My Abyss Survival Diary

Chapter 29 Secret Weapon

The priest walked slowly, his back hunched, and Andrei respectfully supported him.

"Dad, I'd like to send a letter to the outside world soon," Andrei asked casually.

The old priest was not his biological father, but he had taken good care of him since he joined the church. In addition, the two had a close relationship, and Andrei always called the priest "Dad" in private.

"Who are you sending the letter to? To the girl you met in the capital?" The priest forced a somewhat benevolent smile. "Or have you finally come to your senses and want to report me to the Inquisition?"

Andrei paused for a moment, then resumed his normal pace.

He did not deny it: "I did send a letter to the Inquisition..."

"Oh? What's the content?" The priest became interested.

"I suspect there's more to the story than meets the eye in investigating why a criminal was thrown into the abyss." Andrei assured him firmly, "Don't worry, Dad, I'll never report you in my life."

Hearing his solemn promise, the priest shook his head with a wry smile.

"Sigh, after all these years, you're still a naive child... Alright, I'll mail your letter for you using my personal messenger."

"That's wonderful!" Andrei exclaimed with delight. "How long until I receive a reply?"

"We're far from the capital, let's wait a few more days."

At the end of the corridor was an iron door with no handle or keyhole, just a single, thick steel plate with horizontal reinforcing ribs welded to its surface.

The priest stopped, extended his right hand, and pressed his withered fingers on the door panel.

The hinges turned inside the wall with a dull thud, and the iron plate slowly rose, revealing a dark passage behind the door.

A cold wind blew out from inside, carrying a musty smell and the pungent odor of disinfectant, as well as a deeper, heavier smell, like that of a hospital morgue.

The priest went in, and Andrei followed behind.

The iron gate slammed down behind them with a loud clang, completely isolating the area from the outside world.

The passageway extends downwards with a gentle slope, but it is difficult to walk on. The air becomes increasingly humid and cold, and the smell of disinfectant grows stronger.

The priest slowly began, "Do you know what the angel of death is?"

Andrei thought for a moment: "It's a failed product of the Capital Manufacturing Bureau, a heavy armored mech developed at the end of the Great Expedition, which was later phased out."

Why were you eliminated?

"The pilots don't survive; the machine's neural connection system burns out the brain," Andrei said. "Three times it was deployed to the battlefield, and all three pilots perished."

The priest stopped in his tracks, the lamplight illuminating the deep lines of his wrinkles, making them appear like a dried-up riverbed.

"That machine was designed with the pilot as a expendable asset..."

"They burn one down and replace it with the next one, but there are very few pilots who can operate the mechs. They can't withstand this kind of abuse. I heard that the Capital Manufacturing Bureau is conducting research on uploading human brain consciousness into the mechs. I wonder how it's progressing."

He continued walking forward.

At the end of the passage was a smaller, round iron door, like a cabin door on a ship.

The priest turned the wheel on the door, pushed it open, and saw a pale white fluorescent tube embedded in the ceiling, buzzing and emitting a blinding light that made the whole room look like an operating room.

The room was small, about 20 square meters, with white ceramic tiles on the walls and gray sealant filling the gaps.

The floor was terrazzo, and in the middle was a hospital bed with an iron frame. Most of the paint had peeled off, revealing dark red rust underneath. The sheets were white but had turned yellow from washing, and there were bloodstains that couldn't be washed off.

There was a person lying on the bed, or rather, a dried-up corpse.

His body was connected by various tubes.

A thick, transparent tube was inserted into the throat, through which a yellowish-white liquid was flowing.

Two thinner tubes were inserted into his nostrils, with the other end connected to a metal can at the head of the bed.

An IV line was inserted into his arm, the needle secured with tape that had turned yellow and hardened. A tube was also inserted into his abdomen, the other end of which was a transparent bag hanging under the edge of the bed, containing a brown liquid.

That person's face was so thin that it was just skin and bones, and all the hair had fallen out.

High cheekbones, deep-set eyes, chapped lips revealing yellowed teeth.

His skin was grayish-white, like old wax, and covered with brown age spots.

Her chest was rising and falling slightly, so slightly that it was barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

A living corpse.

Andrei stood beside the hospital bed, lowered his head, and looked at the face for a long time before raising his head to look at the priest.

"Is this your secret weapon?"

"He is the only person in the world who can pilot the Death Angel Heavy Armor." The priest stood at the foot of the bed, his hands supporting him on the bed frame, his head bowed, looking at the withered face. The fluorescent light shone on his white hair, making it appear blindingly white.

"At the end of the Great Crusade, the Angel of Death was sealed away. He was the only one who had piloted it and survived. Although most of his consciousness was burned away, he was still alive. As long as he was alive, he could pilot it again."

Andrei stared at the priest in disbelief: "He can still drive like that?"

"Yes," the priest said. "The Death Angel's neural connection system doesn't require a complete person; it requires a living brain capable of generating a fighting spirit."

The priest reached out and gently touched the withered face, his fingers sliding from the forehead to the cheekbone, the movement very light, as if caressing a fragile antique.

"I have been treating him since he was wounded on the battlefield. For four years, he has been fed and excreted through a tube every day. His muscles have atrophied and his bones have become brittle, but his brain is still there. As long as his brain is still there, he can drive."

Andrei looked at the priest's hand, at that withered hand resting on that emaciated face.

"He must be in a lot of pain," Andrei said.

The priest did not answer.

"He lies here every day, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to eat, only receiving nutrition through tubes inserted into his body." Andrei struggled to find the right words, then made an inappropriate joke, "He must have offended you before."

The priest slowly turned his head and looked at Andrei, his cloudy eyes instantly filled with heavy sorrow.

"He is my son."

A moment later, the priest withdrew his gaze, turned around, and walked towards the door. His hunched body swayed unsteadily, as if he would collapse to the ground at any moment.

"Let's go."

Andrei stood there, unable to bear looking at the withered face on the bed.

The face was expressionless, the eyes were closed, and the lips were slightly parted, like a corpse that had been forgotten for a long time.

The liquid in the tube was flowing, the oxygen in the iron can was hissing, and the green waveform on the monitor by the bed was jumping, one after another.

He is still alive, but his suffering is worse than death.

Andrei turned around and followed the priest out of the room, the iron door slamming shut behind him.