"As Long as I, Price, Am Still Here, No Enemy Shall Ever

step foot inside this base, even a half-step."

Soon after, inside an interrogation room within the Isolation Zone.

Cold light hung down from above the ceiling, casting its glare upon the compact space and reflecting a stark, chilling sheen off the hard metal table.

The furnishings inside were extremely austere.

A fixed metal table, two equally fixed chairs, and aside from those, not a single extra item.

The right-hand wall was a single piece of one-way bulletproof glass, and personnel behind the window were watching every move inside through that transparent barrier.

An intangible sense of oppression permeated the air, making even breathing feel heavy.

At this moment, an Investigation Department agent wearing a black uniform sat squarely at one end of the table.

On the uniform's shoulder epaulets, the imperial emblem reflected a stern radiance under the cold light. The agent's gaze was as cold as a blade, posture upright, and the entire person resembled a chilling sculpture.

At the other end of the table sat a man who looked to be in his early thirties—precisely the policeman among the survivors.

Although he had already washed up and changed into clean clothing provided by the base, his expression remained tense, and his gaze retained a certain lingering unease and wariness.

The agent spoke first, his voice low, calm, and devoid of any emotional fluctuation:

"Let's start with the basics: your name, age, affiliated agency, and also, what year, month, and day do you believe it is now?"

The policeman froze for a moment, then responded in a low voice. His tone carried a trace of hesitation, yet no falsehood:

"My name is Grant MacDougall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, attached to the Portage la Prairie Detachment. As for the date—"

The policeman furrowed his brows, seemingly still weighing his words,