Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Chapter 972 Live Well, Vermouth

"boom--!!!"

A dull thud did not come from the outside, but from inside the vertically standing "V"-shaped hull that was shrouded in a ghostly blue light!

Immediately following was a piercing "crack" as the metal latch was forcefully pried open from the inside by some immense force! The hatch, which had been tightly closed without any gaps, suddenly sprang open from the inside out, leaving a crack!

"Watch out!" McCallen shouted, raising his gun instantly, but not targeting the cabin interior; instead, he warily pointed it at any unexpected threats that might appear around the hatch.

Vodka's massive body tensed instantly, and he stepped forward, subtly shielding Kiel behind him.

Vermouth's icy blue pupils suddenly contracted, but instead of retreating, she lunged forward to the hatch, her fingers already gripping the edge of the spring-loaded opening, ready to exert force.

Before she could exert any force, the hatch was pushed open from the inside with even greater force!

A figure tumbled out of the cabin enveloped in the eerie blue light, as if it had lost all support, and crashed heavily onto the cold concrete floor with a painful groan.

It's white wine!

He was no longer the same person who, though severely injured, still retained his will when he lay inside.

At this moment, his face was as pale as paper, as if all the blood in his body had been drained. His lips were bloodless and trembling slightly uncontrollably.

Sweat soaked through his hair and tattered clothes, leaving cold, sticky marks on his skin. Most unsettling were his eyes—those usually sharp, calm, or unfathomable eyes were now bloodshot, pupils dilated, reflecting deep within them a pure, almost overflowing fear of having just witnessed an indescribable horror.

It wasn't a fear of pain or death, but a fear of some ultimate vision that transcends understanding and subverts cognition.

“White…” Vermouth’s voice caught in her throat.

Baijiu's body curled up on the ground for a moment, then he began to vomit violently and uncontrollably, but nothing came out except for acidic water and blood.

His limbs were still twitching nervously, as if the aftershocks of an electric current were still present.

"Baijiu!" McCallen rushed over, and together with Vermouth, they tried to help him up from the ground. Their movements were instinctively very gentle, as if they were afraid of breaking a piece of porcelain.

Baijiu was helped up by the two men and managed to sit up, but his body was still shaking violently.

His gaze swept blankly over Vermouth and McClan, who had surrounded him, his focus unfocused, as if he couldn't determine whether the people before him were real or just another illusion.

His breathing was rapid and broken, and his chest heaved violently.

Suddenly, his hand, stained with his own blood and still trembling slightly, shot up and grabbed Vermouth's wrist, who was closest to him!

The force was so great that Vermouth frowned slightly.

"Is...is all of this real?" His voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable, each word seemingly squeezed out from torn vocal cords, filled with disbelief, panic, and an urgent need for confirmation. "All of this...the explosion...the fire...everyone...is it real?! Tell me!!"

He stared intently into Vermouth's eyes, as if trying to dig out evidence from the deepest recesses of her eyes to deny everything he had just seen.

Vermouth's heart clenched suddenly.

She had never seen baijiu so out of control, so... fragile.

She took his cold, trembling hand in her own, enveloping it with the limited warmth of her palm, and gently patted his back with her other hand, her voice unusually gentle and steady:

“Yes, liquor. Yes, I’m here, it’s real. McCarran is real too. We’re all here.” She didn’t press for details about what the “explosion” and “fire” specifically referred to, but simply repeated the anchor point of “reality” in the most affirmative tone.

Baijiu was like a drowning man grabbing onto a piece of driftwood. He broke free from Vermouth's hand, and his trembling fingers first touched Vermouth's cheek—a warm, soft, and vibrant touch.

Then he turned to McCallum on the other side and touched McCallum's rough face and the throbbing pulse on the side of his neck with the same force and almost roughness.

“You’re really…” he murmured, as if confirming a miracle, his gaze shifting back and forth between Vermouth and McCullen, “You’re really…”

“Yes, you’re right.” Vermouth repeated patiently, without any sign of impatience.

She could feel the terror within Baijiu's body that was almost tearing him apart. It wasn't just physical pain, but also a kind of nuclear-level shock to his mind.

She even slightly adjusted her posture so that the liquor could lean against her more naturally.

Baijiu (Chinese liquor) seems to draw a meager amount of strength from this simple, repetitive confirmation.

He gasped for breath several times, then leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Vermouth's.

The action was so sudden, yet so intimate, carrying a sense of surviving a catastrophe and a vulnerable yearning for comfort.

His free hand went around Vermouth's neck and held her tightly behind her head, pulling her closer to him as if to draw courage and warmth from her to fight the terrifying images in his mind.

Vermouth stiffened slightly, but then relaxed, letting him hold her tightly, even raising her other hand to gently wrap around his trembling shoulders.

She could feel the cold sweat on his forehead and hear his heavy, labored breathing, like a broken bellows.

“It knows everything…” Baijiu pressed against Vermouth’s forehead, his voice muffled, carrying a chilling despair that seeped into her bones. “It knows everything… the plan… ‘Horseshoe’… ‘Vault’… and…”

He choked up, seemingly unable to utter the devastating prophecy, "...four days...the reckoning..."

McCallen squatted down beside him, his brows furrowed in a deep frown.

He heard Baijiu's murmurs and caught the key information: "It? An intelligent entity? What does it know? What four-day liquidation? Baijiu, what exactly did you see inside?!"

As if he hadn't heard McCallum's question, Baijiu abruptly lifted his head from Vermouth's neck, his eyes still filled with fear, but seemingly overwhelmed by a stronger, almost obsessive sense of urgency.

He released Vermouth and glanced at everyone present—Vermouth, McClane, a worried-looking Kiel, and Vodka, who was silent but staring intently at him.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently, his chapped lips moved, and although his voice was still hoarse, it carried an undeniable tone of command:

"Give me a pen...and paper, anything I can write on...Quick! I need to write something...before...before I forget, or..."

He glanced at the cabin, its blue light now extinguished, standing silently like a lifeless object, a deeper tremor flashing in his eyes, "...or before it changes its mind."

Although McCallum was full of questions, seeing the almost burning urgency in Baijiu's eyes, he did not hesitate to rummage through his tactical backpack—as an intelligence officer, he was used to carrying some notes and waterproof pens.

He quickly found a small notebook and a ballpoint pen and handed them over.

The liquor was practically snatched away, and his fingers trembled so much that he could barely hold the pen.

He leaned against the cold outer wall of the cabin, placed the notepad on his knees, and began to write rapidly, ignoring his weakness and pain.

The pen tip scratched across the paper with a rapid, rustling sound. He wrote quickly, his handwriting so messy it was almost illegible, interspersed with symbols and abbreviations that only he understood, and occasionally he would forcefully erase some and rewrite it.

His focused and frantic demeanor seemed to be a race against time, a race against the gradually fading, terrifying memories in his mind.

In just a few dozen seconds, he filled two or three pages with notes.

Then he stopped writing, panting heavily, as if he had used up his last bit of strength.

He looked up at McCallum, his eyes filled with an extremely complex mix of emotions—a sense of entrustment, resolve, reluctance, and a deep, almost overwhelming weariness.

He reached out and grabbed McCallum's arm tightly, so tightly that McCallum felt a sharp pain.

“Listen, McCarran,” Baijiu’s voice was deep and hoarse, each word seemingly squeezed from the depths of his heart, “the team… is in your hands.”

McClane's pupils contracted: "What? Baijiu (Chinese liquor), you—"