The Farming Saint in the Starry Wasteland (Elizabeth Schofield) novel Chapter 487

Chapter 487 Answer

Chapter 487 Answer

Bukowski couldn’t hold his position anymore.

He stepped half a pace forward, his voice stripped dry. “Clara, Nathaniel’s already lost one arm. Love the other and he’s finished for good. Name your price. Whatever it takes, we’ll give it to you. Just let this one go”

He paused, then pressed on. “We’re the same squad. If nothing else, think about what it means for the team. Every person we lose makes us weaker. You don’t actually want to see the Black Panther Squad fall apart, do you?”

Clara looked at him for a long, unbroken moment.

Then she released Olivia and straightened up, slow and deliberate,

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Her body was still swaying. The wound was still seeping. Her armor had been reduced to fragments. But her spine was perfectly. immovably straight.

It was the posture of a soldier who hadn’t lost yet.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll consider it.”

A flicker of relief moved across Bukowski’s face.

Nathaniel’s eyes brightened like a man who’d just spotted a rope dangling over the edge of a pit.

“What I’ve considered,” Clara said, her voice quiet but every syllable carved clean and sharp, “is this. Either he loses the other arm, or I walk out of the Black Panther Squad.”

Silence followed.

It was the kind of silence that pressed down on everything like a physical weight.

The relief on Bukowski’s face was still spreading when it locked up into raw, wide-eyed shock.

The hope that had flared in Nathaniel’s eyes extinguished instantly, replaced by something cold and frantic.

Olivia pressed a hand over her mouth. Felix dropped his gaze to the ground. The other squad members looked at each other, and

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not one of them made a sound.

“Clara!” Bukowski’s head snapped up, and the expression he wore was equal parts fury and disbelief, like someone had just struck him across the face without warning. “What was that?”

Clara met his eyes without flinching, without retreating, without even blinking.

“Captain Mitchell,” she said, “I said either you enforce the squad rules on Nathaniel, or I’m done here.”

Her voice was measured and quiet, but each word landed like a spike driven into hardwood. “I’ve given six years to the Black Panther Squad. Every debt I owed, I paid. The life I have right now, I clawed back myself. Nobody saved me. Nobody handed it to me. Nathaniel owes me an arm, and you’re refusing to collect it, so I’ll collect it myself. But if I do it myself, this stops being a conversation about an arm.”

Bukowski’s face flooded crimson.

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Chapter 487 Answer

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ger at her, and his hand was trembing. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? Had you actually left the squad? ad you even golWhat sawad is going to take you, a woman on her own?”

Elizabeth let out a small, quiet laugh from where she stood.

It wasn’t loud But in a jungle so still that every exhale was audible, it cut through everything.

words died somewhere in his throat.

Elizabeth looked at him with that pleasant, unhurried smile and said absolutely nothing. The smile was more uncomfortable than anything she could have said aloud.

Bukowski’s mind went back to the Crackshell Crabs filing obediently into the drainage pipe one by one. Back to the sight of this young woman patting a crab shell and telling them not to crowd. Back to Tyson telling him she’d healed his mental power.

A slow, unwelcome realization settled over him. He might have underestimated exactly who he was dealing with.

Clara didn’t spare Elizabeth a glance. Her eyes stayed on Bukowski.

“Captain,” she said. “I’ve said everything I need to say. The choice is yours.”

Bukowski stood where he was, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He looked at Clara. He looked at Tyson. He looked at Elizabeth. Then he looked at Nathaniel, crumpled on the ground.

Nathaniel was still crying, his face a wreck of tears and snot, still calling out for his brother-in-law between heaving sobs.

Each of those words struck like a needle pushed slowly through skin.

This was his wife’s little brother. Her own blood.

If he let Nathaniel lose both arms today, what was he supposed to say when he got home? How was he supposed to face his wife? Her parents?

He closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath.

When he opened them again, the breath had gone out of him along with something else.

“Clara,” he said, his voice worn rough as gravel dragged across stone. “Nathaniel’s already lost one arm. That’s enough. I’ll take him back myself and deal with him properly. The squad will compensate you, I give you my word.”

“Enough?” Clara cut across him, and her voice turned sharp as a blade’s edge. “He nearly got Tyson killed. He nearly got me killed! And you’re calling that enough? Captain Mitchell, if it were Nathaniel lying here right now, if it were Nathaniel your teammates dragged into a crab swarm, would you still be standing there calling it enough?”

Bukowski had no answer for that.

Clara watched him. She waited a moment. And then, quietly, she laughed.

It was a laugh that looked worse than tears, but it carried something inside it.

It was disappointing. A cold and settled kind of grief. The particular emptiness of seeing something clearly for the first time.

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Chapter 487 Answer

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