Chapter 375: This is Mitosis

After the hood was removed, Miyamoto Ko turned his head dazedly, scanning his surroundings before his face twisted in shock.

Others shared his reaction. Seventy near-identical copies of oneself would make anyone doubt reality.

Even the most fertile parents couldn’t pop out seventy babies in one go.

This wasn’t childbirth—it was mitosis.

The initial shock gave way to chaotic murmuring. Though identical in appearance, their personalities differed. Hot-tempered clones rose to yell.

*Bang!*

A gunshot cut through the noise.

One of the armed guards raised his handgun, having fired a shot into the ceiling.

The standers dropped to the floor, leaving the room deathly silent.

“Everyone!”

The man at the podium clapped sharply, drawing all eyes. “I’m Hasegawa Kouhei. My face proves I’m one of you, so rest assured—I mean no harm.”

No one spoke. Empty promises meant little, but arguing with armed men risked bullets.

Hasegawa continued, “I’ll explain everything now. Don’t interrupt—questions come later.”

Above them, Fang Cheng and Ye Yuqing crouched on the rooftop, listening intently.

Hasegawa grabbed chalk and scrawled four characters on the blackboard: *Fujiwara Hirotetsu*.

“Any elementary graduate knows this name. The father of science who built Area 11’s modern research framework…” He paused. “We—every lookalike here—were crafted by Fujiwara himself.”

Chaos erupted. The claim wasn’t just shocking—it was ludicrous. Fujiwara had died decades ago. How could he create people of varying ages?

Ignoring the outcry, Hasegawa wrote: *Gene Editing Project*.

This controversial follow-up to Fujiwara’s socialized upbringing initiative combined human DNA with superior organisms, clipping flawed genes to engineer clones.

“We’re products of that project. Thirty-five years ago—the year Fujiwara ‘died’—our embryos were completed. Surrogates birthed us in batches, then dumped us at Tokyo orphanages. Most died. Survivors? You.”

He grimaced. “Recent events pushed the government to reclaim us. SOT troops are hunting experimental subjects. I gathered you first, but…” His voice hardened. “Over a hundred were taken. Their fate? Worse than death.”

On the roof, Ye Yuqing shot Fang Cheng a wide-eyed glance.

Fang Cheng remained impassive, analyzing Hasegawa’s words. Gene editing could explain their blood ties—shared DNA from some potent source. None here looked over thirty-five, including Kitakudo Shingen.

The clones below surely had questions. If they had half a brain, they’d ask soon enough.

Sure enough, after Hasegawa Kouhei finished speaking, hands immediately shot up among the seventy people, many maintaining their composure.

“Do you have proof for these claims, sir?”

“We do.”

Hasegawa Kouhei smiled. “We’ve gathered extensive documentation – orphanage records where you stayed, your parents’ adoption papers. These will be given to you later.”

“If we’re experimental subjects requiring great effort to create, why dump us in orphanages?”

“That relates to Fujiwara Hirotetsu’s other theory.”

Hasegawa Kouhei wrote on the blackboard again: Natural Selection Theory.

“Fujiwara believed socialized upbringing produces competent people, but only true geniuses emerge through brutal natural competition. That’s why he released us into society without interference – letting the cruel world filter out genuine talent.”

“What will you do with us now?”

“Nothing. We’ll help you leave Tokyo. Go wherever you want – preferably abroad to avoid recapture.”

The barrage of questions continued, each patiently addressed by Hasegawa Kouhei.

Finally came the key inquiry: “Who are you people?”

After brief hesitation, he answered: “Consider us… a resistance organization. We oppose Area 11 Government’s corrupt feudal rule. Our members are all victims. You’re welcome to join.”

On the rooftop, Fang Cheng’s pulse quickened.

Was this the same resistance group Sato Hayato and Kujou Arata were investigating? With such quality equipment and trained members, why hadn’t they made waves before?

“Everyone!” Hasegawa Kouhei clapped sharply. “Rest for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll—”

A piercing whistle shredded the night air.

“INCOMING! HIT THE DECK!” roared an armed personnel.

Hasegawa Kouhei and his team dove to the floor, hands clasped behind necks. Some subjects copied the maneuver; others froze in confusion.

BOOM!

The shockwave shattered every window. Glass shards flew as the building groaned, lights flickering wildly. Those still upright became pincushions of broken glass. Even those prone felt chests hammered by the blast, ears filled with metallic ringing.

Outside, a fireball bloomed and vanished, shockwave rippling through the village with smoke-choked fury.

Perimeter forces moved with military precision – SOT soldiers establishing positions, armored vehicles crouching in darkness like steel predators. Five cannons stood aligned on the crumbling road.

In his military vehicle, Nakajima Tomoya monitored the village through drone feeds on his tablet. His lips twisted in a frosty smile.

“Nowhere left to run.”