The surrounding deck twisted like crumpled waste paper. The immense explosive force tore through the steel plates and even shattered the ship's high-strength glass. In a gust of wind, the barrier disintegrated—shards of broken glass sliced across their bodies, and clouds of sand poured into the cabin with the pressure. The alarm for system failure was lost amid the chaos.
The dark figure in front of them looked up, curling into another eerie smile.
Damn it!
In the split second of Arthur's final curse, the sand dunes rushed into view.
The moment the ship crashed into the ground, all components surged forward; as the dashboard flew upward, a white object hurtled toward their faces. The impact knocked both men unconscious instantly.
A massive cloud of dust rose from the sand dunes. After tumbling and crashing repeatedly, the shattered ship was almost buried. The scene was gruesome—limbs of the shadowy attackers lay scattered alongside the wreckage, motionless on the sand.
In total darkness, an eerie stench roused Arthur's consciousness. It was indescribable: a thick smell of chemicals mixed with semi-decay, waxing and waning like a venom in the air, forcing its way into his nostrils no matter how hard he tried to hold his breath.
What is this smell? A hospital?
His vision was blurred when he opened his eyes. Several indistinct white figures moved around him, occasionally touching his limbs and pressing cold, gel-like substances onto his skin.
He was relieved to feel his limbs responding, but he needed to piece together his surroundings urgently: the people nearby, his bound limbs, and the faint beeps of equipment. And that terrible stench.
"Damn it! No way..."
As his surroundings and the figures came into focus, his worst fears were confirmed. Through the reflection of a nearby glass panel, he saw himself lying on a cold metal operating table, his limbs strapped down with thick leather straps. A rubber ball gagged his mouth—preventing him from screaming or biting his tongue.
A laboratory? How did I get here?
No matter how hard he tried to recall, his memories only went as far as the moment before the crash—locking eyes with those cold, blood-red irises.
The nine-square-meter white room was cramped with several staff members and a wall covered in control panels. As they prepared their equipment, another person in white entered.
Pushing a cart with a black leather case, he opened it and took out a single test tube—about the length of two index fingers, filled with an eerie black liquid.
He placed it carefully on the medical cart beside Arthur, nodded at the others, and left.
On the opposite side of the room, floor-to-ceiling glass windows allowed Arthur to see the corridor, other laboratories, and even guards patrolling around the corner.
When a scraper cleared the smudged glass of the laboratory across the way, Arthur saw the horrific scene beyond. A lifeless body lay on an identical metal table, its ribs jutted prominently from its chest as if the torso had been blown open. The numbers on the equipment were as still as the corpse, while two staff members cleaned the splattered glass and floor.
"Zack?"
He couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Zack—even though he was such a... damn fool. Chances were, Arthur would soon meet the same fate as the poor soul across the way.
Shoving aside his fleeting concern for Zack, Arthur surveyed his surroundings calmly.
Only three researchers remained in the laboratory. Taking them down wouldn't be too difficult.
He would slash the leather strap on his right wrist with a scalpel—even if it cut his wrist slightly. In the next second, he'd stab the researcher on his left in the skull with a reverse grip, then grab the right researcher's left arm and twist it violently. As the researcher fell, he'd slit their throat and snap their neck.
Finally, he'd jump off the table, kick the nearby equipment at the third researcher behind the table, step on it to gain leverage, pounce, and drive the scalpel into their forehead.
But there was one problem: he needed to reach the scalpel on the cart first.
His bound wrists were more than fifty centimeters away from the cart. Even a few centimeters would be impossible—the straps held his hands tightly, leaving no room to move.
He had to find something else to escape—even a small piece of metal could be his ticket out of this predicament.
"Yes, yes, the data is all suitable." The researcher on his right ended a communication, turning around with a smile. "Finally, a suitable test subject. If this works... we might finally find some clues." He laughed.
"The one across wasn't bad either," the left researcher nodded toward him, sneering. "But he only lasted a few minutes. Don't get too cocky before we succeed."
"I'm not being that pessimistic." The researcher on the right said, "I think I've found a pattern. By the way, where did the higher-ups get these substances?"
"You'd better not ask too many questions." The researcher on the left replied, glancing at Arthur before turning back to his colleague. "Focus on our experiment. You know how the higher-ups..." He gestured upward. "They don't like people who know too much."
