse to be decided by the program.

Respect all the fools who, in a hopeless plight, still think of drawing smiley faces, writing poems, singing ballads.

Respect humanity.

The bowls clanged together.

Some soup spilled, and no one could bother to wipe it.

Li Yang set the bowl down and said softly, "If I don't make it back… the prototype in my warehouse, I've repaired. It's stored at the Moon Base, the key is with Zhao Gong."

Wang Hao grinned, "I've drawn smiley faces on all my missiles; even in death I want to die happily!"

Chen Guang pushed up his glasses, looked at the air before him, where a fragment of the future five seconds ahead, invisible to others, appeared: "We will win. But the cost… will be huge."

Zhao Kaiyuan's holographic projection flickered: "The vacuum zero-point energy core now supplies stable power, enough for you to fight until the heavens and earth wear out. Just… use it sparingly; it was expensive to build."

Laughter returned.

The kind that comes with tears.

At 11 p. m. deep night, global live streams were simultaneously broadcasting the same message.

It wasn't an official notice, just a simple ten‑minute edited clip.

It began with prehistoric cave paintings.

Then the construction of ancient Egyptian pyramids.

Then the Book of Songs, the Songs of Chu, and Homeric epics.

Ba He's fugue, Bei Duo Fen's symphony.

Fan Gao's starry sky, Bi Jia Suo's Guernica.

Zhuo Bie Lin's comedy, Hei Ze Ming's samurai.

Human footprints on the Moon.

The first message on the Internet.

The birth of the first mecha.

Heaven's Punishment Platform fired for the first time.