Chapter 71: Under Disaster, Who Cares If You

This was an officer from the 1st Division—the one who had stood atop the tank at the front line, mowing down the six-eyed demon with a Gatling gun.

At this moment.

The six-eyed demon’s eyes grew larger and larger, drawing closer until it stood right before him; the officer trembled so violently his entire skeleton shook.

He wanted to run, but his injuries were too severe—he couldn’t even crawl.

Just now, that single strike from the six-eyed demon had obliterated everything: soldiers and officers alike were dead, crushed by the pressure wave—some dead, others wounded, all barely clinging to life, gasping for breath.

The officer was no better off, holding on to his last breath.

“Your world shouldn’t have only this much destructive power—show me everything you’ve got.”

Like picking up a chick, the six-eyed demon extended two long, dark claws, pinching the officer’s uniform and lifting him off the ground.

A long, snake-like tongue lashed out, licking the blood from the officer’s face.

“So delicious—this world’s blood, sweet enough to mesmerize me.”

The next instant.

“AHH!!” Women watching the livestream clapped their hands over their faces, screaming in terror.

Countless viewers froze in dread.

In their gaze, the six-eyed demon’s long tongue shot out without warning, like a blade piercing through the officer’s eye and exiting through the back of his skull—death instantaneous.

Because it stood directly facing the blazing sun.

From this angle, the camera no longer captured its clear form—only a pitch-black silhouette; the officer was the same.

All viewers saw was blinding sunlight, the entire landscape bathed in radiance, a black shadow of a horned demon extending its tongue to pierce a man, pinning him midair—his arms limp, motionless, suspended by the tongue.

Though the demon’s form was gone, reduced to a silhouette, the sunlight made their shadows the sole focus—more shocking, more intense, drawing every eye to the demon.

Watching this, countless viewers’ visual nerves were shattered, seared into their minds, their legs trembling uncontrollably.

Ssshh!

The tongue withdrew, spraying brain matter mixed with blood.

It also pulled out an eyeball, placing it in its mouth to chew—the juice burst from between its lips, yet its face wore pure ecstasy, savoring the burst of pulp inside its mouth.

Many viewers felt icy dread crawl up their spines, their hair standing stiff as if weighted with lead, ready to tear from their scalps.

“So delicious.”

In the next instant, it took another step, like Death itself, harvesting the lives of soldiers still barely clinging to life, devouring their eyeballs.

Livestream.

Viewers felt as if their bodies had been plunged into icy water.

The six-eyed demon passed the dead soldiers without even glancing—only those still barely alive were targeted, killed, and had their eyes eaten.

Its actions clearly aimed to exterminate all life, leaving not a single soul alive.

Yet viewers instinctively understood: the demon’s goal wasn’t mere extermination—it ate the eyes of the living because they were alive, because such beings were worthy of being eaten.

In other words, it was picky.

It ate only those who could survive even one of its attacks—those weaker than itself, yet strong by human standards.

The weak were like ants—tasteless. Only the strong tasted sweet.

This was its rule for eating humans.

Tokyo, Japan, outside the restricted zone of Higashioi.

“The demon—it’s coming this way!”

“Run, run now!”

On the crowded road, drivers watched the livestream—the six-eyed demon, brazenly devouring eyeballs—clearly moving toward Higashioi—and panicked.

Chaos erupted.

Many people fled from their cars, crawling and stumbling away from Higashioi.

Even though the demon was still dozens of kilometers away, fear had already saturated their bodies and minds.

Children screamed, adults shouted, police officers barked orders to maintain order, cars honked in reverse—voices tangled into a cacophony.

Traffic order collapsed completely.

The chaos was unreal—most had seen it only in movies, the kind depicting apocalyptic disasters.

Many in Higashioi were fleeing too.

No time to grab valuables—only children were snatched up, shoes left behind, doors burst open, escaping homes, fleeing Higashioi.

Every exit from Higashioi was jammed with people.

“Let me through! Get out of my way!”

“Let us pass! Please, let my child and I through!”

“Fuck you—having a kid makes you special? I don’t want to die!”