"God only knows what kind of results they're after." The researcher on the right muttered, turning to input the experimental data into the equipment. He patted the third researcher—who'd been standing silent nearby—on the arm. "What are you standing around for? Hurry up and set up the lights and equipment!"
The third researcher glanced nervously at the laboratory across the way, then fumbled to prepare the supplies, checking the items on the cart and the lighting above.
They were about to begin.
Anxiousness welled up in Arthur's chest, his heart racing erratically—as if warning him of the disaster to come. He thought back to the start of the mission. Perhaps there had been signs all along: the vague briefing, the botched infiltration, his arguments with Zack.
Cosmic Time, 98 hours earlier—Aurelia, Underground Restaurant in the Shopping Mall
"Toi'capa'apon (Tempt Your Fingertips)" was located on the second basement floor of a shopping mall in Aurelia's core district. It was an established restaurant, but far from outdated. Bright and clean, with a row of floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the outside, its interior was simple—nothing more than long tables and a bar.
"Telos Laboratory in the Akhemdu System of the Reno Sector Attacked by Unknown Perpetrators, Authorities Investigating Origins!"
The headline summed it up neatly, but the media had exaggerated it to no end, spinning all sorts of conspiracy theories.
A man sitting at the corner of the bar glanced at the screen hanging on the wall. He stood around seven feet tall, with a mature and composed face, sharp facial features, and dense eyebrows framing piercing, profound eyes. A faint smile played on his lips, suggesting he found the news rather absurd.
Arthur rarely paid much attention to the news, but sensational headlines were always popular with audiences, little more than tabloid fodder. Still, this incident was impossible to ignore. Since leaving his home, he'd seen references to it countless times along the way.
"I wonder what those two idiots are up to now?"
Arthur lowered his head, spearing a tender, juicy piece of meat with his fork. Juice dripped slightly from the prongs. As he raised his wrist, a commotion erupted outside the window.
He glanced up briefly. The floor-to-ceiling windows were surrounded by a crowd, as if they'd spotted a celebrity. But this was the Tronha Center in Aurelia—sightings of important figures were common enough to barely pique his interest.
He let out a soft huff and turned his attention back to his plate. Yet, out of habit as a mercenary, he pricked up his ears to listen to the murmurs of the crowd.
The commotion continued, accompanied by the sound of crisp footsteps approaching him—growing louder by the second.
"Arthur?"
At the sound of his name, he knew exactly who it was. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of polished leather shoes and tailored suit pants. The voice was short and magnetic.
He sighed, set down his fork, and picked up a napkin to wipe the grease from his lips.
"Sigh. What is it? Got yourself into another mess?"
Arthur turned to face the man and the vehicle outside the window, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The troublemaker in front of him had earned his reputation—and the person sitting in the car was about to bring Arthur even bigger problems.
The black, bullet-shaped limousine was reserved for transporting VIPs by the Administration. Arthur never thought these two would be so bold as to park it here—far too conspicuous.
The man stood around six feet two inches tall, with a mature handsomeness and a short goatee; his falcon-like sharp eyes paired with an unchanging, mechanical expression. That was Arthur's impression of him.
Typically, he would stand quietly and wait for Arthur to respond—if he was patient enough, he could hold out all day. Arthur had never understood this behavior.
These signs made it clear: his business here was urgent—and usually complicated.
He was Ralph, Chief Strategic Advisor to the current Prime Minister of the Reno Federation.
Rumor had it he was an expert in communication technology, but his rise to such a high position was no mystery—it was undoubtedly thanks to Blair. He was Blair's most trusted friend and subordinate. At one point, Arthur had suspected their relationship was more than platonic.
"Would you mind coming with me to the car? I'll explain there." Ralph turned and walked out.
Arthur placed a cosmic credit on the bar and followed Ralph out of the restaurant. Under the gaze of the crowd, they approached the vehicle. Ralph pulled open the passenger door—but not all the way. It was clear his judgment had been correct.
In silent agreement, Arthur pulled the door fully open and slipped into the backseat. Once he confirmed the door was closed, Ralph slid into the co-pilot's seat. Their movements were so quick that the onlookers hadn't caught a glimpse of the VIP inside before they were both in the car.
But the crowd knew exactly who was inside, they'd simply come to catch a glimpse of him.