“Bastards! Get the hell out of my way!”

Too many people—crushed together, no one willing to yield.

At the moment of life or death, all social morals—respect for elders, care for children, compassion for women—meant nothing. Even money failed.

“Hey! Look behind you—money’s falling! Go pick it up!” Someone threw cash, hoping to clear a path by luring the crowd away.

The result? Cold indifference—or curses.

“Fuck your money—I’ve got money too! I’ll give you a hundred million yen—get out of my way right now!”

None of it worked.

Beneath the weight of life and death, everything else became meaningless. Society’s structure crumbled—useless, fragile, worthless.

“Everyone, stay calm. Please remain composed. Don’t push or crowd.”

“Stay calm—the demon is still far away. The military is still fighting. Don’t panic. Maintain order.”

By now, Mori Tian Takeshi, originally assigned to liaise with the military, seeing the chaos, couldn’t help but join in trying to restore order.

Too bad—he screamed until his voice broke, with no effect.

Completely useless.

The road was only so wide. Earlier, people from outside Higashioi had flooded in, blocking the front; now, more people and vehicles kept pouring from behind, compounding the crush. No one listened to orders—no way to clear it.

“Yoshimura, how’s the military doing?”

Mori Tian Takeshi, drenched in sweat, had just cleared a patch when another wave of people surged from behind, clogging it again.

“The 12th Brigade split into two groups—one has set up a blockade against the demon in Higashioi, the other is evacuating residents.”

“What about Director Takahashi? Didn’t he say he brought in a transcendent?”

As soon as he spoke.

Before Yoshimura could answer, the roar of helicopter rotors filled the sky—a chopper flew in from afar.

Mori Tian Takeshi’s expression froze, then lit up—he recognized it as a police helicopter.

“Go.”

Mori Tian Takeshi hurried with Yoshimura to the helicopter landing zone cleared by the military.

The helicopter door opened.

“Director Takahashi, you really brought in…” Mori Tian Takeshi stared at Takahashi stepping out first, his eyes instinctively glancing inside—and he froze.

Huh?!

Mori Tian Takeshi stiffened, his voice cut off abruptly.

A child?

Inside the helicopter carrying Director Takahashi—there was a girl. A child.

In his eyes, anyone underage was a child—even a high school student.

Had Takahashi gone mad? Why bring a girl here? Doesn’t he know how dangerous this is? Bringing a child here is just adding chaos.

Could she be the daughter of Takahashi’s enemy?

Wait.

Mori Tian Takeshi rubbed his eyes, scanning the helicopter interior again.

No—only Takahashi and the girl were inside. No one else. Takahashi said he brought a transcendent—where was the transcendent?

At that moment, Mori Tian Takeshi suddenly realized a possibility.

Takahashi brought a transcendent. Only Takahashi and the girl were inside. So… the truth was obvious—the transcendent was this girl!

Only this explained why a high school girl was brought to the perilous Higashioi.

Realization struck him—he was shaken, almost delirious.

Another high school student?!

Seeing the transcendent was a high schooler, he instantly thought of another person—not a transcendent, yet transcendent: Kamikawa Mitsu!

Both were high school students.

Without warning, Mori Tian Takeshi’s lips twitched—he felt this was unreal.

These days… are high school students all fucking monsters?

Before, it was a high schooler who saved a plane—now it’s a high schooler who’s supposed to save Japan…

Meanwhile.

On the road outside Higashioi.

“Amitabha.”

Amid the chaos, a faint, serene Buddhist chant drifted through.

So quiet, so gentle—the only stillness in the storm of noise.

Immediately after.

An old monk appeared, clad in a wide Japanese monk’s robe, wearing a traditional Japanese straw hat, holding a string of prayer beads, hands clasped together, his face obscured by the shadow of the hat and the sun.

A Buddhist chant was uttered.

It was weathered and distant, possessing a strange, divine-mystical charm that brought peace from body to heart, and from heart to soul.

The voice was faint, drowned in the clamor of voices, yet clearly reached every person, as if whispered directly beside their ear.